Glyn Iliffe - The Gates Of Troy (Adventures of Odysseus)

‘With this dagger I swear to you, before Zeus and all the gods of Olympus, my friendship and loyalty.’ As he said the words, Paris released his hold of Menelaus’s hand, making his words meaningless. In doing so he knew he had crossed a threshold, from honour to dishonour, driven by the insanity of love. ‘I will never bear arms against you, or bring harm upon your household in any form. I will honour and protect you when you visit my homeland. We will be allies until death takes us, or the words of this oath are broken – which can never happen.’

Chapter Seven

THE FLIGHT FROM SPARTA

The light was failing fast as Paris walked through the quiet avenues and alleyways of Sparta, heading for the temple of Aphrodite. He felt both nervous and elated at the thought of being with Helen again, this time alone and without any fear of disturbance. For the first time since seeing her in the great hall, he would be able to discover what her true feelings for him were. His heart told him that her display of sexuality the day before had not been a mere act, but that, amazingly, she wanted him as much as he wanted her. And yet there was a heaviness in his step too. His deception of Menelaus had appalled him, bringing into clear focus the fact he was not only intending to betray his host, but he was also on the verge of betraying everything he had ever believed in and stood for. His honour would be lost forever, and even if Apheidas was right and the gods were behind the madness that had driven him to this point, he would still earn their contempt for stealing a man’s wife. Such was the way of the immortals. But despite the nagging voice of his conscience, he knew the only thing that could stop him now would be Helen’s refusal to leave Sparta, and the older part of him still hoped he had misjudged her.

The directions he had been given by the armourer led him to a narrow side street that reeked sharply of dung and urine. Halfway down was an open doorway, from which a wavering orange light spilled out across the opposite wall. A tall, white-robed woman watched him from beneath the shadow of her hood, but as he quickened his pace towards her she ducked beneath the low lintel and entered the temple.

He followed her in and pulled the double doors shut behind him. The temple of Aphrodite was not what he had expected – a modest chamber with an avenue of slim, wooden pillars leading to a crude altar. Two sputtering torches cast a fitful glow over the plastered walls, where dozens of murals depicted the lovemaking of gods and mortals from a forgotten era. Once they would have formed a rich decoration, but now they were faded, smoke-stained and peeling – simple shadows of their former glory. Rows of alcoves stared like empty eye sockets from between the decaying murals; they had been made to contain images of the gods, but now the only effigy that remained was on a raised platform behind the altar. It was as high as Paris’s waist, and was the crudest portrayal of a god he had ever seen – made of glazed clay, with huge breasts and a monstrous, leering face.

The contrast with the woman who knelt before it could not be stronger. Helen had shed her hooded robe to reveal a gauzy white chiton, clasped above her left shoulder by a silver brooch and bound around the waist by a thin purple sash. A narrow parting exposed the left flank of her body, from the slight furrows of her ribs down to the smooth, white flesh of her thigh. Her slender hands were laid flat on her knees and her feet were tucked beneath her buttocks, the dirt on the soles the only visible blemish.

Paris removed his sandals and walked across the cold flagstones to the altar. Taking some cakes from a bag that hung across his shoulder, he laid them down next to a similar offering that Helen must have placed there earlier. He then stepped back and knelt beside the Spartan queen, whose eyes were closed in silent prayer. Paris, though, had no thought for the gods. Instead he let his eyes rest on the perfection of Helen and imagined what it would be like to have her at his side for the rest of his life. The sight of her black hair tumbling across her forehead and cheeks, catching the red torchlight in its soft layers, filled him with an almost irresistible desire to reach out and run his fingers through its shining mass. But above all he wanted her long, curving eyelashes to part so that her eyes could meet his and read the strength of his love for her.

‘Do you like what you see, Paris of Troy?’ she said, her eyes still closed.

‘You know I do,’ he replied, gently.

She smiled faintly. ‘And how do I compare to the women of your homeland?’

‘The women of Ilium are beautiful, but next to you they would be like the stars that surround the moon. No mortal can match you, Helen. Even Aphrodite . . .’

‘Shush!’ she said, opening her eyes and placing a finger to his lips. ‘My father may be Zeus, but it won’t do to compare me to the goddess of love. She’s jealous and can be cruel when angered.’

Paris laughed lightly. ‘She might scare you, but I’m a warrior and a follower of Ares. In the world of men Aphrodite is among the least of the gods.’

‘Then has she never blessed you with the love of a woman?’ Helen asked, fixing him with her large, intelligent eyes.

The amusement drained from Paris’s face and he looked away, frowning at the cakes on the altar as he composed his thoughts.

‘As I said, I’m a warrior,’ he answered. ‘Though Aphrodite has visited me once. In a dream.’

‘A dream?’ Helen echoed. ‘Tell me about it.’

‘It was some time ago, when I was a shepherd on Mount Ida. I had been sleeping in the shade of an old tree when I sensed a great light pressing against my eyelids, far more brilliant than the sun. I opened my eyes and there before me were three women, each one naked and possessing terrible beauty. They told me they were Athena, Hera and Aphrodite and that I was to award a golden apple to the one I considered the fairest. Then, though their mouths did not open, I heard their voices inside my head, each offering me great gifts if I would but choose them over the others. But their promises meant nothing to me, for though they were all wondrous to look on, Aphrodite’s beauty could not be matched. I gave the apple to her, heedless of the scowls of Hera and Athena, and the last thing I remember before waking was the smile on her lips, as if all the love in the world were given to me.’

Helen watched Paris’s face intently as he spoke, then nodded her head knowingly.

‘It was the goddess who brought you here to me. For years I’ve prayed for someone to take me away from Sparta, but when I saw you in the great hall I knew my deliverance was at hand. Have you come to take me back with you to Troy?’

Paris felt a nervous churning in the pit of his stomach. Strangely, it was the same sensation he felt before a battle, when he would sit on his horse trying to convince all around him that he was calm and unafraid, when his whole body was wracked with nerves. He looked at Helen and saw a similar helpless uncertainty, as if she too were standing at the threshold of a new world, wanting to step out but afraid of what she might find. She was no longer a great and beautiful queen, but a young woman, trapped and desperate for freedom and yet knowing that the price of her liberty was an end to everything she knew.

‘I will take you if you’re willing to leave,’ he replied, his tone neutral, probing.

‘But I’m a queen and the wife of another man,’ she said, her voice shaking slightly. ‘I . . . I can’t just leave.’

Paris felt as if a blade of ice had been pushed into his stomach. ‘But you hate Menelaus.’

‘No. I’ve never hated Menelaus,’ she protested. ‘I couldn’t have wished for a kinder husband or a better father to my children.’