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

Eventually the steep, circuitous road reached the top of the hill, where the gateway to Menelaus’s palace stood closed against them. Its high doors were covered in beaten silver that shone blue in the weak moonlight, framing the squad of six heavily armoured soldiers that stood guard before them. Paris suspected that he and his men were receiving a demonstration of Sparta’s military power, from the escort led by Eteoneus to the well-manned walls and the guard that protected the high portals of the palace.

The Spartan herald did not slow down at the sight of the closed gate, and as he approached the doors swung smoothly back into a vast and empty courtyard. He waved the Trojans inside with one hand and dismissed their Spartan escort with the other, before ordering the half-dozen palace guards to close the gates behind them. The Trojans swept their eyes around the courtyard: there were long rows of stables along the western flank, with barracks along the southern and the eastern walls; on the northern side was the three-storeyed bulk of the palace, gleaming in the moonlight before them. As they took in their plain but powerful surroundings, three men emerged from a small door beside the main entrance behind them and approached Eteoneus.

‘Are they familiar with the rules?’ the first of them asked, giving a disdainful nod towards the foreigners. He was a short, balding man with muscular arms and a large stomach encased in leather armour.

‘You’re the guard,’ Eteoneus replied. ‘Why don’t you enlighten them?’

‘Gladly,’ the man sneered, turning to face Paris. ‘No weapons in the palace. You give ’em to me and my lads now, or you turn about and find yourself an inn in the town. You hear?’

His accent, like the accents of all the Spartans they had met so far, was broad and difficult to understand, but the intention was clear.

‘No Greek’s getting my spear,’ Apheidas said firmly, talking to Paris in their own tongue. ‘Unless it’s in his gut.’

‘Shut up, Apheidas,’ Paris ordered. He turned to the rest of his men and looked at them sternly. ‘Hand over your weapons, all of you. We’re guests here, not invaders, so get on with it.’

As the Trojans parted with their weapons and shields, which the Spartans handled roughly and derided as inferior or ineffectual, they felt as if they were being stripped naked. All of them except Paris shifted uneasily and instinctively moved closer together, aware of the heavily armed soldiers watching them from beside the gates.

‘Come with me,’ Eteoneus said curtly, striding off towards the large square doors that opened into the palace.

The Trojans followed, looking about at the many darkened windows, where they sensed numerous eyes watching them.

‘I don’t like this, Paris,’ Apheidas whispered as they were ushered into the palace. A long corridor stretched ahead of them, inadequately lit with sputtering torches every dozen paces. ‘You’re being too trusting. Don’t forget the Greeks are treacherous.’

‘So you keep reminding me. But what choice do I have? I’ve been given a mission and I’m going to carry it out, come what may.’

He followed Eteoneus down the corridor and into the heart of the palace, his men pressing close behind. They passed several darkened rooms, both small and large judging by the echoes of their footsteps as they hurried by, and many staircases leading to the upper levels, or down to the cellars and storage rooms. It was not long before the corridor opened into a large antechamber with a high ceiling, where more torches fought uselessly against the shadows. Here the walls were decorated with images of the war between the centaurs and the lapiths, the clarity of the struggling figures blurred by the murk and the different hues of the paintwork lost in the orange firelight. A pair of large, ornately carved doors dominated the far wall of the antechamber, from behind which they could hear several voices talking loudly. There was music, too, and at the sound of the feast the Trojans remembered they had not eaten a proper meal since that morning.

‘This way,’ Eteoneus sniffed, and without giving the Trojans a moment to compose themselves walked up to the doors and beat the flat of his hand against the wood.

The voices on the other side fell silent. Paris turned briefly to his men and gave them a reassuring look, then the doors swung open to reveal two guards in full armour. They glanced at Eteoneus and the knot of foreigners behind him, before stepping back to reveal the great hall of Sparta’s palace. It was so long and wide that the heavily muralled walls were lost in deep shadow and the torches that hung from them struggled to force back the suffocating gloom. Four central pillars rose like mighty trees and disappeared into the darkness of the ceiling; between them a large, circular hearth burned fiercely with yellow flames, which for a moment were pulled towards the fresh air pouring in from the open doors. A gust of heat washed over the Trojans, drawing them instinctively into the large room, and as the last man entered the guards closed the doors behind them with a thud.

On either side of the hearth and the painted pillars were two parallel rows of heavy wooden tables. These were overflowing with food and drink – great haunches of roasted meats on broad wooden platters, baskets of barley cakes and different fruits, kraters of wine – which would have been a welcoming sight for the hungry Trojans, were it not for the hundred or so men seated at the tables and staring at them with harsh curiosity. Rows of male and female slaves stood behind them, their eyes glinting in the shadows as they, too, looked at the strangers from Troy. Then, as if aware of the hostility of the hall, a voice from the far side of the hearth called out to them.

‘Welcome, friends. Come closer and warm yourselves by the fire – spring may be here, but the nights haven’t forgotten the winter yet.’

Through the quivering heat haze above the hearth they saw another table on a raised dais. A man rose to his feet behind it and clapped his hands.

‘Bring a table and stools,’ he shouted to the slaves. ‘Bring meat and wine, too. Let’s make our guests welcome.’

As if released from a spell, the lines of seated men returned to their feasting, though their constant glances revealed the topic of their conversation. In a flurry of activity a dozen slaves brought a table and chairs from the shadows and placed them down before the Trojan warriors. Moments later, more slaves were crowding it with piles of food and kraters of wine, already mixed with water to dilute its strength. The newcomers could not stop themselves from glancing over their shoulders as platters of spit-roasted goats’ meat, mutton and pork – all glistening with fat – were set down and punctuated with baskets of bread, barley cakes and fruit. But they were forced to resist their hunger for a little longer, as their host stepped down from the dais and walked around the hearth towards them.

In the firelight they could see he was still a young man, a little over thirty years old, of medium height with large muscles in his chest and arms. He wore a simple, green woollen tunic that stopped halfway down his broad thighs, contrasting with the knee-length tunics worn by the Trojans. His hair was auburn, though thinning on top and heavily streaked with grey, and his beard was black and wiry. His face was crossed by a smile that was both kind and friendly, but his leathery skin was lined and careworn beyond his years.

‘Welcome again, friends,’ he greeted them. ‘I am Menelaus, son of Atreus and, by the grace of Zeus, king of Sparta. Forgive the simple hospitality of my hall tonight – if you’d sent news of your arrival earlier we’d have been able to show you some real Spartan warmth. But if you’re not in any hurry to leave we can give you a proper welcome tomorrow night, and for as many nights as you’re here.’