The Oracles of Troy (The Adventures of Odysseus)

‘Younger minds don’t suffer the hindrance of greater experience,’ he replied. ‘What would the son of Achilles have us do?’

‘Attack.’

Nestor’s white beard opened with a smile. ‘Of course we’ll attack.’

‘Attack now,’ Neoptolemus said, punching his hand. ‘You’ve become too used to sitting in your precious camp and letting the years roll by. And where’s it got you? I say muster your armies before the walls and march on Troy. You’ve fulfilled all the oracles the gods laid down, so what are you waiting for? Attack now and Troy will fall.’

There were nods of agreement among the commanders and a notable growl of approval from Peisandros, but there were also a few shaken heads. The remainder of the assembly kept their opinions to themselves and turned their gaze to Agamemnon, who was equally silent as he looked at Neoptolemus.

‘I say the son of Achilles is right,’ said Menelaus beside him. ‘We’ve become too comfortable in our tents and huts – or maybe we’ve just grown afraid of the Trojans! Let’s turn our minds back to the palaces we left behind, to our wives and children. I’m sick of Ilium. Now we have the blessing of the gods, what’s stopping us from marching up to the Scaean Gate and finally taking what we came here for?’

The passion in his voice roused others and the murmurs of agreements grew louder. Some contested the rashness of an immediate attack, causing the tent to fill rapidly with the sound of arguing voices, until eventually Agamemnon was forced to raise his arms for silence.

‘And what do the men whose bravery gained us the Palladium say?’

Diomedes was quick to answer. ‘I’ve always been the first to join an attack and my Argives are in the forefront of every battle, but I can’t agree with Neoptolemus and Menelaus. I’ve seen the walls of Troy from outside and inside and believe me, my friends, when I tell you they won’t blow away with a puff of youthful ardour. By taking the Palladium we have undermined Trojan self-confidence, but we haven’t removed the hinges from their gates or knocked even one stone from their battlements. Their defences are as strong now as they ever were. No, if we’re to take Troy we need to think about it, use the same intelligence that Odysseus showed when he thought up his plan to enter the city.’

Eperitus was among a handful who voiced their agreement, though he noticed Odysseus was silent. Then Neoptolemus thumped his fist down on the table and glared round at the Council in anger.

‘What are you, warriors or women? If you haven’t the stomach to fight then we Myrmidons will scale the walls alone and claim all the glory for ourselves!’

Opposing choruses for and against the plan broke out again, and this time it was Nestor who silenced them.

‘I want to hear what Odysseus thinks,’ the old man said. ‘Are you with Diomedes or Neoptolemus?’

Eperitus looked expectantly at Odysseus, whom he felt must surely speak out against the recklessness of an immediate attack. As for himself, he agreed with Diomedes’s call for a more thoughtful approach: the fulfilment of the oracles did not mean the walls would come tumbling down, but that a marker had been passed and the gods would somehow or other present the Greeks with an opportunity for victory. Repeatedly beating their heads against the walls of Troy, in his opinion, could only lead to one conclusion – a broken skull.

‘If Neoptolemus and Menelaus want to attack Troy, I cannot go with them,’ Odysseus declared. Eperitus and Diomedes exchanged satisfied glances, while others grumbled their dissatisfaction. But Odysseus had not yet finished and raised his hands for silence. ‘I am wounded and tired and I need to rest, but I won’t discourage any man who believes the time to end the war has come. It seems to me the gods have finally tipped the scales in our favour and Priam’s city is ripe for the taking. So if the King of Men decides to send the whole army into battle, then I will not speak against him. I will even keep my Ithacans here to guard the ships, denying them and myself the glory of victory.’

The assembly exploded with a sudden call to arms, a call that Agamemnon was ready to embrace and encourage.

‘So be it. Muster your armies on the plain. Summon every man capable of bearing arms. Troy falls today!’

Eperitus watched the kings exit the tent, all of them eager to be in the forefront of the coming battle. Even Diomedes went with them, leaving Eperitus suddenly doubtful of his own conviction that the attack would fail. He wondered whether, after being in the thick of the fighting for ten years, he and the rest of the Ithacans were about to miss the final defeat of their enemies. Then he shook his head, as if to rid himself of the ridiculous notion, and turned to the king.

‘Why didn’t you speak up, Odysseus? You know this is madness – do they really think another assault on the walls is going to make any difference?’

Odysseus hooked his large hand around Eperitus’s elbow and pulled him through the crowded tent to one of the exits. Men were fighting each other to be the first out and back to their armies, so drunk were they with the thought that the gods were about to give them victory. Eperitus watched them in disgust, as if he stood alone on an island of reason while the rest of the Greeks crashed about him in a storm of insanity. He followed Odysseus through the crush and soon felt the soft sand giving way beneath his sandals, hearing once more the liberating sound of the waves rolling against the shore and the cry of the seagulls hovering overhead.

‘Odysseus, why don’t you call them to their senses?’ he implored, casting a glance over his shoulder at the running figures spreading through the camp like a fire. ‘Climb up on the prow of one of these galleys and shout out. Tell them this is folly. Do you want the blood of hundreds of men on your hands?’

At this, Odysseus stopped and turned to face his captain.

‘Eperitus, I know as well as you do that these men are going to certain defeat. And maybe I could stop them if I tried – maybe. But I have a plan to conquer Troy now, a plan given to me by the gods, and if that plan is to succeed then the Greeks must taste defeat one last time. I’ll explain everything in my hut, but first we have to find Omeros.’

Chapter Thirty-three

HOPE OUT OF DEFEAT

Penelope rarely felt happier than when she was visiting the pig farm at the southern end of Ithaca. The sight of the fat swine trotting through the mud in the wide pens, their tiny eyes half hidden by their flapping ears, always brought a smile to her face. Even better was to be free from the confines of the small palace and out in the open air, where the sky seemed to go on forever and she could gaze south-east towards the horizon – the direction Odysseus would return by when the war in Troy eventually ended. But as she leaned against the wooden timbers that kept the noisy beasts from wandering off, she felt ever more sharply the absence of her son.

She looked down at Argus, sitting faithfully at her side with his ears pricked up and his tail wagging. He was looking expectantly towards the road that came down from the north, passing through fields of gnarled and windswept olive trees.

‘What is it, boy?’

The boarhound gave a bark and stood on all fours. Penelope followed his gaze and saw a horseman approaching along the road, leaving a trail of dust behind him.

‘Looks like Mentor, my lady,’ said Eumaeus, the swineherd, who was standing among his pigs and throwing out handfuls of wild nuts and berries from a leather satchel at his hip.

Moments later the horseman had reached Eumaeus’s hut and was tying the reins of his mount to a post. A tall black dog came out of the hut and advanced growling towards him, followed by four black puppies yapping noisily in high voices. Then, when their mother recognised Mentor and allowed him to run a hand over her ears, the puppies turned on each other and began fighting among themselves.

‘Good morning!’ Mentor called.

Eumaeus threw a last handful of feed to the grunting pigs, then climbed the fence and went to meet him. Penelope propped her elbow on a timber post and watched them embrace. Eumaeus said something she did not catch then disappeared inside his hut. Mentor spotted his queen and strode toward her.

‘So here you are, my lady,’ he said, greeting her with a smile and a kiss on the cheek. ‘You’ve been avoiding me since the Kerosia, I think.’

‘You’ve been away.’

‘A few days in Samos, looking after the king’s business. But every time I’ve called at the palace you’ve been busy or absent.’

She shrugged apologetically, conceding the point. ‘I just knew you’d have some awkward questions, which I didn’t want to have to answer with so many servants around.’

‘Don’t you trust them?’

‘Some, but not all. And too many of them are inclined to gossip.’

‘So what don’t you want them gossiping about?’

‘My reasons for agreeing to Eupeithes’s proposal,’ she answered, turning and leaning her forearms on the fence. ‘That’s why you’ve come out here to find me, isn’t it?’

‘Of course,’ he admitted, joining her. ‘Well, are you going to tell me?’

She sighed. ‘For one thing, I want my son back here. At my side. While Telemachus stands to inherit the throne he’s in danger, but under Eupeithes’s proposal that danger is gone.’

‘Don’t you think Eupeithes might have been offering you a reason to bring him back so he could try to kill him again? With Telemachus dead there’ll be no other challengers to the throne.’

‘No, he won’t risk upsetting the balance of things. At the least he’ll wait until I remarry. And I would have thought you’d be pleased to have him back under your tutelage. You’ve taught him all he knows, Mentor, and he loves you like a –’

She faltered.

‘Like a father?’

Penelope smiled wanly. ‘Yes, I suppose so. That’s what you’ve been to him in Odysseus’s absence.’

‘Odysseus will return soon,’ Mentor said. ‘The oracle will confirm that. Antinous and I depart in the morning, you know.’

‘I know.’

Eumaeus reappeared from the hut with a cup of water in his hand. His guard dog and her puppies came leaping after him and Argus trotted out to meet them. The swineherd handed the small wooden bowl to Mentor, who drained the cool liquid in one draught and placed the cup down on top of a flat-headed fencepost. Eumaeus swung himself over the low barrier and resumed feeding his pigs, while Penelope hooked her arm through Mentor’s and led him in the opposite direction.

‘Have you already forgotten the oracle that was given to Odysseus twenty years ago? If he went to Troy, he’d be doomed not to come home again for twenty years.’

‘You know about that?’ Mentor asked, surprised.

‘He told me before he left,’ she replied. ‘It wasn’t easy to take, but he also insisted a man has the power to change his destiny if he really wants to. And I believe him.’

‘So what are you saying? You agreed to Eupeithes’s proposal on the grounds of an oracle you don’t think will come true?’

Penelope shook her head. ‘If I’d refused altogether, Eupeithes might have been tempted to force his way into power again, especially in his current mood and with that pack of wolves growling away behind him. We can’t allow that to happen. But you’re missing my point about the oracle. I don’t believe Odysseus is bound by the Pythoness’s words – I can’t afford to believe it, even though the war has already lasted ten years – but if she predicted then that he wouldn’t return for twenty years, surely she will now say he’ll be gone for another decade? By the oath we all took at the Kerosia, and which was announced publicly, that means Eupeithes can’t force me to do anything for ten more years. Not without civil war, and I’m gambling he hasn’t the courage for that if there’s a peaceful alternative.’

Mentor looked at her admiringly.

‘Odysseus chose well when he married you, Penelope. Your cunning may have bought him ten more years, and the war will never go on for that long.’

‘Find a daughter of Lacedaemon and she will keep the thieves from your house,’ she said, quoting the second half of the Pythoness’s riddle. ‘That’s one part of the oracle I’m determined will come true. And the best way I can defend Odysseus’s kingdom is to keep gaining us time until he returns.’

Eperitus, Odysseus and Omeros leaned against the bow rail of the beached galley, watching the defeated army return to their tents. Filthy and exhausted, many of them wounded, they trudged down the slope from the gates with their heads low, dejected by the betrayal of the gods who had promised them victory. For all their faith in the oracles, the walls of Troy stood as strong as ever and the bodies of hundreds more Greeks lay littered in their shade, carrion for the gluttonous birds and dogs.

The appalling aftermath of another defeat left Eperitus feeling cold. More men sent needlessly down to Hades’s halls, where it was said the joys of the living world were stripped away and the soul was left with nothing more than the idea they had once been alive. In that dark place there was no memory of the events or emotions they had experienced in their bodies of flesh, only a sense that something wonderful was lost to them for eternity. And yet, if Odysseus was right, their sacrifice was a necessary one so that thousands more could keep their places at life’s feast. Eperitus gave the king a sidelong glance. He had changed since their encounter with Athena in the temple, become more grim with the loss of the goddess’s patronage. Though whether it was despair or a determination to end the war without her, he could not tell.

‘Go and prepare the wine, Omeros,’ Odysseus said. ‘They’ll be here soon.’

The squire nodded and went to the galley’s stern, where skins of wine and water hung from the twin steering oars. A short while later, they heard the sound they had been expecting – heavy footsteps on the gangplank leading up from the beach. Agamemnon stepped down onto the deck, his breastplate spattered with gore and the pure white tunic beneath filthy with dust. His red cloak was ripped and one of the cheek guards of his helmet had been torn away to reveal a fresh cut across his jaw. Behind him came Menelaus, Nestor and Diomedes, all similarly begrimed. Further footsteps announced the arrival of Idomeneus of Crete, Menestheus of Athens and Little Ajax. Last of all came Neoptolemus, whose divine armour gleamed as if newly made, though his face and limbs were smeared with blood and dirt. His eyes stared out from the unnatural mask, angered by the reversal but not dispirited.

‘You sent us knowingly to defeat,’ Agamemnon said, pulling the helmet from his head and throwing it onto the deck at Odysseus’s feet. His blue eyes were fierce with suppressed rage.

‘I said I would not oppose any who chose to go. Not that my opinion for or against would have made any difference.’

Odysseus nodded to Omeros, who took kraters of wine to each of the battle-weary warriors.

‘You underestimate yourself, Odysseus,’ Nestor said, taking his cup and easing his old body down onto one of the benches. ‘Your intelligence is widely respected, from the lowest levy to the highest king. An opinion from you carries as much weight as a command from Agamemnon himself.’

‘Nestor’s right,’ Menelaus growled. ‘If you’d spoken up when Diomedes did, perhaps we wouldn’t have ran headlong into another reverse – especially one so costly to what was left of the army’s morale. When warriors have been promised victory by the gods themselves, defeat is twice as crushing. On my way back I heard men openly talking about returning to Greece, not caring that I was within earshot of them.’

‘Then tell them that’s what we’re going to do.’

The others looked questioningly at Odysseus, as if they had misheard him. The momentary silence was broken by a sneering grunt from Little Ajax.

‘Is that why you let us march off in the first place? To snap the army’s will to fight? To end the war, just so you can skulk off home to your precious family?’

‘You’re not listening,’ Odysseus replied. ‘I said tell the army we’re going to leave for Greece, not do it.’

‘And what’s the point in that?’ Idomeneus asked, sitting beside Nestor and removing his helmet. ‘Give them hope, only to order them back into battle again?’

Odysseus shook his head. ‘Of course not. I’ve an idea for conquering Troy, but we have to convince the Trojans we’ve given up and gone home. And to do that our own men have to believe that’s what we intend to do.’

Neoptolemus spat on the deck. ‘Another of your famous tricks, Odysseus? Just like the theft of the Palladium? Devoid of glory and doomed to failure.’

‘Perhaps you’d have us attack the walls again?’ Eperitus said. ‘That idea didn’t exactly cover you in honour or bring about a famous victory, did it!’

Neoptolemus stepped forward, his face reddening with fury and his fingertips unconsciously touching the hilt of his sword. Diomedes quickly slapped a hand on his armoured shoulder and forced him down to one of the benches.

‘If Odysseus has an idea, I suppose we’d better hear it.’

‘I agree,’ Nestor said. ‘It doesn’t take the wisdom of my great years to realise the walls of Troy aren’t going to fall to force alone. But that doesn’t mean the oracles were wrong or the gods were deceiving us. What is this plan of yours?’

Odysseus looked at Agamemnon, who gave a small nod.

‘I sent messengers asking you to come here so that we wouldn’t be overheard, and if you agree to my plan then you must take an oath not to share it with anyone – even your most trusted captains. I’ve had the inklings of a strategy for some time now, but until I went to Pelops’s tomb and saw his sarcophagus I didn’t know how to carry it out. That’s why the gods sent me there – not to obtain a simple bone, but to reveal the one way in which my plan could succeed.’

‘You’re talking in riddles,’ Little Ajax interrupted. ‘How can a tomb help us take Troy?’

‘Eperitus, do you remember what was placed on top of the sarcophagus?’

Eperitus nodded, smiling as he saw the link with the idea Odysseus had already outlined to him.

‘It was a horse.’

‘A horse,’ Odysseus repeated. ‘Because Pelops’s people were renowned horse-lovers, just like the Trojans. That gave me the inspiration to build a great wooden horse, taller than the Scaean Gate, which we will dedicate to Athena in atonement for desecrating her temple, and in the hope she will then give us a safe journey back to Greece. The Trojans won’t be able to resist taking it into their city as a token of their victory.’

‘Victory!’ Menelaus sputtered. ‘Victory?’

The others shared doubtful looks, but remained silent. Agamemnon’s fixed gaze grew colder than ever, but Odysseus just smiled.

‘Naturally. The defeat we’ve just suffered was the final stone on the mound. Didn’t you say the men are openly talking about ending the war and returning to Greece? Now all we need is a good westerly wind and we can strike this camp and board our galleys for home. Or at least, that’s what the Trojans will think when they find it abandoned.’

‘Should we get the men to start the preparations now?’ Nestor asked. He looked bemused – doubtful as to the reason for abandoning their camp after so long, but intrigued at how such a move would bring about the end of the war. ‘After all, there’s hardly been a puff of air over the Aegean for days now – we can’t sail until the winds pick up again.’

‘No,’ Odysseus replied. ‘When we go, it has to look like we’ve left in a hurry – leave the tents and everything that’ll slow us down. In fact, we should burn them. What we can do is get the ships seaworthy and begin the construction of the horse. For that we’ll need Epeius, a man who can work wood better than any of us.’

Agamemnon had had enough. He stood and folded his arms across his breastplate.

‘You seem to assume I’m going to agree to your plan, but nothing I’ve heard so far has shown me how it will bring us victory. Why should we sail home empty handed, after so much strife and bloodshed? And why should we build the Trojans a trophy with which to celebrate our supposed defeat?’

‘It’s as I said: first we must convince our enemies they’ve won. Then, out of apparent defeat will come the victory we have sought for so long. The horse is the key, and if you’ll all sit down I’ll tell you what I have in mind.’

‘And what about him?’ Little Ajax asked, indicating Omeros. ‘If we’re forbidden from saying anything to our own men, why’s this lad allowed to overhear this fabulous scheme of yours?’

Odysseus stared at Eperitus’s squire and gave a self-satisfied grin.

‘Because Omeros is essential to the plan. You see, after Agamemnon has announced we’re returning to Greece, Calchas is going to prophesy that the gods will deny us even a breath of wind unless we offer them a human sacrifice. And since I’ve discovered that Omeros has been plotting against me, I’ve decided he will be that sacrifice.’

BOOK

FOUR

Chapter Thirty-four

THE WOODEN HORSE

Helen awoke with a feeling of expectancy. The dawn light was barely filtering through the curtains when she threw aside her blankets and called for her maids. Sitting at the edge of her bed, she wondered what it was that felt so different. There were no new sounds drifting in through the window, nor could she smell anything out of the ordinary that might be warning her senses. If something had altered in the world, then she had sensed it from within: a gut feeling that told her the day was going to be unlike any other.

She yawned and ran her toes through the thick fur. Where were her maids? For as long as she had lived in Troy, her maids had slept at the threshold to her room ready to answer the mere sound of her voice. Suddenly, she clutched a hand to her chest and wondered whether they had been taken. It was a fear that had stalked her ever since she had sent them to drug the guards at the temple of Athena, the night the Palladium had been stolen. In using them so recklessly to help Odysseus she had risked implicating herself in the theft, a treacherous act punishable by execution – and an outcome which even her beauty and status could not have saved her from. Instead the temple guards had paid that price, slaughtered without hesitation on Deiphobus’s orders for failing in their duty. Their quick deaths meant they had not had time to consider their wine might have been drugged, or add to this the fact the wine had been brought to them by Helen’s maids. And yet Helen still lived in dread, not that her maids would betray her but that other eyes may have seen them visiting the guards.

She stood and quickly dressed herself. Glancing back across the room, she saw that Deiphobus’s half of the large bed – the same bed she had once shared with his brother, and which held such sweet memories for her – had not been slept in. This was not unusual, as the prince would often sleep in his old quarters after a late night discussing the war with his father and the other commanders. He also knew Helen did not love him, though the knowledge did not prevent him coming to her when his lust urged. The thought deepened the frown already on her brow, and throwing her cloak around her shoulders she hurried out of the room.

She found all four of her maids on the walls of the citadel, pressed against the battlements and talking excitedly as they looked southwards.

‘So, here you are!’ Helen snapped, climbing the stone steps. ‘I have to dress myself because you’d rather be on the walls gossiping among yourselves.’

‘But my lady,’ one of the maids began.

‘My lady nothing. Get back inside, at once!’

The girls exchanged guilty looks, then after a last glance over the ramparts fled down the steps and in the direction of the palace.

Helen waited until they were out of sight, then her curiosity gaining the better of her she ran up the last few steps to see for herself what had dragged her maids away from their duties. Reaching the parapet, she looked first to the large bay lying a bowshot from the city walls. Empty, as was the sea beyond the jaws of its entrance. But she had already glimpsed the thing that had brought the four girls to the walls, and as she turned her head south she realised this was the source of the strange feeling that had woken her from her dreams. On top of the ridge that frowned over the weaving line of the Scamander, a short distance west of the temple of Thymbrean Apollo, was the gigantic figure of a horse. It stood higher than the plane trees that formed the temple – much higher – and as the light of the rising sun fell on its motionless flanks, she could see that it was made entirely of wood. Each of its long limbs was as tall as two men, and together they supported a barrel-like torso that had been skilfully crafted to follow the lines and curves of a horse’s body. From its hind quarters a shower of leather strips cascaded down to the ground in mimicry of a tail, while rising up from its shoulders was a broad neck crested by a dense mane of leather bands that twisted in the wind. The head was large with a wide forehead that tapered down to its flared nostrils and bared teeth. Its chin rested on its chest and its stern eyes glowered at the walls of Troy, as if willing them to crumble and fall. The whole impressive edifice stood upon a broad platform with four solid wheels on either side, each wheel twice as big as those of a chariot or farmer’s cart.

Helen leaned against the cold stone parapet and stared in disbelief. In the distance behind the horse, columns of black smoke spiralled up into the skies over the Greek camp, forming scars against the blue firmament that spoke of change and a doom yet to be revealed. As she watched, wondering what the appearance of the horse might mean and where it had come from, she saw a troop of cavalry moving out from the city and galloping across the plain. Perhaps twenty men in all, they trotted over the fords of the Scamander and dashed up the slope towards the great structure above. At last, Helen began to hear shouts from the city, spreading with rapid inevitability towards Pergamos. More people – slaves and soldiers, artisans and nobles – were running up to the walls to look out at the strange new monument. At that moment Helen knew she had to see the horse for herself, not from the battlements but where it stood on the ridge.

She ran down the steps and back to the open space before the palace. As she had expected, horses and chariots were being prepared for the journey to the ridge. Priam’s golden chariot was standing ready with Idaeus at the rail, his whip in his hand as he waited for the king to arrive. There, too, was Deiphobus’s chariot. The prince stood in front of the horses, patting their necks and talking to them.

‘Take me with you,’ Helen said, running across the trampled dirt of the courtyard and laying her arms around her husband’s neck. ‘I want to see this magnificent horse.’

Deiphobus looked at her a moment, then shook his head.

‘It could be dangerous.’

She smiled playfully, surprising him. ‘Do you think it’ll bite me?’

‘I mean it could be a lure – the bait to draw us into a trap.’

‘Am I any more important than Priam? If the king is going, then surely it’s safe enough for me to go too? Besides, there’s already a troop of cavalry up there – they would have spotted any immediate danger.’ Seeing the doubt in his eyes, she leaned across and kissed him. ‘I promise I’ll stay close to you.’

His gaze wandered over her again. Although she had not received the usual attentions of her maids that morning, her natural beauty was more than powerful enough to break down his resistance. He nodded and helped her up into the chariot.

By the time Priam’s chariot trundled out of the Scaean Gate, followed by two dozen cavalrymen and a collection of other chariots bearing his eldest sons and the commanders of his army, ropes had already been lashed around the hind legs of the wooden horse and hundreds of men were easing it carefully down the slope towards the flat plain before the ford. Here, scores of logs were being laid across the river bed so that the great beast could be pulled across as quickly and safely as possible. The royal procession passed either side of the wooden carpet, sending up sprays of water that shone in the morning sunlight. Helen, who was so rarely permitted beyond the city walls, was revelling in the feel of the unfettered wind on her face and the sense of openness all about her. It was a hint of the freedom she would enjoy if the war ended, and in her heart she called out to Aphrodite to lead one side or the other to victory soon. She cared little whether it was the Greeks or the Trojans, so long as it allowed her to escape the claustrophobia of city life and gain the liberty she had been denied for ten years.

As they crossed the wide meadows that were still bruised and trampled from the battles of the early summer, a series of commands echoed over the plain and the men on the ropes eased the great horse to a halt. It had reached level ground and would need to be pulled the rest of the way to the ford, but the officer in charge had seen the approaching chariots and ordered his teams to rest and regain their strength. As they came closer, Helen saw that the mounted officer was Apheidas.

‘My lord,’ he said, dipping his head a little as Priam’s chariot pulled up.

The king stepped down and walked past Apheidas towards the wooden horse, stopping a few paces short of the towering structure. The other chariots clattered to a halt and the cavalry formed a crescent behind them, while the assortment of princes and nobles dismounted and gathered behind Priam, their mouths open and eyes staring up in bewilderment and wonder. Deiphobus took Helen’s hand and shouldered his way through the others to stand at his father’s side.

‘What in Zeus’s name is it?’ Priam asked.

Apheidas nodded towards the opposite flank of the horse.

‘There’s an inscription.’

Priam moved in a wide circle to the other side of the structure, as if afraid to come too close to it. At the same time he held the palm of his hand up to the others, forbidding them to follow. Helen watched him as he fell beneath the long shadow of the horse on the western side, his old eyes narrowing as they searched for the inscription, found it and struggled to read what it said.

‘It’s in Greek,’ he announced with a hint of frustration. ‘I can speak the damned language, to a degree, but it’s a long time since I’ve read it. Helen, come here girl and decipher it for me.’

‘Go on,’ Deiphobus urged, sensing her reluctance. He released her hand and nudged her in the back. ‘It won’t bite you.’

Helen passed under the high head of the horse, not daring to take her eyes from it as she crossed to stand beside Priam. The inscription was carved in sizeable letters from the front shoulder to the hind leg. Silently, she mouthed the words to herself as she read the once-familiar characters of her mother tongue. Then their meaning became clear and she felt a cold chill brush down her spine. She glanced at Apheidas, the only other person present who had read the words and understood them. His expression was inscrutable.

‘What does it say?’ Priam urged. ‘Read it out.’

Helen read it in Greek first, then translated into the Trojan tongue.

‘A gift from the Greeks to the goddess Athena, dedicated in grateful anticipation of a safe journey home.’

She felt Priam’s hand take her elbow, his bony fingers gripping the flesh tightly for support. Reacting quickly, she put her arm about his waist and bore his weight as he slumped against her. Nobody seemed to notice. Eyes that had been staring in awe at the wooden horse were now frozen with doubt, understanding the words of the inscription but unable to accept what they implied.

‘Then is it over?’ Priam asked in a frail voice.

Helen took his hand in hers and squeezed it.

‘I don’t know.’

Deiphobus wiped his palm over his face and staggered across the grass to stand beside his wife. He looked at the carved words, reassured himself that Helen had not lied, and allowed a smile to touch the corners of his mouth.

‘They’ve gone home. The Greeks have given up.’ Turning to the teams of men sitting by their ropes, he raised his arms in the air and lifted his face to the heavens. ‘Praise the gods, we’ve won!’

Slowly, the lines of soldiers climbed to their feet and stared at the horse. A single voice cheered. Others joined it, then more, until the morning air was filled with their shouting. The crowd of princes and nobles followed with wild cries of jubilation, forgetting the differences in their ranks and openly embracing each other. A handful of cavalrymen defied discipline and galloped off in the direction of the Scaean Gate, yelling with joy as they went to spread the news to the city. Helen laid her hand on her chest, which was rising and falling rapidly. She could hardly believe it. A feeling of elation flooded through her body and again she felt the shock of what it meant chilling her flesh and bringing her skin out in goosebumps. Then her gaze fell on Deiphobus and the knowledge that she would be his forever checked her excitement, darkening her thoughts and turning her limbs to stone. Now it was Priam’s turn to catch her as the sudden heaviness in her muscles threatened to pull her to the ground.

‘Deiphobus, look to your wife,’ he commanded. Then, as his son passed his arm beneath Helen’s shoulder, the king turned to Apheidas and lowered his voice. ‘Send a patrol to the Greek camp, at once.’

‘Aeneas is already there, my lord. We rode out to inspect this thing at dawn and as soon as we read the inscription he insisted on taking a troop of cavalry to see for himself. He should be returning at any moment.’

‘What about our spies in their camp? Have we heard anything from them?’

‘Nothing for several days, which is strange in itself. They’re mostly slaves, though; if the Greeks really have left, they might have taken our spies with them.’

Priam nodded and turned back to Helen.

‘Can you stand? I’ll have Idaeus take you back to the city in my chariot.’

‘No, thank you Father. I was just … taken aback.’

Helen forced herself upright and stepped free of Deiphobus’s arms. The prince gave her a questioning look, as if guessing her thoughts, but she turned her eyes away and stared up at the horse. At that angle, its blank eyes seemed mocking and its bared teeth appeared to be smiling, laughing even.

‘Father, the war’s over,’ Deiphobus declared. ‘We should parade the horse through the streets of the city, show the people the siege has ended and Troy has won.’

‘We don’t know the siege has ended,’ Apheidas countered. ‘Besides, Deiphobus, how do you plan on getting it through the gates when the damned thing is taller than the city walls?’

‘We’ll knock them down if we have to!’

‘Silence!’ Priam ordered. ‘As long as I’m still king, I will decide what we do with the horse. And we won’t do anything until I know what’s happened to the Greeks.’

Apheidas commanded his soldiers to sit down again and the snap in his tone brought a sudden end to the euphoric atmosphere. Priam’s sons and the commanders of Troy’s army moved round the horse to see its inscription for themselves, discussing it in quiet tones while Priam, Apheidas and Deiphobus strolled out of earshot to carry on their debate. Helen walked over to the horse and laid a hand on one of its forelegs. The wood had been carefully crafted to a smooth finish and was strangely warm to the touch. She pulled her hand back in surprise, then turned in response to a clamour rising up from the city. The Scaean Gate had swung open and hundreds of people were issuing out of it. But unlike the exoduses of the past ten years, this was not an army going forth to battle but a crowd of ordinary citizens. Word had reached the men, women and children of the city and now, with triumphant songs and shouts of delight, they were coming to see the wooden horse for themselves.

Before the vanguard had crossed the ford, though, Idaeus gave a shout and pointed in the opposite direction. Approaching across the plain, pursued by a small cloud of dust, were two horsemen, galloping as fast as their mounts could carry them.

‘How many men did Aeneas take with him?’ Helen heard Priam’s voice asking behind her, his tone urgent.

‘At least twenty,’ Apheidas answered.

Then the Greeks are still here, Helen thought. The patrol was massacred and these riders are all that remain of them!

The two horses reached them within moments, drawing up sharply in the shadow of the great wooden horse. Both men leapt from the saddle and ran towards Apheidas. Then, seeing Priam standing beside their commander, they knelt and lowered their heads before the king.

‘What news?’ Priam demanded. ‘Were you ambushed? Did that fool Aeneas lead you into a trap?’

The riders exchanged glances.

‘No, my lord. Aeneas sent us back to tell you the Greek camp has been abandoned. Their ships have all gone and they’ve burned their huts. Aeneas has remained with the rest of the patrol to carry out a search of what’s left.’

Priam trembled and Helen stepped forward, fearing he would faint again. To her surprise, he waved her back and reached down to the rider who had spoken, pulling him to his feet and embracing him. He kissed the surprised cavalryman on both cheeks, then held him at arm’s length and looked into his eyes.

‘What’s your name, man?’

‘Peteos, my lord.’

‘Peteos, I declare you a messenger of the gods. And for bringing me this news I promote you here and now to the royal guard. Long may you serve me and my successors.’

The astonished soldier bowed low and backed away to rejoin his envious comrade, while the king turned to look up at the horse.

‘Apheidas,’ he shouted, cheerfully, ‘get your men back on those ropes and tell them to drag this monstrosity to the walls. Deiphobus, take some horsemen and ride to the city. I want the battlements over the Scaean Gate knocked down so we can bring it inside. We’ll honour the inscription and dedicate it to Athena, as a replacement for the Palladium that was stolen. It will stand forever as a monument to the brave men of Ilium, and above all to the courage of Hector, the stalwart of Troy!’

And what of Paris? Helen thought. Had he given his life for nothing? Worse still, would the people of Troy forget his bravery, remembering him only for bringing the curse of war down upon them? Such a legacy had been his greatest fear, and the sadness of it was deepened by the fact that victory had come so soon after his death. If he had survived a little longer – been less reckless in his desire to overcome his guilt – they would have been free to spend the rest of their days together, their love unfettered by the ambitions of power-hungry men. But the jealous gods had preferred to deny them their happiness, condemning Paris to the forgetfulness of Hades and leaving Helen with little more than a fading memory of the man for whom she had sacrificed everything.

Deiphobus mounted a horse and led a handful of riders in the direction of the ford, keen to carry out his father’s instructions. As Helen watched him leave, Priam called to her from his chariot.

‘Helen, come up here with me. I’m going to announce our victory to my people and I want you at my side. Let them see what they’ve been fighting for, and let them know that you were worth every sacrifice.’

His moment of elation had passed and she knew he was being earnest. And if she, like the wooden horse, was to be paraded as a trophy of war, then so be it. She walked over and accepted his outstretched hand, stepping up beside him. With a flick of his whip, Idaeus sent the horses forward at a gentle trot. Behind them they could hear the grunts of the men at the ropes as they took the strain once more and began to pull the giant horse towards the ford.

The chariot had only travelled a short distance across the meadows before it slowed to a halt in front of the crowd coming up from the city. As one, they fell to their knees and bowed low before their king. Only one figure remained standing in their midst, a girl dressed all in black. Priam stared at Cassandra for a moment, but chose to ignore her impertinence and signalled for the rest to stand.

‘Behold the symbol of your victory!’ he declared. ‘At last, my people, the day has come. The Greeks have gone! The war is over! We have won!’

His words were met with cheers and ecstatic screams, which did not die down until the wooden horse had been brought so close that the rapturous crowd were forced into silence by its grim presence. Then, as they stared at it in awe, a shriek of despair rang out and Cassandra pushed her way through the mass until she stood alone before her father.

‘Fools! The gods have left you blind, stumbling towards your doom with shouts of joy on your lips.’

With tears rolling down her white cheeks and her eyes wide with terror, she seized hold of her robe and pulled at the material until it tore, revealing her pale breasts. Apheidas unclasped his cloak and threw it about the girl’s shoulders, hiding her nakedness.

‘Control yourself,’ the king ordered his daughter. ‘If your gloom must drive you to hysterics, then do it in private and don’t dampen everyone else’s happiness on this great day.’

‘Great day?’ Cassandra echoed. ‘For whom? Not for Troy. Not for your house, Father! This symbol of victory you boast about is a harbinger of death. It carries with it the doom of Troy. Burn it! Burn it now, while you still can!’

Chapter Thirty-five

CASSANDRA’S WOE

Astynome looked up at the wooden horse, still reeling from the news that the Greeks had left – that Eperitus had abandoned her. Why would they suddenly strike their camp and head home? Had they given up, or did they intend to return in greater numbers, perhaps to pursue a different strategy? Either way, surely Eperitus would have found some means to let her know? If they were returning to Greece, would he not have smuggled her a message, imploring her to sail with him? Or had his anger at her betrayal turned him against her again? As doubts clouded her mind, she looked again at the horse and recalled Odysseus’s words to her, spoken in confidence on the night he, Diomedes and Eperitus had stolen the Palladium.

‘One day soon,’ he had warned, ‘a wooden horse will appear within clear sight of the city walls. Some will welcome it, but others will call for its destruction. Don’t let them succeed, Astynome! By whatever means you can, make sure the horse is preserved. If it’s brought inside the city walls, the war will end and you will be reunited with Eperitus; if it’s destroyed, you will never see him again.’

She had not understood the meaning of his words at the time, only their urgency. And as she pondered them again they did not seem to suggest an ignominious defeat and a return to Greece, and that gave her heart. But one thing was now clear: as she heard Cassandra’s call for the horse to be burned she knew what Odysseus had wanted her to do, and that both he and Eperitus were relying on her. Leaving the crowd she had followed from the city, she walked up to the horse and laid a hand on one of its oversized wheels.

‘Cassandra lies. This is no herald of doom, but a gift from the Greeks acknowledging our victory. It should stand forever as a monument to the glory of those who fought for Troy, so that generations to come can look at it and speak their names with pride. Burn it and you will diminish their honour! Indeed, burn it and you will bring a curse down on the city.’

Hundreds of voices were raised in agreement, but Cassandra cut them short with an angry scream.

‘This is madness! Will you invite your own deaths? I tell you, this horse will not become a monument to the sacrifices of the fallen – rather, it will render their sacrifices worthless!’

Her words were met with jeers and calls for her to be silent.

‘Why should we listen to you?’ Astynome countered. ‘You’re nothing but a storm crow, Cassandra, always wailing about the destruction of Troy and the death of its people. But we’re still here, aren’t we? The walls of Troy still stand and its warriors still man the battlements, don’t they? Why should anyone believe you?’

‘Because you have to!’ Cassandra pleaded. ‘Father, listen to me, I implore you! This thing reeks of death. If its shadow falls within the walls of Troy, then your city and everything in it will be destroyed.’

Priam looked at her with uncertainty in his eyes, but the taunts and insults from the crowd behind her grew louder. Cassandra turned on them in frustration, and seeing a soldier among her mockers ran at him and wrenched the spear from his surprised hands. The crowd fell back, shouting now with fear as they saw the dangerous rage in her dark eyes.

‘Damn you all!’ she cried, then turned on her heel and hurled the spear at the horse’s side.

It struck with a hollow thud, and in that instant it seemed to many that they heard a second sound, a movement from within the body of the horse itself. The clamour of the crowd fell away and in the silence that followed everyone looked up at the spear, still quivering from the impact of the blow. Astynome looked up, too, wondering whether she had indeed heard a metallic clang from inside the wooden effigy, or whether she had simply imagined it. Then the stillness was broken by a series of shouts. All eyes looked to the south, where a group of horsemen were racing across the plain towards them. Their distinctive armour marked them out as Trojans, and at their head was the unmistakeable figure of Aeneas. Moments later they drew to a halt amid a cloud of brown dust that billowed forward to float around the hocks of the wooden horse. Aeneas leapt lightly from the back of his mount and, walking to the nearest of his riders, seized the bound and gagged man who had shared his horse and pulled him to the ground. The prisoner fell with a muffled grunt, but Aeneas dragged him back to his feet and pushed him towards Priam and Apheidas.

‘My lord,’ Aeneas began, acknowledging Priam with a low bow. ‘Congratulations on your great victory. The Greek fleet has sailed and we found their camp completely deserted. All except for this man.’

Priam stared at the dishevelled figure. His face was half hidden behind the filthy rag that had been tied about his mouth, but the blood and bruises on his dirt-stained cheeks and forehead were clear to see. The man fixed his eyes firmly on the grass at Priam’s feet, either too fearful or too stubborn to look at the old king.

‘Who is he?’

‘He refused to say, my lord.’

A flicker of impatience crossed Priam’s face. ‘Then did you and your men give him this beating?’

‘No. He’s exactly as when we found him, hiding in the ruins of one of the huts. Though we had to bind him so he wouldn’t try to escape.’

Priam flicked his hand at the gag, which Aeneas hastily removed. As the strip of cloth fell to the ground, Astynome almost cried out in shock. The prisoner was the young Ithacan, Omeros.

‘What’s your name, lad?’ Priam asked, addressing him in Greek.

Omeros did not respond.

‘Answer the king!’ Apheidas snapped, impatiently.

Omeros lifted his gaze to Priam’s knees and opened his cracked and blooded lips.

‘Omeros,’ he rasped. ‘An Ithacan.’

‘One of Odysseus’s men,’ Apheidas said, leaning in towards Priam.

Priam ignored the obvious comment and told Idaeus to give the prisoner water. The herald did as he was commanded and Omeros drank the cooling liquid greedily.

‘Where is the Greek fleet?’ Priam demanded.

Again Omeros was reluctant to answer, provoking Apheidas to strike him across the face with the back of his hand. The blow reopened one of his cuts and left a fresh smear of bright red on his dirt-stained cheek.

‘They’ve had enough. Gone home.’

‘Just like that? After ten years of war?’ Apheidas sneered. ‘I’m sure that’s what you’d like us to believe.’

Omeros merely shrugged and continued to stare at the ground.

‘Why would they leave after all this time?’ Priam asked. ‘They stole the Palladium, the very thing that protected Troy for all these years – so why go now?’

Omeros shot an uncertain glance at Apheidas, then looked at Priam.

‘Stealing the Palladium was the very thing that condemned them. They thought it’d bring them victory, but all it did was earn them Athena’s wrath. They realised that when they tried to storm the walls and were repulsed again, just like in every previous attack over the past ten years. And if that wasn’t evidence enough, the Palladium burst into flames three times – you don’t have to be a seer to know that’s a bad omen!’

‘So where’s the Palladium now?’

Omeros looked up at the horse.

‘Up there. Inside the horse’s head. Once they’d accepted they could no longer win the war, they built this thing to appease Athena and seek her blessing for the voyage home. No-one dared take the Palladium back to Greece with them, and they didn’t want you to find it; so they hid it.’

Apheidas’s eyes narrowed suspiciously.

‘Why would you tell us that? In fact, why would Odysseus sail home to Ithaca leaving one of his men to be taken prisoner?’

‘Because I’m no longer one of his men!’ Omeros answered, angrily. He pulled at the rope that bound his hands behind his back, but to no avail. ‘Damn it, if you’re going to question me all day, at least take these bonds from my wrists.’

Priam nodded at Aeneas, who drew his dagger and slit the flax cord. Omeros shook his hands then rubbed them together, trying to encourage the blood to return to his veins. After a moment, he looked up at his Trojan interrogators and there was an embittered look in his eye.

‘A while ago, I found out Odysseus had planted gold in Palamedes’s tent, to implicate him as a traitor. They killed Palamedes for it, and ever since Odysseus has been afraid I might give away his dirty secret. So when the winds refused to blow and Calchas declared the fleet couldn’t sail until the gods had been appeased with human blood, Odysseus saw his opportunity. He asked Calchas who had to die, and the old drunkard pointed at me – doubtless bribed beforehand by Odysseus. The Greeks dragged the horse at night to the top of the ridge where you found it this morning, then prepared to sacrifice me at dawn. They had to subdue me first – that’s how I got these,’ he indicated the cuts and bruises on his face, ‘but before the sacrifice could begin, a gale sprang up and everyone ran for the ships. I escaped in the chaos as they torched the tents and huts and pushed the galleys out into the sea. Then I watched them sail away by the first light of dawn, following the coastline southward with the wind behind them.’

‘What do you say now, Daughter?’ Priam asked, turning to the sombre figure of Cassandra.

‘He’s a liar!’ she hissed. ‘The Palladium isn’t inside the horse. Only death is in there – a plague of bronze that will wipe out the race of Troy. Burn it while you still can.’

Voices in the crowd cried out in protest, calling for Cassandra to be silent. The king returned his gaze to Omeros.

‘My daughter is against you, though that would encourage most to decide in your favour. I sense Apheidas and others also remain sceptical, and their opinions are less easily dismissed. As for myself, I’m inclined to believe you, Omeros.’

‘Thank you, my lord,’ Omeros replied, kneeling.

‘I only said I’m inclined to believe you,’ Priam warned. ‘There are still things about this horse that sit uneasily. Perhaps you can explain why the Greeks went to the effort of dragging it to the top of the ridge? And if they meant for us to accept it as a gift to be taken into the city, why did they make it too large for the gates?’

‘Because Odysseus is a cunning man. He can anticipate how others think and creates his schemes to meet their expectations. The horse was brought here so that every person in Troy could see it, so that there would be a public debate about what to do with it.’

‘What’s it matter to the Greeks what we do with it?’ Apheidas interrupted.

‘Because this isn’t just a gift to you or an offering to the gods – its head contains the Palladium, the key to Troy’s safety, and the Greeks put it in there for a reason. They daren’t destroy it, for fear of increasing Athena’s wrath and making it impossible to ever return and resume the siege – which Agamemnon still has a mind to do. And the last thing the King of Men wants is for you to take the Palladium back inside the city walls and ensure Troy’s invulnerability once more. That’s why the horse was built too big for the gates. But if the Trojans destroy the Palladium, you’ll bring a curse down on your own heads and guarantee a Greek victory if they come back. You see, Odysseus had calculated you would burn the wooden horse and the Palladium with it. He just hadn’t accounted for me in his plans.’

As he spoke, a loud crash echoed across the valley. Every head turned towards the Scaean Gate, which was shrouded in dust. As the brown mist blew away in the wind, they could see that the large wooden portals had been removed from their hinges. Above the exposed archway, teams of men were standing around a hole in the parapet. On the ground below was an immense block of stone, the fall of which had caused the booming sound they had heard. Deiphobus had not delayed in carrying out his father’s orders and was already dismantling the walls so that the horse could be taken inside the city.

‘In the name of Apollo, stop them!’ Cassandra wailed. ‘Father, please believe me. There are men inside the horse. I have seen it!’

Astynome heard the words and turned to look up at the horse. Now she understood: Odysseus had hidden warriors inside the large wooden body, and among them was Eperitus. She looked at the faces all around her, staring up at the great effigy as it towered over them and pondering Cassandra’s desperate warning. Surely they would see that they were being tricked, that Omeros and his story were just another part of Odysseus’s scheme to smuggle armed men into the city – to have the Trojans themselves carry out his plan. Within moments they would be calling for firewood and torches from the city; the horse would be transformed into a blazing pyre, consuming the hopes of the Greeks – and her beloved Eperitus – with it. And Astynome was powerless to stop them.

Then the silence was broken – not by angry shouts, but a long, low laugh. Priam was staring at his daughter, with her wide eyes and torn black robes, and laughing. With his shoulders shaking, he laid his head back and laughed out loud. Idaeus joined him, then Omeros. The crowd followed, slowly at first but with growing mirth as the absurd idea of a horse full of soldiers took hold of them. Even Apheidas was infected by it, his amused smile broadening until he broke into billows of laughter, holding his hands to his sides.

‘Take the horse into the city,’ Priam ordered, still smiling.

Knowing Apollo’s curse had defeated her again, Cassandra threw her hands over her ears and ran as fast as she could to the ford.

Chapter Thirty-six

VOICES FROM HOME

Eperitus was woken by a hand gently shaking his shoulder.

‘Won’t be long now,’ he heard Odysseus’s voice say in a dry-throated whisper.

He opened his eyes to see the king’s face leaning close, a blurred grey oval in the almost complete blackness of the horse’s belly. Many others were with them, invisible in the darkness but filling Eperitus’s senses with the sound of their breathing and the sour odour of their sweat. There was the ever-present smell of smoke, too, which still clung to their clothing from the fires of the day before when they had put the Greek camp to the torch. Odysseus patted his shoulder and leaned back against the fir-planked wall, smiling reassuringly as if he were back in the comfort of his own palace on Ithaca. But if he had meant to encourage his captain, all he succeeded in doing was reminding him that they were shut up inside the wooden horse and surrounded by their enemies, awaiting the moment when they would enact the most daring gamble of the whole war. Eperitus strained his senses, but the city outside was silent and still, the celebrations finally over as its people enjoyed the deep, wine-induced sleep of a nation at peace – a treacherous, ephemeral peace that would soon be ripped apart by the clamour of returning war.

Eperitus’s stomach shifted nervously at the thought. He sat up and stretched the stiffness out of his limbs. The hard wooden bench had numbed his backside and his efforts to rub some life into each buttock earned grumbled complaints from Sthenelaus on his left and Little Ajax on his right. Looking around, he could just make out the faces of the others who had been chosen for the mission. There were only twenty-four of them – all that could fit in the cramped interior of the horse – but they were the best warriors in the Greek army, hand-picked by Odysseus and Menelaus for their courage and fighting skill. They were also the most high-ranking – every one a king, prince or commander – and if their mission failed and they were killed or captured it would mean total defeat for the Greeks. And yet victory could not be obtained without such risks. The grim-faced men inside the horse understood that; they also understood that victory would earn them immortal glory and a name that would live on long after their bodies had perished and their souls had gone down to Hades. It was this desire – the appeal of glory to every warrior – that Odysseus had used to ensure they would agree to his bold, reckless scheme.

Eperitus looked at the king’s face – eyes closed, head back – and recalled the debate aboard the beached ship, when the full extent of his plans had been laid before the key members of the Council of Kings. All understood immediately that it would bring about the end of the conflict at a stroke: either Troy would fall in a single night, or the cream of the Greek army would be caught and wiped out. But when many baulked at so high a risk – most significantly Agamemnon – Odysseus had played on their weariness with the seemingly endless war and spiced his appeal with the promise of undying fame. His smooth, persuasive voice reminded them how they had set out from their homes expecting a quick victory bathed in the blood of Trojans and rewarded with a rich bounty of gold and slaves. Instead, they had endured ten years of siege warfare, deprived of the comforts of home and the love of their families. And though at first they had tried to ignore the omen from Zeus that the war would last a decade, he warned them not to forget it again now that the prophecy had come to the end of its course. Now, Odysseus said, was not the time to shy away from risks, but to seize them and gamble everything.

The debate was easily won, with Agamemnon and Nestor’s doubts overruled by the sheer enthusiasm of Menelaus, Neoptolemus, Diomedes and many others. In the days that followed, Epeius – the most gifted craftsman in the army – oversaw the building of the wooden horse while the rest of the Greeks threw themselves into making the fleet seaworthy again. All passage into or out of the camp was halted, to prevent spies informing the Trojans of what was happening. Finally, two days after the horse was finished, the winds sprang up again and the rest of Odysseus’s scheme was put into motion. The camp was packed up in a hurry, and whatever could not be stowed aboard the hundreds of galleys was burnt. Meanwhile, the gates and part of the surrounding walls had been knocked down and the colossal horse wheeled out onto the plain. Under the command of Agamemnon and Nestor, the fleet then sailed the short distance to Tenedos and hid itself on the western flank of the island where it would not be seen from the shore. After nightfall, Omeros was left alone in the remains of the camp – waiting to be found by the Trojans the next morning – while teams of oxen had dragged the wooden horse to the ridge overlooking the Scamander. Here the beasts had been set free and the picked band of warriors had climbed up into the horse, their armour shrouded in cloth to stop it gleaming in the darkness or clanking inadvertently. Epeius came last, drawing the rope ladder up behind him. Though a renowned coward, he was included in the party because he was the only man who knew how to open or close the trap door, which he had designed to be invisible from the outside. The door shut with a click, and the longest day of Eperitus’s life began.

It had been a day filled with discomfort, stiffness and boredom, sliced through by moments of intense fear and anxiety. Dawn had seen the arrival of Apheidas and Aeneas, and Eperitus’s urge to leap out and face his father had only been checked by his self-discipline and the inner knowledge the night would bring other opportunities for revenge. Menelaus had been less restrained when Deiphobus had arrived with Helen in his chariot. He had not seen his wife so close in ten years and her beauty had lost none of its allure, but the sight of her with her new husband had him clawing at the hatch to get out. It had taken all the strength of Neoptolemus, Idomeneus and Diomedes to hold him down and keep him quiet.

But perhaps their greatest fear had come with the appearance of Cassandra, shrieking madly and calling for the horse to be burned. Eperitus had gripped the handle of his sword – there was no room for their spears within the belly of the horse – expecting to have to jump out and fight the throng of Trojans below. Then Astynome, his beloved Astynome, had stepped from the crowd and spoken out against the black-clad daughter of Priam, casting doubt upon her words of doom until the arrival of Omeros finally convinced the Trojans to accept the horse. After that, the towering effigy had been dragged across the fords and into the city through a breach the Trojans had made in their own wall. While Cassandra had walked alongside the horse, shouting in a strained voice that it was full of Greeks, the Trojan women laid a carpet of flowers in its path and the Trojan men sang songs of victory. And as evening approached and Troy was consumed with darkness, the people feasted and drank, letting the wine erase the memory of the hardships they had suffered as they danced arm in arm, circling the horse and trailing through the streets in long human chains until, eventually, drunkenness and exhausted sleep had taken them.

A curse in the darkness woke Eperitus from his thoughts.

‘Damn this waiting! Where’s Omeros? He should have been here by now.’

Odysseus opened an eye and turned it towards the source of the outburst.

‘Keep your voice down, Epeius.’

‘No I won’t! I’ve had enough of being crammed inside this horse with no room to stand or stretch my legs –’

‘Then perhaps you should have made it bigger,’ Little Ajax growled.

‘It’s alright for a dwarf like you,’ Epeius snapped. ‘I’m twice your height and I’ve spent a day and a night with my knees tucked up under my chin. I want to get out before I go mad!’

Little Ajax gave a snarl and rose from the bench, but Eperitus placed a hand on his shoulder and pulled him back down. Odysseus leaned across and faced Epeius.

‘We’ll be out soon enough. Have patience.’

‘What if Omeros has been found out?’ Epeius asked. ‘What if he’s locked in some Trojan dungeon, or if he’s already had his throat cut?’

Odysseus smiled at him. ‘If he’d been found out, d’you think we’d still be waiting here in the darkness? They’d have made a burning pyre of us long before now. Besides, you should have some faith in the lad. You saw how he dealt with Priam earlier, convincing the old king that we wanted the Trojans to set the horse ablaze. Do you think that was an easy trick to pull off?’

Epeius shook his head. ‘I suppose not.’

‘Of course it wasn’t! He’s a born storyteller and he’s got a level head – that’s why I chose him for the task. And when he judges the time is right, he’ll go up to the walls and set a torch on the parapet for the fleet to see. Once that’s done, he’ll come straight here and give us the signal to climb out.’

‘He’d better not get himself caught,’ Menestheus, the Athenian king, said.

‘He won’t,’ Eperitus answered. He turned to the others, who were fully awake by now and leaning forward on their knees. ‘It’s Agamemnon I’m concerned about. It won’t be easy sailing into the harbour at night and disembarking the army in complete darkness.’

There was a murmur of agreement.

‘My brother’ll be here on time,’ Menelaus assured them, curtly. ‘He may not have liked your plan, Odysseus, but he won’t let us down.’

‘Quiet!’ Eperitus hissed in a whisper. ‘Someone’s coming.’

Silence fell as the warriors listened intently for what Eperitus’s hearing had already picked up. Their eyes were pale orbs in the darkness as they exchanged tense glances. Then they heard it: the sound of voices – one male, one female – approaching the horse.

Eperitus twisted on the bench. Behind him was one of the holes that Epeius had drilled in the wood to keep the horse’s occupants from suffocating. He pressed an eye to the small aperture and looked out on the scene below. The horse had been hauled halfway up the main thoroughfare from the Scaean Gate to Pergamos, and left at a broadening in the road where busy markets must once have been held in times of peace. Since Eperitus had last looked out in the late afternoon, the wide square had been cleared of the tents where hundreds of allied warriors had been bivouacked and a large, circular fire had been built by the wheeled hooves of the great horse, the embers of which still glowed hot and sent trails of smoke up into the night air. Around it were scores of feasting tables and long, low benches, many of which were lying overturned. The remaining tables were piled up with wooden platters – some empty and others still half-filled with staling food – and countless kraters and goblets. The ground in-between was littered with food, broken cups, items of clothing and even a few shoes – not to mention countless sleeping bodies – so that it looked more like the aftermath of a battle than a feast. Picking their way through all this as they walked down from the gates of the citadel were a man and a woman, followed by four female slaves. The man was tall and richly dressed in a pale, knee-length tunic and black double cloak, fastened at his left shoulder by a gleaming brooch. The woman was almost as tall and leaned unsteadily against the man’s arm as they approached the horse. She wore a white chiton and her black hair lay in long, curling fronds across her shoulders.

‘Who is it?’ Sthenelaus hissed.

‘Deiphobus,’ Eperitus answered, glancing cautiously at Menelaus, ‘and Helen.’

The Spartan’s brow furrowed sharply. He leaned across and hauled Epeius away from his eyehole, pressing his face to the opening.

‘I can’t believe it’s over,’ Eperitus heard Helen say. He placed his eye back against the hole to see her standing below the horse and craning her neck to look up at it. ‘It still doesn’t seem possible that in the morning I can leave the city and go riding across the plains if I want to.’

‘Believe it,’ Deiphobus responded, snaking an arm about her waist. ‘And the only escort you’ll need is me at your side.’

‘See how she doesn’t brush his arm away!’ Menelaus hissed.

No-one replied.

‘But –’ Helen raised a hand lazily towards the horse as she slumped drunkenly against Deiphobus. ‘But why just leave? They’ve been here ten years, spreading slaughter and destruction, dying in their thousands, and then they simply decide to go? It doesn’t make sense.’

‘It does to me.’

Helen turned to Deiphobus, who was clearly sober.

‘They weren’t as strong as we assumed,’ he explained. ‘It’s just as Apheidas says: the Greeks are a vicious people, but they lack stamina and courage. The years have worn away at their morale and now they’ve had enough. They’ve run off back to their wives and children.’

He draped his arm across her shoulders, but in a move that earned a grunt of approval from Menelaus, she stepped forward from his half-embrace and placed her hands on her hips, looking up at the horse.

‘What about the things Cassandra said?’

Deiphobus shrugged his shoulders indifferently. ‘My sister says a lot of things, and nothing at all of any worth.’

Helen features dropped into a mournful grimace, mimicking Cassandra’s look of permanent woe. ‘But there are men inside the horse,’ she wailed in perfect imitation of her sister-in-law. ‘I’ve seen it!’

Deiphobus gave a derisive snort. Helen flitted around him like a spectre, then stepped forward and laid a hand on the upper arch of one of the horse’s wheels, so that Eperitus was barely able to see her through the narrow aperture.

‘I quite like the idea. Can you imagine it, Deiphobus? The wooden horse, full of Greek chieftains listening to us at this very moment?’

Deiphobus laughed and gave a dismissive flick of his hand, but looked up at the horse anyway and narrowed his eyes slightly.

‘Who do you think would be inside?’ Helen continued. She began circling the horse now, slipping from Eperitus’s sight and her voice fading a little as she moved around the other side. ‘Which warriors would they hide in its belly?’

‘Open the hatch, Epeius,’ Menelaus demanded. ‘Let’s see the look on her face when she sees me jump out.’

‘Quiet!’ Neoptolemus said, raising his fingertips almost to Menelaus’s mouth.

‘This is a silly game,’ Deiphobus said. ‘Cassandra’s full of the most ridiculous fantasies, dressing them up as oracles of doom. The other morning she was running around the palace screaming that a woman in black was going to kill her with an axe. I told her she must have been looking at herself in the mirror!’

‘Do you think Agamemnon would be in there?’ Helen persisted.

‘Never,’ Deiphobus laughed, conceding that he would have to play along. ‘They wouldn’t risk the leader of their army.’

‘Yes, you’re right. Besides, Agamemnon would never put himself in danger if he could order somebody else to do it for him.’

‘That’s true,’ Little Ajax whispered.

‘What about my husband, Menelaus?’

‘He isn’t your husband any more. I am. And if he was up there, do you think he’d be hanging around listening to us play your absurd game?’ Deiphobus looked up at the horse. ‘Are you in there, Menelaus? Don’t you want to come out and save the woman who used to be your wife? Aren’t you going to rescue her from my kisses?’

He grabbed Helen as she completed her circuit of the horse and tipped her back in one arm, kissing her on the mouth. His free hand moved over her breasts, squeezing each in turn.

‘By all the –!’ Menelaus began, springing back from the eyehole with a thunderous look on his red face.

Before he could say any more, Diomedes’s hand closed over his mouth and Teucer and Philoctetes, the two archers, took a firm hold of his arms.

Helen stood and pushed Deiphobus away.

‘I’m being serious. If not Menelaus, then what about Diomedes?

‘Why would Diomedes be so stupid as to enter the city inside a giant horse?’ Deiphobus asked, sounding slightly exasperated. ‘You saw how close we came to burning it this morning. I’ll tell you where Diomedes is – sailing back to Argos to see his wife again for the first time in a decade.’

‘Aegialeia,’ Helen said, smiling as an idea struck her. She laid a finger on the tip of her nose and looked down thoughtfully for a moment, before approaching the horse again. ‘Oh husband! Are you up there?’

Diomedes released Menelaus’s mouth and snapped his head round in the direction of the voice.

‘Aegialeia?’ he whispered.

He crawled to the eyehole that Menelaus had vacated and looked out.

‘Don’t be a fool,’ Eperitus rebuked him. ‘It’s Helen.’

‘Diomedes?’ Helen continued, flawlessly recreating the voice of the Argive queen, whom she had met several times when married to Menelaus. ‘Have you missed me?’

Deiphobus laughed at her genius for mimicry. The illusion broken, Diomedes slumped back onto the bench and was quiet.

Helen began to circle the horse once more, grinning as she looked up at the tall structure and occasionally pausing to run her fingertips over its wooden legs.

‘Are you up there, Idomeneus?’ she called, copying the Cretan’s wife’s sing-song voice. ‘My bed was lonely without you, at least for the first year. Then I got bored and found other men to fill it. Now I’d rather you didn’t come back at all.’

Eperitus turned and saw Idomeneus’s face stern and tight-lipped in the shadows.

‘And where have you been, Sthenelaus?’ came another voice, harsh and nasal. ‘Helping yourself to Trojan slave girls, I’ve no doubt! Well, the war won’t last forever, and when it’s over I’ll be here waiting for you.’

Deiphobus’s laughter was followed by Helen’s this time, while Sthenelaus sucked at his teeth and shook his head.

‘I’d rather the war went on for another ten years than go back to her,’ he muttered.

Then another voice was pitched up towards the horse, causing Eperitus to freeze and glance across at Odysseus.

‘I’m waiting, too,’ it said. ‘When are you coming back to me, my love?’

‘Somebody has to stop her!’ Odysseus hissed, balling his fists up on his knees.

‘You know it’s not Penelope,’ Eperitus told him.

‘It doesn’t matter –’

‘Odysseus, my love! Do you miss me like I miss you? Don’t you want to kiss my pale breasts again, and feel my soft thighs wrapped around you?’

Eperitus pushed his hand over Odysseus’s mouth, stifling the cry that was on his lips and forcing him back against the inner wall of the horse.

‘It’s not Penelope!’

Odysseus knocked his hand away and took a deep breath, turning his face aside so that Eperitus could not see the anguish in his eyes.

‘That’s enough,’ they heard Deiphobus say. ‘Come on, Helen. Let’s go home so I can taste your breasts with my lips.’

There was a peel of feminine laughter, followed by silence and then more laughter, receding this time as Deiphobus and Helen retraced their steps back towards Pergamos.

Chapter Thirty-seven

THE GATE FALLS

The men inside the horse were quiet for a while, barely able to look each other in the eye. Eperitus glanced at Odysseus, but his chin was on his chest and his gaze firmly fixed on his sandalled feet. Then the silence was broken by a loud rapping on the legs of the horse, which carried up through the wood and was magnified sharply within the small space where the warriors were huddled.

‘My lords! Are you in there?’

Eperitus sighed with relief. It was Omeros.

‘At last,’ said Neoptolemus, slipping his red-plumed, golden helmet onto his head and fastening the cheek guards beneath his chin. ‘I only wish my father were here with me now, to claim the glory that should have been his.’

‘And Great Ajax, too,’ said Teucer, clutching at his bow. The nervous twitch that had once defined him had faded after the death of his half-brother, and now he sat calmly with his face set in a determined stare. ‘He would have relished this moment.’

Odysseus shook his head. ‘Neither would have entered Troy in the belly of a wooden horse. They hated trickery and would only have walked through the gates on a carpet of fallen enemies. But the fact you’re here, Neoptolemus, shows you’ve already surpassed your father’s qualities. Unlike him, you know a war like this can’t be won by strength and honour alone. Now, Epeius, open the door and let’s set about our task.’

Epeius’s cowardly instincts had brought him out in a glistening sweat now the long wait was over, but while the two dozen warriors about him removed the sacking from their armour and made ready for battle, he wiped his brow and probed the wooden floor with his fingers. There was a click and the trap door swung downward on its hinges, flooding the interior of the horse with a red glow from the dying fire below. Eperitus picked up his grandfather’s shield and, swinging it over his back, was first at the hatch. He stared down and saw Omeros looking back up at him.

‘The way’s clear,’ his squire called in a low voice.

Eperitus kicked the rolled-up rope ladder down through the hole and began his descent, jumping the last part and landing beside Omeros. He looked around at the still-sleeping Trojans, draped over or around the feasting tables, then up at the cloudy sky, pressing closely down on the walls and towers of Pergamos further up the slope. His limbs and back were stiff and the soles of his feet tingled as the blood struggled to return to them, but he drove the discomfort from his mind and drew his sword from its scabbard.

A moment later, Odysseus was with them, followed rapidly by Neoptolemus, Menelaus and Diomedes.

‘Is the signal in place?’ Odysseus asked.

‘And can you be sure the fleet saw it?’ Menelaus added.

‘The torch is on the walls, my lords, just as you ordered,’ Omeros replied, ‘but it was too dark to see if there were any ships in the harbour. If they’re there, though, they’ll have seen the signal.’

‘What about guards?’ asked Eperitus. ‘Did you see any patrols?’

‘None. Not a single man – they’re all in a drunken sleep, completely convinced we’ve given up and gone.’

‘You did well,’ Odysseus said, patting Omeros’s shoulder. ‘I couldn’t have done any better myself.’

Eperitus gave his squire a wink and Omeros bowed his head to hide the broad grin on his face.

‘Everybody’s out,’ Diomedes announced. ‘Now it’s time we went about our business. All it needs is one Trojan to wake and give the alarm –’

‘We’ll do everything as I explained before,’ Odysseus said. ‘Diomedes: you, Little Ajax and Idomeneus take half our number down to the Scaean Gate to let the army in. Menelaus, Neoptolemus and I will take the rest and secure the gates to the citadel.’

‘And what about these?’ Little Ajax demanded, sweeping his sword in a menacing arc over the sleeping Trojans. ‘Do you plan to just let them go on sleeping, ready to wake and bear arms against us? I say we cut their throats and rid ourselves of the bastards here and now.’

Eperitus looked at his king, who twice before had cut the throats of groups of sleeping warriors, preferring the opportunity of a defenceless enemy over notions of honour. On one of those occasions, the fate of Ithaca had depended on his actions; on the other he had murdered his victims for the sake of a team of prize horses. This time, though – to Eperitus’s approval – Odysseus shook his head.

‘We only kill those who resist us – the night’s going to be vicious enough without cold-blooded murder. Besides, we haven’t the time to waste. We need to go now.’

Diomedes gave a nod and signalled for Little Ajax, Teucer and the others in his party to follow him. They set off at a trot down the main street, their accoutrements jangling lightly as they headed for the dim outline of the city walls and the tower that guarded the Scaean Gate. Odysseus signalled to Omeros.

‘Go with them, lad, and find Eurybates. Remind him to keep a firm grip on my Ithacans. They’ve had a hard war and even the best of them will be tempted to excess, but I want them to stay disciplined. Now go.’

Omeros set off and Eperitus laid a hand on Odysseus’s shoulder.

‘We need to go, too,’ he urged.

Menelaus was already running up towards Pergamos, closely followed by the others. Only Neoptolemus remained, beckoning with his drawn sword for the two Ithacans to follow. They weaved a path towards him through the sleeping Trojans, then all three ran to catch up with the rest of the party. It was not long before they were approaching the sloping walls of the citadel and the imposing tower that guarded the gates. Menelaus slowed to a halt and crouched in the shadows of a nearby house, signalling for the rest to do the same. Neoptolemus, Odysseus and Eperitus joined him.

‘I’d forgotten how ugly their gods are,’ Menelaus whispered, pointing to the six crude statuettes that stood on plinths before the tower. He turned to Odysseus. ‘You know the city better than the rest of us. Isn’t the gate in the shadows, to the right of the tower?’

Odysseus nodded and looked up at the battlements. There were no figures pacing the walls or faces peering down at them over the parapets. All was silent.

‘They won’t have left it unguarded, not even tonight, but the last thing they’ll be expecting is a dozen fully armed Greeks. I suggest we sling our shields on our backs, sheath our swords and walk into Pergamos.’

Before they could question him, he was moving out of the shadows towards the tower. Not wanting to let his king take the risk alone, Eperitus was the first to follow, with Menelaus, Neoptolemus and the others close behind. Just as Odysseus had predicted, the gates were not unguarded: two men sat on stools to the left of the archway, their spears sloped against their shoulders, while two others stood opposite them, leaning against the wall with their heads bowed sleepily. The wooden gates were held open by two large blocks of stone, and all four guards were quiet, half asleep, only stirring to life as they saw the band of warriors approach.

‘No entry after midnight, brothers. You know that,’ said one of the soldiers, levering himself away from the wall with his elbow. ‘Curfew still applies, even in peacetime.’

He laughed quietly at his own humour, though his laughter quickly died away when he saw the men were not slowing down.

‘I said –’

As one, Odysseus and Eperitus drew their swords, closely followed by Menelaus and Neoptolemus. Eperitus sprang forward, pushing the point of his blade into the first guard’s chest. It sliced through his heart and passed out of his back, causing his legs to buckle and his body to fall backwards, almost pulling Eperitus with him. He placed his weight on his front foot and held on to the hilt, so that the momentum of the dead man’s torso pulled it free of the blade. Scuffles and grunts indicated the demise of the other guards and when Eperitus turned it was to see their bodies lying in pools of their own blood.

‘Menestheus, check the guardroom,’ Odysseus said, pointing through the archway.

The Athenian king nodded and led a group of warriors into the shadows. Eperitus’s hearing picked up the sound of blades drawn and muffled grunts, but the lack of any other noise indicated the Trojans within the guardroom had barely had the chance to wake before their souls were released from their bodies.

‘Now what?’ Neoptolemus asked.

‘We wait here and hold the gates until the rest of the army arrive,’ Odysseus replied.

‘Not me. I’m going to find my wife.’

Menelaus finished wiping his blade on the cloak of the guard he had killed, then stood and peered into the shadowy archway that led into the citadel. Odysseus side-stepped into his path, shaking his head.

‘You can’t go to the palace alone. It’s too dangerous. Wait for your brother to arrive.’

‘I mean to find her, Odysseus, and you aren’t going to stop me. I’ve waited too long for this.’

‘Then be patient a little longer –’

Menelaus was not interested. He shouldered his way past Odysseus and then through Menestheus and the other Greeks as they emerged from the archway.

‘You’ll get yourself killed and then this whole war will have been for nothing,’ Odysseus called after him.

‘The gods will protect me,’ Menelaus replied with a growl.

Eperitus laid a hand on Odysseus’s shoulder. ‘We have to go with him.’

‘I promised Agamemnon I’d wait here until he arrived.’

‘Neoptolemus can hold the gates,’ Eperitus urged. He looked at Achilles’s son, who replied with a curt nod. ‘We need to keep Menelaus safe.’

Odysseus hesitated a moment longer before agreeing.

‘You’re right, of course. But it’s not Menelaus’s safety we should be worried about – it’s Helen’s when he finds her. Come on, then, let’s go after him.’

‘Look at all these throats, just waiting to be cut. And we’re tiptoeing around them as if they were mere babies.’

‘Keep your voice down, Ajax,’ Diomedes whispered, staring over his shoulder at the Locrian. ‘Once the gates are open you can spill as much blood as you like, but not before.’

They were picking their way through scores of Trojan warriors, who had made their beds on the main thoroughfare around a large, makeshift fire. The flames had died away but the red glow of the embers lit up the huddled shapes of the nearest, revealing bearded faces that had put behind them the horrors of war and were at peace. Some shared their blankets with wives, slaves or prostitutes, whose smooth faces were framed by tumbles of dark hair. These were the people who had resisted the Greeks so valiantly and for so long, Diomedes thought, and soon their ten-year struggle would be over. As he had climbed out of the belly of the horse, his sword arm had been eager to go to work – more so because Helen’s mocking words had filled him with an urgent, paranoid desire to get home and reassure himself of his wife’s fidelity while he had been away. But as he saw his sleeping enemies and considered the ignoble end that was approaching them, he was moved to an unusual pity. Though he hated them with a passion for prolonging the siege with their bitter resistance, he had also learned to respect them. They did not deserve to die in their sleep or just startled into wakefulness, fooled by the ruse of a clever trickster. To Diomedes’s mind, slaughter in the darkness lacked the glory of a battle under the blazing sun, in which Troy’s walls were scaled or her gates forced by an army of proud victors. But that army had died with Achilles and Great Ajax. The survivors would do anything to see Troy fall – Diomedes included – even if their own honour fell with it.

Diomedes stepped on an outstretched hand, unable to prevent his weight crushing the Trojan’s knuckles against the hard stone beneath. The man groaned and pulled his arm away. Diomedes’s sword was at his throat in an instant, waiting for the eyes to flicker open and see the dozen armed men standing about him. Instead, the man turned over and draped his arm across the woman at his side.

‘Come on,’ Diomedes hissed to the others.

They navigated their way free of the remaining bodies and looked at the dark mass of the walls, just a short way off now. The dense ceiling of cloud acted like a shroud, choking the city streets in blackness and making it impossible to see whether there were any soldiers on the Scaean Gate or the tower above. Even after a night of drunken victory celebrations it was unlikely there would be no guards at all, so Diomedes decided to approach with caution. He signalled for Philoctetes and Teucer to join him, then, telling the others to wait, led the two archers down to the gates. They crept from doorway to doorway until they reached the corner of a mud hovel, from which they could see the tall wooden portals and the guard tower that had repulsed every attack that had ever been thrown at them. The battlements above the gates had been removed stone by stone – just as Odysseus had said they would be if the horse was to be dragged into the city – leaving a wide, ugly gap in the walls. The gates were firmly shut and barred, though, and in the shadows beneath the tower stood four guards armed with helmets, shields and spears.

‘You see them?’ Diomedes asked.

His companions nodded.

‘We have to take them quietly. If just one of them raises the alarm, the rest of the guard will empty out of the tower and prevent us taking the gates. And if they wake the rest of the city, we’ll never be able to cut our way out again.’

‘We understand,’ said Philoctetes, sliding an arrow from his quiver and fitting it to Heracles’s horn bow. ‘We shoot a man each, then draw another arrow, aim and shoot again before the remaining guards realise what’s happening.’

‘And if we miss with either shot,’ Teucer added, ‘we alert the Trojans, get ourselves massacred and lose the war.’

Diomedes nodded and gave an apologetic shrug. Teucer grinned at him, then knelt, drew two arrows and pushed one into the ground. The other he fitted to his bow, pulling it back to his cheek and aiming along its long black shaft.

‘Back right,’ he whispered.

‘Back left,’ Philoctetes answered, ‘then front left. Now!’

The bowstrings hummed and Diomedes saw the two men closest to the gate jerk and fall. His heart beat fast and his throat thickened as he watched the remaining guards turn in surprise, then run towards their comrades. The bows hummed in unison a second time and the last two Trojans fell on top of the two who had died only moments before them.

‘Shots worthy of Apollo himself,’ Diomedes commented with relief, patting Philoctetes and Teucer on their shoulders. ‘Now stay here while I fetch the others. And shoot anyone who approaches the gates.’

He stood to leave, but a hissed warning from Philoctetes brought him back into the shadows. Once again, both bows sounded. Diomedes stared about in confusion, then caught sight of a body falling from the summit of the tower. It turned once in midair before hitting the ground with a crunch where the other corpses already lay. The Argive king scanned the tower and the broad parapets for more guards, but could see none. Then, with a quick nod of gratitude to the watchful archers, he turned again and headed back to where Little Ajax and the others were waiting. They saw him coming and went to meet him. Together they ran down to the gates, passing the humped shapes of many sleeping Trojans who would never now see the light of dawn. They passed Philoctetes and Teucer, still poised with arrows fitted, and sprinted the final stretch to the gates, as if afraid a company of warriors might leap out at the last moment and block their way. But no-one saw them as they jumped the pile of bodies and reached the wooden doors; no-one heard as they lifted away the bar and let it fall with a crash onto the cobblestones; and no-one cried out as they hauled the heavy portals back on their hinges to reveal the dark landscape beyond. And as they peered out into the gloom, no-one was there to meet them.

‘Where are they?’ Omeros asked. ‘Perhaps they didn’t see the signal. By all the gods, they must still be in the ships!’

Diomedes stared out at the land between the walls and the River Scamander, where the only feature was the sacred oak beneath which Achilles had fought and killed Hector. Had that really only happened in the spring, he thought, momentarily distracted. Was it now only the eighth month of the year? And where was the army, now that victory was so close? Had they missed the signal and, believing the occupants of the horse lost, set their sails towards Greece?

‘Agamemnon! Where are you?’ Little Ajax called. ‘The gates are open – what are you waiting for?’

There was desperation in the short, brutal warrior’s voice that made it carry out into the void. It filled Diomedes with the sudden fear he would rouse any nearby Trojans, and quickly he raised the point of his sword to Ajax’s throat.

‘Quiet, damn you!’ he hissed. ‘Are you trying to wake every soldier in Troy?’

In a deft move, Little Ajax twisted away from Diomedes’s blade and brought his own weapon up to meet it with a ringing clash. Then, all around them, the darkness began to shift. Black figures rose up from the ground, first in their scores, then in their hundreds, as if the souls of the dead were rising from the pits of Hades. Diomedes and Little Ajax forgot their quarrel and stepped back as the army of wraiths closed about them from the plain. Slowly, their pale faces and limbs became clearer, and one by one they slipped the black cloths from their shields and breastplates so that the metal and leather shone with a dull lustre in the darkness. Last of all they raised the points of their spears or drew their swords with a metallic slither, forming a wall of bronze about the open gates. The Greek army had arrived, and the sleeping city lay exposed before them.

Two figures approached from the massed ranks, the plumes on their helmets waving gently in the soft night breeze.

‘It worked! It actually worked,’ declared Agamemnon, with muted triumph. ‘Zeus be praised!’

‘And Odysseus, too,’ Diomedes reminded him. ‘His brains have succeeded where the might of Achilles and Great Ajax failed.’

‘We haven’t succeeded yet,’ said Nestor, standing at the King of Men’s side. ‘There’ll be much bloodshed before this battle’s over.’

‘But it’s the last battle,’ said Agamemnon. He turned towards the thousands of waiting soldiers and raised his spear above his head. ‘Troy is ours! Victory is ours! But it shall not be an empty one. I’ll not have the city sacked and its population scattered, so they can return and rebuild it when we’ve gone. I’ll not see the shadow of its towers fall across the Aegean again, to be a thorn in the side of future generations of Greeks. No, it must be destroyed. Put it to the torch. Throw down its walls and gates. Don’t suffer even one stone to remain on another. Destroy its flesh and blood, too. Kill every man, boy and infant you come across. And when you have shown them no mercy, do whatever you like with their women. Those are my only commands; now see that you carry them out to the full.’

His words were met with a shout and the clashing of weapons against shields. He turned on his heel and strode into the city, his blood-red cloak billowing out behind him. As he passed between the gates, a dozen sleepy Trojans ran out of a door in the side of the tower, only to be slaughtered and trampled over by the swarm of invaders following on the heels of the king of Mycenae. The Scaean Gate had fallen. The annihilation of Troy had begun.

Chapter Thirty-eight

INSIDE THE PALACE

Aeneas’s eyes flickered open. He lifted his head slowly from the table, where it had been laying in the crook of his arm, and squinted out at the dark, still market square. Sleeping bodies lay here and there amid the wreckage of overturned benches, empty wineskins and broken kraters. Nothing moved and the only noise was the sound of mingled snores drifting up into the night air. And yet something had woken him; some deeper instinct was warning him that things were not as they should be. Having long ago learned to listen to his intuitions, he forced himself to sit up and feel for his sword. There were many who had left their weapons behind, refusing to bring them to a celebration marking the end of the siege, but his hung reassuringly at his side.

He lifted his legs over the bench and got up. Steadying himself against the table, he fought the thumping of the wine inside his head and took a second look around. Everything was quiet, calm, peaceful, as if the war had happened a generation ago and they had merely been commemorating it. Then his gaze fell on the wooden horse, standing tall and menacing in the centre of the square. Here, Aeneas sensed, was the source of his disquiet. It stood up to its hocks in garlands, which the womenfolk had plucked from the meadows around the Scamander. Offerings of food, too, had been piled all around it in honour of Athena and the other gods who had brought victory so unexpectedly to Troy. The horse had not moved; it had not changed; and in the darkness he almost missed the small detail that was to save his life. But something lifted his eyes to the Greek characters inscribed in its flank, and it was then he noticed some of the letters were missing. No, not missing – they had been blacked out. Aeneas blinked and took a few paces towards the giant effigy. And then he saw that the letters were not blacked out, but that a piece of the horse’s side had been removed, revealing a dark interior from which a ladder of knotted rope was dangling.

Aeneas felt his flesh go cold. His eyes widened and his fingers closed tightly around the hilt of his sword. Now he understood and the truth filled him with sudden, overwhelming terror. The horse had contained men – who and how many, he could not guess – and those men would soon be opening the city gates for the rest of the Greek army, which would have sailed into the bay under cover of darkness. In an instant the whole plan was clear before him. Zeus had weighed the Greeks and Trojans in his scales and they had come down in favour of the Greeks.

The sound of raised voices drifted up from the Scaean Gate. He turned to face them, feeling his heart race in his chest. Then he heard a scream and knew there was nothing he could do now to save Troy from its fate. In the brief space of time that followed, he sifted the options that were open to him and understood what he had to do. He looked down at the figures lying around him and kicked one of them awake. The soldier stirred, reluctantly, then grabbed at the foot that was beating against his ribs.

‘What do you think you’re –?’

‘Shut up, man. The Greeks have returned: they’re in the city now. Wake as many warriors as you can and find whatever weapons are to hand. Do you understand?’

The man frowned, rubbing his eyes and cheeks, then gave a nod.

‘Where are you going?’ he called after Aeneas as he ran towards Pergamos.

Aeneas ignored him. He had thought of heading to the palace and warning Priam and Deiphobus, but the Greeks were certain to have sent men to take the citadel gates and guard them. And that left him only one choice, the choice that his heart would have chosen anyway. His father, his wife and his infant son were staying in the home of Antenor, the elder, and his wife Theano, the priestess of Athena. Troy was lost, but Aeneas could still save his family.

Odysseus and Eperitus ran through the archway and into Pergamos.

‘Menelaus, wait!’

‘Go back,’ the Spartan answered. ‘My mind’s made up.’

He had reached the foot of the broad ramp that led up to the next tier of the citadel, but despite his words seemed reluctant to go any further. His sword hung idly from his hand and he was staring up at the poplars that lined the road ahead as if they were giant sentinels, threatening to attack if he placed even one foot on the neatly laid cobbles.

‘Ours’ too. We’ve decided to come with you.’

Menelaus turned to face the Ithacan king.

‘I don’t need your help, Odysseus.’

‘Yes you do. I know where Helen’s quarters are and unless I show you the way you’ll waste valuable time searching the palace to find her. Right now, Agamemnon and the rest of the army are streaming in through the Scaean Gate. Soon the sounds of battle are going to carry up here and alert the royal guard that something’s wrong. And unless you find her straight away, Deiphobus is going to put Helen in his chariot and take her away to safety.’

As he finished speaking, a distant shout of alarm rose into the air and was cut short. Menelaus threw an anxious glance up the ramp, then turned to Odysseus.

‘Very well, come with me, but don’t try to get in the way when I find my wife, or I swear by all the gods you’ll regret it.’

Odysseus turned to Eperitus, placing his hands on his upper arms.

‘And now our paths must diverge, old friend. The night will be dangerous and bloody and I wish we could face it together, but the gods have set us different tasks to complete. My way lies with Menelaus, but you have to find Astynome and keep her safe. And if you can, you must face your father.’

‘My place is to guard you.’

‘I can look after myself well enough, and unless you’d rather I relieve you as captain of my guard then you’d better start obeying my orders. But I promise you this, Eperitus: somewhere beyond the fire and smoke, when Troy’s in ruin and her streets are piled high with the dead, we’ll meet again. Now, go and save the woman you love.’

The two men embraced, then Eperitus turned and ran into one of the side streets, where he was instantly absorbed by the dense shadows.

‘Come on then,’ Menelaus snarled, impatiently.

A breath of wind brought with it the faint clatter of bronze from the lower city, accompanied by the dull murmuring of angry voices contending with each other. Driven by a renewed urgency, Odysseus and Menelaus sprinted up the ramp to the second tier of Pergamos. An awe-inspiring press of two and three-storeyed mansions loomed out of the darkness on every side, but there was no time to admire the great buildings that had stood for so long and were now doomed for destruction. They ran on towards the second ramp, where the temple of Zeus lay to their right and the equally impressive temple of Athena to their left. Odysseus felt a pang of regret and doubt as he recalled his recent encounter there with the goddess.

‘Who’s that?’ demanded a voice ahead of them.

Odysseus had almost forgotten the guards who kept a constant vigil at the foot of the ramp that led up to the palace courtyard. Fortunately, Menelaus was not so slow.

‘The Greeks have entered the city!’ he answered without halting. ‘We need to warn the king.’

Four soldiers appeared from the shadows, fully armed and alert. They looked at each other in confusion, too shocked by the news to consider that the men running towards them might be enemies. By the time they saw Menelaus and Odysseus raising their swords, it was too late. Menelaus plunged his weapon into his first victim’s chest, the sharpened point forcing its way through his scaled armour and finding his heart. Odysseus’s sword skimmed over the second man’s shoulder and sliced through his throat, toppling him backwards as he clasped both hands about the fatal wound. The remaining warriors fumbled for their spears, but were not quick enough. One fell headless to the cobblestones, while the other folded over the point of Odysseus’s blade. It took a matter of moments for the attackers to ensure the guards were dead before continuing up the ramp to the third tier.

The wide courtyard before them was empty, but Odysseus placed an arresting hand on Menelaus’s chest while he scoured the shadows beneath the palace walls for more guards. Behind them, the clamour of destruction from the lower city was growing and here and there the low clouds were beginning to glow orange as one house after another was put to the torch.

‘There’s not much time,’ Menelaus said, staring back over his shoulder. ‘We need to find my wife now.’

‘There’s a servants’ entrance over on the left,’ Odysseus replied, pointing away from the high muralled walls of the main palace to an unadorned, single-storeyed wing set back from the rest of the building. ‘I can find my way to her quarters once we’re inside.’

He ran across the broad courtyard, kicking up spumes of the soft earth as he went. Menelaus followed close on his heels and together they reached the shadow of the building just as the main doors of the palace swung open and a handful of armed men came running out. They stopped sharply and began speaking in hurried voices, pointing to the orange clouds above the lower city.

‘That’s Deiphobus,’ Menelaus hissed, gripping his sword and taking a step toward the courtyard.

Odysseus pulled him back.

‘There’ll be time to deal with him later, but while he’s distracted we should find Helen and take her to safety.’

Hugging the shadows, they reached the servant’s entrance and pushed it open. Torches flickered in the passageway beyond, but there was no-one to be seen. Knowing time was slipping away from them, Odysseus led a weaving path through the narrow corridors of the building, passing open doorways that gave fleeting hints at their contents: a pungent whiff of root vegetables and herbs; the reek of fish; a heady scent of wine; the sweet aroma of bread. They entered a broader passage that angled to the right and soon led them to the foot of a flight of stairs. Odysseus took the steps three at a time, not caring who or what might be waiting above, and ran on through more deserted corridors where there were fewer torches and the smells coming from the open doors were of human bodies, accompanied by the sounds of snoring. They reached a door guarded by a sleeping sentinel, whose throat Menelaus paused to slice open with his sword before running on in Odysseus’s wake.

Then they came to a turn in the passage that was bathed with the glow of newly lit torches. Odysseus crouched low and signalled for Menelaus to do the same.

‘Is her bedroom near?’ Menelaus whispered.

‘Just around this corner. But listen, someone’s speaking; if Helen’s there, she’s not alone.’

At that moment, a door opened and the muffled voices became clear.

‘I don’t know if it’s the whole Greek army, but we can’t take any risks. We heard the fighting and saw the flames from the courtyard, so I’m going to take you somewhere safe before it’s too late.’

‘Deiphobus!’ Menelaus hissed.

Before Odysseus could stop him, the Spartan king had pulled the shield from his back and was running around the corner. Odysseus swore and followed as quickly as he could, almost colliding with Menelaus as he turned into the broad, well-lit corridor. Just a few paces away, standing before the open door to Helen’s bedroom, were Deiphobus, two of Helen’s maids and two members of the royal guard. Their faces wore looks of astonishment as they gaped at the two gore-spattered Greeks. For a heartbeat Menelaus and Odysseus stared back at them in silence, hesitating at the unexpected sight of the armed warriors. Into this moment of anxious stillness stepped Helen, dressed in a gauzy white chiton with her black hair tied up behind her head, as if she had not yet been to bed. She carried a black cloak over her arm, which slipped to the floor as she set eyes upon her first husband.

‘Menelaus,’ she said, barely breathing his name.

Chapter Thirty-nine

HELEN AND MENELAUS

Get back!’ Deiphobus ordered, snapping to his senses and pushing Helen into the bedroom. ‘You two, do your duty!’

The guardsmen lowered the points of their spears and advanced side by side down the corridor. Behind them, the maids screamed and ran after Deiphobus, only to have the door slammed shut in their faces. They turned and fled, just as Menelaus knocked aside one of the spear points with his shield and stepped inside the guard of its owner, sinking his sword into the man’s unprotected groin. He cried out in agony and lurched sideways into the second Trojan, who tried to push him away with his elbow. Seeing his chance, Odysseus rushed forward and lunged at him. He stepped back to avoid the point of Odysseus’s sword, but caught his heel on his dying comrade and fell in a heap. Odysseus finished him quickly.

‘Come on!’ Menelaus called, leaping over their fallen enemies.

He kicked open the door and crashed into the bedroom. Odysseus followed, his heart pounding hard against his chest. In the centre of the room was a large bed. White curtains billowed inward from a window behind it, ushering in the savoury whiff of smoke and the pink glow of fire from the lower city. On the other side of the bed was Deiphobus with Helen held firmly in his arms. Two more of Helen’s maids stood in an open doorway at the back of the wide chamber – which Odysseus knew led to Helen’s bathroom – their beautiful faces blighted by terror. But these details were of little concern compared to the four other guardsmen whom Deiphobus had brought with him to escort his wife to safety, and who were standing ready with their spears gripped tightly in both hands and their shields on their arms.

Menelaus stared at Helen, his face an angry mask that hid emotions Odysseus could only guess at. Helen looked back at him, almost too afraid to hold his gaze but also conscious that to look away would be an admission of guilt before her avenging husband. She must have known that Menelaus’s sudden appearance inside the palace meant a Greek victory, and that whatever happened now her life was balanced on the edge of his blade. Belatedly, she began to struggle against Deiphobus’s grip, sending looks of helpless longing toward her first husband and trying to ignore the knowing presence of Odysseus.

Deiphobus nodded at his guards. Cautiously they edged forward, searching with experienced eyes for a gap that would invite the points of their spears into a killing thrust. But Menelaus and Odysseus were too battle-hardened to make foolish mistakes and braced themselves for their own chance to strike and kill. Odysseus risked opening his shield a little and was rewarded with a premature lunge from one of his opponents. He stepped aside so that the spear passed between his body and his shield, then hacked down with his blade to hew off the Trojan’s left hand. The man’s weapon fell with a clatter and he stepped back, holding the stump of his wrist into his armpit. His companion knocked him to one side with his shoulder and ran shouting at Odysseus, who stepped away and lashed out with the rim of his shield, forcing the man to duck and turn with his back to the door.

Menelaus quickly tired of his enemies’ probing jabs and with a bellow of rage leapt at them. One spear point caught fast in his shield, almost pushing him into the path of the second weapon, which glanced off his ribcage but failed to penetrate the armour. In his fury, the Spartan slashed at the face of his first foe and felled him, before turning on his heel and sweeping the other man’s head from his shoulders. Seeing this, Odysseus’s remaining opponent tossed his spear aside and fled through the open doorway.

The Greeks now turned back to face Deiphobus and Helen. The remaining soldier, still clutching his maimed limb, staggered across the beautifully adorned bedroom, splashing the animal pelts that lined the floor with large drops of blood. He lurched towards the window in his confusion and fell unconscious at Helen’s feet. Deiphobus released his wife – who knelt down beside the fallen soldier – and stepped forward, drawing his sword as he advanced.

‘Stay back, Odysseus,’ Menelaus warned. ‘This one dies by my hand and mine alone.’

‘You’ll not find me as easy as the others,’ Deiphobus responded in Greek.

Menelaus’s lips curled back in a snarl, tinged with joy at the prospect of killing Helen’s latest husband. Then, as Deiphobus prepared to fight, Helen stood up and closed behind him. The Trojan prince stiffened and thrust out his chest, his face suddenly strained. A line of blood appeared at the corner of his mouth, then with a choke burst out over his chin.

Odysseus had seen Helen draw the sword from the fallen guard’s belt, but only guessed her intentions at the last moment, springing forward with his palm held out in an arresting motion. His warrior’s sensibilities, so brutalised after ten years of war, told him it was not right for one so beautiful, so outwardly pure as Helen to sink to the level of murder. But he was too late. As Deiphobus slipped to the floor and rolled onto his back – as if to snatch a final glance at her face – the bloody weapon in her hand and the red stains on her white dress were evidence of her deed. Why though? Odysseus wondered. Out of revenge for a forced marriage? Or as a token of repentance before her returning husband, in the hope of saving her own life?

Menelaus looked down at the lifeless form of Deiphobus, then at the woman who had killed him, the woman for whose sake so many men had died. Their eyes met and for a long moment there was no rage or bitterness in Menelaus’s gaze, only fascination as he reacquainted himself with the face he had once loved so well, and for which he had crossed the Aegean with the greatest fleet the world had ever seen. Helen looked back at the father of her children, a man who, as her husband, had only ever treated her with kindness and respect; a man she had never hated, and yet whom she had never loved. And to Odysseus’s shrewd mind the old familiarity between the two was still there, as if – for a brief space – the infidelity, war and years apart from each other had never happened. Then, as the Ithacan had expected, the recognition of those dividing forces stole into their gaze, reawakening their more immediate emotions and pulling them back to the present. For Helen, it was a flicker of guilt, followed by a more dominant fear – fear of the man she had betrayed, and who was no longer separated from her by the walls, armies and princes of Troy. For Menelaus, seeing her shame and her fear brought his righteous anger rushing back. Tears rolled in rapid, heavy drops down his cheeks: tears he had never shed for the thousands who had suffered for the sake of his love, but which came forth now as he remembered the pain she had inflicted on him. And it was a pain that demanded retribution.

He leapt towards her, his sword flashing red. Helen screamed, but Odysseus had anticipated Menelaus’s reaction and threw his arms about the Spartan’s chest, pulling him back.

‘Control your anger! We haven’t fought for ten years just so you can murder the woman we came to save.’

‘Let me go!’ Menelaus spat, desperately trying to throw off Odysseus’s bear-like grip.

‘Not until you’ve calmed down.’

‘Menelaus,’ Helen said, her voice soft but commanding.

Menelaus ceased struggling and looked up.

‘Husband,’ she continued. ‘Listen to Odysseus. Have you been through so much, just to kill me? Have you suffered for all these years just to rip open my flesh with your sword and bathe in my blood? Have thousands died just to slake your lust for vengeance? Such an empty victory! Or can something be retrieved from all this destruction?’

Odysseus slipped his arms from about Menelaus’s chest and eased the sword from his fingertips. Menelaus did not move.

‘I wanted you back,’ he replied. ‘That’s why I came after you. I’ve thought of little else since we first landed on these shores.’

‘And now you have me.’

‘Do I, Helen?’ Menelaus retorted. ‘Do I have my wife back, or – as it seems to me now we are face-to-face again – am I simply stealing another man’s woman, nothing more than a slave to tend to my needs and sleep with me, hiding her hatred beneath a bowed head? If that’s the case, then we’ll both be better off if I kill you now.’

Helen dropped the sword that had murdered Deiphobus and held her bloodstained hands imploringly towards Menelaus.

‘Don’t let it all be in vain. We were man and wife once; we can be again, and not without love, as you fear. Tell him, Odysseus. Tell him how I begged you to take me back with you to the Greek camp, so that I could be with my rightful husband again.’

Odysseus remembered how Helen had pleaded with him to take her from Troy, even offering him her body if he would return her to Menelaus and free her from the confines of the city walls and forced marriage to Deiphobus. He also recalled his debt to her, for not giving him away to the Trojan guards when he was at her mercy.

‘It’s true, Menelaus, and if she hadn’t insisted on bringing Pleisthenes it might have been possible. And look there. Is that the act of a woman in love, to murder her husband in cold blood?’

‘That poor soul?’ Menelaus said. ‘Even I can see she didn’t love him. But Deiphobus isn’t my concern – Paris is. The man who entered my house as a guest and left a thief, surrendering his honour for the sake of my wife.’ He turned his eyes on Helen. ‘Last year I might have believed you still loved me, that this whole war had a true purpose. Then I faced Paris on the battlefield and he told me the truth: that you fell in love with him in Sparta; that you came to Troy not as a captive but of your own free will. Is that true, Helen?’

Menelaus’s tone was threatening, and yet there was doubt in it, too. And hope.

Helen looked down at the bloodstained furs.

‘Why dwell on the events of a decade ago? The only thing that matters is here and now.’

‘No! Our lives are founded in the past. If you betrayed me then you can do it again, and I would rather kill you now than have that.’

Helen paused, then raised her eyes to his, fixing his gaze.

‘I never loved Paris,’ she lied. Her features were firm, but Odysseus saw the glint of a tear in the corner of her eye. ‘I never loved him, Menelaus. He took me from you against my will, brought me here and forced me to marry him. I would never have left my children, or you, for another.’

‘Yet you came to love him,’ Menelaus countered. ‘You shared his bed willingly, happily. You were lovers.’

Helen’s tears were flowing now and as her eyes flickered towards Odysseus he saw shame in them, knowing he knew she was lying.

‘I never loved him,’ she sobbed. ‘His touch repulsed me, and though he forced himself upon me I never gave myself willingly.’

‘I don’t believe you,’ Menelaus insisted. ‘You enjoyed being mounted by him!’

There was no conviction in his words now. The last of his anger was submitting to his desire for her, a desire that revealed itself by his talk of Paris and Helen’s lovemaking. Helen must have realised this and seen that the contest was entering a realm where she had the dominant power. She took a few paces towards him and fell to her knees.

‘My body has always been yours, Menelaus,’ she said, seizing the front of her chiton and tearing it open, ‘and it will be yours again.’

A splintering crash came from somewhere within the depths of the palace, followed by a woman’s scream. Menelaus glanced over his shoulder, then back down at Helen. The sight of her perfect face and her bared breasts were almost enough for him. And yet he still refused to surrender to his need for her.

‘Swear it, Helen. Swear by the name of Aphrodite that you never loved Paris. Swear he took you from our home against your will.’ With a swift movement, he pulled a dagger from his belt and held the point to her throat. ‘Swear it, or by Ares’s sword I will slice your beautiful head from your shoulders and throw it into the flames of Troy!’

‘Menelaus, give me the dagger.’ Odysseus’s sword was pressed against the Spartan’s ribs. ‘Helen saw through my disguise when I came to steal the Palladium, but she didn’t betray me to the Trojans. She even drugged the temple guards and showed me a way to leave the city unnoticed. Without her Troy would never have fallen, and if that doesn’t convince you of her loyalty to you then I don’t know what will. But I also owe her my life, and if you don’t take that blade from her throat then I’ll run you through. Do you understand me?’

‘All I want is her oath, sworn in the name of Aphrodite,’ Menelaus hissed, without removing his eyes from Helen or his dagger from her neck.

More screams came from the corridors behind them. Then Helen spoke, with her eyes closed and her voice trembling.

‘I swear it, Menelaus. As Aphrodite is my witness, I never loved anyone but you.’

Menelaus withdrew the blade and tossed it into a corner of the room. Dropping to his knees, he wrapped his arms around his wife and drew her clumsily into his chest. He pressed his face into her hair, the tears falling heavily from his eyes again as he breathed in lungfuls of her perfume.

‘Then you’re mine again, at last, and this cursed war is truly over. Let’s find Pleisthenes and go home. To Sparta.’

Chapter Forty

LOVE AND VENGEANCE

The streets of Pergamos were confusing in a night without moon or stars, lit only by the reflected orange glow from the fires that were springing up in the lower city, but it was not long before Eperitus found himself emerging from the shadows opposite the temple of Apollo. His father’s two-storeyed house was beside it, and after a quick glance at the dark doorways and windows of the surrounding buildings, Eperitus crossed to the modest portico with its twin columns standing like sentinels, one on either side.

His heart beat faster as he laid his palms against the wooden doors and paused. For a whole night and day in the cramped discomfort of the wooden horse he had pondered this moment and what he would do when it came. Sitting on the hard bench with his head in his hands, he had thought about Astynome and all they had been through together. Despite her betrayal, he knew she loved him and that he still loved her. That was something worth fighting for, something much greater than the cold, selfish motivations of glory that had given his life meaning before. It was why Odysseus had let him go. The king knew the value of love, and that Eperitus would need to protect Astynome from the army of vengeful Greeks that would soon be rampaging through the citadel.

But if Eperitus wanted nothing more than to sail back with Astynome to Ithaca, where Agamemnon, Apheidas and the walls of Troy would never be able to separate them again, he knew that even then he could not find satisfaction until he had faced his father for one last time. Unlike his lust for glory, he could not so quickly abandon his need for revenge. Apheidas had caused too much destruction in his life for him to simply turn his back and walk away. What was more, if he was to enjoy the future in peace with Astynome he had first to rid himself of the shadow of his past. He was sure Odysseus had known that, too.

He leaned his weight against the wooden doors, which were unbarred and swung open easily. Inside was the main hall, dark but for the red glow of the fire that seemed to pulsate like a heart at its centre. Eperitus shut the doors quietly behind him and waited, letting his supernatural senses expand into the cavernous black chamber. The light from the hearth did not reach beyond the four pillars that surrounded it, but his keen eyes could pick out the erect shapes of several chairs, a number of long tables pushed against the walls, and the faded outlines of the murals on the plaster above them. Through the smell of burning wood and ashes, he could discern the lingering aromas of bread, roast meat and wine from an earlier meal, mingling with other smells from deeper within the house. The air in the hall was still, other than the slight updraft as the smoke from the hearth was drawn through the hole in the apex of the ceiling, and the only sounds were the crackle of the fire and the creaking of wooden beams as they settled in the cooler night air. And the faint, restrained breathing of the other person in the room.

Eperitus drew his sword.

‘Come out of the shadows,’ he ordered, speaking in the Trojan tongue.

A figure rose up from one of the chairs against the wall to his left and walked towards him.

‘Eperitus!’

Astynome’s black hair was tied up behind her head and even in the faint light from the hearth Eperitus was able to recognise the familiar features of the face he loved so much. Slipping his sword back into its sheath, he moved forward and welcomed her into his arms. She brushed her cheek against his, then sank her head upon his shoulder, as if weary from their time apart. He raised a hand to her nape and pushed his fingertips into her hairline, enjoying the warmth of her skin and the softness of her hair. There was a clean, fresh aroma about her that sent his mind back to the times they had shared a bed, long before any darkness had come between them.

She looked up at him with her large, brown eyes, and he responded by pressing his lips to hers.

‘I expected to have to find you and wake you,’ he said.

‘I knew you were coming,’ she replied, indicating the cloak she was wearing. ‘The night you stole the Palladium, Odysseus told me that if a wooden horse entered Troy the war would end and I would be reunited with you. I didn’t understand at the time, and even less so when I saw that wheeled monster being dragged towards the city – I think the gods confounded us all so we wouldn’t guess its true purpose – but when Cassandra spoke I realised there were men hidden inside the horse. And I knew you were one of them.’

‘We’d all be dead if you hadn’t spoken up against her.’

She shrugged. ‘Well, here you are. What happens now?’

‘The army should have sailed into the bay under cover of darkness. Even as we speak the Scaean Gate is being opened to let them in. It’s the end of the war, Astynome, and the end of Troy. Agamemnon won’t suffer anything of the city to remain, or its people.’

‘It was inevitable,’ Astynome said, shaking her head. ‘Troy could not stand forever, not against the will of Zeus. And yet I wish it didn’t have to end like this, with such ignominy – a great city murdered in its sleep.’

‘There was no other way, but at least it means we can be together again. That’s why I’m here – to keep you safe until it’s all over, then take you back with me to Ithaca. If you still want to come?’

Astynome smiled. ‘Of course I do. My life’s nothing without you, Eperitus. But you’re not just here for me, are you.’

‘I gave Palamedes my word I would keep Clymene safe if Troy was ever sacked.’

‘I mean Apheidas.’

Eperitus held her face and tenderly brushed her cheeks with his thumbs.

‘I can’t leave without avenging his crimes.’

‘Honour and vengeance! The two things that have kept men killing each other since the creation of the world.’

‘You forget love.’

‘At least love can also stay a man’s hand!’ Astynome retorted. Then her eyes softened again and she glanced down at his armoured chest. ‘Clymene’s already in her room waiting – I told her to be ready to flee the city – but must you risk everything to face Apheidas? I know when you were his prisoner I said I would help you take your revenge, but now I’m not so certain. Does killing a man really solve anything? Will murdering your own father right the wrongs he has committed? It seems to me the best way to defeat Apheidas is to be everything he is not, to be loving where he is hateful, to be selfless where he is ambitious. And that’s the kind of man you are, Eperitus – it’s why I fell in love with you. But if you seek him out and avenge his crimes in blood, you’re taking the path he would take. Instead of defeating him, you’ll become him. If you want to be free of his shadow, then leave him to his fate and walk away from this place.’

Her words were sacrilege to a warrior, whose code demanded that the merest slight had to be avenged in blood. And yet they held a challenge he could not ignore. Did he want to kill his father and inherit his legacy of hatred? Or could he turn away, even now when revenge was finally within his grasp, and take a different path?

‘A woman wouldn’t understand,’ said another voice from the shadows on the opposite side of the hall. ‘A man who runs from his responsibilities is only half a man, doomed to live life with his head hung low and his spirit in shadow. Isn’t that so, Son?’

Eperitus spun round to see a man and a woman step into the circle of firelight. The tall figure of his father was unmistakable. He carried a spear in one hand and a shield in the other, and the red glow from the embers played menacingly on his scaled cuirass. It took a moment longer to recognise the woman as Clymene, her shoulders stooped and her chin on her chest. Eperitus slipped his grandfather’s shield from his back and took its weight on his left arm, while slowly drawing his sword from its sheath. It seemed his decision had been made for him.

‘Father,’ he said. ‘At least you’ve saved me the trouble of looking for you.’

‘And I thought Astynome might have talked you into running away. But what were you planning, Son? A knife in my sleep? That seems to be the Greek way of doing things.’

‘No, you can be sure I’d have woken you first. I wouldn’t want your ghost to slip off to Hades without knowing who it was that took your life.’

‘Ah, that must be the Trojan in you, Son.’

Eperitus spat. ‘I’ve rejected that part of my inheritance, just like my grandfather did when he made Greece his home. It’s a shame you didn’t follow his example.’

‘And become a skulking coward, sneaking into cities hidden inside a wooden horse?’

Eperitus raised an eyebrow.

‘If you knew, why didn’t you burn it when you had the chance?’

‘I didn’t know,’ Apheidas admitted with a shrug. ‘I suspected something was amiss with the horse, but when Cassandra started screaming that there were men inside the idea of it seemed ridiculous. And that was the work of the gods, I’m sure of it. Then, after the celebrations were over, Clymene here woke me to say that Astynome was planning to flee, and when I looked out my window I could see flames in the lower city and hear cries. That was when the truth became clear to me.’

‘Clymene!’ Astynome said, her tone both accusative and dismayed. ‘How could you betray me? I was trying to help you.’

Clymene raised her pained face to look at her friend.

‘I’m sorry, Astynome, but Apheidas is my master and the Greeks are our enemies. When you said we needed to get out of the city before it was too late, I knew it meant they were coming. But I don’t want them to come! They murdered my son in cold blood, and if I can do anything to save Troy from them then I will. And I have.’

‘You silly woman!’ Astynome replied. ‘Troy is doomed, and you’ve thrown away your only hope of escape.’

‘And you think you’re just going to walk out of the city unscathed?’ Apheidas mocked. ‘At least Clymene has shown loyalty, whereas you will die a traitor!’

Eperitus moved Astynome behind him and walked towards the hearth.

‘No-one is going to die except you, Father.’

‘So you think. I overheard you’d sworn to protect Clymene, but merely taking an oath doesn’t mean it’s going to be fulfilled. Let me demonstrate.’

Apheidas turned towards Clymene and with a quick thrust pushed the point of his spear through her chest and out her back. Astynome sprang forward with a cry of protest, but Clymene was already dead, her body toppling back into the hearth. The flames leapt up to welcome her and a blaze of orange light illuminated her laughing murderer.

‘See, Eperitus? There’s one oath you’ll never be able to fulfil. Now, let’s see whether you can keep your other promise – to kill me.’

Apheidas tossed the spear up and caught it with his upturned hand. In the same movement, he pulled it back and hurled it at his son. It split the air with a hiss, passing a finger’s breadth to the right of Eperitus’s neck.

‘Get back, Astynome!’ Eperitus shouted. ‘Get back now!’

He ran at his father and hewed the air where a moment before he had been standing, but the older man had already judged the fall of the weapon and jumped back into the shadows. Drawing his own sword, he leant forward on his front foot and drove the point at his son’s exposed midriff. Eperitus turned and blocked the thrust with his shield, following the movement with an arcing sweep of his blade. Apheidas slipped behind a pillar and the bronze edge drew sparks as it bit into the stone.

Eperitus charged him again and their weapons met, the loud scraping of the blades echoing back from the walls as they bent into each other. They locked eyes, then with a grunt Eperitus pushed his father back into the shadows.

‘You’ve still not got it in you to kill me, Son.’

Eperitus looked at his father’s sneering face and felt a surge of hatred. Then he remembered Astynome’s words and wondered whether she was right, that there was something of Apheidas’s anger in himself. Was he looking at a reflection of what he could become? The thought subdued his fury and he stepped back.

The hiss and pop of the fire was accompanied now by the stench of burning flesh, a smell all too familiar from the many funeral pyres Eperitus had witnessed over the years of the war. He saw his father move to the right, then realised Astynome had ignored his orders and was standing close by. Guessing Apheidas’s intentions, he ran across to protect her, just as his father dashed out of the darkness. The red glint of a blade was followed by a scream. Apheidas reeled away, clutching at the side of his face where the point of his son’s sword had opened the skin. Eperitus instinctively lifted his hand to touch the scar on his forehead, which Apheidas had given him in the temple of Artemis at Lyrnessus several weeks before.

‘Stay back, Astynome! Get out of the house and find somewhere safe to hide until this is over.’

‘I’m staying with you,’ she said, her voice resolute. ‘Haven’t you noticed the clamour outside? The Greeks are already in the citadel, so I’d rather die here with you than be raped and killed out there.’

Before Eperitus could reply, Apheidas turned and ran towards a side door, shouldering it open and letting in the pungent smells of cold night air and vegetation. As if to confirm Astynome’s fears, the sounds of screaming and the clash of weapons could be clearly heard in the near distance.

‘Let him go,’ Astynome said, as Apheidas ran into the square garden that was visible beyond the open doorway. ‘He can’t get out of Troy alive.’

‘He can,’ Eperitus answered. ‘He’s too much of a survivor. I have to finish him now, while I have the chance.’

‘Then didn’t my words mean anything to you earlier? Do you want to become like him?’

‘I’ll never let that happen.’

‘Then think of me. If he kills you, he’ll surely kill me too. Even if he doesn’t, I’ll be captured and taken back to Greece as another man’s slave, forced to serve his every need and left to dream of what could have been between us. I want to be your wife and lover, Eperitus, the mother of your children. Is facing up to your father worth losing that?’

Eperitus hesitated, beset by doubt. Had he become so selfish in his pursuit of Apheidas that he was prepared to risk Astynome’s safety? Was he so driven by his hatred of his father that it surpassed his love for her? Yet he had sought revenge for too many years now, and the fear of losing his opportunity quickly overcame the intellectual and emotional arguments that had suddenly emerged against it. He shook his head.

‘I have to face him, Astynome. Forgive me.’

He ran through the doorway into the garden, dark but for the light of a single torch in a bracket on the wall. It took a moment for his senses to adjust to the open surroundings, trying to spot his father in the pillared cloisters that surrounded the courtyard, or among the shrubs and fruit trees that filled it. But the night breeze blowing through the foliage made it impossible to distinguish any other movement, while the rustling of leaves disguised all other sounds, except for the constant hiss emanating from the snake pit at the garden’s centre. Eperitus gave an involuntary shudder and moved forward.

He spotted the glint of a blade from the corner of his eye and whirled to meet it, just as Astynome cried out in warning from the doorway behind. Eperitus stopped the blow with the middle of his sword, but was sent reeling backwards. He caught his heel and fell. With a victorious grin across his face, Apheidas ran out of his hiding place, his sword raised in both hands above his head. Without thinking, Eperitus rocked back and kicked out with all the force he could muster, catching his father in the stomach. He fell, crushing some of the low shrubs that lined the path that led to the snake pit. Eperitus was up in an instant, but Apheidas was already on his feet and raising his shield to counter the sweep of his son’s sword. A series of blows were exchanged, each one delivered with deadly accuracy and blocked with instinctive skill, until eventually the two men reached the gaping pit and stood back from each other, sweat-covered and breathing heavily.

‘Neither of us can win, lad,’ Apheidas gasped. ‘Why don’t you give this up and let me take my chances out there in the streets? You can try to deny the blood that’s in your veins, but I’m still your father and it’s an offence against the gods for you to try and kill me.’

‘You are an offence against the gods,’ Eperitus replied. ‘If I let you go, you’ll only blight the lives of others, usurping power and murdering innocent people like Arceisius and Clymene. By killing you, I’ll be honouring the gods.’

He rushed forward again, catching Apheidas off guard and knocking his sword from his hand so that it skittered across the paved edge of the pit. Apheidas lifted his shield in desperation, blocking the thrust that would have skewered his groin and deflecting it into his thigh. He shouted with pain, but as Eperitus raised his sword for the killing blow, Apheidas found the strength to lash out with the rim of his shield and catch him on the side of the head, sending him spinning backwards onto the flagstones.

Eperitus fought the blackness that threatened to consume him, calling on his hatred to push himself back up from the floor and find his feet. His head was dull with pain and as he touched the side of his face he could feel the blood where the lip of Apheidas’s shield had gashed the skin. Then his vision cleared and he saw his father standing at the edge of the snake pit with Astynome held before him. A burning torch lay on the ground, which she must have taken from the bracket by the door.

‘I seem to remember we’ve been in this position before,’ Apheidas mocked.

Eperitus recalled the temple of Thymbrean Apollo, when his father had used Astynome as a hostage to ensure his escape, knowing Eperitus would not risk seeing her hurt.

‘He’s unarmed,’ Astynome shouted.

Apheidas clapped his hand over her mouth.

‘I don’t need a weapon. One twist of my arm and her neck will break. Do you understand?’

Eperitus nodded, slowly. ‘Just release her and I’ll let you go. You have my word.’

‘You’re not very good at keeping your promises, though, are you? And if you think I believe you’re just going to forget everything I’ve done and let me walk out of here, then you’re a bigger fool than I am. But there’s another way to solve this little dilemma. I’ve heard it said that for a man to conquer his fears he has to face them. Shall we see if it’s true?’

A smile spread across his face as with a resigned gesture he pushed Astynome into the pit. Her scream echoed briefly from the walls and was suddenly silenced. Shocked, Eperitus ran to the edge and stared down into the Stygian blackness, while his father ran limping to another door on the opposite side of the courtyard. Eperitus turned, part of his mind telling him that Apheidas was escaping, but knowing full well that to pursue him was to condemn Astynome to death. And so he turned back to the gaping hole at his feet and, almost as if his actions were being controlled by someone other than himself, he threw his grandfather’s shield onto his back and reached for the torch Astynome had let fall on the flagstones. Tossing it into the black void, he prayed to Athena to protect Astynome, then jumped.

Chapter Forty-one

AT THE TEMPLE OF ZEUS

Odysseus could hear the sounds of chaos long before he and Menelaus – with Helen, Pleisthenes and the remaining maids trailing behind – had found their way back to the servants’ entrance. The high-pitched screams of women penetrated the palace walls clearly, while the deep-throated shouts of hundreds of men formed a low roar in the background. The clatter of weapons could be heard, too, chattering away like angry birds as Trojan warriors tried to resist the overwhelming tide of the victorious Greeks. Then, as Odysseus reached the door and pushed it open, they saw the night sky ablaze before them, flames and smoke pouring up from Troy as its buildings burned with terrifying, glorious ferocity. Rain clouds pressed low over the city, bathed orange and scarlet by the fires below, and the warm night air crackled with the sound of fiery destruction.

Odysseus shielded his eyes against the heat and light, then, drawing his sword, turned to Menelaus.

‘Keep the others close. There are men out there who’ll gladly murder us just to get at the women.’

‘They can try,’ Menelaus growled.

Behind him, Helen stepped out into the night with Pleisthenes at her side. The lad had not said a word to his father since they had burst into his room, even when the Spartan king had taken him in his arms with tears in his eyes and spoken to him in the strange Greek language he barely remembered from his early childhood. Instead, he had pulled away and moved to his mother’s side, staring at Menelaus as if he were his enemy. Now, arm in arm, Helen and Pleisthenes stared at the burning sky with silent awe. The maids followed them from the palace and immediately began to wail in anguish at the sight before them.

‘Helen, shut them up for all our sakes,’ Odysseus pleaded.

She spoke to them in a low voice and they fell quiet. Odysseus looked out at the broad courtyard, which had been so peaceful a short while before. Now it was strewn with the bodies of men and women, while on the opposite side a remnant of the Trojan royal guard fought valiantly against a much larger company of Greeks. In a corner, a man lay on a naked woman, pushing aggressively into her. The woman flapped limply with each movement, and for a horrible moment Odysseus suspected she might be dead.

‘Let’s go,’ Menelaus said.

They ran to the top of the ramp that led down to the middle tier of the citadel. A group of four Greeks ran up the slope towards them, brandishing their swords.

‘Stand aside!’ Menelaus commanded.

The brutal grins dropped from their smoke-stained faces and they parted before him, though with obvious reluctance as they stared greedily at the women he was escorting. The streets below were teeming with soldiers. Some were fighting their way into the two-storeyed houses at the same time as others were trying to leave with the plunder they had found. This consisted of anything they could lay their hands on, from silver cups to fine dresses or skins of wine. More than once, Odysseus saw men whose arms were laden with loot cut down before they could defend themselves, and their goods taken from their dead bodies. In other houses, people were leaping from upper windows as flames devoured the ground floor, only for the men to be put to the sword and the women to be dragged off by packs of soldiers and raped.

‘Look!’ a voice rang out. ‘Women!’

A group of soldiers ran towards them, intent on taking Helen and her maids for themselves. Menelaus did not bother to order them back, killing the first with a swift stroke and sinking his sword into the stomach of the second. This only made the others angrier and Odysseus and Menelaus were forced to kill or wound four more before the rest retreated.

‘By all the gods, this is chaos!’ Menelaus exclaimed. ‘It’s worse than a pitched battle.’

‘What did you expect?’ Odysseus shouted over the clamour. ‘Come on: we need to find some of our own Ithacans or Spartans if we’re going to get Helen and your son to safety. Let’s head to the gates.’

They found their way down to the lower tier of Pergamos, where to their relief the gates were protected by a disciplined company of Myrmidons. Their commander was Peisandros, who stepped out as they approached and held up his hand.

‘No prisoners or loot beyond this gate, Agamemnon’s orders. Take them into the barrack room for fair distribution later.’

‘You can tell my brother that Helen of Sparta is no man’s prisoner,’ Menelaus answered. ‘Neither are my son or any of these maids.’

Peisandros stared wide-eyed at the blood-caked faces of the two kings, then with a shout of joy seized each man’s hand in turn and shook it.

‘My lords! We feared you were dead. There’ve been all sorts of rumours –’

‘Rumours haunt every battle,’ Odysseus chided him with a smile. ‘I’ve been killed at least a dozen times during this war. And a veteran like you should know better than to listen to such nonsense.’

‘True enough,’ Peisandros agreed, his gaze wandering to Helen. ‘So you’ve found her. And no less beautiful than the last time I saw her, all those years ago in Sparta.’

‘More beautiful,’ Menelaus corrected him. ‘Now, go and pick twenty of your best men to escort us back to the ships.’

‘Yes, my lord,’ Peisandros replied, shooting a last glance at Helen before striding off to carry out his orders.

‘Now you’ve found yourselves a guard, Menelaus, I’m going back into the citadel,’ Odysseus said.

‘Are you mad?’ Helen asked, a look of genuine concern on her face.

Odysseus shook his head.

‘Eperitus is somewhere up there. I won’t abandon him to be mistaken for a Trojan by a pack of victory-drunk Greeks.’

Menelaus took his hand in both of his.

‘Thank you, Odysseus. I doubt things would have turned out as they have without your help.’

Helen released her hold of Pleisthenes and stepped forward.

‘Menelaus is too frugal in his praise,’ she said, embracing the Ithacan king closely. ‘We owe you everything.’

‘Can I send a few of Peisandros’s men with you?’ Menelaus offered.

‘No need – it’ll be less dangerous without Helen and her maids. But there is one thing you can do for me.’

‘Name it.’

‘You remember Antenor, the Trojan elder who was our host when we came to the city before the siege started?’

‘Of course.’

‘His house is close to the citadel walls, a little to the right beyond the gates – you’ll remember it when you see it. If he and his family are still alive, take them down to the ships with you. He was a good man and doesn’t deserve to be slaughtered with the rest.’

‘Few do, if you ask me,’ Menelaus replied, ‘but I’ll do as you wish. May Athena go with you, Odysseus.’

Odysseus nodded, though the Spartan’s words were a painful reminder that the goddess had abandoned him. He turned and ran back into the anarchy of the citadel. The mayhem had, if anything, increased. Bodies were everywhere, many stripped of clothing, others left like bundles of rumpled linen, barely recognisable as human beings. Odysseus had seen more battles than he could remember, but witnessing the slaughter of armed soldiers was poor preparation for the sight of old men, women and children lying murdered in the streets. He came across a dead woman, naked but for a single sandal, her outstretched hand still clutching the arm of a trampled infant. Many others lay where they had been stabbed, with lifeless eyes staring up at the blood-coloured clouds above. There were some, though, whose bodies had been hewn horribly by several blades. The scene sickened him and he thought of his beloved Penelope and little Telemachus – only ten years old – and how they might look dead on the streets of Ithaca. Vulnerable Ithaca. The fact he had left his home and family unprotected for so long suddenly tore at him, filling him with surprising panic.

A scream interrupted his thoughts and a half-naked girl ran from a nearby doorway. Her sun-darkened skin marked her out as a slave, but beneath the dishevelled hair and the bleeding lip Odysseus could see she was beautiful. Five men ran out of the house after her, the first still clutching a piece of the girl’s dress in his fist. He also carried the marks of her fingernails on his red jowls.

‘Come back here, you whore!’ he shouted, dashing after her as she ran to the foot of the ramp that led up to the middle tier of the citadel. ‘We haven’t finished with you yet.’

‘Eurylochus!’ Odysseus shouted angrily, recognising his cousin. Two of the others he also knew to be Ithacans, though they were the kind of soldiers he was not proud to think of as his countrymen. The other two were Taphian mercenaries who had arrived earlier in the summer with the last batch of reinforcements from Troy. ‘Leave her alone! Why aren’t you with the rest of the army?’

The five men paused and half turned at the authority in Odysseus’s voice, but there was no shame in their drunken faces as they stared back at their king. Indeed, the Taphians eyed him with distinct rebellion in their eyes, as if they would happily have struck him down there and then.

‘What army?’ Eurylochus replied. ‘There is no army, just packs of soldiers getting their own back on the bastards who’ve kept us from our homes for ten years.’

‘She’s getting away!’ one of the others shouted ruefully, as the girl ran up the ramp and disappeared.

Odysseus felt his temper snap.

‘Get back into the city and find as many Ithacans as you can!’ he shouted, red-faced with anger as he advanced on them. ‘Start restoring order, damn you. And if you lay hands on another woman without my permission, I’ll see you hanged for it in the morning. Do you understand?’

Eurylochus scowled at him and the others showed an open reluctance to do as they were ordered. One of the Taphians circled to Odysseus’s unshielded right, while the other clutched the handle of his sword and began easing the blade from its sheath.

‘Put it away, Selagos,’ Eurylochus hissed at him. ‘Let’s go find the rest of our countrymen.’

He spat on the flagstones as a last, defiant gesture, then slunk off reluctantly towards the gates to the lower city, followed by his cronies. But as Odysseus ran up the ramp to the middle tier of the citadel – hoping to find the girl and take her under his protection – he saw them turn aside down one of the narrow streets, doubtless hunting for more victims. The girl was nowhere to be seen when Odysseus reached the top of the slope, and after a fruitless search among the nearest alleys he knew she was gone, perhaps already snatched up by another group of soldiers. Suddenly weary, he stumbled into a doorway and leaned with his back against the wall. He had barely calmed his breathing again when a fierce clash of weaponry erupted from nearby. Five men in Trojan armour came sprinting around the corner of a house. Their leader was splendidly armoured and Odysseus recognised him as one of Priam’s few remaining sons; the others were members of the royal guard. Their weapons were red with gore and exhaustion was written in their every movement as they ran towards the temple of Zeus, farther up the street. Odysseus had hardly noticed the large, richly decorated building until that point, but as the men lumbered towards it he realised that they were seeking sanctuary inside, desperately hoping that the gods would protect them. As he looked at the edifice, he noticed for the first time that there was a ring of Greek soldiers standing about it. For a moment he was mystified; then he realised that others must have sought refuge there, and so far the victorious invaders had maintained enough self-discipline to respect the sanctity of the temple, preferring to set a watch over it and keep anyone from leaving or entering.

A number of Greeks now moved to block the advance of the handful of Trojans. At the same moment, another group of Greek soldiery came running around the same corner the Trojans had first appeared from. Neoptolemus was at their head, unmistakeable in his father’s god-made armour.

‘There he is!’ Neoptolemus shouted. ‘After him.’

Priam’s son turned at the sound of Neoptolemus’s voice, knowing that his route to the temple of Zeus was blocked and that he would have to face Achilles’s ferocious son in battle. Taking a spear from one his companions, he launched it into the pack of pursuing Greeks. The throw was straight and powerful, but Neoptolemus raised his magnificent shield and knocked it aside with contempt. With a hateful shout the two sides ran at each other, their shields crashing and weapons ringing loudly. Odysseus stood up, trying to see more of the uneven struggle. Strangely, he felt himself hoping the Trojans would give a good account of themselves, or at least make a break for the temple. But the fight was over almost immediately, with Neoptolemus pushing his way out of the crowd and bellowing triumphantly, the severed head of Priam’s son held aloft in his hand.

A despairing cry tore through the night air as he showed his trophy to the baying soldiers. Odysseus looked at the pillared entrance to the temple, where an old man stood with his fists raised to the heavens. He was surrounded by half a dozen crying women, several of them pulling at the man’s cloak in an attempt to keep him within the confines of the temple. Their efforts were in vain: the man pushed them away and staggered down the broad steps towards the towering statue of Zeus that fronted the building.

Without his black wig and face powder, Priam was only recognisable to Odysseus by his great height and the wailing figure of Hecabe following him from the temple. The old king ignored his wife’s pleading and stooped to pick up a discarded spear. That such a frail being was able to lift the weapon was amazing, and as he raised it above his shoulder and called to Neoptolemus the young warrior merely laughed and tossed Priam the head of his son.

‘What are you waiting for, you old fool?’ he goaded, throwing his arms open and standing with his legs apart on the flagstones. ‘Avenge your son’s death.’

‘Priam, no!’ Odysseus shouted, guessing what was about to happen and running out from the doorway.

If Priam heard him, he paid no attention and hurled the spear with all his remaining strength. The throw was pathetic, skittering across the floor to be stopped by Neoptolemus’s sandalled foot. The Myrmidon prince’s mocking features were instantly transformed. Curling back his lip, he sprinted towards the king of Troy, his sword raised high above his head. Priam turned and staggered back to the temple, sprawling over the steps as Neoptolemus caught up with him. Odysseus barged his way through the crowd of black-clad Myrmidons and called out.

‘Stop! Neoptolemus, stop!’

Neoptolemus was now standing astride Priam on the steps. He turned to see Odysseus running towards him, then with a scornful grin reached down to seize Priam’s thinning locks of grey hair. Pulling the old man’s head back, he lifted his blade and brought it down with a savage blow, slicing through the throat. The head came away and swung from his hand, dripping trails of blood over Neoptolemus’s legs and feet. For a brief instant silence pressed down on the scene. The king of Troy was dead. The Trojan people’s cause was finished. This was the moment that ended the war.

Then screams broke the stillness. The women gathered at the top of the steps – Priam’s surviving daughters – cried out in horror at the murder of their father and fled back into the temple. Odysseus slumped back against the plinth of the statue of Zeus, while behind him the Myrmidons and the other Greeks gave a victorious shout and rushed towards the holy sanctuary.

‘Come on,’ Neoptolemus encouraged them. ‘Agamemnon ordered that no stone was to be left standing on another. Tear this place down; take what you want, including the women – you’ve earned it. Then burn it to the ground!’

Odysseus watched Hecabe drag herself to her feet, only to be knocked down again by the stampeding soldiers. A spearman paused beside her, stooped down and proceeded to tear at the old woman’s clothing. Odysseus kicked him onto his back and pressed the point of his sword against his throat.

‘Leave her alone,’ he hissed.

The Myrmidon stared back at him angrily, then dragged himself back on his elbows and pushed the weapon aside.

‘Your welcome to the old hag,’ he replied with a sneer, before leaping to his feet and running into the temple.

Screams were now emanating from the open doorway. Odysseus looked up wearily and saw Neoptolemus still standing on the steps, wiping his blade on Priam’s cloak. The Ithacan fought to control his anger before walking up to Achilles’s son.

‘You’ve earned your father’s armour tonight, Neoptolemus,’ he began. ‘Achilles was a savage man, but I never thought I’d see his brutality outdone.’

Neoptolemus laughed at his contempt.

‘Wasn’t this what you brought me here to do, Odysseus? To fulfil the oracle and end the royal line of Troy? Then don’t complain if I choose to accomplish my destiny with as much cruelty and ruthlessness as is necessary.’

‘The royal line isn’t ended yet,’ Odysseus told him, then turned his back on the prince and walked over to Hecabe.

‘Come with me,’ he said, helping her to her feet. ‘I’ll keep you safe.’

Chapter Forty-two

THE SNAKE PIT

Eperitus’s feet hit the earthen floor where the flames of the torch had cleared a circle among the writhing mass of snakes. His legs buckled beneath him and he fell onto his front, only to feel a searing pain shoot through his arm. His first thought was that he had been bitten, but as he rolled away he felt the heat of the torch and realised he had been burned. He lay there for two or three heartbeats, listening with horror to the hiss of the snakes all around him, then pushed himself up onto his haunches.

His fingers closed about the stem of the torch and he swung it round in an arc. It fluttered briefly and blazed up again, revealing a sight that filled him with revulsion. A sea of serpentine bodies surrounded him, squirming and thrashing as they retreated from the flame. Dozens of heads rose up, exposing pink, ribbed mouths with fangs that glistened in the torchlight. The sight of them made him nauseous, contracting his stomach muscles so tightly that he had to press his hand over his mouth to stop himself from vomiting. He swivelled on one foot and swept the torch in a circle about himself, forcing the snakes as far back as he could while he searched for Astynome among them. She was nowhere to be seen and for a horrifying moment he imagined her body had already been lost beneath the vile creatures. Despair gripped him, knowing that no-one could survive the venomous bite of even one snake, let alone so many.

It was the darkest moment he could remember since the murder of his daughter. He had been powerless, then, to stop Agamemnon from sacrificing Iphigenia to appease the gods, and now he had failed Astynome too. Apheidas had murdered her and deprived him of his only joy in life, his only hope for the future. A blackness descended on his heart. He looked around at the countless snakes surrounding him and pictured them crawling closer and closer, finally darting towards him and burying their fangs deep into his flesh. And when death had overcome him they would cover his body with theirs, just as somewhere in that wide pit they had already covered Astynome’s. It seemed an ironic end – so different to the glorious death he had always expected – and yet he supposed it would be easy enough. He lowered the torch and watched as the serpents stopped retreating before it.

Then he heard a noise – small, almost lost among the constant, menacing hiss. A sob. Quickly, he raised the torch and held it in the direction of the sound. Another sob was followed by a low moan, and then he saw her, a black-robed figure lying on the steps above the deadly reach of the creatures below. Life and the desperate love of it came rushing back into Eperitus’s veins.

‘Astynome!’

He waved the torch in another circle about him, driving the snakes back again, but the torch was dying and he knew time was running out.

‘Astynome, can you hear me?’

The crumpled figure groaned again and began to move. There was a squeal of pain followed by a sharp intake of breath, but she raised her head and looked at him groggily.

‘Eperitus?’

‘Yes, it’s me. Are you badly hurt?’

‘Gods!’ she exclaimed, pushing herself up on her elbows. ‘The snakes!’

‘You’re safe. You landed on the steps, but you might have broken something.’

‘I think I’ve sprained my ankle. I don’t know if it’s broken, though.’

‘Wait, I’ll come to you.’

‘But the snakes –’

‘Don’t move, Astynome.’

Eperitus looked down at the floor and the mass of legless, lipless creatures that carpeted it. The flame sputtered, its light already receding so that the hundreds of snakes became a single, glistening throng that coiled and slithered in the shadows all about him, their eyes momentarily reflecting the fire as he passed the torch this way and that. Again he felt his stomach muscles tighten and he had to fight the weakness in his limbs that forbade him to take the first step. Then he recalled Apheidas’s words: that for a man to conquer his fears he had to face them. He thought, too, of what his father had told him about being bitten as a child, a traumatic memory that his mind had buried deep in his unconscious to leave only a fear and loathing of snakes behind. But the gods had protected him then and they would protect him now.

He took a step towards Astynome and the snakes retreated before his torch, though not as far as he would have liked. He threw a glance at the foot of the stairs, not wanting to take his eyes for more than a moment from the deadly reptiles that surrounded him. The steps were still five or six paces away, not nearly close enough to jump onto, and stopped half a man’s height above the floor.

‘The torch’s going out,’ Astynome warned, desperation entering her voice.

‘Don’t worry. I’ve got an idea.’

Ideas were more Odysseus’s domain than his own, but fear had sharpened his mind and he knew there was but one chance to get out alive. He waved the torch again and took another step towards Astynome. The snakes moved back, but only a little. One unfortunate strike now might reach him. Quickly, he slipped his grandfather’s shield from his back and let it lean against his shoulder, while with his free hand he untied the knot in its leather sling and loosened the excess. He pulled his dagger from his belt and cut the sling, winding one end tightly around his wrist.

‘Eperitus!’

The torch fizzled and went out. He tossed it aside and threw the broad shield down onto the coiling, twisting brood before him. There was a sharp hiss and a snap from behind: one of the snakes had darted at him and missed. Eperitus jumped onto the shield, feeling the soft, spongy mass beneath the leather as he sprang off again and reached for the stairs. Somehow he found them, his ribs colliding painfully with the stone steps, despite his breastplate, as he clawed his way to safety. He sensed bodies striking at the air about his ankles and then he was up, safe, with Astynome sobbing as she tried frantically to haul his heavy bulk higher up the steps.

‘It’s alright,’ he gasped. ‘It’s alright, I’m safe.’

‘Have you been bitten?’ she asked, the panic clear in her voice.

‘No, no. I didn’t feel anything.’

He lay on his back, looking up at the orange-hued clouds passing over the pit, and shuddered from head to foot. The convulsive shivering did not stop until Astynome lowered her face over his and kissed him.

‘Thank you for coming after me,’ she whispered.

He reached up and touched her cheek. ‘I wouldn’t have abandoned you. But next time I’ll use the steps.’

She smiled and he sat up, feeling the tug of the leather strap around his wrist. Taking it in both hands, he pulled his grandfather’s shield slowly from the pit, pausing only to make sure there were no snakes attached to it before knotting the two ends of the strap and slinging the shield onto his back once more. He bent down and lifted Astynome into his arms, then carried her back up to the garden above.

‘Did Apheidas escape?’

‘Yes,’ he answered.

‘I’m sorry I didn’t stay back as you ordered. What are you going to do?’

‘Take you somewhere safe,’ he said, lowering her onto a stone bench and kneeling before her. ‘Which ankle is it?’

‘That one. Ouch! Be careful.’

‘I don’t think it’s broken, but I doubt you’ll be able to walk on it for a few days.’

‘What about Apheidas? Are you going after him?’

‘And leave you here? Listen to what’s happening out there. Look at the sky, the smoke … They’ll be looting this house and putting it to the torch before long and I won’t abandon you to be raped and murdered. Your life is far more important to me than his death. I’m only sorry I didn’t listen to you earlier.’

As he spoke, they heard crashes and shouts erupt from the hall.

‘Where’s that lead to?’ Eperitus asked, picking Astynome up again and nodding towards the door that Apheidas had escaped through.

‘An alley alongside the temple of Apollo.’

Eperitus crossed the garden as quickly as he could with Astynome in his arms and kicked open the door. To his right, the alley continued to the battlements and bent round to the right again, with a side entrance in the temple wall opposite. To the left he saw the small square he had crossed earlier to enter Apheidas’s house and ran towards it. A body now lay face-down at its centre – an old man with a dagger protruding from his ribs. Astynome gasped at the sight and turned her face away.

‘We’ll see a lot more corpses before this night’s over,’ Eperitus said.

He ran on, following Astynome’s directions as they headed for the gate to the lower city. Buildings were burning on all sides, throwing orange sparks and columns of black smoke into the air, while here and there groups of marauding soldiers shouldered open doors and ransacked houses at sword point. The screams from within declared the fate of the occupants. After they had seen the second body of a child, Astynome buried her face in Eperitus’s shoulder and refused to look any more. Then a harsh call rang out and two Greeks blocked Eperitus’s path.

‘Give us the woman,’ the first demanded. ‘We’ll pay for her. Look.’

He pointed to two other men, standing in a doorway surrounded by looted goods. One of them lifted a skin of wine in one hand and a copper bowl in the other.

‘Not interested,’ Eperitus replied, and made to move around them.

The second man stepped in front of him, blocking his way. He was tall and strong, and an axe hung loosely but menacingly from his right hand. Eperitus felt Astynome’s arms tighten about him.

‘It’s a fair exchange,’ the man said. ‘We don’t want to cheat a fellow Greek. And we don’t want to kill a countryman, either, unless we have to.’

Eperitus took two steps back towards a nearby wall and lowered Astynome to her feet. She laid a hand against the wall for support.

‘That’s more like it,’ the first man said.

The smile dropped from his face when Eperitus drew his sword. The man placed both hands about the haft of his axe and was hurriedly joined by his comrades from the doorway. Then a voice called out.

‘Eperitus!’

Eperitus turned to see Omeros running towards him, accompanied by Antiphus and Polites. At the sight of the giant Ithacan and the bow in Antiphus’s hand, Eperitus’s assailants moved back and retrieved their trinkets, before slipping off into the shadows.

‘Excellent timing, Omeros,’ Eperitus greeted him. ‘Truly excellent.’

He embraced each of the Ithacans in turn, elated to see friendly faces amid the chaos of Troy’s demise.

‘Is it like this everywhere?

Antiphus nodded. ‘Worse in most places. Agamemnon ordered every male Trojan to be murdered and every building to be burned. Diomedes, Idomeneus and a few of the others are trying to restore some order, but the whole army’s been struck with madness.’

‘Have you seen Odysseus?’ Omeros asked. ‘We’ve been looking for him.’

Eperitus felt sudden shame that he had not given a single thought to his king’s safety since leaving him and Menelaus on their search for Helen.

‘He was heading for the palace when we parted. I’ll go see if he’s still there.’

‘We’ll come with you,’ Polites said.

‘No. I want you to take Astynome back to the ships at once. Avoid danger and don’t delay – I’m holding each of you responsible for her safety. And she’s hurt her leg; you’ll need to carry her, Polites.’

Polites nodded and before Astynome could protest, plucked her up in his broad arms as if she weighed no more than a child. Eperitus stroked her hair and kissed her.

‘You’ll be safe now – I trust these men with my life, and I know they won’t let you be harmed.’

Astynome smiled at him.

‘It’s not me I’m worried about. It’s you. Find Odysseus, but promise me you won’t go hunting Apheidas. He still has a hold on you, Eperitus.’

‘If you’re looking for your father,’ Omeros interrupted, mishearing their conversation, ‘we saw him heading up the ramp towards the palace only a short while ago. He was limping, but he still cut down every man we saw stand in his way.’

‘Eperitus,’ Astynome urged. ‘Promise me.’

‘I promise he won’t come between us again,’ he answered, kissing her one last time before setting off at a run.

Chapter Forty-three

THE RAPE OF CASSANDRA

How do I find Apheidas’s house?’ Odysseus asked.

‘Apheidas is dead,’ Hecabe said. ‘By now they’ll all be dead.’

‘Do you know where he lives?’

Odysseus looked at the old woman. Tears had traced clean lines down her smoke-stained cheeks and her grief for Priam had left her eyes devoid of life; and yet she had summoned the strength and courage to stand and follow Odysseus.

‘Through there,’ she answered, pointing down the nearest street.

It was filled with figures moving to and fro, their identities hidden by the flames and smoke that filled the narrow thoroughfare. As they watched, a wall of one of the burning buildings collapsed and fell down into the street, burying several people and sending up a cloud of dust to mingle with the smoke. The screams of the injured followed it.

‘Is there another way?’

‘Why does it matter? Even Apheidas can’t have survived this, and by now his house will be just another smoking ruin.’

‘My friend went there. I need to know he’s safe.’

‘Of course you must,’ the old woman sighed. ‘Forgive me. You can go around by the city walls.’

Odysseus took the Trojan queen’s hand and led her through the relentless anarchy towards the high battlements that ran behind Pergamos. Seeing Hecabe’s age, none of the pillaging soldiers tried to stop them as they picked their way between the dead and dying. Another building collapsed ahead of them in a cascade of fiery debris. Odysseus waited a moment, then raising his hand before his eyes forged through the dust cloud that had billowed up from the ruins like a wraith. Hecabe followed, choking loudly. A figure lurched towards them through the haze, but Odysseus knocked it aside with his shield. The scream indicated it was a woman.

‘Come on,’ he said to Hecabe, his voice rasping from the dryness in his throat.

They staggered on down the street, grey from the dust and ash, and reached the steps that led up to the ramparts. Odysseus placed a foot on the first step, but Hecabe held back.

‘Not up there,’ she said. ‘Down here.’ She pointed to a shadow-filled alley that ran between two houses to their left. ‘It leads to the temple of Apollo, next to Apheidas’s house.’

Odysseus peered cautiously into the alley. Everything was silent and black, but as he stared he thought he saw a movement, the faintest glimmer of polished metal in the gloom. Pushing Hecabe behind him, he drew his sword.

‘Who’s there?’

He was answered by a roar of anger. A figure dashed at him from the darkness, a blade gleaming in its hand. Odysseus raised his shield, blocking the thrust aimed at his head. He replied with a low sweep of his sword that was met by his attacker’s shield. They swapped more blows and in the confusion Odysseus could hear the man breathing heavily as he manoeuvred for advantage, guessing he was already at the end of his strength. With a grunt, the man swept Odysseus’s sword aside with his half-moon shield and followed by driving his sword at the Ithacan’s throat. It was a skilful attack and might have succeeded, if the arm that delivered it was not already weakened and sluggish. Skipping aside, Odysseus kicked out at his exposed flank and caught the man in the stomach. He cried out in pain and staggered back against the nearest house, the sword falling from his hand. The next instant, Odysseus had him pinned to the wall with the edge of his weapon pressing against the man’s neck.

‘Who are you? Greek or Trojan?’

‘He’s my son,’ answered a voice from further down the alley. ‘Aeneas, prince of the Dardanians. I am King Anchises.’

‘Aeneas?’ Odysseus said with surprise, peering closer at the grimed and bloody face of the man who had attacked him.

‘Kill me if you have to,’ Aeneas replied, his voice weak with exhaustion. ‘You’ll succeed where many have failed and gain your share of glory from it. But spare my father and son, I beg you. And if you’re willing, see them safe to Dardanus and you’ll be rewarded with greater riches than you will find among the pickings of Troy.’

Odysseus lowered his sword.

‘I don’t want your blood, Aeneas. Tell Anchises and your son to come out into the street. I won’t harm them.’

Aeneas spoke in the Trojan tongue and his father, a man as old as Priam but more bent with age, emerged from the alleyway. He was followed by a small boy of perhaps three or four years, who stared at Odysseus with eyes that had already seen immeasurable horrors. Odysseus stepped back from Aeneas and studied him in the fiery half-light reflected downward by the clouds. Judging by his bloodstained armour and the scars on his arms and legs, the Dardanian must already have fought in several battles that evening.

‘Hecabe!’ Aeneas said with delight, noticing the Trojan queen and moving forward to embrace her. ‘Then … then where’s Priam?’

‘Slain,’ she answered. ‘By Achilles’s son. And where is Creusa? Where’s your wife?’

‘Your daughter is lost,’ Aeneas answered, putting his hand to Hecabe’s face as fresh tears fell from her eyes. He turned his stern gaze on Odysseus. ‘So what do you intend to do with us?’

‘You can’t fight your way out, not in your state. But if you surrender, then you, your father and your son will be put to death.’

‘Even little Ascanius?’

Odysseus nodded. ‘Agamemnon’s orders are that every male is to be slaughtered, but I’ve had enough of his slaughter. I’m willing to help you escape, Aeneas, and I know a secret way out.’

Aeneas looked at his father and son. The boy stared back at him with blank eyes, but Anchises slumped back against the nearest wall.

‘I’ve had enough, Son. Let me die here – I’ll only burden you.’

Aeneas shook his head, and, weak though he was, bent down and lifted his father onto his back.

‘Lead the way, Odysseus.’

The Ithacan nodded and led them up the steps to the battlements. A few bodies littered the ramparts, but no living soul stood in their way. To the east, the sky was beginning to lighten with the first hint of dawn, while below them to the west the great bay was filled with the sleek, black shapes of the Greek fleet, illuminated by the flames rising from the city. Signalling for the others to stay close, Odysseus followed the course of the walls to the place Helen had showed him only a few nights before.

‘This is your only hope,’ he said, indicating the hole through which he had escaped with the Palladium. ‘It doesn’t smell pleasant, but it’s only a short drop to the rock shelf below and from there you’ll be able to find your way to cover on the banks of the Simöeis. You should go, too, Hecabe.’

The old woman shook her head.

‘I won’t add to Aeneas’s load. Besides, I can’t leave without knowing whether any of my sons or daughters have survived. I will remain with you and let the gods decide my fate.’

Aeneas lowered his father from his back and peered down the hole in the alcove that acted as a latrine for the guards. He wrinkled his nose at the smell, then looked back at the burning city and listened to the shouts and screams still rising from it.

‘It’s better than going back into that nightmare,’ he said. ‘But I have one question before we part, Odysseus. We’ve been enemies for ten years, and if we’d met on the plains you would have done your best to kill me, and I you. So why are you helping me now?’

‘I’ve been responsible for the deaths of too many brave men already,’ Odysseus replied, ‘and not all of them honourably. It was because of me that Great Ajax killed himself. I’ve contrived the deaths of others, too, just to shorten this war and be able to go home. Worst of all, I’ve even dared to defy the gods so I can see my family again. These things must be atoned for, Aeneas, and maybe by helping you I’m taking the first step on a long journey back to virtue. Perhaps you will plant a new Troy – here in the ruins of the old or somewhere far away, but one that will last a thousand years and with a people that will preserve the honour of their ancestors. I don’t think that would be a bad thing. But now you must go, before the sun rises and exposes you to unwanted eyes.’

Cassandra lay between the feet of the statue of Athena, where the Palladium had once rested before the Greeks had stolen it. She was curled up in a ball, crying like a child as the sounds of murder and rape echoed around her from the walls of the temple. All night she had lain there, hiding from the drunken taunts of the Trojan revellers and yet fearing the moment when their celebrations would end and the belly of the great horse would open. And there she had remained, even when the dreaded clamour of destruction began to slowly filter through the closed doors of the temple. What else could she do? Her instincts had told her to run and hide, but her inner-vision told her there was no point. The thing that was destined to happen to her would happen here – Apollo’s prophetic gift had revealed it to her in all its horrific detail. There had been a time when she had tried to change the course of her visions, but the outcomes were always the same. Exactly as she had pictured them through the dark prism of her second sight.

And so she had waited, trembling with fear and stiff with the hard coldness of the stone. She had flinched when the doors of the temple had burst open and women and their crying children had come flocking inside, and yet she had not moved. And none had seemed to notice her, a small bundle of black clothing at the foot of Athena’s statue. Perhaps they had thought her dead, or more likely they had not cared for anything other than what their own fate would be. They soon found out. The crash of bronze from the portico, the shouts of dying men – a fight more ferocious than any on the battlefields of the previous ten years, as Trojans fought in defence of their families. The awful chattering of weapons had entered the temple, and from some of the female screams that followed Cassandra knew they had taken their own lives rather than be captured. And now, with the Trojan men overwhelmed, came the sounds of what it meant to be captured. Boys put to the sword. Girls screaming as their mothers and older sisters were brought down beneath packs of laughing soldiers. The sound of clothes being torn, men grunting and women sobbing. And then, at last, the thing she had foreseen happened.

Rough hands grabbed her and turned her over. A brutal, bearded face with a broken nose and merciless eyes – the face of the man the Greeks called Little Ajax. The large brown snake coiled around his shoulders hissed at her hatefully. Then the man’s mouth opened in a wide, lascivious grin from which unintelligible words came spilling over her. She looked away, knowing what would follow. The slap was far harder and much more painful than her vision had allowed her to guess at. It made her cry again, sobbing hysterically as she remembered what came next. Fingers curled about the neckline of her dress, slowly to make sure of the grip, then pulled hard. She felt the material tighten around the back of her neck before it tore, and then there was more pain as his fingernails scraped across her chest and broke the skin. He kept on ripping the soft, weak cloth, exposing her breasts to the cold air of the temple, revealing her stomach and pubic hair. She closed her legs tightly, pointlessly, and stared up at the smoke-stained ceiling where the faint outline of gold-painted stars still gleamed, the only stars visible that night. The man spoke again, urgently and harshly – the voice of a man used to being obeyed. But she did not obey and this time he punched her, filling her head with a ringing pain that vied against the pain of her knees being forced apart and the man pushing himself between them. He fumbled and she shut her eyes, more fearful now than at any other time in her life. Then he was inside her, hurting her, and fresh tears pumped down her cheeks, trickling into her ears and hair as she prayed and prayed and prayed for release. Even though she had foreseen that no release would come.

When it was over and, laughing, he had gone, she lay and listened, not even bothering to cover her nakedness. She had done it often as a child: lying still and attuning her ears to the sounds of the night. The fighting was almost over, but in the absence of resistance the destruction of the city was only now coming into its fullness. In the temple, she could still hear the women being raped, although their distressed protests had grown weaker. And then she felt something change – a new presence her earlier vision had not extended to. Men were entering the temple, but these were not a violent rabble: they were cool-headed and disciplined. For a moment she thought they might be Trojans, victors who had driven the Greeks out of the city and were restoring order. The sound of swords being drawn and the desperate cries of the rapists as they were executed gave her hope, such warming hope that she dared not turn and look in case it was destroyed. Then she heard commands, Greek commands, and her hope was conquered by returning fear. At least before she had been given foreknowledge of what would happen to her, down to the last, cruel detail of what Little Ajax would do to her. But this was different. She no longer knew what was coming, only that it was not her death. That she had already foreseen.

More commands, followed by running feet. A helmeted face stared down at her, then she was being lifted by strong arms and carried across the temple floor. Her head lolled, catching glimpses of the aftermath of the desecration that she had heard so vividly: a dead soldier slumped against a pillar; two little boys lying in pools of blood; a naked woman, dragging herself on her hands and knees over the flagstones. Then she was being lowered to her feet, forced to stand despite the weakness in her limbs, and not caring that the torn remains of her dress hung like parted curtains, revealing her nudity.

She saw a man before her. There were several men, but he was the one her eyes focussed on. He had long brown hair that had a red sheen in the torchlight, a neatly tended beard and a handsome but mature face with cold blue eyes. His breastplate was a rich working of gold, blue enamel and tin, with a pure white tunic beneath and a red cloak about his shoulders. As she looked at him, trying to remember where she had seen his face before, he removed the cloak and swept it around her to cover her nakedness. His eyes bored into her, strangely fascinated.

‘Who are you?’ he asked, speaking in the Trojan tongue.

She looked up at him but could not muster the strength to answer. Another man stepped up to the Greek’s shoulder – an old man with a grey beard and a wise face – and whispered Cassandra’s name in his ear. She heard Priam’s name uttered alongside it and knew the old warrior was stating her royal lineage.

‘You remind me –’ the first man began, before faltering and shaking his head with a smile. ‘You remind me of my wife, but as she was when I first fell in love with her. That was many years ago.’

‘I’m no man’s wife, sir, and not destined to be.’

Cassandra folded the cloak tighter about her tired, abused body. The wool was warm and soft, but its vivid redness threw her mind back to the newest vision to haunt her dreams. She was in an unfamiliar room, looking down at herself sprawled on a rich bed covered in blood – her blood. In the next room was a naked man lying dead in a blood-filled bath, while a vengeful woman stood over him with an axe. That man, she realised with a sudden shock, was standing before her now.

‘Who says you will not be married?’ he asked.

‘The lord Apollo.’

‘Ah, a god,’ he said, reaching out and running a lock of her hair between his fingers. ‘Well, I am King Agamemnon and I am releasing you from his service –’

‘You misunderstand me, sir –’

‘And you fascinate me, Cassandra. You will come back to Mycenae with me as a gift for Clytaemnestra, my wife. Or, if you please me, as her replacement.’

Cassandra backed away and shook her head. Mycenae – that was the unfamiliar place in her vision, the place of her death.

‘She will kill you, my lord. She will kill us both.’

A frown flickered across Agamemnon’s brow, a momentary concern before the curse of Apollo smoothed it away with a smile.

‘You’re traumatised, and no wonder,’ he said, looking around at the defilement of the temple. He stepped forward and took her into his arms. ‘This has been a difficult night, but you have nothing to fear now. You’ll be safe with me.’

Chapter Forty-four

AMBITION’S END

Burning buildings were beginning to collapse now as Eperitus picked his way through the rubble-strewn streets of Pergamos towards the palace. After watching his father push Astynome into the pit of snakes and then make his escape, he had given up any hope of avenging his crimes. Strangely, though, the concept of him going unpunished was less bitter than he had imagined it would be. His relief that Astynome had survived was so overwhelming that, in comparison, the thought of killing Apheidas and wiping away the stain from his family’s honour seemed almost unimportant. Her words, too, had affected him. Her belief that the best way to defeat Apheidas was to be all the things he was not, and that to seek revenge was to become more like him, had struck deeper than he expected. Perhaps he feared keeping his father’s legacy of hatred and anger alive. After all, other families had carried the curse of their forefathers through generation after generation, just as Agamemnon and Menelaus were still suffering from the offences of their great-grandfather, Tantalus. The only hope of throwing off such a curse was to break the cycle of retribution. More than that, he was aware that with Astynome he had something to live for. The young warrior who had been exiled from Alybas all those years before, without a home, family or friends, no longer existed. He was older and stronger now, with a new homeland and new loyalties. The things that had driven his younger self – to see his family’s honour restored – had at last been superseded, if not fulfilled. And for a short while he had convinced himself they did not matter any more.

Then, when Omeros told him they had seen Apheidas, he realised he had been wrong. He had to go after him. Whether he wanted to take a final opportunity for revenge – despite everything Astynome had warned him against – or simply hoped to find his father’s body, he could not yet say. Only he knew he had to see the matter to its conclusion.

The ramp to the palace was scattered with the dead and dying. The courtyard above was also covered with corpses, including many Trojan soldiers who had made their last stand there. Now all was still and silent, but for the flames roaring from the upper windows of the once-beautiful building. Then a familiar voice called his name and he turned to see Odysseus running across from the steps that led up to the battlements, followed by Hecabe.

‘Thank the gods you’re alive,’ Odysseus exclaimed, embracing his captain. ‘But where’s Astynome? Didn’t you find her?’

‘She’s safe. And Helen?’

Odysseus nodded and briefly summarised the things he had seen and done since they had parted.

‘And now we need to gather the army back together and restore discipline. Even if Agamemnon has ordered every male to be slain, I won’t have my Ithacans take any more part in it. And I intend to make sure there’s at least one functional part of this army that can offer protection to the women of Troy.’

He glanced at Hecabe, but the old woman understood little or nothing of his Greek.

‘My father’s in the palace,’ Eperitus announced awkwardly, aware that he was asking to neglect his duty as captain of Odysseus’s guard.

‘Then we’d better deal with him first,’ Odysseus replied.

The destruction inside the palace had left it almost unrecognisable, causing Hecabe to wail aloud as her grief was renewed. The plastered walls, many of which had boasted intricate and colourful murals, were now stained by smoke or splashed with blood. Doors had been kicked from their hinges and every room ransacked, leaving behind a mess of dead bodies, smashed furniture and torn hangings. Here and there the debris had been piled up and set alight using torches ripped from their brackets, choking corridors with smoke as the fearsome flames consumed everything within their reach. Covering their faces with the corners of their cloaks, Eperitus, Odysseus and Hecabe pushed on towards the great hall, where Eperitus’s instincts told him they would find his father.

They soon found the antechamber where Eperitus and Odysseus had once awaited an audience with King Priam, in the days before the war. The raging fires had not yet reached this part of the palace, and as they pushed open the large wooden doors they found the throne room in semi-darkness, lit only by the dying glow of the rectangular hearth at its centre.