The Gates Of Troy (Adventures of Odysseus)

Contents

BOOK ONE

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

BOOK TWO

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

BOOK THREE

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-five

Chapter Twenty-six

Chapter Twenty-seven

BOOK FOUR

Chapter Twenty-eight

Chapter Twenty-nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-one

Chapter Thirty-two

book

ONE

Chapter One

UNWELCOME VISITORS

Odysseus, king of Ithaca, lay on his stomach amongst a clump of fern. Leaves and twigs were tangled in his thick, red-brown beard, and his face and hands were smeared with earth so that only the whites of his eyes were visible in the undergrowth. He remained perfectly still and silent as he looked down the slope towards a clearing in the dense woodland, where two dozen men sat around a large fire and ate stew from wooden bowls. Their features were grey and blurred in the twilight, but it was clear from their armaments and the sound of their heavily accented voices that they were not Ithacans.

‘That’s them, Eperitus,’ Odysseus whispered, nodding decisively. ‘They’re not a hunting party or a group of woodsmen – they’re the bandits we’re looking for. Can you hear what they’re saying?’

Eperitus, captain of Odysseus’s guard, lay shoulder to shoulder with the king. ‘Most of it,’ he replied, turning an ear towards the circle of men. Despite the distance, his acute hearing – which, like the rest of his god-gifted senses, was unnaturally sharp – could easily pick out the words of their conversation. ‘Something about a troop of dancing girls and . . . well, you can probably guess the rest.’ A roar of harsh laughter broke out below them. ‘They met the girls in Pylos, but from their accents it sounds like they’re Thessalians.’

‘Then they’ve a long journey back home,’ Odysseus said, watching the men thoughtfully and tapping at his teeth with a nail-bitten forefinger.

Eperitus scratched at his closely cropped black beard. ‘The problem is that we were told there were six of them, not four times that amount. And we’ve only brought twenty men with us.’

Odysseus leaned his large, muscular torso to one side and looked at his old friend, a glimmer of playful mockery in his green eyes. ‘When we landed on Samos yesterday morning you told me you were itching for a fight. In fact, hardly a month’s gone by in the past ten years when you haven’t reminisced about the old days or longed for a proper battle to come along. Now the opportunity’s arrived, all you can do is complain.’

Eperitus screwed his lips to one side and fixed his eyes on the camp below. Even though he knew Odysseus was poking fun at him, the king’s words still stung. No other man on Ithaca – not even Odysseus himself – desired glory in battle as much as he did. The islanders were simple folk whose happiness was found in their homes and families, but Eperitus was an exile from a distant city who had never lost the unsettling need to prove himself. It drove everything he did, and though he had long since earned his place amongst the Ithacans he struggled to share their contentment. The handful of skirmishes he had fought in the past few years had left him hungry for a real chance of glory, and it was not until the news that a large group of bandits were terrorizing Samos – the neighbouring island to Ithaca – that he had realized how deep that hunger had eaten into him.

‘I’m not complaining,’ he replied. ‘I’m a warrior, and a warrior wants nothing more than to kill his enemies. It’s just that you’re the king, Odysseus, and I’m sworn to protect you. Zeus’s beard, if we take these lads on as we are there’s a good chance they’ll win and you’ll be killed. And just look at them: I thought brigands were supposed to be armed with daggers and rusty swords, not breastplates, shields and spears!’

He pointed to the weapons piled against the mouth of a cave at the back of the clearing, and then at the armour worn by each man and the long swords hanging from their belts. Both he and Odysseus knew that the men who had been robbing the people of Samos were not a band of disorganized thugs, stealing at need and fleeing back into the woods; they were soldiers, turned to common robbery for survival in a country where peace had reigned for a decade. They had arrived from the Peloponnese by ship several days before, and if they were allowed to establish themselves on Samos they would not only continue to threaten the welfare of the islanders, they would soon pose a challenge to Odysseus’s own power and authority.

‘Well, we need to deal with them,’ the king said, resolutely. ‘And I can’t wait for more of the guard to be fetched from Ithaca – we have to defeat them here and now, with the men we’ve got.’

‘What about Penelope?’ Eperitus responded, noticing the look in Odysseus’s eye at the mention of his beloved wife. ‘She’s three weeks away from giving birth to your first child, the child you’ve been trying for ever since you were married. This isn’t the time to go risking your life.’

‘I love my wife,’ Odysseus said, simply but seriously. ‘And no pack of outlaws is going to prevent me from returning home to her. But a king who isn’t prepared to risk his life for his people isn’t worthy of the title, and for the sake of my unborn son I have to live up to who I am.’

Eperitus looked at his friend and knew he had spoken truly. ‘Well, evening’s not far away,’ he sighed, glancing up at the azure sky through the canopy of budding branches overhead. ‘And there’ll only be a faint moon tonight. We could bring the rest of the guard up here after dark and . . .’

‘And kill them in cold blood? We won’t need to resort to that.’

‘Why not? You slit the throats of a dozen sleeping Taphians once, so what’s the difference?’

‘I had to do that,’ Odysseus answered. ‘They were invaders, whereas these poor swine,’ he pointed a thumb towards the men below, ‘are just soldiers fallen on hard times – warriors, like you and me. I won’t kill them without giving them the chance to leave peacefully first.’

Eperitus shook his head resignedly. It was not that Odysseus was too proud to accept advice, it was just that he always thought he knew better. And he invariably did: if anyone could think of a way to defeat the bandits, it was Odysseus, the most clever, devious and resourceful man Eperitus knew.

‘I assume you’ve got a plan,’ he said.

‘Of course I have,’ the king replied with a grin. ‘Now, let’s get back to the others and tell them what we’ve seen.’

He raised himself on all fours and backed away from the screen of ferns, followed by Eperitus. Once they were sure they would not be spotted by any of the men around the campfire, they stood and quietly made their way back through the wood, picking a route between the silvery-grey trunks in the darkness. Soon they found the path they were looking for – a rutted cart track that crossed from one side of the forest to the other – and began the trek east towards their own camp.

‘I dreamed about her again last night,’ Odysseus said after a while. He was looking up at the early evening stars, which could be seen pricking the sky through the fissure in the canopy overhead.

‘Athena?’ Eperitus asked, pausing to look at the king, who avoided his eye and carried on walking. Eperitus ran to catch up with him. ‘What did she say? Was it about Penelope again?’

He knew Odysseus had long enjoyed the blessing of the goddess. As a child he had often seen her in his waking dreams, sitting on his bed at night and comforting him when he was lonely. She had once saved him from a wild boar, and when he became a man he had repaid her by making her his patron goddess. Ten years ago she had appeared before him and Eperitus on Mount Parnassus – where they had gone to seek the advice of the oracle – and then at Messene. A few months later she had brought Eperitus back to life after he had died saving Odysseus from the knife of an assassin. But since then the king had seen or heard nothing of her – until she had come to him in a dream two nights ago, telling him Penelope would shortly give him a son.

‘She didn’t speak this time,’ Odysseus said. ‘We were standing on a plain under the moonlight, with the sound of the sea behind me and the smell of brine in my nostrils. Before me was a great city built on a hill. Its walls and towers were gleaming like silver, and it was both beautiful and terrible at the same time. Even though Athena was beside me the sight of that city struck me with fear and sadness, as if it were a symbol of the end of my happiness. Of all happiness.’

‘What does it mean?’

‘I don’t know. Perhaps nothing, but I don’t think so – it left me with a feeling that doom is approaching. You remember the words of the oracle, of course: I will be king over my people for ten years, and then I will have to choose between my home and Troy. This is the tenth year of my reign, Eperitus.’

Eperitus recalled the meeting in the caverns beneath Mount Parnassus, where the priestess had spoken the prophecy that had haunted the king for so long. It was there, also, that she had told Eperitus his fate was bound up with Odysseus’s, for good or bad.

‘I haven’t forgotten the words of the Pythoness,’ Eperitus replied. ‘Yet I can’t see what will happen to force such a choice on you, or, if it comes, why you can’t just remain on Ithaca.’

But Odysseus did not reply. Before long they saw the orange light of a fire through the trees. As they approached, a man stepped out from the shadows and levelled his spear at them.

‘Not a step closer,’ he ordered, brandishing the weapon threateningly in an attempt to disguise his own nervousness. ‘Who are you and what do you want here?’

‘Apollo and Ares, come to bring death and destruction to all who stand in our way,’ Eperitus replied, pushing the point of the spear away from his chest.

The man was similar in height to Eperitus, but had short, hairy legs and a large stomach that hung down over his belt. He squinted at Eperitus through his small, pig-like eyes, then with a half-sneer of recognition raised his weapon and stepped back.

‘Oh, it’s you,’ he said with badly disguised contempt. Then, turning to Odysseus, he gave a quick bow before offering his hand. ‘Welcome back, cousin. I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you in this darkness.’

Odysseus gripped the other man’s wrist and smiled. ‘Who let you stand guard, Eurylochus? Everyone knows you’ve got the eyesight of a mole.’

Without waiting for an answer, the king clapped his cousin on the shoulder and strode off towards the welcoming light of the campfire with Eperitus at his side. They could see the figures of several men eating and drinking around the vivid orange flames, and the rich aroma of roasted meat made their mouths water in anticipation.

‘I don’t know what you’ve got in mind for dealing with those bandits,’ Eperitus said, ‘but I pray to the gods you’ll leave Eurylochus here. He should never have been allowed to come with us, Odysseus – he’s a clumsy, self-important idiot with no idea about fighting. If we’re not careful he’ll put us all in danger.’

‘Laertes insisted he come,’ Odysseus replied with an indifferent shrug, ‘and I wasn’t going to argue with my own father about the matter. Besides, if you’re lucky Eurylochus’ll get his head chopped off and you’ll never have to put up with him again.’

Eperitus ignored the comment. Eurylochus had shown him nothing but disdain since he had been made captain of the royal guard ten years ago, a position that Eurylochus, as Odysseus’s cousin and a lesser member of the royal family, felt should have been given to him by right. The fact he had skulked out of the greatest battle in Ithaca’s history – against a rebellion supported by a Taphian invasion force – did not stop him from despising Eperitus’s good fortune. Nevertheless, Eperitus did not want to see the fat fool slain needlessly.

‘And how do you intend to defeat two-dozen heavily armed warriors, assuming they refuse your invitation to return peacefully to the mainland?’ he asked as they paused at the edge of the broad clearing.

‘That’s easy,’ Odysseus answered blithely. ‘You’ve been itching for a chance of glory, Eperitus, so I’m going to send you to fight them.’

Chapter Two

THE QUEEN OF SPARTA

Alone wolf stood on the empty road and sniffed the cold air. The sable heavens were filled with stars, whilst a thin crescent of moon was rising over the dark peaks of the Taygetus Mountains in the west. Its light shivered on the surface of the fast-flowing river that ran alongside the road, the noise of which almost drowned out the gentle bleating of sheep that had drawn the hungry wolf down from the hills.

Seeing the low wall of a sheep pen not far from the road, she knew from experience that a man would be sleeping across the single entrance, his crook close to hand. But the animal had not eaten in two days and was desperate. She trotted across the field towards the enclosure, drawn by the sound and the smell of the fat sheep within, instinctively readying herself to jump the sleeping shepherd and snatch a lamb. Saliva was already dripping from her pink gums as she anticipated the taste of warm flesh running with blood, when another sound stopped her in her tracks.

Turning her head to the south, where the smell of the sea was carried strongly on the night breeze, the wolf saw a line of torches moving up the road, carried by tall men in armour that glinted in the moonlight. Skulking low to the ground, her grey fur indistinguishable amongst the rocks and scrub, she watched the procession coming closer and closer until it was no longer safe for her to remain. She raised herself and was about to run back towards the hills when a low whistle stopped her. Looking back at the men, she saw one of them hand his armaments to a comrade and leave the road. He strolled directly across the field towards the waiting animal.

Curiously, the wolf realized she did not feel afraid. She watched the man pull something out of a bag that hung from his shoulder, dangle it from his fingertips and give another low whistle. The smell of dried meat caught the wolf’s nostrils. Against her instincts, which seemed unable to function naturally in the man’s presence, she began to edge closer towards the strip of flesh that hung from his hand. Then, her caution forgotten, she lifted herself to her full height and trotted straight up to the proffered meat.

‘I knew you were hungry,’ the man said, feeding the length of beef into the animal’s jaws and stroking her mane of coarse hair. ‘And you don’t want to go risking those sheep. You leave them alone and go find yourself a rabbit or two instead.’

He stood and pointed to the hills. The wolf looked up at him, her yellow eyes shining, then turned and ran off into the darkness. Paris watched her go with a smile on his lips, before returning to the road where his men awaited him.

There were a dozen of them, all grinning with pleasure at their leader’s mastery of the wild animal. A handsome young warrior stepped forward and handed Paris his spear and tall, rectangular shield.

‘Let’s hope you can have Menelaus feeding out of your hand, too,’ he said.

‘The king of Sparta’s no animal, Aeneas,’ Paris replied, slinging the wooden-framed shield over his shoulder; it had clearly seen many battles, the layers of ox-hide slashed and pierced by numerous weapons. ‘And I’m only a simple warrior, not a diplomat.’

‘Nonsense,’ declared a tall warrior stepping out of the file of soldiers to join them. At fifty years he was the oldest in the party by more than a decade, though his hardened face retained the good looks of his youth and his black hair and beard were untouched by grey. Beneath his dusty cloak he wore a cuirass of bronze scales. ‘You’re one of the best negotiators Troy has, Paris. Don’t forget, I was there when you persuaded the northern tribes to swear an oath of fealty to your father. Can you imagine it, Aeneas – this “simple warrior” turning King Priam’s bitterest enemies into his newest allies? And yet,’ he added, turning back to Paris with a serious look in his eyes, ‘I don’t think even you’ll succeed this time. These Greeks aren’t savage tribesmen, and in their pride they think themselves second only to the gods.’

‘But we have to try, Apheidas,’ the prince answered, scratching the tip of a pink scar on his right temple. It ran across the bridge of his flat nose to the left corner of his mouth, where it ended in a narrow salient through his thick beard. ‘We have to. First with Menelaus here in Sparta, then north to Mycenae to speak with his brother. If anyone has the power to return Hesione to us, it’ll be Agamemnon.’

Hesione was King Priam’s sister, who had been brought to Greece by Telamon thirty years before, after he and Heracles had sacked Troy and taken their choice of the spoils. Priam, though, still regarded her abduction as a stain on his country’s pride and longed to bring his sister home. All previous envoys had failed, with some nearly being killed, but now he was sending his second-oldest son to negotiate for Hesione’s return. And Paris was determined not to disappoint his father’s trust in him.

Apheidas spat on the road. ‘It doesn’t matter who you speak to, they’ll never give her back,’ he said, his dark eyes glistening angrily in the moonlight. ‘Don’t forget I was brought up in northern Greece, though my father was a Trojan. I lived among these people for most of my life until they exiled me, and I know them better than anyone in Ilium does. No matter what old Priam says – may the gods protect him – I tell you the best way to deal with the Greeks is to kill the bastards. Every last man, woman and child of them.’

‘Well,’ Paris said, frowning, ‘if the mission fails, you might just get your wish.’

He thought of Hector’s parting words before the voyage to Sparta. His older brother had always trusted in Paris’s ability as a warrior and posted him to the northern borders of their father’s kingdom, to fight the small wars that were constantly flaring up or to defend Troy’s vassal cities against raiders. But Paris’s recent victories and the peace treaties he had engineered had made the borders safer than they had been for years, leaving him free to serve Hector’s other machinations.

‘Spy them out,’ Hector had commanded in his strained, gravelly voice, his large bulk dominating the small antechamber as he had paced up and down with his hands behind his back. ‘Father’s sending you to negotiate for the return of his sister, but I’m telling you to keep your eyes open while you’re there: check the capabilities of their armies; see if their city walls are in good repair; find out whether their leaders are still at each other’s throats. We might as well get something worthwhile out of this.’

‘Then you don’t think Hesione is worthwhile?’ Paris had asked.

‘Hesione’s been gone decades, little brother – she’ll be one of them by now. If they want to give her back to us, fine. At least father’ll be pleased. But they won’t, and that’s even better. It’ll be a good justification for war.’

Paris had known for a long time that Hector’s mind was quietly set on war with Greece. Frictions between the two cultures had been growing for years, but not because of Hesione. The Trojans were an insular, authoritarian people, loyal to their king and concerned with the protection and controlled expansion of their borders. The Greeks, however, were outward-looking, competitive and greedy. Their merchants were ubiquitous, and even Hector’s decision to demand tribute from their ships crossing the Aegean Sea had not curtailed them. Instead, as Paris had known it would, it had only served to anger the Greeks and turn the eyes of their kings evermore eastward. Knowing that one side must eventually gain dominance, and determined it should not be Greece, Hector had already started marshalling his forces and calling on the allies of Troy. A giant fleet was being assembled that could take an army to Greece and crush its upstart kingdoms, and by this time next year the forces would be ready. Hector just needed an excuse to attack.

Paris looked across the dark plain towards the city on a hill to the north, where numerous lights burned and the high buildings within its walls glowed like bronze. As he watched, a trickle of smaller lights flowed out of the city gates and down the road towards the river.

‘Look,’ he said, pointing towards the distant procession. ‘What do you make of that?’

‘A welcoming committee?’ Aeneas suggested.

‘Doubtful,’ Apheidas snorted. ‘Someone must have warned them we were here.’

Paris’s rugged face was emotionless.

‘We’ve no choice but to sit and wait for them. If they turn out to be unfriendly, then it’s a quicker retreat to our ship from here than if we were to meet them halfway. But I don’t think it’ll come to that, unless the Greek sense of honour is worse than we expected.’

Nevertheless, he ordered his men to form a double line across the road and to have their shields and spears ready as they waited. Some of the soldiers discussed what would happen when the Spartans reached them, whilst others gnawed at their meagre provisions or stood in silence, watching the stars make their slow progress through the night sky and wondering what level of hospitality they would receive. The people they had met in the port where their ship was now docked had been suspicious and unfriendly, confirming the Trojans’ low opinion of Greeks. But they were yet to meet noblemen or warriors. It was from these classes, rather than fishermen and farmers, that they were likely to receive the proper welcome that xenia required. This was the age-old custom where strangers exchanged gifts and oaths of friendship. It ensured protection for visitors and led to networks of alliances that were enforced through a sense of honour. Without it, trade between nations and states would cease and be replaced by endless war; there would be no prosperity or peace, no progress or communication. And yet, despite Apheidas’s assurances that xenia was observed in Greece, in a crude fashion, the Trojans doubted the Greek sense of honour and did not trust their foreign ways.

Before long the Spartans were no longer specks of light, but were becoming visible as an armed force of at least three score men. Their bronze helmets and the points of their spears gleamed in the light of their torches as they came ever nearer along the road that ran parallel to the River Eurotas. The unnatural tramping of their sandalled feet seemed unstoppable, making some of the Trojans feel they would march straight over them. Then, when they were within bowshot, they came to a sudden, clanging halt.

At Paris’s signal the Trojans locked shields and lowered their spear-points. A man approached from the Spartan ranks and stopped a few paces in front of them. His armour, though mostly concealed by his dark blue cloak, was expensive and indicated his rank.

‘I am Eteoneus, herald of Menelaus, King of Sparta,’ he began, his accent thick and difficult for Paris to comprehend. ‘My lord has sent me to escort you safely to his palace, where a feast has been prepared in your honour. Rooms have also been set aside for you and your men – no doubt you’re tired after your voyage from Troy.’

So they knew they were Trojans, Paris thought. That could be guessed by their armaments and clothing, of course, but he also had the feeling that invisible eyes had been watching their every step from the harbour and reporting their progress to King Menelaus. He only hoped they had not observed his own careful observation of the geography and infrastructure of Sparta: as per Hector’s instructions, he had already considered the size of the harbour for accommodating an invasion fleet and the condition of the roads for passage of an army. He had noted the width and flatness of the plain between the mountain ranges on either side, as well as the breadth of the river and the number and quality of the crossing points. Even as the two groups of men faced each other, he was assessing the quality of their weaponry and armour. And it was dismayingly good.

‘I am Paris, son of King Priam of Troy,’ he announced, speaking in precise but broadly accented Greek. ‘My men and I will be pleased to accept Menelaus’s hospitality, if you’ll lead the way.’

Without another word, Eteoneus turned sharply and cleared a passage through the ranks of the escort, which waited for Paris to form his men into a column and pass through before closing up again and following in their wake. They marched in silence for some time, the Trojans feeling slightly menaced by the sound of the heavily armed Spartans behind them, but before long the escort began to flag. Despite the magnificence of their armaments, Paris was surprised to note they were already losing their order and formation. The unified tramping of feet that had announced their arrival earlier was now ragged and the footfalls had lost their force. Some men were falling behind the march, despite its slow pace, and most of the soldiers repeatedly switched their spears from one shoulder to the other, a clear sign they were struggling with the weight. This pleased Paris, who had been ordered by Hector to watch for the quality of the soldiers they might face in the event of war. From what he could see, the Greeks – who had developed a reputation for toughness during their long years of civil war – were now atrophying with the peace that had existed between them for the past ten years. The Trojan armies, on the other hand, were constantly rotated on their northern and eastern borders, keeping them fit and battle-ready. If the rest of the Greek soldiery was comparable to the men surrounding him, Paris was confident that any meeting between equal forces of Greeks and Trojans would result in a Trojan victory. Hector would be delighted at the news.

Before long they were passing a series of tall mounds on either side of the road, which Eteoneus informed them were the tombs of Sparta’s former kings. He named each one in turn as they passed the ancient, grass-covered mausoleums, recounting their glorious feats and often tragic ends. Then, as they reached the final two mounds – facing each other across the highway – he gave a curt bow and whispered a prayer.

‘These are the graves of Tyndareus and Icarius,’ he explained. ‘Brothers and co-rulers of Sparta. Tyndareus was the father of our queen, Helen, though some say it was Zeus himself that sired her. If you’re fortunate enough to see her, you’ll realize why many think she has divine blood in her veins.’

‘Rumours of her beauty have reached Ilium,’ Paris said.

‘Hearsay,’ Aeneas sneered. ‘I doubt she can match the looks of even the simplest Trojan girl.’

There was a sudden, angry murmur from the ranks of Spartans, who quickly forgot their tiredness and gripped their weapons tighter. Eteoneus immediately raised his hand to silence the threats that were being uttered.

‘Peace,’ he commanded, smiling confidently. ‘Our young friend will soon realize his ignorance. When it comes to beauty, I think our queen can defend herself.’

The Spartan soldiers, who moments before had been ready to kill the young Trojan, now looked at him and laughed. Their laughter continued all the way through the ramshackle peasant buildings that surrounded Sparta, compounding Aeneas’s hatred of Greeks, until they reached the high city walls. Here, helmeted heads stared down at the party as Eteoneus led them over a humpbacked bridge beside an orchard and on to the arched gates of the city. The large wooden portals were already open in anticipation of their arrival. More warriors stood by the gate, gawping at the strange-looking foreigners with their long beards and their outlandish armour. Several spat in the dust at their feet, but a stern glance from Paris warned his men against the temptation to retaliate and they carried on marching, their eyes fixed firmly forward until the last man was inside the city walls.

The wooden gates closed with a boom behind them and the Trojans felt their hearts sink. They were trapped inside a foreign city, surrounded by hostile soldiers, with nothing but the diplomatic skills of their leader or the spears in their hands to get them out again. Paris looked back at the gates, but not with the sense of claustrophobic fear that his countrymen felt. Instead, he was taking note of Sparta’s defensive capabilities. The walls were in good repair and the guards were numerous, meaning the city could only be taken by surprise, stealth or a prolonged siege. But much of the defence of a city relied on the abilities of its king, and Paris wondered what sort of man Menelaus was. Was he soft and weak like Priam, or politically astute with the courage of a lion and the ferocity of a wild boar, like Hector? Was Menelaus a worthy king in his own right, or was he propped up by his more powerful brother? The coming feast, though ostensibly an act of welcome and friendship, would reveal much to both sides.

The sloping streets that led up to the palace were empty and every door shut, but Paris knew he and his men were being watched from the many darkened windows and alleys they passed. They must have looked strange to Greek eyes, he thought, and he wondered whether they were being regarded with fear, curiosity or loathing. A party of Greeks visiting Troy would have been treated with no less suspicion.

As he followed Eteoneus, he let his eyes roam across the simplistic, functional design of Menelaus’s city. Its buildings were strong and well made, but lacked the opulence of their Trojan counterparts. Every public structure in Paris’s home city was constructed to impress the wealth and importance of Troy on its citizens and visitors, and even the homes of the nobles and merchants boasted ornate architectural features and walls that were rich in murals. They were far superior to the plain and sturdy buildings of the Spartans, just as Troy surpassed Sparta in both size and beauty. But Paris’s simple taste and his harsh life on the northern borders gave him a grudging appreciation of the modest strength of Greek architecture. The slabs beneath his feet were firm and well fitted, whereas the ornate cobbles of Troy were forever tripping him up; similarly, the tall, well-laid Spartan walls were easy on his eyes in the moonlight, while the walls at home were too busy, a constant distraction. It would be a pity, he thought, if Sparta ever chose to defy the invading armies of Troy and its neat, powerful buildings were put to the torch.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘I am Paris, son of Priam, king of Troy,’ Paris replied, pulling himself to his full height and offering his hand.

Menelaus’s eyebrows arched slightly as he gripped Paris firmly by the wrist. ‘A Trojan prince, eh? Then this is no idle visit, and now I feel even more ashamed of this meagre excuse for a banquet.’

‘Don’t be,’ Paris replied, relaxing slightly as he sensed the genuine warmth in Menelaus’s welcome. ‘Simplicity suits me. The constant feasting at home is tiresome – I’d much rather be round a barrack-room fire on our northern border, drinking wine and swapping stories with my men.’

‘You’re a true soldier then,’ Menelaus grinned, finally releasing Paris’s hand. ‘We’ve had peace here for a decade, but sometimes I long for the old days. There’s nothing like living on marching rations for a week and fighting a battle at the end of it! All this heavy food and sitting on uncomfortable thrones isn’t good for a man,’ he added wryly, patting his rounded stomach.

Paris found himself warming to the Greek. Despite the purpose of his mission and the broad gulf between their different cultures, he felt Menelaus was a man he could relate to.

‘My father sent me to . . .’ he began, but Menelaus held up a hand and shook his head.

‘Unless your business here is urgent, let’s leave talk of it for another night, eh? You and your men are welcome to stay for as long as you like, so relax and fill your stomachs – I know you haven’t eaten anything hot since you set out from the harbour this morning. There will be a time for formal words, Paris, but it isn’t now.’

Paris nodded and smiled for the first time since passing through the gates of Sparta. Then, as he was about to excuse himself and return to his men, he looked through the flames and saw the figure of a woman standing on the other side of the hearth. Though the heat haze was fierce, the light of the fire revealed her clearly. Her eyes captured his with an expression as intense as the flames that seemed to imprison her and Paris knew in an instant that this was the renowned Helen, whose beauty surpassed any rumour or reputation. At the same time, he sensed Menelaus turn his head to look across the raging fire at his wife, just as she turned her face away and moved back towards the shadows. Heedless of Menelaus, Paris watched the tall, slim figure of Helen recede into the darkness, his mind reeling. The desires and emotions that had been tightly locked away in his soldier’s heart for many years were suddenly breaking free in a confusing rush, escaping through the cracks that a single look from Helen had prised open, coursing through his whole body and threatening the discipline and restraint that had given his life equilibrium for so long.

And as she reached the edge of the circle of light from the hearth, just as the shadows were swallowing her, she turned back and looked at him again, her eyes blazing briefly in the darkness before disappearing. Paris felt a heavy weight shifting within him, as something old died and something new was born.

Chapter Three

POLITES

The pale yellow light of morning filtered through the trees, waking the bright green ferns that carpeted the woodland floor and touching on the small white flowers that grew amid the roots of the pines. Birds were singing in the treetops, greeting the arrival of dawn, and there was a strong smell of new vegetation and damp earth in the air. Eperitus sat astride a donkey – his breastplate and sword concealed beneath his cloak – and scoured the trees discreetly for signs of movement. Heedless of any danger, his ride stumped its way along the wide path that cut through the wood, its head down and its tall ears twitching and flicking as a constant stream of flies irritated them. The bell about its neck clanged with every footfall, sending dull, monotonous chimes ringing through the trees.

A young man of around twenty years followed on foot. He had shoulder-length, brown hair that he was constantly brushing from his eyes, and boyish good looks that were partially hidden by a light growth of beard. His only armaments were the dagger in his belt and the long stick in his left hand, with which he would occasionally strike the bony hindquarters of the donkey.

‘I wish you’d stop doing that, Arceisius,’ Eperitus snapped as the stick smacked down again just behind him. ‘The animal’s moving along just fine as it is; there’s no need to keep hitting the poor thing.’

‘Sorry, sir,’ Arceisius replied, his already ruddy complexion reddening slightly. ‘It’s just habit.’

‘And a touch of nerves?’ Eperitus suggested. He took a deep breath to calm his own anxiety before offering his squire a reassuring smile. ‘Don’t worry. Odysseus won’t let us down. He never has yet.’

He turned back to look at the path stretching out ahead of them. Not much further along the trees thickened and the trail narrowed – a good place for concealment, but lacking the width and space required for an ambush – then shortly afterwards it swept around a spur of the hill and disappeared from sight. According to the locals, the bandits had already struck twice at the point just beyond the spur, and that was where Eperitus expected them to be waiting now. His unnaturally sharp eyesight had already spied figures moving furtively through the trees on the upper slopes – drawn by the sound of the bell about the donkey’s neck – and from there they must have noticed the large leather bags hanging from the animal’s flanks. An unprotected merchant and his young assistant would be too tempting a target to ignore.

They passed through the narrow stretch of path without incident, but as the trees thinned again and the trail turned around the spur of the hill, Eperitus noticed straight away that the birds were no longer singing and an unusual stillness had descended about them. At the same time, his keen senses picked out glimpses of sun-tanned skin amongst the clumps of foliage sprouting in unnatural places, the barely visible outlines of helmets nudging above the tops of boulders, and the thick, controlled breathing of several nervous men behind the trees and rocks. Eperitus absorbed all these things in a moment, telling him that at least twenty bandits were concealed on the slope above him. The trap was about to be sprung and suddenly, even though no enemies had yet revealed themselves, he felt his old battle instinct take hold of him, pouring new energy into his limbs and tensing his body like a bowstring.

Then a man stepped out from behind a large boulder a few paces ahead of them. ‘Stop where you are,’ he ordered in a nasal voice, holding up his hands, ‘and get down from the donkey.’

Eperitus leaned forward and looked at the short, unimpressive bandit before him, but made no move to dismount. The man’s comrades were emerging from their hiding places to his left – some of them armed with bows and aiming their arrows directly at him and Arceisius – and it was obvious that the slightest wrong movement would bring swift death. Nonetheless, he had to fight the instinct to throw aside his cloak and draw his sword. Everything, he knew, depended on him holding his nerve.

‘I can’t do that, I’m afraid,’ he replied in a calm voice. ‘I’m on an important mission for the king, and time is of the essence.’

The bandit’s eyes narrowed for a moment, then he placed his hands on his hips and leaned back, raising his eyebrows quizzically.

‘A mission for the king?’ he said with mock awe. ‘Really? Well, I’m sorry to inconvenience his lordship, but we have need of the royal donkey and all the possessions of his servants.’

His comment was followed by a ripple of laughter from the men on the slope above.

‘Normally I’d be glad to help the starving and impoverished,’ Eperitus responded, throwing a casual glance back across the file of Thessalians, ‘but I’m already on an errand of mercy. You see, the king’s been told that his subjects on Samos are being beaten and robbed by a band of outlaws, and he’s sent me to find them.’

‘Well, it seems to me, my friend, that you have found them.’

Eperitus smiled. ‘I don’t think so. You see, the men I’m looking for were reported to be fearsome cut-throats – brutal, heavily armed men of violence, worthy of my skills as a bandit-hunter. Perhaps you can tell me where they are?’

‘By Ares’s sword, you’ve got a nerve,’ the man hissed, clenching his fists and scowling. ‘We’re the only damned cut-throats you’ll find on this pathetic rock, and if you’ve come looking for us then you’d better state your purpose – or else get off that cursed animal and start stripping, before you find an arrow in your throat.’

Eperitus remained where he was. He could sense Arceisius’s nervous fidgeting at his side and placed a calming hand on his squire’s shoulder.

‘I can’t say I’m not disappointed,’ he sighed, ‘but if you’re the men I’ve been sent to find, then you’d better listen to me. King Odysseus of Ithaca, son of Laertes, offers you free passage back to the Peloponnese. If you go now, you’ll not be harmed and you’ll even be allowed to keep your armour and weapons.’

Some of the men on the slopes laughed incredulously, while others shouted angrily at the audacity of the man before them.

‘And if we refuse?’ asked the short bandit, his voice even more nasal as his temper edged higher.

Eperitus jumped down from the donkey and threw his cloak over his shoulder, revealing his leather breastplate and the sword hanging from his belt. ‘If you refuse, then I challenge any man amongst you to fight me to the death. If I win, then the rest of you must leave Odysseus’s kingdom and never return; but if your champion kills me, then Odysseus will cede the island of Samos and all its towns, villages, people, livestock and crops to you. What do you say?’

The bandit gave a derisive snort. ‘The king’s offer is generous, but there’s another alternative. If I want, I can have you and your lad shot where you stand. Then my comrades and I can continue to take what we please from the people of this fat little island.’

‘You could shoot us down if you wished, but then Odysseus would come to Samos himself, bringing his army with him. They’d hunt you down to the last man and leave your unburied bodies as carrion for the crows. At least if one of you has the stomach to fight me, you have a small chance of winning.’

‘King Odysseus must have a lot of faith in your skill as a warrior, if he’s prepared to stake part of his kingdom on you,’ the bandit replied. He looked up at his comrades and there was the glimmer of a smile on his lips. ‘It’s an interesting choice: leave Samos without a fight; accept your challenge; or just kill you and take our chances with the king and his army. My head tells me to shoot you down and be done with it, but my heart wants to accept your challenge. And that is what we will do.’

There was a questioning murmur from the men on the slope, but the short bandit silenced his comrades with a wave of his hand. ‘If you kill our champion we give you our oaths before all the gods that we will leave peacefully, never to return. But there are to be no rules in this match, and I insist on one condition: the fight must be decided without weapons.’

‘Even better,’ Eperitus answered, already sliding his sword from its scabbard and passing it back to Arceisius. ‘I wouldn’t want it to be over too quickly.’

‘Of course not,’ the bandit grinned, before signalling to the men on the slope. ‘Send Polites down here! Now.’

‘I don’t trust them, sir,’ Arceisius said, undoing the buckles on Eperitus’s breastplate and prising the shaped leather away from his broad chest. He was looking up the slope to where the bandits were moving aside, their faces suddenly full of eager anticipation.

‘Don’t worry,’ Eperitus said in a low voice, removing his cloak and throwing it over the back of the donkey. ‘I only need to keep them distracted and buy us some time. Besides, there isn’t a man amongst this lot who could match me in a fight.’

‘I wouldn’t be so sure of that,’ Arceisius replied, his eyes widening as he watched Eperitus’s opponent striding down the slope behind him, throwing off his armour and weapons as he came.

Eperitus turned and felt a sudden rush of doubt at the sight of the man he was to face. Polites was a full head and shoulders taller than he was, and his muscles bulged like boulders under his taut skin. His square face was dominated by his thick black beard and his dark, cruel eyes. He reached the path and pulled off his cloak and tunic, then stood naked with his arms hanging at his side and his huge hands flexing repeatedly, already anticipating crushing the life out of his opponent.

Eperitus glanced higher up the slope and further along the path, at the same time straining his ears for sounds of discreet movement through the trees and bushes. He could hear nothing. Taking a deep breath to calm the sudden flurry of nerves, he unbuckled his belt and pulled off his tunic – clothes would only allow Polites to get an easy grip – and stepped forward.

Without waiting, Polites lunged at him with arms wide and fingers splayed. Eperitus ducked aside at the last moment, just as the long, heavily-muscled arms closed on the place where he had been standing. Turning on his heel, he punched Polites in the kidneys with all his force, only to cry out in pain as his fist impacted on the hard muscle. Before he could move away, Polites swung his right elbow back into his face, sending him reeling into the hindquarters of the donkey. The animal kicked out, narrowly missing Eperitus’s head, and broke through the circle of cheering Thessalians who had surrounded the fight.

Arceisius went to follow the donkey, but was pulled back by the short bandit. ‘You’re staying here, lad,’ he snarled, his lip curling to reveal yellow teeth.

Eperitus wiped the blood from his nose and staggered to his feet, still dazed from the blow to his face. Polites grinned confidently and walked towards him, certain his victory would be swift as he threw his arms wide and lunged again. The ring of onlookers closed towards Eperitus so that, this time, there could be no dodging the wide span of their champion’s immensely strong limbs. Realizing Polites had only one tactic – to crush the life out of him – Eperitus used his quicker reflexes to duck beneath his long reach and thrust his shoulder into the giant’s stomach.

The force of the blow would have knocked any other man from his feet and sent him toppling into the dust, but to Eperitus’s amazement Polites’s legs held. Then, in desperation, Eperitus thrust upwards, taking Polites’s full weight across his back and lifting him bodily from the ground. Then with a huge effort he stood and threw Polites into the dirt behind him.

There was a groan of dismay from the bandits, who shuffled back from the sprawling giant. Eperitus spun round, but Polites was already on his hands and knees and preparing to stand. Leaping forward, he swung his foot with as much speed and strength as he could muster into Polites’s exposed genitals. The soft flesh flattened beneath the top of his foot and a moment later a deafening bellow of pain erupted from his opponent’s lungs as he fell forward into the dirt, writhing in agony.

Eperitus was on him in an instant, thrusting his knee into his spine and hooking his right arm under his chin. He pulled back with all his strength, trying to snap the man’s neck. Whether the other Thessalians would honour their oath if he won, he did not know; he only knew that, unless he killed Polites now, the man would tear him apart. He pulled harder, sensing his opponent weakening as the shouts of the crowd receded into a shocked silence.

Then Polites placed the palms of his hands down on the earth and, slowly and irresistibly, began to push himself up. Eperitus tightened his grip about his neck and concentrated the weight of his body down through his knee in a desperate effort to keep him pinned to the floor, but the Thessalian’s strength seemed without measure. With a rage-filled roar, Polites thrust himself up and on to his side, pulling Eperitus’s arms away from his neck. The next moment he twisted free and leapt to his feet.

His supporters exploded back into life. Eperitus, now flat on his back, saw the terrible anger in Polites’s eyes as he reached down and picked him up, lifting him above his head as if he were no more than a child. With a huge grunt, he hurled the Ithacan across the circle of men to land in a heap at the feet of Arceisius.

For a moment Eperitus’s vision was filled with flashes of light, beyond which the world seemed to be spinning about him in a whirl of faces and trees set against a cloudy sky. His whole body was awash with pain, a thousand spear-points of agony stabbing at him relentlessly, and his ears were filled with the deafening sound of his own heartbeat. Then he saw Arceisius’s face bending close, his lips moving urgently.

‘Sir, he’s coming again!’ he said, his voice distant and muffled by the blood pumping through Eperitus’s ears.

Suddenly, with a rush and a loud pop, his senses returned to him. Seeing the looming figure of Polites approaching from the corner of his vision, he thrust aside his pain and rolled onto his hands and knees, springing away just as the giant leapt towards him. With his brain beating hard against the inside of his skull and every muscle in his body protesting at the movement that was forced upon them, Eperitus sprinted to the opposite side of the human arena and, gasping, twisted about to face Polites, who had turned and was coming at him again, his massive body covered in sweat, dust and blood.

Then Eperitus’s fighting instinct came back to him. New strength filled his limbs and his senses sharpened to a fine point once more. His eyes searched the arena for anything that would give him an advantage, acutely aware that Polites was closing on him. Beyond the circle of Thessalians, he heard the faint rustle of undergrowth trodden under careful feet, and the small sounds of armour and weapons knocking against each other. Odysseus was coming.

‘This time I will kill you,’ Polites announced in a deep, slow voice, staring at Eperitus with a mixture of frustration and hatred.

Sensing the brigands close once more behind him, Eperitus knelt swiftly and picked up the rock he had spotted a moment before. It was smooth, round and large and he had to splay his fingers to fit it in his hand. Raising it above his head, he watched with satisfaction as the look on Polites’s face turned to fear and doubt. Then he took aim and threw the rock, hitting the giant square on the forehead. Polites looked at him blankly for a moment, his eyes blinking, before toppling backwards with all the slowness and rigidity of a felled tree.

There was a moment of silence, followed by uproar. The short bandit pushed Arceisius aside and leapt forward, pulling his sword from its scabbard as he rushed across to where Eperitus was now being held by the others, his arms pinned behind his back.

‘HALT!’ boomed a voice from the slopes above.

Eperitus turned to see Odysseus standing in the trees, his short legs planted firmly apart in the undergrowth and his arms crossed over his broad, muscular chest. Two spears were stuck in the ground beside him and his leather shield was hung across his back. A score of Ithacan soldiers were spread out across the slope, many of them aiming arrows at the bandits.

At the sound of the king’s voice, the Thessalians stopped and looked up. The men holding Eperitus pushed him into the centre of the circle and drew their swords. The rest followed suit, and as the short bandit moved forward to the safety of his comrades Arceisius ran across to join his captain, bringing him his cloak. Eperitus threw the garment about himself, then knelt and pulled his squire down with him, wanting to keep as low a profile as possible if the arrows began to fly.

‘I am King Odysseus of Ithaca, son of Laertes,’ Odysseus announced, his eyes travelling along the raised faces of the bandits. Their shields and spears had been piled in the undergrowth at the foot of the slope – left there as they had formed a circle about Eperitus and Polites – and now no man dared to retrieve them for fear of being shot down by the Ithacan archers. ‘You are in my kingdom without my leave. If you want to live, throw down your swords now.’

‘Don’t be fools,’ the short bandit shouted, looking around at his comrades. ‘If we throw down our weapons they’ll massacre us all. Keep your swords, lads; there are more of us than them – we can still make a fight of it.’

‘Think about what you’re doing,’ Odysseus warned, glaring sternly at them. ‘You are trespassers here, and by right I could have had you shot down where you stand moments ago. Don’t forget, this is my kingdom – I have an army at my command. The trees all around you are filled with concealed archers; all I have to do is give the word and you will all perish. Antiphus!’

A scruffy archer with a large nose and hollow cheeks stepped forward. He held a tall bow in his right hand, the fore and middle fingers of which had been cut off – a punishment for poaching in his youth. Undeterred, he had simply taught himself to draw the bowstring with his left hand instead, and now stared straight down the shaft of the arrow at the bandit leader. The Thessalian shifted uncomfortably but retained his hold on his sword, whilst his comrades looked nervously at the trees around them, wondering how many more archers were hidden in the undergrowth.

‘But I have no intention of murdering you,’ Odysseus continued, breaking his harsh stare with a smile. ‘I know you’re not common brigands, and by the looks of you, you were soldiers once. Thessalians, too – a proud and fearsome people.’ There was a murmur of approval from the men on the road. ‘If you throw down your arms and take a solemn oath before all the gods not to return to my kingdom, I will allow you safe passage back to the mainland. I’ll even give you provisions for a week. What do you say?’

The Thessalians looked at each other, talking and nodding in low voices, then one by one began to throw down their weapons.

‘Cowards!’ the short bandit shouted at them. ‘Idiots! Can’t you see he’s lying?’

Suddenly the twang of a bowstring sang out from the trees. The bandit staggered backwards, the long shaft of an arrow sticking out from his chest. He clutched at it briefly, trying to pull it free, then the strength drained from his fingers and he fell lifeless to the ground.

Shocked, Eperitus looked up the slope. Instantly his eyes fell on the plump figure of Eurylochus, Odysseus’s cousin, his hand still hanging in the air by his ear but the string of his bow empty. There was an arrogant, self-satisfied sneer on his face as he peered down at the man he had shot.

In the moment of shocked silence that followed, Eperitus quickly turned and saw a sword lying in the grass not far from him, where its owner had thrown it down in surrender. Now, though, surrender was the last thing in any of the Thessalians’ minds and suddenly they were reaching for the weapons they had cast away. Eperitus sprang forward and swung his fist into the face of a bandit as he stretched a hand towards the sword. The man fell backwards and Eperitus snatched up the weapon, hacking off the outstretched arm of another of the Thessalians as he plucked his own blade from the dust. Arrows were flying all around and men were crying out as they fell. Eperitus grabbed the discarded sword of the warrior whose arm he had severed and tossed it towards Arceisius.

‘Here, lad, use this,’ he shouted, ‘and stick close to me.’

Up on the slope, the Ithacan guardsmen had formed a line of spears either side of Odysseus and were charging down at the lightly armed bandits, howling like Furies as they came. Eperitus smiled grimly to see the men he had trained go into battle – many for the first time – wishing he were with them. Then he sensed movement behind him and turned to see that three of the surviving Thessalians were running directly at him, brandishing their swords. Now, more than ever, Eperitus longed for the comforting weight of his grandfather’s leather shield on his arm and rued the fact that, due to his disguise, it had been left leaning idly against a tree at their camp. The first attacker reached him ahead of his comrades and swung his sword down at his head. Eperitus met the blow with his own blade, then threw the Thessalian’s arm back and arced his weapon down across his face, slicing through his left eye and the bridge of his nose. The man staggered backwards and fell down the slope on the opposite side of the road.

Arceisius rushed to Eperitus’s side, just as the other two bandits joined the attack. Eperitus’s opponent quickly proved himself an experienced swordsman, forcing the Ithacan backwards under a ferocious but accurate torrent of blows. The onslaught was met with all the speed and skill that Eperitus’s sharp instincts gave him, but his concern for Arceisius kept him distracted and prevented him from pressing his own attack. His worries were unfounded, though: he had spent four years training his squire for combat, teaching him every manoeuvre and trick with sword, shield and spear that he knew; and Arceisius had always proved a quick learner with no mean instinct for fighting. Now the endless drills were showing their worth as Arceisius fended off the Thessalian’s probing thrusts with ease. There was no time for the young man to think about what he was doing, only to react intuitively. Within a few moments, he had turned from defence to attack, pushing his opponent back towards the steep slope on the other side of the path.

Eperitus recognized something of his younger self in Arceisius and smiled as he watched the fledgling warrior. Putting his concerns aside, he now turned his full attention on the man before him. He was young and bearded, with a single, angry eyebrow forming a black V across his forehead. His attacks were energetic and accompanied by grunts of exertion, but they were predictable and easy to parry. As Arceisius plunged his sword into his opponent’s chest, Eperitus beat aside another attack and began to stab and hack at the Thessalian, forcing him to think and react quicker and quicker as each new thrust came at him. Eventually, Eperitus’s skilful onslaught prised his enemy’s guard wide open and he pushed the point of his sword into the man’s liver. As the Thessalian fell to his knees, Eperitus withdrew his reddened blade from the man’s gut and swept his head from his shoulders.

He turned and saw that the battle behind them was already over. Stepping across the corpse, he clapped Arceisius on the shoulder.

‘Well done, lad,’ he said. ‘You showed real skill with that sword.’

‘Thanks,’ Arceisius replied uncertainly, looking down at the man he had slain. There was a shadow of distaste in his expression – a hint of doubt – but as he sensed his captain’s eyes upon him he looked up and forced a smile to his lips. ‘Thanks, sir.’

None of the bandits remained standing and at a quick count Eperitus could see that all the Ithacans had survived, which did not surprise him given the fact they had enjoyed the advantage of spears and shields against the swords of the Thessalians. Odysseus stood in the middle of the carnage, the gore running in rivulets down the shaft of his spear. He ignored the pleas of the wounded men around him; they had been given their chance to surrender and now the only mercy they would be shown was a dagger across the throat to quicken their passing.

‘You were late,’ Eperitus called to him. ‘That giant nearly killed me.’

Odysseus smiled cockily. ‘I was exactly on time. The fact you’re still alive proves it.’

At that moment, Eurylochus came striding across the path to the point where the short bandit’s body lay. He seized hold of his arrow, tugged it free from the dead man’s chest and proceeded to wipe it clean on the corner of his cloak, but as he slid it back into the leather quiver that hung at his waist, Eperitus grabbed him by the chest and spun him around.

‘What do you want?’ Eurylochus asked indignantly.

‘This!’

Eperitus drew back his fist and slammed it into Eurylochus’s smug, round face. Blood exploded from his nostrils as the force of the blow sent him staggering backwards. He caught his heel on the corpse of the short bandit and fell in a heap, one hand clutching at his broken nose.

‘What in Hades did you do that for?’ he screamed in a thick voice, trying to stem the blood flow. The other Ithacans, who had been pilfering from the bodies of the Thessalians, stopped what they were doing and looked over.

‘Because you deserved it, you oaf,’ Eperitus answered angrily. ‘What did you think you were doing when you fired that arrow? These men were about to give up, and if you’d held your damned nerve they’d still be alive now.’

There was a murmur of agreement from the others.

‘Odysseus!’ Eurylochus whined, stretching a pleading hand towards the king. ‘You saw what he did. I demand you . . .’

‘Just shut up, Eurylochus,’ Antiphus hissed.

Odysseus held up a hand and an immediate silence fell. ‘Step back, Eperitus,’ he said. ‘You’ve made your feelings known – now let him be. As for you, cousin, you can count yourself fortunate no Ithacans died here. If they had I’d have held you responsible. Now, get back to the camp and tell Eurybates we’ll be returning as soon as we’ve buried these men.’

Eurylochus struggled to his feet, still holding his nose.

‘You’ll pay for this, Eperitus,’ he said, spitting blood on the ground at his feet, before turning on his heel and stumbling down the path.

‘I know what you’re going to say,’ Odysseus said, holding his hands up to Eperitus. The authority he had shown a moment before was gone and they were just friends again. ‘You warned me he’d put us in danger. I know.’

Eperitus shook his head in mock disapproval, then broke into a smile. ‘Well, at least we’re unharmed.’

As he spoke, one of the corpses sat up. The Ithacans stepped back in shock and stared at the massive, naked figure of Polites, rubbing the large bruise on his forehead and looking about in confusion. As soon as his eyes fell on Eperitus, though, his expression changed to sudden fury and he struggled to his knees. In a quick movement, Antiphus slipped the bow from his shoulder and fitted an arrow, aiming it straight at the broad chest of the Thessalian.

‘Don’t shoot!’ Odysseus ordered, stepping between them and holding up his hands. He turned to Polites and met his angry stare. ‘Look about you. The battle’s over and your comrades are dead. I offered them their lives, but the stubborn fools chose to fight.’

Polites stared at the bodies of the other bandits, then at the armed men standing all around him. His puzzlement was clear, but eventually he understood what had happened. He stared up at Odysseus, his eyes dark and bitter.

‘Perhaps you intend to kill me too,’ he said in his deep, slow voice.

‘I shall neither kill you nor banish you,’ the king announced. ‘You were a soldier once, but now you’ve fallen on hard times and have turned to less honourable means to feed yourself. Am I right?’

Polites lowered his proud eyes to the ground. ‘Yes,’ he answered, simply.

‘Then I will give you a chance to restore your dignity and take up your former profession again. We could do with another experienced warrior – especially one of your size and power. If you’ll take an oath of fealty, you can join my guard under Eperitus’s captaincy.’

Odysseus indicated the man who, a short while before, Polites had tried to kill with his bare hands. Polites looked at Eperitus, who met his stare and nodded amicably. After all, he thought, Odysseus was right: what captain would not want a warrior of Polites’s massive build and brute strength under his command?

‘That would be an honour,’ Polites said.

Then the king stepped forward and offered him his hand. After a moment’s pause, the Thessalian took it.

Chapter Four

APHEIDAS’S REVENGE

‘Shush now,’ Paris said gently, stroking the broad neck of the excited mare. She pressed her nostrils against his shoulder and blew warm, horse-smelling breath over his skin. ‘Be still. You’ll get your breakfast and exercise soon enough.’

He withdrew from the affectionate rubbing of the animal’s lips and gestured for the youngest of the three grooms, who were watching him with fascination, to join him.

‘Even in Troy it’s said Spartans are the best horse-breeders in Greece,’ he announced, making the boy grin with pride. ‘But this girl’s special, even by your country’s standards. What’s her name, lad?’

‘Lipse, my lord. After the wind goddess.’

‘A good name,’ Paris nodded. ‘But if you want her to live up to it, you need to feed her better. Put more corn in her food and give her plenty of treats – my own horse likes grapes. Most importantly, you need to exercise her on the plains, not here in the palace courtyard. She needs her freedom, even if it’s only for a short while every day. Give her that and you’ll soon see the sort of horse she can really become.’

He gave the groom’s shoulder a squeeze, before leaning over and offering the palm of his hand to the pure-black mare. She nudged it gently with her soft nose.

‘Sir?’ said one of the other grooms tentatively. ‘Sir, how do you make the animals love you so much?’

‘Make them?’ Paris replied, arching his eyebrows slightly and shaking his head. ‘No man can make a creature love him – he must earn its love through kindness and trust.’

‘But you’ve only been here a few moments, sir, and already the horses act as if they’ve known you all their lives.’

Paris lowered himself onto his haunches and beckoned the boys to come closer. ‘I can see there’s no fooling you three,’ he conceded, looking into their eyes as they sat before him. ‘Well, I’ll tell you my secret, but you’re not to share it with anyone, do you understand?’

They nodded eagerly, and with a conspiratorial glance over his shoulder, Paris began the strange tale of his childhood. On the day he was born, he told them, a prophecy decreed that he would bring about the ruin of Troy. Though loath to kill his own child, King Priam was eventually persuaded to give the task to his chief herdsman. But Agelaus did not have the heart to run the baby through or drown him, so he abandoned him to his fate on the foothills of Mount Ida. When, five days later, he found the baby still alive and being suckled by a she-bear, Agelaus decided to bring him up as his own. Whether it was something in the beast’s milk, or simply a gift of the gods, Paris grew up with the ability to gain the trust of any creature. The sheep in his flocks loved him dearly and followed him everywhere, and no wolf, lion or other wild beast would ever attack them so long as Paris was nearby. This same skill gave him the ability to train fighting bulls, for which he became famous throughout Ilium. When Priam himself ordered Paris to bring his best bull to sacrifice at Troy, the boy’s nobility was impossible to disguise and Agelaus was forced to confess that Paris was the king’s son. Having been wracked by guilt ever since ordering the infant’s death, Priam ignored the old prophecy and welcomed Paris back into his family. He was made a prince, second only to Hector, the king’s eldest son.

‘But I’ve never lost the power to win the love of wild creatures,’ Paris concluded, standing and smiling at the enthralled grooms. ‘Be they horses, wolves, or even the birds of the air. I must go now, but I promise you I’ll come again. And don’t forget what I said about Lipse.’

He turned and walked further along the lines of restless horses. Every animal in Menelaus’s stable was alert to his presence, each one pressing up against the wooden bars of the pens as he walked by. The rich odour of straw and dung filled his senses and reminded him of Troy, but his ever-present longing for his homeland was tempered by an unexpected reluctance to leave Sparta. It was now the third day since his arrival, and though he had no love for the austere city and its hostile people, their queen had cast a spell over him that had thrown his thoughts and emotions into turmoil. One flash of Helen’s blue eyes had filled him with a madness that had cut into his very soul, disturbing his once peaceful conscience and threatening to rob him of his self-control. He had lain awake all night after the feast – during which he had eaten very little – thinking of Helen, seeing her face in the corners of his mind and recalling the look she had given him as she had left the great hall, a look that seemed filled with a longing to match his own. Was it possible that such a godlike woman could set her heart upon a hardened warrior like himself? The thought chased away all prospect of sleep and he had risen before dawn to roam the palace corridors in the hope of encountering her.

But he saw neither Helen nor Menelaus for the whole of that day, and to his disappointment only the king was present at the feast that evening. Menelaus apologized for his lack of hospitality during the day, as he was busy preparing for a visit to his grandfather in Crete; but he assured the Trojans he would be able to discuss the purpose of their mission within a few days. Until then he cordially offered them the freedom of his palace, although at this point the king’s gaze rested briefly on Paris, as if he knew the malady that had struck his guest and the thoughts that were in his mind. Indeed, Paris did not see Helen the following day or night either, and the worry he might never set eyes on her again deprived him of yet more sleep and drove away all but the most rudimentary appetite. Before arriving in Sparta his life had been simple: he was a Trojan warrior, honour-bound to serve his king and country without question, earning glory where possible or death if required. Helen, though, had purged him of these trivialities and left him with nothing but a yearning to be with her – a hunger that could only be satisfied by stealing her from Menelaus and making her his own.

It was a shameful thought for a man of honour, but one which he could not free himself from despite all the arguments against it. The consequences of such an act were unguessable. Certainly his mission would fail and Hesione would never be returned to Troy. And even if he succeeded in taking Helen with him, Menelaus would surely do everything in his power to bring her back. These were the least of Paris’s concerns, though. His noble blood and tough upbringing had given him the courage to take whatever he wanted, but to kidnap Helen from under her husband’s nose meant going against his sense of duty to his father and his country. Ironically, such an act would also make him worse than Telamon, who when he took Hesione from Troy had at least been able to claim her as a spoil of war. But the greatest obstacle would be Helen herself. When he had looked into her eyes he had seen a trapped animal, longing to be free of its gilded cage. He could sense her pain, the pain of a free spirit slowly being crushed to death, and he had wanted to be the one to release her from that. But unless she wanted him in return then he could not force her to leave – not without the fear that he had removed her from one cage, only to earn her contempt by placing her into another.

This internal struggle between conscience and desire had dominated his thoughts when he should have been thinking of his mission. After the third night of feasting, when Helen was absent and her husband had again avoided all talk of the Trojans’ purpose in Greece, he fought against his growing tiredness and rose early again to wander the palace corridors in contemplation of the Spartan queen. But as the dawn brought a day of difficult decisions and far-ranging choices, he found his old self returning in strength. The honour-bound soldier, the loyal Trojan and the dutiful son fought back with renewed vigour against the obsession with Helen. She could never be his, he told himself: she was married, and a foreigner whose background and customs were not his own, while he had a responsibility to his mission, his father and to his country that would not be denied. Even if Helen was willing to leave Sparta with him, her wild beauty would change his ordered life beyond recognition. The honour and pride that were the pillars of his existence would be pulled down for the sake of a woman he had only seen once, and as he thought of what it would mean to follow his heart and surrender everything for her he felt suddenly afraid. In a moment everything became clear: he must leave for Mycenae tonight, or risk stepping into an abyss, changing everything for ever.

He passed from the stables out into the broad palace courtyard. The quiet, moonlit space of the first night he had arrived was now filled with activity. A dozen slaves with wooden rakes were smoothing out the hoof-prints and wheel ruts of the previous day, only to see the neatly furrowed dirt trampled again by scores of servants hurrying about their early morning duties. Sleepy soldiers stumbled from their barracks, adjusting their armour as they went yawning to their posts, while over by the gates a group of light horsemen were discussing the morning’s patrol, their mounts snorting and stamping with impatience. The sky above was flushed pink with the first light of dawn, and from the roofs and treetops of Sparta an army of birds were greeting the morning in song.

Paris did not share their enthusiasm. Feeling frustrated and moody, he lowered his head and walked across the newly levelled soil to the palace. Inside, the cool, gloomy interior was thick with bustling slaves, few of whom had time to take notice of the foreign prince. Weaving his way between them, he came to a flight of stairs and leapt up them two at a time, hoping to find somewhere to be alone with his troubled thoughts. Fortunately, the upper level was deserted except for a young slave girl sweeping the corridor. She stared at Paris with indignation – making him suspect he had entered the women’s quarters – but he ignored her and continued up the narrow, white-walled passageway. Unlike the lower level, which was an organized collection of large, functional rooms feeding off from a central hallway, the floor above was a maze of corridors and small rooms where he soon became lost.

His dark looks as he moved through the upper level of the palace caused several slaves to avoid his eye or move aside. When he stopped one of them and demanded to know where the Trojans had been billeted, the old man could do little more than point and give hurried directions in a shaking voice. Paris strode on. He intended to discuss his plans with Apheidas and Aeneas, see his men fed, and then demand an audience with Menelaus regarding Hesione. The fact the Spartan king had witnessed the look that had passed between Paris and Helen on that first night would almost guarantee his agreement – he would want the foreigners away from Sparta and his wife as quickly as possible.

It was as these thoughts raced through his mind that Paris heard a sudden burst of laughter coming from one of the windows ahead of him. Despite his grim mood, he stopped at the window and looked out onto a small, rectangular garden below. It was enclosed by a high wall and bordered by spring flowers, whose rich scents reached as high as the upper window. In the middle of the garden was a circular pond covered with lily pads, through which Paris could see the flitting shapes of large, golden fish. Around the pond was a lawn where four children – three boys and a little girl – were chasing each other and laughing merrily. But Paris’s gaze was immediately drawn to the slim, black-haired woman seated on a stone bench beside the pond. She was dressed in a dark blue robe that covered her shoulders against the morning chill, but fell open slightly to reveal the white chiton beneath.

Initially her hair shielded her face from his eyes, but with a sudden rush of nervousness he knew it was Helen. A moment later she lifted her face to the sky and with an easy movement of her slender fingers tucked the long strands of hair behind her ears. Paris stepped back from the window, where he could watch her from the cover of the shadows. When he had first seen her she had enthralled him with her untamed beauty, but now he looked on her with astonishment as her purity and perfection were revealed to him by the daylight. She lowered her face again to look at the children – her children – and as Paris saw the loving smile she gave them his heart yearned for her to smile at him in the same way. Then he remembered that he had resolved to leave Sparta before nightfall and a great swell of sadness and anger washed through him.

The smallest of the boys ran to his mother, who folded him into her arms and covered him with kisses. The child’s face – like those of his siblings – showed a clear physical resemblance to both Helen and Menelaus, proving Helen’s faithfulness to her marriage bed. And despite the withered hand that the boy held tucked into his chest, Paris envied him.

‘Magnificent, isn’t she?’ whispered a voice over Paris’s shoulder.

The prince turned with a start and saw Apheidas in the shadows. ‘What are you doing here?’ he said impatiently.

‘Looking for you. Nobody’s seen you since the feast.’

‘I’ve been minding my own business, Apheidas. There are times when I wish you’d do the same.’

‘Now, now,’ the older man tutted with an amused smile. ‘Besides, isn’t it the business of both of us to seek the return of Hesione? That is why we’re here, isn’t it?’

‘Keep your voice down,’ Paris hissed as Helen’s head turned in the direction of the window. ‘Of course that’s why we’re here. What else do you think’s kept me awake all night?’

‘I’m glad to hear you’re focused, Paris,’ Apheidas replied tartly. ‘Hector told me to give you my full support, and I want to see the mission succeed just as much as you do. It just irks me that, whatever we say, the Greeks are still going to send us back to Troy with nothing more than bellies full of their tough food and bitter wine. After all, if we’re made to look like fools then Priam and the whole of Ilium will look like fools with us.’

‘We won’t go back empty-handed or looking like fools, Apheidas,’ Paris snapped, wishing the man would leave him alone. ‘Besides, I imagine you’re more worried about your own pride than my father’s.’

‘A man’s pride is his motivation, but unlike you, my motivation has been thinking of ways to achieve our mission.’ Apheidas waited for Paris to react, but the prince merely narrowed his eyes and remained silent. ‘Anyway, the Greeks hurt my pride ten years ago when they drove me out, and I don’t intend to pass up this chance to have my revenge.’

‘We’re not here to satisfy your stung pride, so just forget whatever it is you’re dreaming up and concentrate on what I tell you to do.’

‘Our success will be all the revenge I need, Paris. Nothing else. And if you really want to see Hesione returned and Troy’s honour restored, then you’d better listen to what I’ve got to say.’

Paris felt his anger rising again. ‘You’re forgetting yourself, Apheidas,’ he warned. ‘Hesione’s my father’s sister and I want her back home as much as anyone, but it won’t be as simple as you seem to think. Has it occurred to you she might not want to return to Troy with us, whether she’s given leave to by the Greeks or not? Why would she give up her home and family to return to a place she hasn’t seen for years?’

‘Who cares what the stupid woman wants?’ Apheidas retorted. ‘We’ve been given a mission to take her home to Troy, and it’s your duty to carry it out. And if you haven’t got the guts, then I’ll do it myself.’

There was a long, tense moment as the men stared at each other, punctuated by the laughing of the children below and the smooth voice of their mother. Apheidas had directly challenged Paris’s authority, an act that no commander could tolerate if he expected to maintain his position. But Apheidas was always standing up to those above him, and most had learned to tolerate this fault with magnanimity because it was outweighed by his excellence in battle. And perhaps Paris was in the wrong. He had assumed too much of Hector’s attitude – that they would never bring Hesione back and the best they could do was to spy on the Greeks and come back with a reason to make war on them in the future; however, it was Priam’s wish that his sister be returned to Troy and the city’s pride be restored along with her. And Priam was still the king.

‘All right, tell me what you’re thinking.’

Apheidas smiled. ‘Simple. The Greeks took one of ours; I say we take one of theirs in return.’

He indicated the garden with his thumb.

‘Only a fool would suggest something as ridiculous as that,’ Paris snapped, shaking his head.

‘Think about it, Paris,’ Apheidas countered. ‘Having her will give us the upper hand when it comes to bargaining for Hesione’s return. And if the Greeks aren’t interested then Troy will at least have its pride back – and you can have Helen for your own.’

He leaned back against the wall and gave the prince a knowing glance. Paris looked away, doubt furrowing his brow. Having just convinced himself that he must leave Sparta at once for the sake of his mission and his honour, his second-in-command was offering him a way to resolve all his dilemmas with one fell deed. Was it madness to consider such a possibility? he asked himself. But as he considered Apheidas’s words, he realized that it was not. To kidnap Helen would be to fulfil his mission, not abandon it. Troy’s pride would be reinstated and Priam would be able to offer Helen in exchange for Hesione. The Greeks would never agree, of course, and Hector would get his war. More importantly, Paris would have Helen for himself without betraying his mission, his father or his homeland. It was as if the gods had spoken to him, and yet his excitement was checked by uncertainty. He looked back down at the garden, his eyes dark as he stared at the oblivious Helen.

‘I won’t deny the gods have blinded me with Helen’s beauty, Apheidas – a fact you seem fully aware of – or that I have already thought of taking her back to Troy with us. But Menelaus is our host and I like him, even if he is a Greek. What’s more, to take Helen would be a dishonourable act, an offence to the gods.’

‘Sometimes we must swallow our pride if we are to have our heart’s desire,’ Apheidas said earnestly. ‘And as for offending the gods, don’t you realize that our very presence here is their doing? It’s by their will that we – you – are fated to take Helen back to Troy. In your pride, don’t forget your mortality and the fact you are a pawn of the immortals.’

‘You know it will mean war.’

‘War’s been brewing for years,’ Apheidas said dismissively. ‘The Greeks are growing all the time, and we Trojans are looking westward for a bit of elbow-room ourselves. It won’t be long before one side goes too far, and then it’ll be a war to the death – our culture against theirs. And the sooner we get the chance to wipe them out the better!’

Paris nodded, resigning himself to Apheidas’s argument and, with it, the unknown future he had feared and rejected not long before. ‘And how do you suggest we smuggle the queen of Sparta out of her own palace?’

‘Menelaus departs for Crete in five days. It’s a journey he can’t postpone, but after that look Helen gave you the other night – oh yes, I saw it – he’ll want to send us on our way before he leaves. We have to convince him to let us stay.’

‘How?’

‘Demand to speak with him today. Tell him the reason your father sent you here and ask him to send messages to Agamemnon and Telamon, requesting an audience on neutral ground in Mycenae. That’ll give us a reason to wait in Sparta until we receive their response, by which time Menelaus will have sailed for Crete. He won’t trust us, of course, but if you can make him swear an oath of friendship the customs of xenia will oblige him to let you stay here. And once he’s gone, we’ll steal his wife and head home.’

‘And what if Helen doesn’t want to leave – have you thought of that?’

Apheidas gave another of his self-assured smiles and looked down at the garden. ‘She will. Her eyes may have been on you the other night, but I could see what was burning inside them. It’s obvious she doesn’t love Menelaus. She’s like a trapped animal, desperate to escape.’

‘There’s no escape with a face like hers,’ Paris replied. ‘Men will follow her to the ends of the world. But even if you’re right in everything you say, you’re forgetting her children. We’ll be hard pushed to take them with us, so your whole plan relies on her giving them up.’

‘That will depend on how much she wants her freedom,’ Apheidas said. ‘But if she won’t leave them behind, then we’ll just take her without them.’

‘No,’ Paris said, firmly. ‘I will gladly endanger my life trying to get her out of Sparta; I will even surrender my honour for her sake; but I will not force her to leave against her wishes, with or without her children. To do that would be to make Troy her new prison, and myself a new Menelaus!’

Then you must find a way to speak with her, my lord,’ Apheidas insisted. ‘If you want her consent, then you must get it as soon as you can. In the meantime, I’ll find Eteoneus and demand an audience.’

Apheidas rushed off and Paris returned to the window, only to find the garden below quiet and empty. His spirits plunged, but only for a moment as the thought of taking Helen with him to Troy quickly revived his mood. Apheidas’s foolhardy plan would require suicidal courage and recklessness, but the risk had to be taken. It was the will of the gods, and what was more, Paris had finally accepted he would never find peace again without Helen at his side.

Helen sat by the pond and watched her children playing, aware that the Trojan prince was looking down at her from one of the upper windows. Her youngest son, Pleisthenes, ran to her and she wrapped her arms about him, enjoying the warmth of his small body against hers. She kissed his hair and sent him off to play again with his brothers and sister, telling him not to overexert himself because of his weak chest.

As he joined their game with enthusiastic energy, heedless of his mother’s warning, she thought back to the feast three nights ago when she had first seen Paris. As soon as news reached Sparta that a delegation from Troy was approaching, she had left her quarters and joined her husband in the great hall, keen to see for herself these visitors from distant shores. Not that she had any interest in political embassies and the machinations of power, despite being a queen and the daughter of a king; rather she wanted to see their foreign garb and hear their rough, barbarian tongue being spoken; to look on their faces and imagine for herself their distant country and how different it would be to Sparta.

But Menelaus had demanded she return to her room, angrily insisting that it was the king’s place to entertain such visitors and he did not want them distracted by her beauty, as so many before had been. He was only the king by marriage to her, she reminded him with equal venom, and she was still Sparta’s queen; after all, he could not keep her out of the sight of every man who visited Troy! Menelaus had opened his mouth to answer her back, but at that moment the Trojan delegation arrived, ushered into the great hall by Eteoneus. Menelaus quickly composed himself, but as Helen’s curiosity drew her into the circle of light thrown out by the circular hearth, she could not hide the frustrated rage still burning within her. Then her eyes met those of the Trojan prince and she felt something slipping within her, as if the props that held up her unhappy world were all collapsing at once. Was it because of her snap argument with Menelaus? Or was it because she had felt stifled by his jealous love for ten years and suddenly yearned for release? Was it because she had always wanted to escape Sparta, her prison since childhood, but marriage and motherhood had made her forget that? Or was it simply because there was something in the eyes of the scarred warrior on the other side of the flames that had reached into her heart and promised to set her free?

She did not know. All she did know was that she wanted this strange foreign prince like she had never wanted any man before, and that he wanted her too. Not only had she read it in his eyes, but since that evening the maids who took the Trojans their food and fresh clothing every day had told her how he would question them about her. Though his interest seemed innocent at first – polite enquiries about the wife of the king – they quickly sensed the urgency of a man in love, too clumsy to hide his feelings. And now, though Menelaus had done everything in his power to keep her out of the Trojan’s sight, he had found his way into the women’s quarters and was watching her in her private garden. She felt the nervousness rising in her stomach at his sudden closeness, but knew at once what she had to do.

Hurriedly retracing his way to a flight of stairs he had passed a little earlier, Paris bounded down the stone steps three at a time and turned immediately right in the direction of the great hall.

‘What’s your hurry, Trojan?’ said a voice from the shadows of a side passage, startling him.

Paris turned and saw Helen.

She stepped into the diffused half-light of the main corridor and leaned back against the wall, pressing the flats of her hands against the smooth plaster and arching her back so that her robe fell open across her breasts. The thin material of the chiton beneath revealed every detail of her flawless body, which she wantonly displayed to Paris’s gaze. Then her wilful eyes met his and did not turn away.

‘I saw you watching me in the garden,’ she continued, tipping her head to one side and raising her eyebrows slightly. ‘What is it you want from me, Paris, son of Priam?’

He was tempted to say ‘everything’, but his warrior instinct warned him to take care. To rush in, to reveal his feelings and plans to her, would be to lose her respect. She was playing a game with him – probing his strengths, just as so many enemy captains had done on Troy’s northern borders. But he had defeated them all and made many his captives, and he would do the same with Helen, even though every muscle and nerve in his body was crying out to take her in his arms and reveal his feelings for her with a kiss.

‘I need to talk with you, my lady,’ he replied.

‘Then talk. There’s no one else here but you and me.’ She stood and drew the folds of her robe loosely across her chiton, before stepping forward so that her body was almost touching his. ‘What is it you want to say, my prince?’

Paris sensed she was challenging him to touch her or step away, knowing that he wanted her but that at any moment someone could turn a corner and see them. But beneath her display of boldness – beneath her confidence in her own sexuality – he detected a flutter of uncertainty caused by his own nearness, as if she was afraid she might fail the challenge herself.

‘Not now,’ he said, holding her gaze. ‘Not here. I must speak with you in private, where there is no risk of being overheard.’

‘You are asking much, Paris. Menelaus is a kind and loving husband, but his jealousy is ferocious. That is why you have not seen me since the first night you arrived here. The fact you have met me this morning is only by the slightest chance.’

‘Or the work of the gods,’ Paris added.

Helen smiled. ‘Perhaps. But one can’t always count on their intervention, so I sent my maid to your room last night.’

Paris’s heart jumped.

‘But I wasn’t there; I couldn’t sleep.’

‘So she told me. She had a message for you.’

‘What message?’

Helen reached up and ran her finger down the length of the scar that dissected his face.

‘It seems we both want the same thing, Paris. It asked for you to meet me in the temple of Aphrodite at sunset tomorrow.’

Paris was suddenly overpowered by the need to kiss her, but as his hands closed about her waist she seemed to melt from his fingers and return to the shadows.

‘Where is this temple?’ he called after her as she ran down the passage.

‘You’ll find it,’ she called back, laughing.

And then she was gone.

Chapter Five

STORM WARNING

The Thessalians were buried in a small clearing not far from the track where they had been killed. Even with Polites’s immense and tireless strength, it still took the Ithacans until noon to dig a grave wide and deep enough to lay the bodies in, with their shields and weapons beside them. Normally, any captured armament would have been taken back to stock the palace armoury, but as an act of respect and conciliation to Polites, Odysseus had allowed the men to be buried with full honour. Finally, they built a mound of large rocks to mark the grave and, leaving Polites to say farewell to his comrades, returned to the track. A great cry erupted from the clearing behind them – halfway between despair and triumph – as if Polites was calling on the gods themselves to come and claim the fallen.

Later, as the Ithacans made their way back to their camp at the edge of the wood, Eperitus watched the hulking figure of the Thessalian ahead of him, walking beside Arceisius. The young squire was chatting merrily, telling the giant warrior all about Ithaca, its people and their customs, whilst Polites walked in silence, with only an occasional grunt in response to show he was listening at all.

‘Today has been a good day,’ Odysseus said as he walked beside Eperitus at the back of the file of men. ‘The bandits are all dead with no Ithacans hurt, and we’ve gained two new soldiers into the bargain.’

‘Two?’ asked Antiphus, who was strolling along at Odysseus’s other shoulder, his bow strapped across his back.

‘Polites and Arceisius. The lad fought well today, don’t you think, Eperitus?’

‘He’s got the natural instincts of a fighter,’ Eperitus confirmed, smiling with paternal pride. Arceisius’s father had been killed during the Taphian occupation of Ithaca ten years before, and since then Eperitus had looked after him as if he were his own son. ‘It won’t be long now before he can become a full member of the guard.’

‘What’s stopping him?’ Antiphus asked. ‘You’re not going to make him wait until he gets rid of those feathers round his chin and grows a proper beard are you?’

Odysseus and Antiphus laughed loudly, making Arceisius throw a questioning glance over his shoulder.

‘Of course not,’ Eperitus replied, shooting his companions an admonishing glance. ‘I just think he needs a little longer, that’s all.’

Eperitus thought of the look in Arceisius’s eye after he had killed his man – a glimmer of doubt or regret – and wondered whether he truly desired to be a warrior. Time would tell, he assured himself.

‘Well, there’s no hurry – it’s not as if we’re at war,’ Odysseus said, still grinning. ‘But what do you think of the Thessalian? Will he be true to the oath he swore?’

‘I think you took a risk with him, my lord,’ Antiphus answered. ‘But your instincts have always proved good, and I trust them now. You were the one who had to fight him though, Eperitus. What do you say?’

Eperitus remembered the awful power in Polites’s arms and the iron-like strength of his grasping fingers, and gave a shudder. ‘He’s slow and he can’t think on his feet,’ he announced. ‘He relies entirely on his strength, and that’s a weakness. But, in the name of Ares, he’s got enough muscle for three men and he’s aggressive with it – he’ll kill most men with ease, and enjoy it. As for his oath, Odysseus, I think he’s got just enough intelligence to understand honour, but not enough for treachery. He should serve us well.’

‘A good assessment,’ said a voice from the side of the road.

All three men turned sharply to their left and drew their swords. At the same time, Arceisius whirled about and pulled a dagger from his belt, whilst Polites squinted stupidly into the shadows beneath the trees. There, sitting on a large boulder, was an ancient-looking man with a long beard and a shabby brown cloak, which was pulled about his knees. Despite his deeply lined, leathery skin and his silver hair, his large, round eyes were full of vigour and observed them keenly.

‘Good morning to you, father,’ Odysseus greeted him, sliding his sword back into its scabbard. ‘You caught us by surprise just then. Is there anything we can do for you?’

The old man stared at the king, a faint smile just visible beneath the wispy strands of his moustache, but did not reply. Eperitus called to the rest of the file to halt then, replacing his sword, stepped forward and looked at the curious figure seated before them.

‘Answer your king when he addresses you,’ he ordered, trying to keep the anger from his voice.

‘Forgive my friend,’ Odysseus apologized. ‘He doesn’t realize you’re not from these islands. You aren’t an Ithacan, are you, or I’m sure I’d know your face?’

‘I’m a visitor here,’ the old man admitted, ‘though I know these islands well. And I know you, too, King Odysseus.’

‘Then tell us who you are, greybeard,’ Eperitus insisted. His subtle senses detected something strange about the old man that set his instincts on edge.

The old man chuckled to himself. ‘The years haven’t calmed your impetuosity I see, Eperitus,’ he said, shaking his head slowly.

Eperitus shot a glance at Odysseus, who returned his shocked expression with a shrug of his shoulders. Behind them, the assembled soldiers who had come to see why the march back to camp had been halted murmured to each other in confusion. Then the old man leapt lightly down from the boulder and swept his hand in an arc before them. At once, everyone except Odysseus and Eperitus fell unconscious to the floor.

The two men sprang back and pulled out their swords again, staring about at their sleeping comrades and then at the figure before them. He was as tall and straight as an ash spear, and his eyes burned intensely as he stared at them. Though his brown cloak was still held tightly about his body, it glowed as if a brilliant light was fighting to escape from beneath it.

‘Don’t be afraid,’ he said, but as he spoke his voice was strangely changed – deeper and yet unmistakably female.

Odysseus threw down his weapon and fell to his knees, covering his face against the fingers of white light that were escaping from the folds of the cloak. Eperitus – confused and half-blinded – clutched the handle of his sword tighter and squinted against the light, readying himself for an attack. The figure of the old man was now almost completely lost in the blaze of light that was coming from his body. The features of his face were no longer discernible, and even as Eperitus tried to look at him he seemed to grow in height. Then a strong wind swept through the trees, shaking the branches and flattening the young ferns, tearing open the man’s cloak so that it disintegrated into a hundred fragments and was blown away in an explosion of intense light. Eperitus staggered backwards, his vision an impenetrable wall of searing white, and fell over the sleeping body of Antiphus.

He lay on his back, his eyelids closed but his retinas still filled with the light. Then, as suddenly as it had come, the brightness faded and the comparatively dull radiance of day returned. Eperitus opened his eyes and saw branches overhead, creeping like black veins into the corners of his vision. Still fearful of an attack, and feeling dreadfully exposed with his senses stunned and reeling, he strained his ears against the diminishing wind. Twigs crunched nearby under a heavy weight, then a hand seized his ankle.

‘Eperitus! Eperitus, wake up!’ Odysseus said, shaking his leg.

‘I’m awake,’ Eperitus replied, sitting up and blinking at the king, who was on his hands and knees before him.

‘Stop lying around like a pair of drunkards and start showing some respect!’ said a voice. The tone was clear, commanding and familiar to both men.

They turned and squinted at the towering, marble-skinned woman standing where the old man had been moments before. She wore a pure white chiton that shimmered with an internal brilliance, filling the wood with light and making it difficult for either man to look at her for longer than a few moments at a time. Draped across her shoulders and left arm was a leather shawl edged with golden tassels, from the centre of which leered the hideous face of a gorgon, its eyes firmly shut but its fanged mouth frozen in a snarl. In her right hand she held a gigantic spear, as tall as two men, and on top of her plaited, golden hair was a bronze helmet, pushed back to reveal a face that was both beautiful and terrifying to behold. Her large grey eyes looked at them with stern expectancy.

Odysseus recognized the goddess at once. ‘Mistress Athena,’ he whispered, letting go of Eperitus’s leg and pressing his forehead and the palms of his hands to the ground.

Eperitus quickly followed his example.

‘King Odysseus of Ithaca, son of Laertes,’ she boomed; then, in a much gentler manner, ‘stand up and let me look at you. How long’s it been since I last saw you?’

‘Ten years, my lady,’ Odysseus replied, getting slowly to his feet and daring to look up at the goddess. ‘In the temple where you brought Eperitus back from the dead.’

‘That long?’ she asked, smiling broadly. ‘To me it seems like only yesterday – we immortals don’t count the years as you do. And yet,’ she added, turning to Eperitus, ‘you seem hardly to have aged at all – despite the beard. Doubtless that’ll be the effect of my healing you. Are your senses still as sharp, Eperitus?’

‘Yes, my lady, although I’ve become more used to them now.’

‘He has the instincts of a boarhound,’ Odysseus put in.

‘Does he now?’ Athena asked, narrowing her eyes at Eperitus. ‘A boarhound’s first instinct is unswerving loyalty to its master – to stay at his side and serve his will before its own. Is that true of you, Eperitus?’

Eperitus looked into the goddess’s eyes and saw his most secret desires reflected back at him. His friendship with Odysseus and his strict sense of honour had kept him at the king’s side for ten years, but the peaceful boredom of Ithaca was no place for a warrior. Odysseus had his beloved kingdom and people to care for, and soon his precious Penelope would bear him a child – a son to carry on his memory long after Hermes had conducted his soul down to the realm of Hades. But Eperitus had no kingdom or family; his desire had always been to win eternal glory on the battlefield, a legacy to be measured by the bodies of his foes. On clear days, he would often climb to the lookout post on Mount Neriton and cast his gaze over the world, wondering what adventures were calling to him from beyond the hazy horizons. And always his eyes would turn eventually to the north – to Alybas, where his father had killed the king and set himself upon the throne. The shame of his father’s treachery still stung ten years later, and Eperitus’s thoughts had turned more and more to righting the wrong that had been done – to seeking out his father and wiping away the stain of dishonour that remained on his family’s name.

But that would mean leaving Ithaca and breaking his oath to Odysseus, an oath that he had taken before Athena herself. As Eperitus looked at the goddess, he was certain she knew about the desires that had been eating away at him. He lowered his gaze.

‘I am not a dog, mistress,’ he muttered. ‘But I have sworn to serve the king, and I remain a man of honour.’

‘Good,’ Athena said. ‘For Odysseus will need you soon, more than he has ever done. A storm is approaching that will shake the world of men to its roots and plunge the whole of Greece into darkness.’

Odysseus, who had been looking inquisitively at Eperitus, now turned to the goddess. ‘Ithaca too?’ he asked.

‘Yes, my dear Odysseus, even your happy little kingdom. A war is brewing that will wreak death and destruction beyond the imaginings of gods and men. And when it comes, even your scheming brain and quick wits won’t be able to save you or your people from its effects.’

‘War?’ Odysseus repeated, as if the word were new to him. ‘Then is this why you’ve come to me again, after all this time? To warn me?’

Athena stepped towards him and ran her fingers through his long, auburn hair. ‘I’ve never been apart from you, Odysseus, even if you haven’t seen me. But, yes, I have come to warn you. I’m forbidden to say exactly what my father Zeus has in mind, but you will realize soon enough. Remember what the Pythoness told you in the caves below Mount Parnassus: “As father of your people you will count the harvests on your fingers. But if ever you seek Priam’s city, the wide waters will swallow you. For the time it takes a baby to become a man, you will know no home. Then, when friends and fortune have departed from you, you will rise again from the dead.”’

Odysseus lowered his face and frowned, his eyes moving as the thoughts raced through his brain, piecing together the fragments of information that had been scattered before him. Then, after a few moments silence, he looked up at the goddess. ‘A war against Troy – the city in my dream,’ he said. ‘Agamemnon wanted it ten years ago, and no doubt he still does. But if he couldn’t unite the Greeks then, how will he do it now? And how can any war last for the time it takes a baby to become a man? What could keep a man from his home and family for twenty years?’

‘The same things that men have always fought over,’ Athena commented sardonically. ‘But you should not try to foresee the future, Odysseus – prophecy is not one of your gifts. And remember, the words of the oracle are always enigmatic.’

‘But the Pythoness only said these things would happen if Odysseus goes to Troy,’ Eperitus added. ‘That means he still has a choice.’

‘Choice is an illusion that brings misery,’ Athena replied. ‘You mortals are always regretting your choices, after all. But you’re right, Eperitus – a choice of sorts remains.’

‘Then I will not go,’ Odysseus said, firmly. ‘I can’t go! I’m king of these islands, and if there are dark times ahead then my duty is to protect my kingdom and its people.’

‘Nobly spoken, Odysseus,’ Athena smiled, though her grey eyes looked sadly at the man over whom they had watched all his short life. ‘But there are things more compelling than kingdoms – sacred duties and binding oaths . . .’

‘No!’ Odysseus shouted, turning away and staring into the trees. After a time spent in silence, he turned back to face the goddess. ‘No, my lady. I have a wife who I love more than all the things this sweet life can offer – a woman for whom I gambled everything, and who will soon be the mother of the son I have hoped for for so long. My place is with my family, and nothing Agamemnon can offer or threaten will draw me to war with Troy.’

‘And you, Eperitus?’ the goddess asked, turning her unyielding gaze on the captain of the guard. ‘How will you react if the call to war comes? There will be more glory to be had in Ilium than even your courageous heart can long for – will you follow your yearning for battle?’

She did not move, but Eperitus felt the strength of Athena’s will upon him, tempting him with his desire to seek fame against the armies of Troy and using it to test his loyalty to his friend.

‘My place is at the king’s side,’ he insisted, looking from the stern eyes of the goddess to the impassive face of Odysseus. ‘If war is coming, I will wait for it on Ithaca with Odysseus.’

‘A friend’s loyalty can be tried in many ways,’ Athena persevered. ‘Have you forgotten the words the priestess spoke to you under Mount Parnassus?’

Eperitus thought of the oracle’s bitter-sweet promise, of glory mixed with the threat of his own treachery for love’s sake. ‘No, my lady. Her warning has never been far from my mind, and I’ve always been cautious of women because of it.’

‘Even a cautious man can be caught off his guard,’ Athena said. ‘A time is coming when a female will tempt you from the path of your true destiny, but that cannot be avoided now. When a man called Calchas finds you, listen to what he says. His words will point you to your greatest desire, and warn of your greatest fear.’

She turned to Odysseus and looked at him with undisguised affection. ‘Now I must return to Olympus, but before I do I have some parting words for you, Odysseus.’

‘Yes, my lady?’

‘I know you were thinking of staying on Samos for a few days and hunting boar,’ the goddess began, glancing across at Polites and Arceisius who were already stirring, ‘but you must forget your plans and return home as quickly as you can. Penelope is already in labour.’

And with her final words ringing in their ears, the goddess was gone.

Chapter Six

NEW BEGINNINGS

‘What happened?’ Arceisius asked, rubbing his head as he sat amongst a knot of ferns. ‘I feel like I’ve been asleep for a week.’

‘Get up,’ snapped Odysseus, pulling him roughly to his feet. ‘We’re going back to Ithaca, straight away.’

The others were stirring and looking about themselves in confusion. Antiphus took Eperitus’s hand and, with an exaggerated groan, rose to his feet. He patted the dead leaves from his cloak and looked his captain in the eye.

‘What’s going on, Eperitus? Why did we just fall asleep like that? And where’s that old man?’

Eperitus glanced across at Odysseus, who was helping Polites out of a clump of thick fern. The king caught his eye and, after a moment’s pause, walked over and placed an arm about Antiphus’s shoulder.

‘He wasn’t just an old man,’ the king said in a low voice. ‘He – I mean she – was Athena.’

‘Athena!’ Arceisius exclaimed loudly, catching the king’s words. ‘The goddess Athena?’

‘Of course the goddess,’ said Eperitus irritably, gesturing for his squire to keep his voice down. ‘She appeared to Odysseus and me after she’d put you lot to sleep.’

‘But why would an immortal appear to you?’ asked Polites in his deep, ponderous voice. ‘The gods haven’t spoken with men since before our grandfathers were born.’

‘You’ve a lot to learn if that’s what you think,’ Antiphus sniffed, looking at the Thessalian with something between dislike and distrust. ‘Athena has shown herself to Odysseus many times before now. The king is her favourite.’

‘That’s enough, Antiphus,’ Odysseus ordered. He had told his close friends some years before that the goddess had appeared to him and Eperitus on Mount Parnassus and at her temple in Messene, and the news had quickly become common knowledge throughout Ithaca; but the king still felt uncomfortable whenever people mentioned it. ‘The fact is, she came to tell me that Penelope is in labour and that I should return home as soon as possible.’

‘Zeus’s beard!’ Antiphus shouted, causing the rest of the men to look over. ‘But Actoris said the child wouldn’t come for at least three weeks.’

Odysseus adjusted the shield on his back and picked up his spears. ‘Actoris is only a nursemaid,’ he said. ‘Artemis is the goddess of childbirth and it’s she who decides when and how a child comes into the world. So, with your permission, Antiphus, I’d like to set off for Ithaca at once.’

‘Of course, my lord,’ Antiphus said quietly, ashamed that he had kept the king waiting with his questions.

Odysseus smiled and patted him on the shoulder, then set off at a fast run along the woodland track.

Eurylochus was asleep with his back against the bole of a sycamore tree when Argus, Odysseus’s boarhound, woke him with a bark. He opened his eyes to see the puppy standing by his feet, his ears erect and an expectant look in his eyes.

‘Get lost, you stupid beast,’ Eurylochus frowned. ‘Can’t you see I’m sleeping?’

He closed his eyes and turned his head away, but Argus placed his front paws on his lap and gave another bark, more urgent and much louder this time. Eurylochus’s eyes snapped open and with an angry grunt he shoved the dog into the cold ruin of the campfire, where he gave a yelp and kicked up a cloud of ashes as he scrambled free.

‘Damn you, dog!’ Eurylochus shouted, wafting away the fine particles that filled the air and choking as he breathed them down into his lungs. He leapt to his feet and ran towards the puppy, bent on giving the animal a hard kick. Argus was too quick for him, though, and ran off through the trees, where the echoes of his barking could still be heard for some time.

Eurylochus patted the ash from his clothes and, feeling almost as annoyed as he had after his confrontation with Eperitus earlier that morning, looked around for something to wet his throat. A skin of wine was hanging from a branch at the edge of the camp, so he strolled over and took a mouthful of the cool, refreshing liquid. The camp was on the edge of the wood, overlooking a sloping pasture that led down to the narrow channel between Samos and Ithaca, and after another swallow of wine Eurylochus leaned his shoulder against a tree and looked out at the view. The bright, early spring sunshine was reflecting back from the choppy waters below and illuminating the white gulls as they wheeled and cried over the waves. Behind them, the rocky bulk of Ithaca loomed up like a black sea-monster basking in the morning’s warmth. To the south of the island, the dark waters of the Ionian Sea spread out towards the mainland of the Peloponnese, a low, grey profile on the horizon.

Then Eurylochus heard Argus’s bark returning through the woods, accompanied by the sound of crashing undergrowth and the shouts of several men. Fearing danger, Eurylochus ran to grab his shield and spear from the tree where he had leaned them then turned to face whoever was approaching the camp at such speed.

‘Who’s there?’ he called, the terror clear in his voice.

Suddenly, Odysseus’s heavy, triangular bulk could be seen weaving its way through the trees at a fast run, with Argus barking at his heels. ‘Lower your spear and get the camp packed up,’ he shouted. ‘We need to return to Ithaca at once.’

‘But why?’ Eurylochus asked, leaning his spear back against the tree. ‘I thought we were going to stay on Samos for a few days’ hunting.’

Odysseus leapt over the screen of ferns that edged the camp and came to a halt by the scattered remains of the fire. He rested his hands on his knees and breathed deeply, his face red with the exertion of running. The others, led by Eperitus and Arceisius, were now visible sprinting through the trees towards the camp.

‘We received a message,’ Odysseus gasped, ‘that Penelope is in labour. So we’re going back. Where’s that squire of mine?’

‘I sent Eurybates down to the ship to prepare food for the midday meal.’

‘Well, if we eat at all, it’ll be back at the palace. I’ll head down to the galley – pack up this stuff and follow on as quickly as you can.’

‘Wait for me,’ Eperitus said, almost collapsing with exhaustion as he broke through the screen of ferns and stood wheezing next to Odysseus. ‘Arceisius, gather up my gear and bring it down to the ship. I’ll go with the king.’

‘Yes, sir,’ the squire replied, his usually ruddy face now an even brighter red and shining with sweat.

Eurylochus gave Eperitus a frosty glare, then turned his back on him and began angrily stuffing bowls and cooking gear into a large sack. The others had all reached the camp by now and were already rolling up their bedding and throwing their belongings into leather bags. Odysseus placed a hand on Eperitus’s shoulder and pulled himself straight.

‘Come on then, Eperitus,’ he sighed. ‘This is no time to take a rest.’

They jogged through the last of the trees and down the slope towards the water’s edge. Argus bounded ahead of them, barking happily in the bright sunshine. Below them was a small cove edged by a thin crescent of sand, where their galley drifted gently at its anchor. Beyond it was the narrow sleeve of dark water that separated Samos from Ithaca, and as they ran they stared at the familiar outline of the smaller island. The southern half – where the majority of its population made their living as fishermen, or from farming the little fertile land that existed – was low, wide and sheer-sided. A tooth-like peak guarded the narrow isthmus that led to the northern half, where the near-vertical walls of Mount Neriton rose up to dominate the island. Beyond the mountain’s mass was the principal town of Ithaca, and at its centre the palace of Odysseus, where Penelope was in the throes of labour. Eperitus caught sight of Odysseus’s face as he looked towards his home, and could see the anxiety in his eyes.

With the help of Eurybates, a short, round-shouldered man with dark skin and curly hair, they fitted the spar to the mast before the others had reached the ship. Then, once every man was aboard and the oars had been fed out into the calm waters of the bay, they pulled up the anchor stone and unfurled the dolphin-motifed sail.

Eperitus and Antiphus sat next to each other at the back of the galley, with Arceisius and Polites on the adjacent bench; the rest of the men were spread evenly along the length of the ship, each pair gripping one of the long-handled oars. Odysseus stood in the stern accompanied by Argus, and at his command the crew lowered their oars and began to row, gradually easing the galley over the calm waters of the cove towards the rapid current of the channel beyond. But before they could feel the sweat prickle in their armpits, the wind caught the sail with a ferocious snap and sucked them out into the choppy sea. Each man pulled in his oar and, after helping Antiphus make a correction to the angle of the sail, Eperitus went back to join Odysseus.

‘Penelope’ll be fine,’ he assured him, trying to disguise his own anxiety with a smile. ‘She’s a strong woman and the gods have always been with her.’

Odysseus nodded, his eyes focused on the open sea as he pulled at the twin rudders. ‘I’m sure she will – and my son, too.’

‘Actoris says it’s a girl for sure.’

‘Actoris also said the baby wasn’t due for at least three weeks!’ Odysseus scoffed. ‘And now that we’ve seen Athena again, I know my dream of the other night was from her. It’ll be a boy, whatever any old maid thinks.’

They fell silent for a while, their thoughts turning from the birth of Odysseus’s child to the appearance of the goddess. Eventually, as the galley fell under the shadow of the steep flanks of Mount Neriton, Eperitus could hold his silence no longer. ‘What do you make of it all, Odysseus – Athena’s words, I mean, about war with Troy? And why on earth would you want to spend twenty years away from home?’

‘I wouldn’t,’ Odysseus replied, simply. ‘And I won’t – not with a family to care for and a kingdom to rule. Ithaca’s king owes no allegiance to Mycenae, and if Agamemnon still wants war against Priam then he’ll have to do without me. I don’t care for battle and glory – not like you do, Eperitus; my heart is here, in these islands with my family and friends. If the call to war does come, then I’ll find a way out of it. It’s you I’m worried about.’

Eperitus stared at him. ‘What do you mean?’ he asked, at the same time feeling like a thief caught in a man’s home.

‘I’m not a fool,’ Odysseus said with a short laugh. ‘You’re a warrior, Eperitus, and these islands that I love with all my heart must be like a prison for you. I know that you often climb to the top of Mount Neriton and look out at the mainland, no doubt yearning to go and find adventure on some foreign battlefield. And I saw the way Athena questioned you – she knows where your heart is, too. It’s only your vow to serve me that’s kept you here for so long, and your friendship. And if you weren’t the best friend I have, I would consider releasing you from your oath.’

Eperitus looked across the bow of the ship to the rapidly approaching harbour, where several fishing vessels were drawn up on the sand and two galleys lay at anchor on the smooth waters. ‘I wouldn’t want to be released,’ he said quietly. ‘As I told the goddess, if war is coming then I’ll face it at your side.’

‘Let’s see what the Fates hold for us,’ Odysseus replied. ‘Now, get back to the benches and tell Antiphus to lower the sail – we’ll row the rest of the way into harbour.’

But Antiphus had already given orders for the sail to be furled and for the oars to be readied. Eperitus took his place beside him, sliding the pine oar between its pegs and fastening the handle with a leather strap. He felt the strain in his arms and shoulders as the blade bit the water, then picked up the rhythm of the rest of the crew as they rowed the galley into the small inlet that nestled at the northern foot of Mount Neriton. The calm waters of the sheltered bay offered little resistance, and soon the splash of the anchor stone was followed by the shouts of men as they lowered a small boat over the side.

Odysseus told Antiphus and Arceisius to wait for him and Eperitus in the boat, then turned to Polites.

‘Come with us, friend. You’ve not seen my home yet, and as you’re now one of the palace guard I want your first experience to be a happy one.’

Polites bowed his head but said nothing. Leaving their weapons and equipment in the ship, they climbed down into the waiting boat – which dipped alarmingly as Polites stepped onto it – and rowed to shore. They left Arceisius to take the boat back to the galley, then ran up a narrow road that led to the town above. A group of women, filling clay jars from a spring at the side of the road, looked on in silence as they passed. Eperitus wondered whether they had any news about Penelope, but had no time to ask as the king led them on towards the town. Soon they were passing the first houses, and shortly afterwards had reached the open terrace before the palace walls.

Large numbers of people were standing around in the midday sun. Most were peasants or slave women, many with baskets of clothes under their arms, jars of water on their shoulders or babies on their hips. Here and there old men conversed with each other in animated tones, their grey beards wagging and their crooked fingers poking emphatically at each other’s chests. Groups of children ran in and out between the knots of adults, shouting and screaming as they chased and caught one another. It annoyed Eperitus to see them gathered there, clamouring like vultures as they awaited news of the royal birth; they seemed not to care that their queen’s fate was in the hands of Artemis, who from time to time saw fit to take the life of a mother or baby.

Odysseus had stopped and was staring at the open gate in the outer wall of the palace. At the sight of their king, the din of voices gradually grew quiet and soon all eyes were upon him.

‘What is it, Odysseus?’ Eperitus said in a low voice, standing next to him and holding his elbow. ‘Do you want me to go in and ask?’

‘No,’ Odysseus said, shaking his head as if waking from a dream. ‘No, of course not. I just felt a moment of uncertainty. As if . . .’

‘Don’t say it,’ Eperitus said, squeezing his elbow. ‘It’s natural to be afraid, but she’s in good hands. Promise Artemis the sacrifice of a goat if she’ll see Penelope and the child safe, and then let’s go in.’

‘A goat?’ Odysseus said, looking his friend in the eye. ‘If everything goes well, she’ll have my best bull before night-time – the thigh bones and fat, which all the gods love. And we’ll feast on everything else, eh? Come on, Eperitus, let’s find out whether I’m a father yet.’

They walked through to the courtyard, followed by Antiphus and Polites (the sight of whom caused a great stir in the crowd). The scene inside the walls was no less busy than on the terrace outside, with slaves and soldiers scurrying to carry out their duties. Since taking over from his father, Odysseus had transformed Ithaca from a poor, unsophisticated kingdom into a prosperous and bustling state. His palace had also grown in size and richness: in Laertes’s day, it had been a tired and neglected place with no more than two dozen slaves and a guard of thirty men; now it was completely rebuilt, boasting hundreds of slaves and a standing army of three hundred soldiers.

It was an achievement that Odysseus could be justifiably proud of, though many of his decisions had proved unpopular to start with. The first of these concerned Eupeithes, the affluent merchant who had initiated the rebellion against his father. Laertes’s last act as king had been to banish the traitor to Dulichium, but after a year on the throne Odysseus had brought him back and appointed him his chief adviser on trade. In a single stroke, he had gained the benefit of his former enemy’s commercial acumen and guaranteed his loyalty and support (if causing Laertes a certain amount of anger and embarrassment). Odysseus also made peace with the Taphians, who had supported Eupeithes’s rebellion, and now counted their chieftain, Mentes, as one of his closest friends. Eventually, the whole of Ithaca came to appreciate their king’s wisdom and learned to trust his judgement.

Eperitus had always believed in Odysseus’s cleverness, but it was for his hard-working nature that he respected him most. As they walked across the busy courtyard, he looked about at the many improvements his friend had made. Their visit to Sparta years ago had impressed on Odysseus that a king’s home reflected his position and authority, and he had quickly set about redesigning the palace and helping in its reconstruction. The ash planks of the threshold to the great hall, which they were now approaching, had been cut to length and fitted by the king himself; even the cypress pillars that supported the roof had been tapered and rubbed smooth by his hands. His mark was in every aspect of the kingdom, and soon it would be made complete. The child that he and Penelope had wanted for ten years would continue his bloodline and, more importantly, preserve the memory of his deeds so that when death claimed his body it would not claim his renown also.

As Eperitus pondered these things, the doors of the great hall swung open to reveal a tall woman standing in the shadows. She was dressed in a white chiton with a bright-red cloak draped over her shoulders. Her tangled brown hair was tucked behind her ears, revealing a pale face with dark, tired eyes that blinked against the bright sunlight. Penelope’s calm beauty reminded Eperitus of the first time he and Odysseus had seen her, at a feast in Sparta ten years before. Then she had worn a full-length, green dress and her hair had been tied in a ponytail that danced cheerfully with each movement of her head. Odysseus had fallen in love with her that night, and with a combination of persistence and wiliness he had won her heart and made her his queen.

She turned and received a small white bundle from her body slave, Actoris, who stood in the deeper shadows behind her. Then she stepped forward into the sunlight and, with a smile, held the silent baby at arm’s length towards her husband.

‘It’s a boy,’ she said, as Odysseus mounted the threshold and took the child in his arms.

The king looked down at his son and there were tears in his eyes. The people who had been criss-crossing the courtyard now stopped and stared at their king and queen, while at the gates the crowd pressed so close that many were forced over the porch. The hubbub of voices from beyond the palace walls fell silent, and in that moment of blissful peace Odysseus pulled Penelope to him and kissed her with a fierce passion. Then he stepped forward and, raising his son above his head, showed him to all who could see.

‘A son!’ he boomed proudly, the tears now flowing down his cheeks into his beard.

A great cheer erupted from the crowd of onlookers, and as the noise swept back through the town Odysseus took the sleeping child back into his arms and whispered something in Penelope’s ear. Then he turned and beckoned Eperitus to join them.

Despite the continued cheering and his father’s handling of him, the baby was still asleep as Eperitus looked down at him. He had a red face with little features that were screwed up as if with concentration; his tiny fists were pulled up to his cheeks, and his head was covered in shiny black hair that curled in every direction.

‘What will you call him?’ he asked, looking at Odysseus and Penelope. The king was still staring down at the child, studying the miniature details of his son, but Penelope met Eperitus’s eyes and smiled.

‘It’s the father’s duty to name his son,’ she said.

‘Telemachus. His name is Telemachus,’ Odysseus answered. He gave Eperitus a wide grin. ‘And when he’s old enough to walk, you can teach him to use a sword and throw a spear.’

‘And I’ll teach him how to use a bow,’ Antiphus added, stepping onto the raised threshold. He was followed by Polites, whose brutal face was softened with wonder as he stared down at the baby. Then Actoris appeared and reminded Penelope that the child should not be exposed too long to the sun.

Eperitus slipped into the crowd that had formed before the threshold. As he made for the gate, an old woman stopped him.

‘Is it true what they’re saying, sir?’ she asked eagerly. ‘A son?’

‘Yes, a healthy looking lad,’ he replied, forcing a smile.

‘Praise Zeus and Artemis and all the gods!’ she exulted, holding both hands in the air and spinning round with glee.

But Eperitus was already starting to run, wanting to be as far away from the cheering crowds as his legs could take him. He forced his way through the press of bodies until he was beyond the town and climbing the twisting path that led up the flanks of Mount Neriton. When he reached the top he relieved the lookout of his duties and sat down beneath the thatched awning that provided the only shelter from sun, rain or wind, and looked out at the blue mass of the Peloponnese. He watched the merchant ships drift gently up and down the coast until the setting of the sun forced them to find ports or inlets for the night. The eastern sky was beginning to pale and the rocks all around him had turned a gentle shade of pink, reflecting the crimson fire in the sky behind Eperitus as the sun sank below the western edge of the world. Then he heard the sound of loosened gravel and saw Arceisius approach from the direction of the town.

‘I saw Thestor wandering around the palace,’ he said as he approached the awning, ‘when I knew he should have been up here, so I guessed this was where I might find you.’

‘Did you bring any wine?’ Eperitus replied. ‘I’m as thirsty as a hunted deer.’

‘I’ve some water,’ Arceisius said, slipping a leather bag from his shoulder and tossing it towards his master. ‘You were missed down there. Odysseus was asking everyone if they’d seen you.’

‘I thought he needed some time with his new family.’

‘Is that all, sir?’ Arceisius asked. Though young, he was not blind to his master’s anguish.

Eperitus stood and looked down at the wine-dark sea, washing the jagged skirts of the mountain far below with its ceaseless rocking.

‘No, Arceisius. No, it’s not. I’m thinking of leaving Ithaca.’

‘But Ithaca’s your home.’

‘Ithaca’s my prison,’ Eperitus retorted, instantly regretting his sharp tone. ‘I’m sorry, Arceisius. It’s just that, suddenly, everything’s changing, as if I’m being reminded that my destiny lies beyond Ithaca. I’ve been thinking of my father for some time, wanting to wipe away the shame of what he did. Then there was the fight this morning. It was the first time I’ve killed a man in ten years, and I enjoyed it – not the killing, as such, but the thrill of danger and the pride of victory. It woke something inside me, a yearning for glory that’s been dormant for too long, and a need to prove myself.’

‘But you have proved yourself,’ Arceisius protested. ‘If it wasn’t for you Ithaca would be ruled by Taphians.’

Eperitus shook his head. ‘I’m still a warrior, Arceisius – Odysseus reminded me of that on the ship, and it was he who said Ithaca is a prison to me. But do you know what it was that made me decide to leave? The sight of that baby in Odysseus’s arms. After all, a man needs a sense of his own eternity, something that will carry his memory beyond death. Telemachus will give that to Odysseus. But it made me realize that I’m slipping into obscurity. I need to get back out into the world and make a name for myself in battle – that’s all I ever dreamed of when I was your age.’

The wind, which had been constant since Eperitus had reached the top of Mount Neriton, whipped at their cloaks and hair, bringing to them the sounds of the sea crashing against the rocks far below. The chariot of the sun had disappeared and in the cool of the evening they saw the first stars shining in the deep blue skies above.

‘And now there’s talk of war in the east,’ Eperitus continued. ‘A great war between Troy and the whole of Greece. Odysseus knows about it and is determined not to be drawn in. But for the likes of me – and you, if you’re willing, Arceisius – it’s an opportunity to become what we were always meant to be: warriors, killing and dying for the sake of glory.’

The squire took the skin from his master’s hand and swallowed a mouthful of water. For a long time they watched the Peloponnese fade and the sea grow darker, then Arceisius broke the thought-filled silence.

‘Let’s go back, while we can still find our footing.’

‘I’m leaving for the mainland,’ Eperitus said. ‘Once Telemachus has been dedicated to the gods I intend to ask Odysseus to release me from my oath. If he does, I will go to Mycenae and join the army of King Agamemnon.’

Then I’ll come with you, sir,’ Arceisius replied. ‘It felt strange killing that man this morning, but I know now it was only because I’d crossed a threshold into a new world. I’m a warrior now, and I don’t think I’ll ever find happiness on Ithaca again.’

Menelaus sat on his raised throne and eyed the Trojan prince with stern formality.

‘Well, Paris, son of Priam, I’m told you want to see me as a matter of urgency. What is it you wish to discuss?’

A broad column of light plunged like a waterfall from a vent in the high ceiling of the great hall, illuminating the Spartan king as he waited for a response. Paris stood stiffly before him, with Apheidas and Aeneas on either side. The low flames of the hearth crackled behind them and they felt its warmth in the smalls of their backs, coaxing the sweat from their armpits and increasing their discomfort.

Paris cleared his throat and stepped forward into the golden, dust-filled light.

‘I come with an offer of alliance from the king of Troy,’ he began. ‘My father is a great man, but his greatness lies in his desire for peace and friendship with his neighbours. With this wish at heart, he has sent me to speak with you and the other significant kings of Greece.’

‘Priam rules over an empire of vassal cities that pay him homage and provide him with ships and armies to serve his will,’ Menelaus interrupted. ‘From all reports, the gods have already blessed your father with wealth and power far beyond the needs of any man. What could he possibly gain from an alliance with Sparta, or any city in Greece?’

‘Peace, most importantly,’ Paris answered. ‘And the freedom to trade, the life blood of all truly civilized peoples.’

‘But trade thrives, even though the Trojans have been demanding tribute from Greek merchants for some years now. Does your offer of alliance include the removal of this unjust taxation on our goods?’

‘I will raise the matter with my father, if everything goes well.’

‘You should grant this as an immediate concession if you expect any kind of profit from our meeting.’

‘There will be no immediate concessions,’ Paris countered. ‘Priam wants cordial relations between Trojans and Greeks, to our mutual benefit.’

Menelaus leaned back in his chair and stroked his beard, eyeing Paris shrewdly. ‘To our mutual benefit, but at a cost to Greece no doubt. And what does Priam want in exchange for the friendship of Troy?’

‘There is something,’ Paris nodded. ‘My father’s desire for peace and trade is genuine, but the plain truth is he’s getting old, and old men are sentimental. He wants his family around him: he wants Hesione back.’

Menelaus looked at him through narrowed eyes.

‘Telamon married Hesione thirty years ago,’ he said. ‘She was his by right of conquest, after he and Heracles sacked Troy. Do you refute this?’

‘That is what the Greeks believe, but we Trojans say she was raped and kidnapped by Telamon.’

Menelaus raised a quizzical eyebrow. ‘Shame and defeat often bring denial. But whatever the truth about Hesione, she has been Telamon’s wife for many years now and has given him a son, Teucer the archer. And if I remember correctly, a Trojan delegation was sent to Salamis some time ago and rejected by Telamon himself.’

Aeneas stepped forward.

‘Anchises, my father, was amongst them,’ he said, angrily. ‘The Greeks treated him like dirt and he and the others barely escaped with their lives!’

Apheidas placed a hand on the young warrior’s shoulder and pulled him gently away from the Spartan king. Ignoring the others, Menelaus continued to fix his attention on Paris.

‘I don’t know what happened in Salamis and I don’t know Telamon well enough to speak for his character, but as a husband I don’t think I would have taken kindly to an attempt to rob me of my wife. Hesione’s home is Greece, and no offer of alliance is going to change the fact.’

‘Her home is Troy,’ Paris responded sharply. ‘Though Priam hasn’t set eyes on his sister for thirty years, he still loves her and wants her back. All I request is that you send a message to Agamemnon, asking him to invite Telamon to meet with us at Mycenae. After the experience of the previous delegation we would rather discuss these matters on neutral ground, and I am sure Telamon will not be able to refuse a direct request from the sons of Atreus. In return for your help, we will lift the taxation on Greek trade in the Aegean. My father is also prepared to compensate Telamon generously for the return of his sister.’

‘Priam seems to forget that his sister is now a wife and a mother!’ Menelaus snapped. ‘Do you Trojans care nothing for marriage? Is it your desire to rob a man of his wife?’

The accusation rang back from the walls of the great hall and at last Paris knew that Menelaus suspected him of coveting Helen. The cordiality of the evening feasts had gone and as he stared at the older man, the legitimate husband of the woman who had stolen his heart, he felt a rush of hatred. He wanted to spring forward and close his fingers about Menelaus’s throat, but as he looked at the flush of grey in his hair and beard and the heavy lines about his eyes and forehead, he realized it was the fear of losing Helen that had aged him prematurely. Suddenly his anger turned to shame. Menelaus was not a man to be despised, but pitied, and yet for the sake of a woman’s glance Paris was going to win his trust and then betray him. His scorn turned upon himself, and yet he knew there was nothing else he could do. What were honour and morality compared to his desire for Helen?

‘Nevertheless,’ the king continued, ‘I am prepared to grant your wish and send a message to my brother, but I require something of you in return.’

‘Name it, my lord?’

Menelaus narrowed his eyes at the Trojan prince. ‘I do not know you, Paris. You are a stranger from a foreign land and your ways are unknown to me. Though you speak of friendship and alliances, how do I know you don’t harbour evil or mischief in your heart? In a few days I will leave for Crete, but before I go I want an assurance that you will act honourably in my absence.’

‘There’s only one way to do that, my lord,’ said Apheidas, standing beside Paris. ‘You know the answer, too: a solemn oath of friendship.’

‘Do Trojans respect the gods?’ Menelaus tested him.

Apheidas did not respond. Instead, he gave Paris a subtle nudge in the ribs and stepped back.

‘The gods are highly revered in Troy,’ the prince replied. ‘As you will see if you ever come to our homeland. Though we are foreigners in your eyes, an oath of friendship is as binding on a Trojan as it is on any Greek. If we give you our word, you can trust us to keep it.’

‘So be it. While you are under my roof, let it be as a friend.’

Menelaus offered his hand, which Paris gripped firmly.

‘Eteoneus,’ the Spartan king shouted, ‘bring me my best dagger.’

The herald, who had been waiting in the shadows of the great hall, snapped his fingers at a slave, who disappeared through a side door. A short while later he returned and, crossing the hall, placed a sheathed dagger in Menelaus’s palm.

‘I, Menelaus, son of Atreus, call on Zeus the protector of strangers to witness my promise of friendship to you,’ he said, placing the weapon firmly in Paris’s free hand. ‘This dagger is a symbol of my oath, guaranteeing you my protection and help while you are in my kingdom, and ensuring that I will never be your enemy. Let this promise stand for myself, my children and their children until seven generations have passed, as custom demands.’

Paris scanned the ornately detailed gift without releasing Menelaus’s hand – to do so before exchanging oaths would break the pledge under Trojan practice. Although the Spartan’s promise sounded strange to his ears, its integrity was assured by the witness of Zeus. And yet Paris was unable to return the oath without a gift of his own. He looked at Apheidas, who in turn nodded to Eteoneus.

The herald reached behind himself and pulled a cloth bundle from his belt, which he handed to Apheidas. The Trojan, who had asked Eteoneus to retrieve the gift from the armoury, opened the swaddling to reveal a second dagger. Like the Spartan weapon, it had a black leather scabbard that was decorated with ornately worked gold filigree; but, where Menelaus’s gift had a wooden handle with gold inlay and a gold pommel, the handle of the dagger that Paris now gave to the Spartan king was shaped from a single piece of ivory. It was almost twice as long as Menelaus’s palm was wide and in it was depicted a scene of an archer hunting a stag, the intricate carvings inlaid with jet to make them stand out boldly. The blade was nearly double the length of the Spartan dagger and remained hidden beneath the scabbard, but Paris saw in his mind’s eye the design it bore, of more huntsmen and their dogs described in gold, chasing in the wake of the archer and stag on the handle. It was a rich weapon indeed, designed to impress the wealth and skill of Troy on Menelaus’s mind.

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

Chapter Seven

THE FLIGHT FROM SPARTA

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘You know I do,’ he replied, gently.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘But you don’t love him.’

‘No,’ she replied with a shake of her head.

‘But you think you could love me?’ he asked, unable now to keep the neediness from his voice.

‘What does it matter? Did you not take an oath of friendship to Menelaus? Aren’t you honour-bound never to harm him or his household? In fact, why did you even come here tonight? To tease me?’ She looked at him and there was anger in her eyes. ‘When I heard of the oath I cursed you for a fool, knowing he must have tricked you somehow. And yet I had to come, to see if it was true. Is it?’

‘The oath was not carried out in the proper manner, according to the customs of my people.’

‘Menelaus believed it was, and that’s all that matters. If you break it you will lose your honour.’

Paris looked into her eyes, knowing the moment had come to choose between love and honour. He could concede that she was right, walk out of the temple and never see her again. There would be no loss of reputation; he would step back into his old life with no more damage than a broken heart and the thought of what might have been. Or he could step forward into a new world, a world of shame, danger and pursuit, but a world with her.

‘Compared to you, the oath means nothing to me.’

She curled her fingers around his hand.

‘Then I will come with you, and love you like no other woman ever could!’

He briefly caught the passion in her blue eyes, before she moved her face to his and kissed him. The press of her lips was warm and surprisingly tender, the scent of her perfume equally soft; the feel of her arms as they wrapped around his hard back was light and yet filled with urgency. He responded greedily, against his initial instinct, pulling her slender body against his and slipping his hand through the parting of her chiton, down to the flesh of her buttocks. Their embrace grew fiercer for a moment, and then she pulled herself free of his arms and moved back. She was breathing hard and there was a fire in her eyes as she stared at him.

‘No more, Paris. I won’t give myself to you – not yet, not even in Aphrodite’s temple.’

‘Then when?’

‘I’m no prostitute, damn you! I’m a queen and the daughter of Zeus himself!’ Her eyes were momentarily consumed by a terrible and beautiful fury, which subsided as quickly as it had appeared. ‘My mother was an adulteress and I vowed never to be like her. I’ve only ever given myself to Menelaus, and all my children are from his seed. But I can’t lead a life without love. I was made to love, Paris, and if you are prepared to break your oath then I will break mine. I promise I will love you with every beat of my heart, but if you want me you must take me away from Sparta first.’

‘I will!’ he said, reaching for her hand. ‘I can have my men ready to go tonight.’

Again she stepped back from him, her eyes still alive with the passion that had been kindled by their kiss.

‘Not tonight – not while Menelaus is in the palace.’

‘Then when?’

‘He leaves for Crete in a week,’ Helen said. ‘He won’t want to go while you’re here, but he can’t change his plans now. Besides, he trusts in the oath you took.’

Paris sensed the challenge in Helen’s words: she knew he was deceiving Menelaus, and that he could do the same to her.

‘My words to you aren’t hollow, Helen,’ he assured her. ‘I will take you back to Sparta with me. I’d have to be insane to refuse you, wouldn’t I?’

‘I have one condition, my prince.’

‘Name it.’

‘My children – they’re to come with us.’

The sight of her irresistible face and the tantalizing glimpse of bare flesh where her chiton lay open filled Paris with the desire to do anything she commanded, but he knew what she was asking was almost impossible.

‘I can get out of Sparta with you, Helen, but with four confused children our chances will be narrow.’

Helen stooped and picked up her robe, which she threw about her shoulders.

‘Think of a way, Paris. If you want me to be yours, you must bring my children too.’

She turned and walked to the doors, pulling them open to reveal the twilight of evening in the narrow street beyond.

‘I’ll find a way,’ he said. ‘I promise – but stay with me a little longer. Helen!’

‘Keep your word,’ she said, and was gone.

Paris yanked at the leather straps that held the two halves of the cuirass about his torso, pulling them taut before feeding them through the golden buckles. After nine days of feasting his armour was a tight fit, and heavy with the bronze plates that overlapped each other like fish scales from his neck and shoulders down to his groin. He looked around at his men, who were suffering similar agonies as they fitted their own armour and familiarized themselves with the feel and weight of their equipment. Greaves were tied about shins and leather or bronze caps – according to the wealth and rank of each man – were pressed onto heads.

‘Hurry up!’ Paris urged. He could feel the familiar sickness in his stomach that always preceded a fight, and just like the preludes to battle on the northern frontiers it made him irritable and quicktempered. ‘And pull your cloaks about yourselves – if the Spartans see our armour they’ll get suspicious.’

‘Much good it’ll do us without weapons,’ Aeneas grumbled.

‘This’ll do to start us off,’ Paris said, holding up the dagger Menelaus had given him. Though the weapons the Trojans had brought with them lay stored in the palace armoury, Paris planned to dispatch enough of the guardsmen dotted about the corridors to provide some of his men with swords, spears and shields. It was a foolhardy plan, but his gut instinct told him it would work. ‘Now, where in Hades is Apheidas?’

‘Here, my lord.’

The tall warrior stepped into the room that had been the Trojans’ quarters for over a week and strolled over to where his armour was laid out on a straw mattress. He sat down and began tying on his greaves.

‘So, what did you find out?’ Paris demanded.

‘Menelaus left at sunset,’ Apheidas announced. ‘No fuss or fanfare, just him with his escort and a covered wagon.’

‘A wagon?’ Paris said, his heart rattling nervously in his chest.

‘Don’t fear – she’s not with him. The slave I spoke to said she didn’t know who or what was in the wagon, but she reassured me Helen is still in her quarters. Menelaus went up to see her before he left, but was told she was asleep so he had to do without his goodbye kiss.’

‘Poor Menelaus,’ one of the soldiers mocked, causing a ripple of laughter from his comrades.

‘What about the rest of the palace?’ Paris asked as Apheidas was helped into his cuirass. ‘Are the guards at their usual posts?’

‘The corridors and halls are quiet – there’s no feast tonight and there’s hardly a slave to be seen. But the guards are there, just like every evening. There’s only one outside the great hall tonight, and he’s virtually asleep already. I would have snapped his neck with my bare hands, if I didn’t know you wanted all the glory for yourself.’

Paris frowned. His nerves were strained at the prospect of escaping from Sparta and he was feeling particularly surly.

‘I’ll kill him because I have to,’ Paris said, turning to his men. ‘But I want no unnecessary deaths. They may only be Greeks, but we are Trojans, not savages! Kill only guards or armed men; no slaves, no women, no one who does not stand in our way. Apheidas, Exadios – come with me. Aeneas, wait here with the rest of the men until we return; if you hear the alarm, make your escape as best you can.’

The three men made their way to the antechamber that led to the great hall, which was dark but for the restless glow cast by a handful of torches on the high walls. They waited in the shadows of a side corridor that ended only a short distance from where the solitary guard stood. They could hear his heavy breathing in the semi-darkness, and the occasional movement as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other and back again.

‘He’s still awake, then,’ Apheidas whispered.

‘Not for long,’ Paris said grimly.

Wrapping his black cloak tightly about his armour to prevent it catching the light, he edged along the wall and caught his first sight of the guard. He was a young soldier with a wiry beard, wearing a bronze cap with cheekguards and a tall shield slung over his back. One hand rested on the pommel of a sword, while the other gripped the shaft of an ash spear. His head was tipped back against one of the ornate doors to the great hall and his eyes were fixed on the high ceiling, tracing the barely-visible murals that he already knew so well from long spells of guard duty. A moment later Paris slipped from the shadows, clapped his hand over the man’s mouth and drew Menelaus’s dagger across his exposed throat. The blade was so sharp it sliced through the flesh as if it were cutting into a leg of mutton. The guard gave a single, bloody choke before the life left his limbs and he collapsed against the door. Paris held him there until Apheidas and Exadios arrived to strip him of his spear, sword and helmet, then lowered him to the floor, when they also took the shield from his back.

‘Put the body in there, Exadios,’ Paris said, indicating the great hall. ‘There’ll be no feasting tonight. Apheidas – where’s the next nearest guard?’

‘By the wine store, but the only approach is in full view down a corridor. It’s too risky: we should forget him and make for the rear entrance to the palace.’

‘No – we need as many weapons as we can get, and as quickly as we can get them. How do I find this wine store?’

‘Follow me,’ Apheidas replied, smiling grimly as he clutched the unfamiliar Greek sword in his hand.

He ran through the gloomy corridors of the palace with Paris and Exadios close behind, until moments later they reached the mouth of a side passage where he signalled for them to stop. A low murmur of voices was coming from the corridor, and after pressing his finger to his lips Apheidas peered around the corner. A moment later, he gave a curse and drew back again.

‘How many are there?’ Paris asked.

‘Two – the guard and a servant girl.’

‘Are they . . .?’

‘Not yet,’ Apheidas grinned. ‘But he’s already got his hand inside her chiton. Give him a bit longer and he’ll be too distracted to notice you creeping up on him.’

‘No time for that – I’ll have to bluff it.’

‘But what about the girl?’ Exadios protested. ‘One scream from her and this place’ll be teeming with guards.’

‘Don’t worry about her,’ Apheidas whispered, giving Exadios a wink as he hid the sword beneath his cloak.

‘Keep a lookout for us here, Exadios,’ Paris ordered, before entering the side passage, closely followed by Apheidas.

There was just enough room for the two men to walk side by side. Though their weapons were concealed, neither man bothered to hide his armour with his cloak; by the light of the single torch at the end of the passageway they could see that the servant girl was now half-naked and the guard – who had already removed his armaments – was preoccupied with her. By the time he noticed the approach of the Trojans, Paris’s hand was over his mouth and the point of his dagger was forcing its way between his ribs. Beside him, his lover opened her mouth to scream, but Apheidas’s sword swept her head from her shoulders before the air could be forced up from her lungs. Without pausing, he opened the door to the wine storeroom, threw the body inside and kicked the head in after it.

‘Damn you, Apheidas!’ Paris hissed, dropping the corpse of the guard and stepping up to the older man. ‘I said no unnecessary killing.’

Apheidas’s pupils were wide with the exhilaration of the kill. He stared back at the prince for a defiant moment, then straightened himself up and lifted his gaze to the top of Paris’s forehead, in the time-honoured manner of a soldier facing his superior.

‘She was about to scream,’ he began. ‘But you’re right, my lord, I overreacted. I’m sorry.’

Paris knew there was no point in saying more. He nodded curtly and signalled to the corpse of the guard. Together they threw it into the storeroom, before retrieving the discarded weapons and returning to where Exadios awaited them, nervously clutching the spear and shield of the first guard.

‘Here,’ said Paris, sliding a sword into the soldier’s belt and handing him another spear. ‘Take these to the rest of the men and have them meet us by the back entrance. Apheidas and I will wait for you there.’

When Exadios reached the rear doors of the palace with the rest of the party, Paris and Apheidas had already killed the guard and hidden the body. All that remained of him was a bloodstain on the wall and his weapons, which the prince was holding. He quickly ordered the redistribution of the captured armaments so that three men had swords, three carried spears and three more at least had the protection of a shield each. Paris refused all weaponry for himself, except the dagger Menelaus had given him.

Apheidas opened one of the doors and peered out at a small, moonlit courtyard. Other than two guards by the small gate that led out to the city streets, there was nobody to be seen.

‘I doubt anyone will want to come through this way tonight,’ he said, shutting the door again. He picked up a beam of wood from against the wall and slid it into the iron brackets on the back of the doors. ‘And if they do, that’ll hold them for long enough.’

‘When will they change the guards?’ Aeneas asked.

‘Not before we’re beyond the city walls and riding back to the ship,’ Paris answered, his tone confident and reassuring to the ears of his men.

‘That’s assuming everything goes to plan,’ Apheidas countered. ‘Have you even let Helen know we’re leaving tonight?’

With so much to be gained or lost, Paris felt more rankled than ever by Apheidas’s insubordination. ‘I told her maid I would come for her tomorrow night.’

‘Tomorrow!’ Apheidas exclaimed. ‘We need her to be ready now – there’s no time to waste if we’re to get out of Sparta alive.’

‘I have my reasons, Apheidas,’ Paris warned.

But Apheidas was in no mood to accede – the drawing of blood had made him tense and quicktempered. ‘She should be in her room now, waiting for our arrival with her children dressed and ready to travel. It’s madness to pull them from their beds in the middle of the night and expect them to ride with us to the ship.’

The men shifted uncomfortably, gripping the unfamiliar armaments and looking nervously at their two leaders. Paris stepped up to his lieutenant with anger smouldering in his dark eyes, his knuckles white as he gripped the handle of the dagger.

‘Don’t cross me again, Apheidas,’ he warned. ‘If we’re to survive this night and take Helen back to my father, we’ve got to work together and under my orders.’

Apheidas stepped back slowly, his fierce, unbowed gaze still fixed on the prince. On this occasion there was no apology, but Paris knew that time was running out. Without wasting another moment, he signalled for Aeneas to join him and for the rest to follow on behind. As quietly as they could, using the cover of doorways and side passages, the group of soldiers returned to the antechamber before the great hall and then made their way down the central corridor towards the main entrance. The light from the few torches reflected warmly on the bronze of their weapons, but in the sleeping palace there was nobody to witness their silent progress. Then, just before they reached the ornate portals that led out to the main courtyard, Paris led them down a broad corridor to the left. Having become familiar with the labyrinth of passageways during their time in Sparta, they all knew that the royal quarters were up a broad flight of stairs only a short distance ahead, beyond a turning to the right.

It was usual for two soldiers to guard the stairs in the evenings. Paris hoped they would be fooled by the Spartan weapons his men carried, only discovering their error at the last moment, when it would be too late. Nevertheless, he felt his anxiety rise as he led his men down the shadowy corridor. He had not seen Helen since their meeting at the temple and their only contact had been through her maidservant, so his desire to see her again was increasing with every footstep.

As they approached the blind corner, Paris signalled for his men to stop before sending Aeneas ahead to check on the readiness of the guards. The young warrior came back at a run a moment later, his eyes wide.

‘My lord, there’re six men at the foot of the stairs – all of them armed and watchful.’

‘Zeus’s beard,’ Apheidas cursed. ‘Somebody must have alerted them.’

Paris shook his head. ‘No. It’s Menelaus’s doing – he’s not going to entrust the safety of his queen to two men while I’m still here, whatever oaths he believes may have been said. He must have tripled the guard as a precaution.’

‘But now what will we do?’ Aeneas asked.

‘Entrust ourselves to the gods, of course,’ Paris responded. ‘No time for guile or caution now. Pray to Ares and follow me.’

He closed his eyes, kissed the bloodstained blade of his dagger, then ran around the corner towards the Spartan guards. The passageway was dimly lit, but at its end he could see six helmeted men with tall spears and swords thrust into their belts. Each was protected by leather body armour and a broad, oval shield. For a moment they did not notice Paris running towards them, his cloak billowing; only when the remaining Trojans turned the corner behind him did they wake to the fact they were being attacked.

They formed a hasty line, locking their shields together and lowering their spears towards their assailants, but it was too late. Paris leapt over the bronze-tipped shafts and crashed shoulder-first into a pair of shields, sending two of the Spartans sprawling backwards onto the stair behind. By good fortune or the blessing of Ares, he landed on one of the ox-hide shields and pinned its owner against the stone steps. He instinctively sank the point of his dagger into the man’s exposed throat, killing him instantly.

The ringing clash of weaponry behind him signalled the arrival of his comrades. There was a brief cry of pain, followed by the grunts and shouts of men struggling against each other. Then the other man Paris had knocked down sprang to his feet and drew his sword from his belt. Not waiting to retrieve his shield from the steps, he rushed straight at the Trojan prince with the blade above his head and a vicious snarl contorting his features. Paris responded quickly, launching himself shoulder-first at the man’s midriff and driving him hard against the opposite wall. The sword flew from his opponent’s hand and clattered noisily down the stone steps to where the others were locked in a fierce battle. Ignoring the fists now raining down on his exposed back, Paris tightened his grip on the man’s waist and pushed him to the steps. The Spartan cried out in pain as Paris fell on top of him, but in the confusion his hands found Paris’s throat and his thumbs began to push into his windpipe. His grip was strong and painful for a moment, but quickly slackened and fell away as Paris pushed the point of his dagger into the man’s heart.

The struggle between the four remaining guards and the Trojans led by Apheidas was quickly over. Paris was pulled to his feet by Exadios, whose eyes were wide with exhilaration.

‘I can hardly believe it,’ he grinned. ‘They just seemed to collapse before us, and them fully armed as well.’

‘It was Apheidas,’ Aeneas added, stepping over one of the bodies. ‘He was like a Titan, cutting them down like nettles.’

‘Don’t talk nonsense,’ Apheidas said from behind them as he stooped to strip the weapons from one of his victims. ‘We’d have been spit like pigs if Paris hadn’t broken their line while they were still forming. Are you hurt, my lord?’

‘I’m fine,’ Paris replied, pleased that Apheidas’s animosity appeared to have been forgotten. ‘What about the men?’

‘Mestor’s dead,’ Apheidas said, handing a sword to one of the unarmed Trojans. ‘Got two spears through the belly.’

‘And Dolon’s lost half his leg,’ Exadios added.

Paris’s eyes fell on the young warrior, who was propped up against a wall. His face was screwed up with pain, though he somehow managed to stop himself from crying out. He had pulled one knee up to his chest, whilst his other leg was stretched out before him to reveal a bloody stump just below the knee. Two of his comrades were at his side, but stood up and moved back as Paris walked over.

‘We’ve seen a few battles together, Dolon,’ he said, kneeling down and placing his hand on the man’s shoulder. ‘Fighting on the northern borders.’

The wounded soldier smiled and nodded. ‘Yes, my lord. The best days of my life.’

‘But we’ll never get you out of Sparta with us.’

Dolon’s smile stiffened and faded.

‘No. Not with this leg. And yet I don’t want to be left to the mercy of these cursed Spartans,’ he added, spitting on the floor and wincing with pain. He picked up a dagger from beside him and presented the hilt to Paris. ‘If you understand me, my lord.’

Paris nodded and took the dagger. Placing it against the wounded soldier’s chest, he waited for him to look away then pushed the blade into his heart. Dolon’s eyes opened wide for a moment, then his head lolled onto his chest. Pulling the weapon free again, Paris stood and tossed it across the flagstones, feeling sick. He had lost two of his best men already and suddenly he realized that the price of his love for Helen would not just be the loss of his honour and possibly his life, but the lives of all those around him. There would be more bloodshed and more death, and as he looked at the bodies sprawled across the steps he knew it would not end in the corridors of Menelaus’s palace.

The others, who had stopped to watch their comrade’s demise, now looked expectantly at the prince.

‘We shall mourn Dolon and Mestor when we return to Troy,’ he told them. ‘Until then every thought must be on our mission. Strip the dead of their arms and share what weapons we have evenly. Apheidas and Aeneas, come with me. Exadios, guard the stairs until we return – nobody’s to come up or down.’

With the realization that nothing now stood between him and Helen, Paris took the steps three at a time to the next floor, where he found himself in a large antechamber surrounded on all sides by open doors. Several half-dressed women stood in the doorways with alarmed looks on their faces. Two more were sitting on straw mattresses in front of the only door that remained closed, brushing the sleep from their eyes and staring at the Trojans in confusion.

‘What do you want?’ one of the slaves asked. ‘You Trojans aren’t allowed up here.’

‘Where’s Helen?’ Paris demanded.

The same slave – a woman of over fifty years – crossed the antechamber and stood before the closed door. ‘When Menelaus hears of this outrage you’ll wish you’d never lived.’

‘We’ll be halfway to Troy by the time your precious king gets back,’ Apheidas laughed, striding towards the old woman with his sword poised in his hand. ‘And your mistress will be coming with us.’

‘I wouldn’t be so sure of that,’ she smiled.

The circle of slaves let out a loud scream as Apheidas struck the woman across the face with the back of his hand, sending her sprawling to the floor. In the same moment the door behind her opened to reveal Helen. Though just woken from sleep, her natural beauty was undiminished and Apheidas felt his anger fade before her. Her frightened slaves fell silent, unwilling to abandon their mistress and yet too afraid to throw themselves between her and the tall Trojan. Helen looked down at the nurse who had suckled her as a child – still groaning from the blow to her head – then at Apheidas and Paris.

‘My maidservant said you would come tomorrow night,’ she said, sternly.

‘I lied to her,’ Paris replied. ‘I couldn’t risk anyone guessing our plans. If you didn’t go to bed, or if you kept the children up, dressed for a journey, then someone would get suspicious. It would only take one servant loyal to Menelaus to inform the captain of the guard and everything we hoped for would be lost.’

‘Besides,’ Helen added sardonically, ‘you didn’t trust me not to change my mind. Well, I’m not going to, despite your doubts about me and the violence of your men. Neaera, go and wake the children and dress them in warm clothes. I’m leaving Sparta with Paris, and the children are coming with me.’

There were gasps of disbelief from the women, some of whom began to weep. One, a young girl in a brown woollen chiton, shuffled across the antechamber – carefully keeping her distance as she passed Apheidas – and disappeared down a passageway to the right of Paris and Aeneas.

‘Go and tell the men to be ready,’ Paris said, stepping forward and placing a hand on Apheidas’s shoulder. ‘As soon as the children are dressed we’ll be leaving.’

‘And have you thought about getting us all through the main gate yet?’ Apheidas asked, staring hard at the prince.

‘Leave that to me. Now go.’

As his lieutenant disappeared down the stairs, Paris crossed the antechamber to Helen and pulled her into his broad chest. She wrapped her arms about him and held him tightly, unable to disguise her relief that he had come for her. The five days since she had last seen him had seemed interminable, filled with doubt, worry and a longing to be with him. Then he kissed her and the anxieties that had plagued her melted away.

Suddenly Neaera returned, holding the small form of Pleisthenes in her arms.

‘Mistress,’ she said, her voice trembling. ‘Mistress!’

‘What is it? Where are the others?’

‘They’re gone, my lady. Their beds are empty – they haven’t even been slept in! Only little Pleisthenes was there, so I brought him immediately.’

Helen slipped free of Paris’s arms and ran across to her youngest boy. Kissing him gently on the forehead and holding his face in her hands, she looked deeply into his sleepy eyes.

‘Pi, my baby, can you tell mummy where Aethiolas and Maraphius are hiding? Where’s your sister, Hermione?’

‘I don’t know,’ the child answered, rubbing his eyes with the back of his withered hand. ‘They went to say goodbye to father, but I was too ill to go.’

‘And they’re with him now,’ said the old nursemaid, getting to her feet and holding a hand to the wound on her forehead where Apheidas had struck her. Her face was sad and fearful. ‘The king asked me to bring the children to him as I was about to put them to bed – he told me he wanted to say goodbye to them before he went to Crete – and then he sat them in a covered wagon and said they were going with him. He would have taken Pleisthenes, too, if he’d been well enough.’

Helen looked at her with her mouth open and tears bonding her long eyelashes together.

‘Oh, forgive me, my lady!’ the maid cried, running across and kneeling before the queen, wrapping her arms about her legs. ‘Menelaus said the children were his only guarantee you wouldn’t run off. And how could I stop him – he’s their father and I’m only a slave? Besides, mistress, I don’t want you to leave us . . .’

‘That’s not your choice, Myrine,’ Helen announced. ‘It’s mine.’

Paris moved towards her, realizing that Menelaus had outwitted him and seeing his hopes falling away.

‘Helen,’ he said. ‘This is your only chance to be free. If you don’t leave now you’ll be doomed to live the rest of your life as Menelaus’s prisoner. You know you can’t do that – come with me!’

‘No, my lady!’ Myrine protested. ‘Think of your children. You have freedom through them.’

Helen lifted Pleisthenes out of Neaera’s arms and kissed his hair. She looked at the circle of her maids, most of whom had served her since she was a child, or since they had been children themselves. Some, filled with fear as their world was collapsing about them, held each other, while all were damp-eyed. The tears were flowing unchecked down Helen’s cheeks, too, as she thought about her children and her life at Sparta, the only life she had ever known. She pictured the faces of her two older boys, Aethiolas and Maraphius, both brave and strong like their father; and of her beautiful daughter, Hermione, who was as wilful and independent as she was. Then she looked at Paris and saw the passion that his eyes held for her, a passion that mirrored her own. Here, at last, was the one she had waited for all her life, a man who could free her from her gilded cage to lead a life of freedom; a man who she could love with all her heart. For his sake she would – must -surrender everything she had. She moved to him and pressed her lips against his.

‘Neaera,’ she said, eventually turning to her faithful body slave, ‘fetch Pi’s cloak and sandals. When Menelaus returns, tell Aethiolas, Maraphius and Hermione I love them, and that I will never forget them. Kiss each of them for me.’

As Neaera ran off, sobbing openly, Helen hid her face against Paris’s shoulder and cried, overwhelmed by the sudden realization that she was giving up her children.

Seven fully armed Trojans stepped out into the moonlit courtyard. The guards by the gate gave them an inquisitive glance, but as the men carried Spartan shields and wore Spartan helmets they soon forgot them and returned to their game of dice.

This way,’ Paris said, leading the others to the royal stable where the strong smell of straw and dung filled their nostrils. They could hear horses shifting restlessly in the darkness, disturbed by the sudden presence of so many men.

‘Lipse!’ Paris whispered.

There was a corresponding snort a few stalls to his left. Paris greeted the horse warmly as if they were old friends, before opening the triple-barred gate and entering the stall.

That’s my girl,’ he said, rubbing the mare’s neck and placing his face against her nose. He led her out and told the others to bring ten more horses.

‘But there’re thirteen of us,’ Aeneas reminded him.

‘Helen will ride with me and Pleisthenes with you. Now hurry up – the alarm will be raised at any moment.’

They worked as quickly as they could in the faint light from the stable door, releasing the best animals they could find and throwing blankets over their backs. As Paris was fitting a leather harness to Lipse, Aeneas placed a hand on his shoulder.

‘We should hamstring the others, my lord. It’s the only way to stop pursuit.’

But Paris simply shook his head.

In quicker time than they had hoped – mostly due to the prince’s reassuring influence on the unsettled beasts – the Trojans emerged from the stables and led the train of horses towards the palace entrance. This time the gate guards were less ready to ignore them.

‘Hey!’ one of them shouted. ‘You there – where do you think you’re going with those horses?’

‘Mount up,’ Paris ordered.

Realizing something was not right, the Spartans pulled on their helmets and lifted their shields onto their shoulders. Their leader gave a harsh shout and more men came spilling out of a nearby guardroom.

At the same moment, Apheidas led the rest of the party out of the palace and across the courtyard to where the others awaited them. Helen was with them, carrying Pleisthenes in the folds of her green cloak. Paris directed Lipse to her side and plucked the child from her uplifted arms. He passed him to Aeneas then pulled Helen up onto the mare’s shoulders.

‘Menelaus won’t be happy if you steal his favourite horse,’ she said, throwing a leg over Lipse’s neck before turning and kissing the prince on the mouth. ‘But I expect that’ll be the least of his worries.’

As he watched his men jump skilfully on the backs of their mounts, Paris turned and saw a fully formed line of three-dozen Spartans barring the silver-sheathed doors that were the only way out to the city streets. The ten remaining Trojans gathered about their leader and looked at him with a mixture of desperation and – from those who knew him better – expectation.

‘Forgive me, my love,’ he said, and with a flick of his heels sent Lipse dashing towards the waiting ranks of men. The Spartan spear-points dipped in anticipation, while behind him he could hear the shouts of his own men calling him back. Then, as Helen threw her arms about Lipse’s neck, Paris turned the reins and brought the animal to a sliding halt, spraying the triple line of guards with dirt.