The Gates Of Troy (Adventures of Odysseus)

He threw his arm around Helen, pulling her tightly against his chest, and with his other hand pulled the dagger from his belt, pressing it softly but menacingly against her white neck.

‘Open the gate,’ he commanded. ‘Do it now or I’ll slit your queen’s throat!’

The Spartans hesitated.

‘For pity’s sake!’ Helen screamed, realizing Paris’s plan. ‘Do as he says or he’ll kill me.’

Moved by love of their queen and respect for her authority, the Spartan ranks melted away before them. A short, muscular soldier, whom Paris recognized as the man who had disarmed them on their arrival at the palace, ordered four of his men to remove the bars from the gates and swing them open. Within moments, all eleven horses had dashed through and were racing down the empty, moonlit streets of the city.

‘Don’t risk the main gate,’ Helen shouted over her shoulder. ‘There are three times as many guards to convince and I doubt they’ll all fall for the same trick.’

‘Can these horses fly over the city walls then?’ Paris laughed, enjoying the wind in his hair and the warmth of Helen’s body enclosed within his.

‘Of course not, but there’s another way: a gate on the east wall that leads out to a small road. It was made for trade to come in from the eastern hills, so it isn’t very wide – we’ll have to go through in single file – but it also means there’ll only be a handful of guards at best. Turn to the left down here.’

Paris followed her orders, keen to escape the claustrophobia of the city and know the freedom of the plains once more. The others kept close behind, the sound of hooves on flagstones echoing noisily between the narrow walls as they made their way through the city. Eventually they entered a final, short avenue where the dirt had been heavily rutted by the wheels of innumerable carts. This led to the high city walls and a slender gateway, which stood open to reveal the gentle blue hills beyond. Three guards were drinking wine and swapping stories, hoping to fend off the inevitable assault of sleep that always threatened the midnight watch. As the clatter of hooves approached, though, they snatched up their shields and spears and ran out into the road.

Paris halted Lipse and signalled the men behind to attack. Couching their captured spears under their arms, three Trojans sprang forward. One of the guards threw down his arms and ran up a side street, his cowardice preserving his worthless life for another day. His braver comrades were barely able to raise their weapons in time to meet the charging horsemen: the first was spitted through the throat and fell beneath the hooves of a tall grey stallion; the second died instantly with a spear through the bridge of his nose, splitting his head open.

The victorious horsemen did not wait to exult in their victory, but with deft flicks of their heels drove their mounts on through the open gate, drawing their swords to deal with any guards that might be waiting on the other side. When one of them returned to signal that the path was clear, Paris led the rest of the party through in single file. Suddenly they were looking at the rolling plains on all sides, at the broad Eurotas River at the foot of the slope, and at the cloudless, star-speckled firmament above. Some were breathing deeply, enjoying the fresh air of their freedom; others were laughing. Helen simply laid her head against Lipse’s neck and gazed out to the Taygetus Mountains in the west, their familiar outline black against the deep blue of the night sky.

‘Say goodbye to it all,’ Paris said, running his hand down the middle of her back. ‘Soon you’ll be on a fast ship, listening to the hiss of the waves before the prow and tasting the salt spray on your lips. There’s nothing like it.’

‘And then Troy,’ she whispered, closing her eyes and trying to imagine what the foreign city would look like.

‘Not straight away,’ Paris said. ‘Any pursuit will go there first, and I can’t risk that. No, we’ll head south, to Egypt, then work our way back up the coast. It’ll take longer, but there’s no hurry and it’ll be much safer. Think of it as a honeymoon, if you like.’

Helen opened a single eye to look at him. His tanned skin looked paler in the moonlight and the scar that ran down his face and into his beard shone white. It was a brutal face, but there was also strength and independence in it, a wild undercurrent that reached out and touched something deep within her. It was a quality she could feel throbbing through her like a heartbeat, and with a contented sigh she knew she would be happy with Paris. If only Menelaus would let her go.

‘My lord!’

Paris turned to look at Exadios, whose urgent shout had startled them all, and with an angry curse he realized they had lingered too long. Towards the west, a large troop of horsemen was leaving the main gateway to the city and forming up before the hump-backed bridge that crossed a tributary of the Eurotas River. There were at least fifty of them, and more were still emerging from the gate.

Suddenly, one of them gave a shout and pointed towards the party of Trojans. Then the whole troop were galloping towards them, losing any semblance of order in their eagerness to save their queen and have revenge on the foreign thieves.

‘There’s a bridge in the trees at the foot of the slope,’ Helen said. ‘It’s wide enough and strong enough for a wagon, so we’ll get across if we’re quick.’

‘And have your countrymen pursue us to our doom?’ Apheidas snorted. ‘I’d rather stand and fight.’

‘There’s no need,’ Exadios told him. ‘Take the woman and her boy across the bridge and ride as fast as you can. With you and Aeneas for protection, you should all make the ship before dawn. The rest of us’ll buy you the time you need.’

‘Don’t be stupid, Exadios!’ Paris said. ‘They’ll slaughter you.’

‘No time to argue,’ the warrior smiled, and with a series of orders formed his comrades into line. Moments later they were drawing their swords and trotting out to meet the approaching onslaught of the Spartan horsemen.

Paris turned the head of his horse to go after them, but Apheidas leaned across and grabbed his arm.

‘Exadios is right,’ he hissed. ‘It’s the only way any of us will escape. Now, don’t let their sacrifice be wasted.’

‘Come on then,’ Paris said angrily. ‘I’m sick of this damned country.’

He watched as the two lines of horsemen charged towards each other, hoping that the woman seated before him was worth the deaths of his men. He had surrendered his honour for her, risking the wrath of the gods and the avenging fury of Menelaus; and for a moment he wondered whether he had done the right thing. Then she looked up at him, the wind whipping strands of black hair across her face, and like countless men before him he knew no price was too steep to possess her. Unlike them, though, he knew Helen wanted his love. He had given her her freedom and she was giving it straight back to him.

He turned Lipse’s head towards the bridge and dug his heels into her flanks. She covered the remaining distance at a gallop, followed closely by Apheidas and Aeneas.

Chapter Eight

ON HERMES’S MOUNT

It was a bright morning and the blue skies were filled with the harsh cawing of seagulls. They swept about the rooftops of Odysseus’s palace and the surrounding houses, landing and taking off, and fighting with each other over the scraps of food the townsfolk had thrown out for their livestock. A cooling breeze swept across the channel from Samos, washing away the stink of fish from the day’s catch and carrying in the smell of pine from the thinly wooded slopes of Mount Neriton.

The large expanse of open ground before the palace walls was thronged with people. Slaves bartered at the stalls of the many fishermen or haggled noisily with farmers who stood atop carts filled with grain or vegetables. A pair of herdsmen were driving in a score of pigs, using their sticks liberally on the pink backsides and shouting instructions to their dogs. Under the shade of a large olive tree a group of old men were watching the progress of a board game, giving advice or deriding unwise moves; colourful birds sat beside them in willow cages, singing cheerfully to each other. Young children were everywhere, clinging to their mothers or playing games that involved an unending flow of chasing and hiding.

Underneath the palace walls, not far from the folding gates, sat a semicircle of four boys and nine girls. They did not seem to mind the nearby dung pile, which had not been collected for three days and stank horribly; instead, their attention was fixed on a short, chubby boy with curly brown hair and large, staring eyes. He sat against the wall on an upturned basket and looked round at his audience.

‘When the resourceful Odysseus realized Penelope had been captured by Polytherses and his Taphians, he devised a plan to get into the palace and free her. With Mentor and Antiphus, he hid in a large clay pithos filled with wine and was carried through the heavily guarded gates on the back of a cart.’

‘How did they breathe?’ said a sandy-haired boy with skinny limbs and a long neck. ‘I mean, how did they breathe if the pithos was full of wine?’

‘They waited until the last moment, and then when the long-speared Taphians stepped forward to check the shipment, they ducked their heads under the surface of the dark wine and breathed through straws.’

‘See!’ said a fiery-eyed girl with dark skin and long hair bunched up on top of her head. ‘Now, why don’t you shut up and let Omeros tell the story?’

Omeros held up his hands.

‘Thank you, Melantho-of-the-pretty-cheeks,’ he said, making the girl blush coyly. ‘Now, after the cart had passed through the gates – those very gates to my right – and night had fallen, Odysseus, Mentor and Antiphus slipped from their hiding place and began their butchers’ work, slitting the throats of the sleeping Taphians until the courtyard was awash with their blood. Fully a hundred were dead by the time rosy-fingered Dawn appeared, and then the mercenaries woke and discovered what was going on. Up they leapt and, seizing their bronze-tipped spears and leather shields, set upon the three Ithacans with a great fury.’

Omeros scowled and thrust an imaginary sword towards one of the girls, making her fall back with a squeal.

‘At that moment a horn blew from beyond the walls. Out of the mist, striding across the plain came godlike Eperitus, leading an army of stout-hearted Ithacans.’ Omeros stood and pointed to the broad terrace behind the other children. Every head turned, and in their minds’ eyes the throng of slaves, peasants and tradesmen became an army, marching resolutely towards the palace walls. ‘Halitherses of the great war cry was with them; Eumaeus the swineherd and Arceisius, Eperitus’s squire, too. With a great shout they ran towards the gates, from which hundreds of Taphians were already issuing, eager to meet them in battle.’

Eperitus and Arceisius stood unobserved by the gates, listening to the story.

‘There you go,’ said Arceisius, his mouth full of apple. ‘Why go to the mainland to seek glory when we’ve already been immortalized in song at home?’

‘Omeros is eleven,’ Eperitus replied, snatching the apple from his squire’s hand and taking a large bite. ‘Besides, the boy’s imagination knows no limits – where’d he get this “godlike Eperitus” from, for instance?’

‘Now then, sir, you can’t lust after fame one moment and get embarrassed when you receive it the next.’

Eperitus tossed the apple-core on the dung heap. ‘Come on, let’s find Odysseus. We don’t want to miss Telemachus’s dedication, and afterwards I will ask the king’s permission to go.’

‘I was beginning to think you’d changed your mind about that,’ Arceisius said. ‘It’s been a month since Telemachus was born and you haven’t mentioned anything more about leaving Ithaca.’

‘I meant what I said, Arceisius. Did you?’

Arceisius nodded, firmly but without enthusiasm. Then, as Eperitus made to go, he threw his arm across the captain’s chest.

‘Wait a moment, sir,’ he said, pointing into the crowd. ‘Here come Eupeithes’s boy, Antinous, and his cronies. They’ll be looking for trouble, or I’m a Taphian.’

‘They mean trouble, all right,’ Eperitus agreed, eyeing the newcomers with distaste. ‘We’d better see what they’re up to.’

A group of three boys strutted up to the circle of children, just as Omeros was describing the moment when Odysseus shot dead the traitor Polytherses. Antinous, a tall, slim boy of fourteen with an arrogant face and a pampered air, scoffed at the story.

‘That oaf couldn’t hit a horse’s arse at point-blank range, let alone shoot a man through the eye in a darkened hall. You should take your ridiculous songs and tell them to the seagulls, Omeros, for all the truth that’s in them.’

‘Everyone knows Odysseus shot my father in the back,’ rumbled Ctessipus, a large boy with a single eyebrow and a flattened nose. ‘And if you tell any more lies about him, I’ll chuck you on that dung pile and you can sing to the flies and worms, if you like.’

The boys stared menacingly at Omeros’s audience, who began to slink away until only Melantho was left. She scowled at the third boy, a rather slow-looking lout who was trying desperately to avoid her eye.

‘Melanthius,’ she spat, ‘if you don’t clear off at once and take these two vultures with you, I’m going straight to Pa and telling him you’ve been up to no good again.’

Melanthius shifted uncomfortably, but was saved from answering his sister by Omeros.

‘It’s all right, Melantho. Perhaps they would like to sit down and listen to the rest of the story.’ He turned to the three boys and indicated the recently vacated spaces before him. ‘I’m afraid you’ve missed the part about how Eupeithes usurped the throne, then was himself betrayed by Polytherses – but as they were your fathers, I expect you already know the story. Maybe you’d like to hear of how Odysseus found Eupeithes in a storeroom, still chained up where Polytherses had left him?’

Both Antinous and Ctessipus leapt at Omeros, brandishing their fists and preparing to give him a beating. But before they could reach him they were pulled back by two pairs of strong arms.

‘Steady now,’ said Eperitus, hardly able to suppress his laughter as Antinous struggled against his firm grip. ‘Or you might hurt yourself.’

Arceisius, who was not as powerful as Eperitus and only a little bigger than Ctessipus, had already lost patience with his prisoner. With a grunt, he threw him over his shoulder, carried him to the dung pile and tossed him on it. At the sight of this, Antinous ceased his thrashing and fell limp, whilst Melanthius quickly disappeared into the crowd pursued by his sister, who was berating him loudly as she chased after him.

‘Be on your way, lad,’ Eperitus said, cuffing Antinous’s mop of blond hair, ‘and don’t let me hear you’ve been in any more trouble.’

Antinous turned and scowled at the captain of the palace guard, tears of anger and embarrassment flooding down his cheeks. He bit back the words he wanted to say and, ignoring Ctessipus’s plea to help him out of the dung heap, stormed off into the throng of people.

‘You shouldn’t provoke them, Omeros,’ Eperitus warned the young storyteller. ‘You’re nothing more than a whelp compared to them, and one day they’ll give you the thrashing you deserve.’

‘Perhaps they will,’ Omeros answered, jumping off his basket and following the two warriors as they navigated their way through the crowds. ‘But it’s precisely because they’re bigger than me that I’m always baiting them. I can’t defeat them physically, so I might as well humiliate them with my words.’

‘Which is why Odysseus likes you so much,’ Arceisius said. He took three barley cakes from a basket and gave the seller a wink. The man shook his head resignedly and continued haggling with a fat, red-faced woman.

Omeros took a bite of the cake Arceisius handed him, then caught up with Eperitus.

‘Sir, the king was looking for you earlier.’

‘And I’ve been looking for him ever since I finished my duties this morning. Do you know where he is?’

‘He was on his way to Hermes’s Mount, with the queen and their baby. He said to tell you that he has gone ahead to make everything ready and will be waiting for you there.’

‘Then perhaps you should have been looking for me rather than lazing about and telling your friends stories,’ Eperitus said, looking at the boy with as much sternness as he could muster. ‘But I suppose I can’t blame you. Odysseus shouldn’t entrust his messages to daydreamers.’

‘I won’t always be a daydreamer, sir,’ Omeros responded, looking hurt. ‘People need stories – and bards to tell them – or where’s the enjoyment in life? If we didn’t give them tales of love, war and glory then no one would have anything to live up to.’

‘And if you left us all alone, we could lead contented lives and not be blighted by impossible dreams,’ Eperitus countered. ‘Anyway, I’d be wary of becoming a bard if I were you. Most end up as little more than tramps, wandering from palace to palace to earn scraps from the tables of the powerful.’

‘Some say that about warriors, too, sir,’ Omeros suggested, stepping back a little as Eperitus gave him another stern glance. ‘But I don’t intend to be a wandering storyteller – I will be bard to the court of King Odysseus himself, and King Telemachus after him.’

Eperitus turned to Arceisius and signalled for him to catch up. ‘Well, if that’s what you want, then you should start telling things as they really were. How many times have I had to remind you Odysseus didn’t enter the palace in a pithos of wine? He was disguised as a wine merchant.’

‘But it doesn’t sound as good, sir. Too much truth can ruin a story, and, besides, the king says he prefers my version.’

‘Odysseus has never been a great respecter of honesty, and you should be careful of following his example,’ Eperitus warned. ‘He was born with the cunning of a fox and knows more than most men about how to live by his wits; but even for him there’s a fine line between trickery and dishonour.’

Omeros was about to reply, but was silenced by the arrival of Arceisius.

‘Odysseus is waiting for us at Athena’s sacred grove on Hermes’s Mount,’ Eperitus informed his squire. ‘We should go and find him now, and leave this young rascal to evade Antinous and his cronies.’

The two men turned and walked in the direction of the low, wooded hump of Hermes’s Mount, which lay to the north-west of the town, but as they moved free of the crowd and began along the dirt track that led to the hill Omeros called after them.

‘Don’t forget that warriors need bards, too, sir. Without us, your acts of glory are worthless.’

‘He’s right, you know,’ Arceisius laughed.

Eperitus said nothing. He was already thinking of what he had to say to Odysseus after Telemachus had been dedicated to the gods, and what the cost of his own search for glory would be.

A strong wind blustered up from the sea, flattening the blades of grass that clung to the exposed flank of Hermes’s Mount. Eperitus and Arceisius held their cloaks about them as they walked towards the lonely thicket of pines that stood tall and dark in the centre of the sloping meadow, enduring the gusts that howled through its interlocked branches. Many years before, Odysseus’s grandfather had met Athena walking through the grove, where she had given him her blessing; since that day it had been considered a sacred place by all Ithacans, and especially the rulers of the island.

As they approached, they could see Odysseus standing beneath the eaves of the small wood. His auburn hair was blowing wildly in the wind as his keen eyes looked out over the Ionian Sea, oblivious to their approach. He was mouthing a silent prayer in preparation for the dedication of his son, and from time to time would close his eyes and bow his head.

Behind him stood Penelope, the knuckles of her fists white as she gripped the edges of her cloak. Her eyes, narrowed against the gale, were fixed upon her husband. At her right shoulder was her nurse, Actoris, whose back was turned against the squall to protect the baby in her arms. Eurybates, Odysseus’s squire and herald, was also with them; he held a struggling lamb in his arms and carried two skins over his shoulder, one filled with wine and the other with water.

Then Odysseus spotted the two figures coming across the meadow and waving at him in the bright sunshine. He waved back, and then, cupping his hands over his mouth so that the wind would not snatch away his words, called out, ‘Where’ve you been? Didn’t Omeros find you?’

‘We found him,’ Eperitus said as he and Arceisius reached the relative cover of the grove. ‘Telling stories by the dung heap, as usual. If he’d given us your message straight away we’d have been here a long time ago.’

‘No matter,’ Penelope smiled. ‘You’re here now, and the gods are waiting. Odysseus, are you ready?’

‘I’m ready,’ he replied. ‘Actoris, give Telemachus to his mother. Eurybates, make sure the sacrifice is willing.’

The squire knelt and placed the lamb on the ground, holding it fast by the scruff of its neck. He pulled a wooden bowl from the woollen bag at his hip and placed it on the ground in front of the gently bleating lamb, then filled it with a slop of water from one of the skins hanging from his shoulder. After a moment of uncertainty, the animal bowed its head to drink. Satisfied it had indicated its consent to be sacrificed, Eurybates removed the bowl and passed the skin to Odysseus.

After the king had washed his hands, he drew a dagger from his belt and beckoned for the animal. Pinning it against his muscular chest so that it could barely move, he cut some of the coarse black hair from its head and held it fast between his thumb and the blade. Holding it in the air above his head, he released it into the wind and watched it sail off towards the grey mass of ocean to the north. Eurybates took the lamb again as Odysseus turned to receive the swaddled baby from Penelope’s arms. The boy woke and began to cry as his father removed the double-layer of white wool and lifted his naked red body over his head. Penelope instinctively raised a hand, fearful for her little Telemachus, then forced it down again.

‘Mistress Athena!’ Odysseus called. His voice, stronger than the wind, carried out towards the maddening waves. ‘Proud lady of Trito! Virgin daughter of Zeus! Most glorious and great goddess, I call on you to accept the dedication of my son, Telemachus. Bestow on him your protection and guidance, just as you honoured my father’s request for me. Make him strong and courageous, teach him the crafts of war, and endow him with wisdom. Seek for him the blessings of the other Olympians, so that he will be loved and honoured among men. And Mistress,’ he added after a pause, ‘allow me to remain on Ithaca and watch my son grow to manhood.’

Odysseus lowered Telemachus into his mother’s waiting arms. As Penelope wrapped the baby in the thick woollen cloth, she gave her husband a questioning look. Odysseus, who had never told her about the doom predicted for him on Mount Parnassus, did not hold her gaze.

‘Give me the lamb, Eurybates,’ he commanded. ‘And mix the wine.’

The animal began to kick out, as if it knew what was about to happen, but Odysseus held it tighter and drew the blade across its throat. Vivid red blood began to pour from the opening and Odysseus let the lamb fall into the thick grass by his feet, where it twitched and continued to kick until the last of its life had pumped out of its body. A moment later, he turned to Eurybates, took the krater of wine he held and poured a little on the ground in a silent libation. Then he took a sip and held out the krater to Eperitus.

‘Do you still consent to be Telemachus’s protector?’ he asked.

Eperitus paused. Odysseus had asked him years before to be the protector of his children, should anything happen to him, and he had agreed without hesitation. Even as the king had reminded him of his promise during Penelope’s pregnancy, he had confirmed he would accept the duty. But since the birth of Telemachus and his realization that his destiny lay beyond the safe and homely shores of Ithaca, Eperitus had questioned whether he was still the right man. Though he said nothing of his doubts to Odysseus, he had considered asking Mentor – Odysseus’s friend since boyhood – whether he would take the role. In the end, though, Arceisius persuaded him to keep to his original promise. Even if they joined Agamemnon’s army and went to war with Troy, they would still be able to return to Ithaca from time to time, and Penelope would know where to send a message should anything happen that would require Eperitus to fulfil his vows. With this in mind, he took the proffered krater and poured a dribble of the dark liquid onto the grass.

‘I consent to protect Telemachus from any who would do him harm, and provide for him if his parents cannot; and I call upon all the gods of Olympus to bear witness to my oath.’

He raised the krater to his lips and drank. The ceremony was over.

Penelope moved past her husband and kissed Eperitus on the cheek. ‘Here,’ she said, placing Telemachus into the captain’s hands and standing beside him, looking down at her son and smiling with contentment. ‘We want you to be a second father to him.’

Eperitus knew the time had come. He looked at Arceisius, who returned his gaze with a slight nod.

‘I’m proud to be his protector,’ Eperitus said, turning back to Penelope. ‘But I can never be a second father to Telemachus.’

‘Nonsense,’ Odysseus scoffed. ‘You’ve so much to offer him, and it won’t be long before he learns to love you like a parent.’

Eperitus shook his head. ‘You don’t understand. He won’t see enough of me to love me. Unlike you, I won’t be around when his needs are greatest. The truth is . . . the truth is I’m leaving – today – and Arceisius is coming with me. I’m asking you to release me from my oath to you, Odysseus.’

Penelope stepped back as if she had been struck. In the same instant Odysseus moved forward, his expression incredulous. He placed his large hands on Eperitus’s arms and looked him in the eye.

‘I know I challenged you about this on our return from Samos, because I’ve always feared you would wish to leave one day, but why do you want to go now? Didn’t you tell me you had no intention of leaving? Besides, if it’s because of what the goddess said . . .’ He glanced out of the corner of his eye and lowered his voice. ‘If that’s the reason, we don’t even know yet that this war will happen. Until it does, you should stay here where you have friends and a position of authority, everything you need.’

‘But I don’t have everything I need!’ Eperitus rejoined. ‘Yes, I have good friends, a home in the palace, my own slaves and more wealth than I know what to do with, but what’s the point of it all? What I want is something lasting, something to be remembered by when my flesh and bones have rotted in the ground or been turned to ash. You have Telemachus, a bloodline to carry forward your memory. I have nothing.’

‘Then find a wife here,’ Penelope said, holding her hands towards him. ‘There are hundreds of beautiful women on these islands who could bring you happiness and children of your own. You could have married Odysseus’s sister, but you never returned her interest and in the end her father let her go to that merchant in Samos, fearing she would get too old to marry.’

‘But I don’t want a quiet family life,’ Eperitus replied, gently. ‘I want to make a name for myself with my spear. I used to think I could live on this island and be happy, but in recent days I’ve come to realize I can’t. I just hope you will forgive me, both of you.’

As he said these words, he caught a movement in the distance behind Odysseus’s shoulder and stared out at the grey sea, where a large warship was cutting through the turbulent waves. Its deck was crowded with armoured soldiers, their weapons glinting like gold in the sunlight as they stared up at the rocky, inhospitable slopes of Ithaca. Above their heads, a gigantic purple sail snapped repeatedly in the strong wind. It bore the device of a golden lion pinning a deer beneath its huge paws as it tore out its throat with its teeth.

Odysseus, seeing the alarm on the faces of Eperitus, Arceisius and Eurybates, turned to watch for himself the swift progress of the galley as it rounded the headland.

‘Arceisius,’ Eperitus said, his voice calm but urgent. ‘Run back to the palace and call out the guard. Send the townsfolk to their homes and assemble the men on the terrace; Odysseus and I will follow shortly.’

‘Wait!’ Odysseus countermanded. ‘They’re not enemies: that sail belongs to the royal house of Mycenae. It’s Agamemnon!’

‘Agamemnon!’ Eperitus repeated. ‘But what’s he doing here?’

‘I don’t know, but I’ve a nasty feeling it’s to do with what Athena warned us about.’

Eperitus turned to the king and was surprised to see fear in his eyes. ‘But if that’s the case, what have you got to worry about? If Agamemnon is seeking recruits for war with Troy, then tell him it’s nothing to do with you. It’s just as you told Athena: you owe no allegiance to Mycenae or its king.’

‘Not him,’ Odysseus replied. ‘But I do to Menelaus. I’ve been pondering the goddess’s words to us, Eperitus, and I think I may have been caught out by one of my own tricks!’

‘What are you two talking about?’ Penelope asked, looking concerned as she rocked Telemachus gently in her arms. ‘What’s all this about Troy and Menelaus, and tricks?’

But Odysseus did not hear: he was looking around as if searching for something. His eyes narrowed in thought for a moment, and then he snapped his fingers and looked urgently at Eperitus.

‘Was that old farmer still ploughing on the other side of that hill when you came over from the palace?’

‘Yes, and he’ll be there all day at the rate he was going.’

‘Excellent! Arceisius, run to the palace and get Eurylochus to call out a guard of honour for Agamemnon – and possibly his brother, Menelaus. Then I want you to bring an ass and a bag of salt to where that farmer was ploughing, as quickly as you can. Is that clear?’

‘As milk!’ Arceisius smiled, before setting off at a sprint up the hillside.

Chapter Nine

THE MADNESS OF ODYSSEUS

King Agamemnon, son of Atreus, stood at the edge of the broad terrace before the palace walls, his tall, muscular form still swaying slightly from having spent several days at sea. He wore a short tunic of the purest white wool and a golden breastplate that gleamed savagely in the sun. A red cloak, fastened by a golden brooch at his left shoulder, flowed over his back and around his calves like a river of blood. His smooth brown hair was tied into a tail beneath the back of his head, and his reddish-brown beard was short and meticulously trimmed. At only thirty-five years of age, his face was still young and handsome, but it was also stern and authoritative, as befitted the most powerful man in Greece.

His emotionless blue eyes scanned the Ithacan guardsmen paraded before him, instinctively noting the good condition of their dated weaponry and the well-oiled shine of their leather armour. Though their clothing lacked any sense of uniformity, the practised way in which they moved suggested to Agamemnon that they worked well together as a unit of men. He also approved of their physical condition – whether young or old (and there were many greybeards) the development of their muscles indicated long practice with their armaments. If all the men on Ithaca were to the standard of the hundred before him, they would be worth five times their number in levied soldiers.

Things had clearly changed since Odysseus had visited Sparta ten years before, when the soldiers he brought with him had been a spirited but bedraggled band. In those days they had been led by a captain called Halitherses, as Agamemnon recalled – an old warrior who liked to keep his men fit and well trained. But Halitherses was nowhere to be seen, and it was unlikely that the man who stood before the line of Ithacan spearmen now was responsible for their battle-readiness. Nevertheless, he signalled to the two men beside him and crossed the terrace towards the line of waiting soldiers.

Eurylochus bowed low as the men approached, momentarily taking his small, piglike eyes off the powerful visitors. His round face, with its pug nose, fat lips and broad jowls was covered with sweat from his balding pate to the layers of his chin.

‘Greetings, my lords,’ he announced. ‘Welcome to Ithaca, kingdom of Odysseus, son of Laertes. My name is Eurylochus, cousin of the king.’

‘I am King Agamemnon of Mycenae. These men are my brother, King Menelaus of Sparta, and my friend and adviser, Palamedes, son of Nauplius.’

Eurylochus bowed again. Menelaus turned his stony, tight-lipped face and troubled eyes towards the Ithacan and nodded briefly. Palamedes, a small, black-haired man with a thin, pointed face and clever eyes, simply looked away.

‘We are honoured by your presence, my lords,’ Eurylochus continued unperturbed. ‘A feast is being prepared, but perhaps you and your men would like to wash off the salt spray first?’

‘We’re tired and will be glad of a hot bath, but first I need to speak to your cousin. Where is the king?’

‘On the other side of that low hill, my lord, but if you’re happy to wait for him in the palace I’m sure he’ll be back soon.’

‘Our business won’t wait,’ Menelaus snapped. ‘We want to see him now.’

‘As you please, my lord. I’ll take you to him.’

‘That won’t be necessary, Eurylochus,’ Agamemnon said. He nodded towards the thirty armed warriors behind him, who were formed in lines on the road that climbed up from the harbour. ‘It would serve us better if you saw to the needs of my men, whilst Menelaus, Palamedes and I go to find King Odysseus.’

Eurylochus, who had been instructed by Arceisius to delay Agamemnon for a short while only, felt his duty had been adequately carried out. He turned and pointed at the dirt road that led to Hermes’s Mount. ‘Follow that track up into the woods until you come to an area cleared for farming. Over the other side of the hill is a grove sacred to Athena; you’ll find Odysseus and Penelope there, dedicating their newborn son to the goddess.’

‘I’d heard they were without children,’ Agamemnon said, his cold expression darkening momentarily. ‘Nevertheless, I’m pleased to learn Odysseus has a boy. A king needs an heir to take up his legacy, just as Orestes – my own lad – will take up mine.’

He beckoned a man from the escort and gave him quiet instructions, then led his brother and Palamedes up the track Eurylochus had pointed out. Before long they entered the wood, where the trees were densely packed and tall. The thick canopy of branches strangled out the sunlight and left only a brown gloom that smelled strongly of pine and damp earth. Though they occasionally heard sounds from the undergrowth and were twice surprised by the clatter of wings overhead, no birds were singing, which gave the wood a lonely, unwelcoming feel.

After a short while the narrow, overgrown path straightened and they saw an archway of yellow daylight not far ahead. In it was framed the diminutive figure of a man, walking towards them. He was muttering angrily to himself, and when Agamemnon spoke he leapt with surprise.

‘We seek the king. Have you seen him?’

The old peasant blinked several times as his eyes adjusted to the murky half-light, then he craned his head forward to scrutinize the speaker and his comrades. His sunburnt skin was like leather, but his forehead was as pale as if it had never seen the sun. His black hair was thin and hung in greasy clumps, and the stench of stale sweat that emanated from him was almost unbearable.

‘In the name o’Demeter!’ he exclaimed. ‘Where’d yer all come from, then. Are yer gods?’

‘If we were,’ Agamemnon began, trying to contain his revulsion at the figure before him, ‘we should have blasted you down to Hades by now for your lack of deference, or turned you into something inhuman – though that already appears to have happened. As it is we’re mere mortals, but it won’t stop me from knocking your eyeballs into the back of your head unless you answer my question: have you seen Odysseus?’

The old man took no notice of the threat, but at the mention of Odysseus stamped his foot and shook his fists with rage.

‘B-loody man!’ he shouted. ‘I divn’t care if he be the king or no, but I won’t tolerate bein’ robbed o’ me cap. That’s bin on my ’ead since I were a lad, protectin’ me brain from the sun, and he jes walks up and whips it off me crown as if it were ’is own. I tell yer, the man’s lost the command o’ his senses. The sun’s sent ’im mad and ’e’s taken me cap to protect ’is own brain.’

‘Zeus’s beard, man,’ Menelaus said, his face dark with anger, ‘will you stop your ranting and tell us where he is?’

‘In field up yonder. And it ain’t me who’s rantin’ – it’s ’im, gibberin’ on like an old maid who’s lost ’er mind to the sun’s rays, stealin’ people’s caps and . . .’

Menelaus strode past the fool and continued up the path, followed by his brother and Palamedes. Soon they were free of the wood and standing at the edge of a broad, sunlit field that was dotted here and there with solitary olive trees. A third of the soil had been freshly turned to hold some of the overnight rain, and the dark furrows sloped up in long, straight lines towards a ridge. At the point where they ended, a plough stood silhouetted against the skyline. Attached to it was the strangest team any of the men had ever seen: on one side was an ox, the normal beast of burden for such a task, but next to it stood an ass, its tall ears skewed at odd angles as it brayed loudly under the weight of the yoke.

‘Why would anyone team an ass with an ox?’ Palamedes asked.

‘Perhaps we should ask him,’ said Agamemnon, pointing to a short, heavily built man with a dirty felt cap crammed on his head. His back was turned to them as he walked beside the furrows, sowing seed from a bag over his shoulder.

But as Agamemnon was about to call out, he noticed a knot of people sitting or standing under one of the nearby olive trees. At the sight of the newcomers a woman left the group and came running towards them, waving her hand and shouting for their attention. As she came nearer, they could see she was holding a baby to her chest and that she was clearly in distress.

‘My lords,’ she panted, kneeling before them and facing the ground. ‘Thank the gods that you’ve arrived. It’s my husband . . .’

‘Penelope,’ Menelaus interrupted. He offered her his hand, which she took, and pulled her to her feet. ‘Penelope, it’s me, Menelaus. And here’s my brother, Agamemnon. Surely you haven’t forgotten us so easily?’

Penelope looked blankly at the Spartan king, then at Agamemnon, before allowing recognition to spread over her pleasant features.

‘Is it really you, Lord Menelaus? And you, King Agamemnon? Then Father Zeus has answered my prayers for help.’

As she spoke, she concentrated her thoughts on the time when Polytherses had captured her and told her that Odysseus had been slain. At once, tears welled up in her eyes and began rolling down her suntanned cheeks, which she then hid in the palms of her hands.

‘Don’t cry, my dear,’ Agamemnon said, his voice calm and soothing as he took Penelope into his arms and held her. ‘Tell us what’s upsetting you. Menelaus and I are the most powerful kings in all of Greece: if Odysseus is in trouble or danger, we can help him.’

‘Dear Agamemnon,’ Penelope said, looking up into his cold blue eyes. ‘I’m so grateful you’ve come now, of all the times you could have come. But even your great power can’t save a man from madness, can it?’

‘Madness!’ asked Palamedes in his high, slightly squeaky voice. ‘Do you mean the gods have robbed him of his wits?’

‘I mean just that, sir.’

The three men exchanged concerned looks.

‘But how?’ Menelaus asked.

‘Who can guess the will of the gods?’ she replied with a sob. ‘We were dedicating Telemachus here to Athena one moment, and the next Odysseus was rolling his eyes and talking nonsense. Now he’s ploughing this field with an ox and an ass, and sowing salt in the furrows.’

‘I’ve heard of Cadmus sowing serpent’s teeth,’ Agamemnon said. ‘But he was acting on the orders of Athena, and each one became an armed warrior. What can Odysseus expect to reap from a bag of salt?’

‘Nothing, sir. He’s mad, and the mad do as they please,’ Penelope answered.

‘But he was one of the cleverest men in Greece,’ Menelaus said, ruefully. ‘Why, of all the oath-takers, did Odysseus have to lose his mind?’

Palamedes rubbed his chin speculatively and looked over at the Ithacan king, who had reached the ridge and was already returning, dipping his hand in the bag of salt at his side and casting it with skilful flicks of his wrist over the dark earth.

‘Let’s not be too hasty to dismiss him, my lords. We should speak to him and see whether this sickness is temporary or more long-lasting. Here he comes now.’

They turned to look at Odysseus, who was whistling cheerfully as he sowed. His belt was stuffed with pine branches and he only wore one sandal; the other was tied by its thongs around his neck, and in it was the partly decomposed body of a squirrel. Agamemnon waited until he was almost at the end of the furrow before drawing back his red cloak and stepping forward, his armour flashing in the sun.

‘Odysseus!’

Odysseus stopped and looked at the king of Mycenae and his companions. An instant later his face was filled with recognition and joy, and he immediately ran towards them with open arms.

‘My lords!’ he cried.

‘See,’ Agamemnon said, turning and winking to his brother. ‘A momentary madness, brushed aside at the sight of his old friends.’

Suddenly Odysseus was on his knees before them and touching his forehead to the ground. Agamemnon’s look of satisfaction turned rapidly to consternation.

‘Get up, Odysseus,’ Menelaus said. ‘There’s no need to prostrate yourself like this, and you’re embarrassing us.’

Odysseus peered up at them from between his fingers. ‘But no mortal – even a king – can dare to look on the faces of Zeus and Poseidon and expect to live.’

‘Zeus and . . .’ stuttered Agamemnon. ‘Odysseus, stop this nonsense at once and get to your feet.’

‘As you wish, Father Zeus.’

‘Don’t you recognize us?’ Menelaus asked, genuine concern on his face. ‘Menelaus and Agamemnon? And Palamedes, who you met at Sparta.’

Odysseus looked at Palamedes and screwed his face up.

‘I don’t remember meeting any satyrs in Sparta. I’ve heard it said they’re the ugliest beasts a man could ever have the misfortune of setting eyes on, and now I know it’s true.’

‘Stop this blasphemy, Odysseus!’ Agamemnon commanded, checking Palamedes’s anger with a hand on his chest. ‘We’re mortal men, not gods.’

‘Of course, my lord. But why did you leave Mount Olympus to set foot on this humble rock, where I was king before my son took the throne from me?’

Agamemnon looked questioningly over his shoulder at Penelope, who shrugged forlornly and held Telemachus closer to her chest. Menelaus, now standing beside her, tapped his finger to his forehead and raised his eyebrows.

‘Have it your way, Odysseus. We come on a mission of the greatest importance: a crime has been committed against my brother – indeed, against the whole of Greece – that needs immediate retribution! A new enemy has raised his head, and if we don’t unite against him now then our wives, our families and our homes will never be safe again.’

Odysseus folded his arms and scratched his chin while focusing intently on Agamemnon’s right ear. ‘A new enemy, you say? Committing crimes against Greece?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you want my help?’

‘If you think you’re well enough,’ Menelaus added.

‘Never felt better, sir. But you’ll need an army! Every king from every city in the land must dust off his spear and shield – ornaments for too long – and call their subjects to arms.’

‘Yes, yes – exactly,’ Agamemnon enthused. ‘I knew you’d be the first to understand, Odysseus. How many men can you bring, and how quickly?’

Odysseus’s eyes lit up with a sudden fervour. He opened the mouth of his satchel and showed the salt to Agamemnon. ‘Thousands! Tens of thousands. But not until harvest time.’

‘Harvest!’ Agamemnon cried. ‘But that’s over half a year away.’

Odysseus looked at him as if he had gone mad. ‘Even you gods can’t hurry nature, my lord. I’ve only just sown them,’ he added, indicating the ploughed field with a sweep of his arm. ‘They won’t be full grown warriors until the late autumn. Why, they won’t even be boys for at least two months.’

‘By the name of every god on Olympus,’ said Menelaus, storming past his brother and seizing Odysseus by the shoulders. ‘Odysseus, I don’t know if there’s any part of the old you left in there, but you must listen to me. This is no joke – it’s important, urgent! We – I – need every bit of your fighting skill and your cunning. I’m at my wits’ end, Odysseus! It’s Helen. She’s been kidnapped and taken to Troy.’ Tears rolled down the king’s cheeks and fell in large droplets to the ground. ‘Being without her is destroying me. Unless you can shake off this madness and help my brother and me get her back, then I’ll be the one ploughing with an ox and an ass and throwing salt in the furrows.’

Odysseus looked at him for a long time, during which nobody spoke. Eventually, his eyes turned away to rest on Penelope.

‘I know what it’s like to love someone so much that you can’t bear to be apart from them. For that reason, Poseidon, I shall tend and water these crops every day until they’re ready. You’ll have your army by the summer, even if they’re only lads. And I’ll get back to the plough this instant – there are thousands more warriors in this bag and I need to get them sown before evening.’

He patted Menelaus’s arm sympathetically before sprinting as fast as his short legs would carry his ungainly bulk towards the waiting plough. As he reached the top of the ridge, he slipped the leather harness over his shoulders and picked up a long stick, which he applied to the backs of the two animals. The ass brayed angrily and immediately struggled against the yoke, whilst its slower companion took three more cracks of the stick and several shouts of ‘Hah! Hah!’ before it would agree to move. Though unhurried in its movements, its solid bulk prevented the ass from pulling away, and before long the plough was being dragged back down the slope with only Odysseus’s great strength keeping it straight. Every now and then he reached into his satchel and tossed a handful of salt over his shoulder.

‘By all the gods,’ Palamedes said suddenly, snapping his fingers. ‘Was one of the cleverest men in Greece, you say Menelaus? I think he still is; but he doesn’t fool me, and I’m going to prove he’s not mad.’

As the plough came nearer, they could hear Odysseus singing a popular farming song, the words of which he had twisted to a martial theme.

‘I sows ’em when it’s frosty,

The ground as hard as bronze,

I waters ’em when it’s sunny,

My beautiful warrior sons.

I reaps ’em in the summer,

’Cos foreign wars demand,

Then sends ’em in the autumn,

To die on foreign land.’

Suddenly, Palamedes turned to Penelope and snatched the baby from her arms. Rushing across the field, he laid the child before the oncoming hooves of the ox and ass, with the iron blade of the plough following behind. Telemachus, hearing the cries of his mother (who Agamemnon had seized and was holding fast), began to scream and kick. Odysseus threw his weight to the right and at the last possible moment steered the team past his son, the hooves of the ox trampling the ground beside his head. In an instant he had thrown off the harness and, abandoning the plough, picked up Telemachus to hold him in the protection of his arms.

Agamemnon released Penelope, who ran over and received the bundle from her husband. Odysseus then rushed at Palamedes with a terrible fire in his eyes, his insanity forgotten. Palamedes was so pleased with his own cleverness, he only realized his danger when Odysseus’s fist came swinging into the side of his skull. He stumbled backwards and fell into the ploughed soil.

As soon as Menelaus realized that Odysseus’s madness was feigned, he felt his own anger take hold of him and with a growl slid his sword from its scabbard. Eperitus, Arceisius and Eurybates, who had been watching the events from beneath the olive tree, drew their own swords and ran to protect their king.

‘Menelaus!’ Agamemnon shouted. The authority in his voice was so compelling that even Eperitus and Arceisius stopped and looked at the Mycenaean king. ‘Brother, put your sword away. Odysseus was only doing what he had to do for the sake of his family.’

Menelaus looked at his older brother and realized in a moment that he was speaking the truth. The anger drained from him and he slid his sword back into its scabbard.

‘Now then, Odysseus,’ Agamemnon continued. ‘My patience is at its end, so let’s have no more of this charade. Palamedes has outfoxed you, and you’ll just have to accept it. We’re forming an expedition of Greek kings to rescue Helen, so give us your answer: will you come with us to Troy?’

‘Why should he?’ Penelope interjected. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes dark with anger as she clutched Telemachus to her chest. ‘He’s not beholden to you, Agamemnon. He’s a king in his own right, and now he’s a father. Although I have every sympathy for you, Menelaus – Helen is my cousin and this news is like a dagger in my heart – you’ve no right to ask a man to leave his family and go to war on the other side of the world. Odysseus has every reason to stay on Ithaca, and every reason not to go on this expedition of yours.’

‘But Menelaus does have the right to ask Odysseus to come to Troy,’ Palamedes said, propping himself up on one elbow and rubbing his reddened cheek. ‘To demand that he comes, even. Isn’t that so, Odysseus?’

The Ithacan king placed his arm about his wife’s waist and kissed her on the cheek. He looked at the baby in her arms and touched the tip of his nose with his nail-bitten finger, smiling as the sight of his child momentarily eclipsed the troubles that were about to overtake him. Then, with a sigh, he turned to Penelope and looked her in the eye.

‘My love, he’s right. Ten years ago, those of us who wanted to marry Helen were made to take a secret pledge. Her father was so terrified her looks would cause a fight, I helped him out by suggesting a sacred oath.’

‘What oath, Odysseus?’

‘To protect the successful suitor and come to his aid if anyone threatened their marriage.’

Penelope looked away. ‘And as Menelaus was the successful suitor, you’re honour-bound to help him.’

‘I never dreamed my own ruse would come back to bite me,’ Odysseus said softly, stroking his wife’s hair. ‘But the moment I recognized Agamemnon’s sail I instinctively knew it had. If it was only a matter of honour, I wouldn’t care. But it’s not. It was an oath sworn before all the gods, and if I refuse Menelaus’s request I’ll be a cursed man; the immortals will make my life a misery, and yours too. My only hope was to feign madness so Menelaus wouldn’t call on me to honour my word, but I failed.’

‘I understand, Odysseus, and I don’t blame you for suggesting or taking this oath. But if the Trojans refuse to return Helen to Menelaus then it’ll mean war. You could be killed, and then Telemachus would grow up without ever having known his father.’

‘He won’t,’ Eperitus said. ‘Not if we can prevent it.’

‘And what can you do?’ Penelope asked, looking at Eperitus and his squire with scornful anger. ‘Aren’t you and Arceisius deserting him to go and make names for yourselves?’

Eperitus felt the sting of her words, but gave her the most reassuring smile he could muster. ‘We still intend to leave Ithaca in search of glory, my lady. But it looks as if Troy’s going to be the place to find it, so we’ll go there at Odysseus’s side.’

‘Besides,’ said the king, looking pleased as he slapped Eperitus and Arceisius on the shoulders, ‘I’ve no intention of releasing either of these rogues from my service. They need somebody responsible to keep them out of trouble.’

‘That’s the spirit I’m looking for,’ Agamemnon interrupted. ‘Eperitus, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, my lord,’ Eperitus answered, as Odysseus hooked a hand around Arceisius’s elbow and led him away. The last time Eperitus had seen Agamemnon was ten years before in Sparta, when the Mycenaean king was among a group of nobles who had sentenced him to death for assaulting Penelope in her bedroom.

‘I’m glad to see you escaped execution,’ Agamemnon continued. ‘Especially as Odysseus was the one in Penelope’s room that night.’

‘We worked that out for ourselves in the end,’ Menelaus said, putting a friendly arm about Eperitus’s shoulder. ‘And when we realized you’d offered your own life to save Odysseus’s, Eperitus, the shame that had been attached to your name was wiped away and replaced with honour. Don’t you agree, brother?’

Agamemnon turned his gaze on Eperitus and scrutinized the lowly warrior with his cold, passionless eyes for a long moment. Then the king’s face broke with a smile that was surprisingly warm and inviting as he took Eperitus’s hand.

‘Men of your quality are hard to come by,’ he announced. ‘With the likes of you and Odysseus with us at Troy, Priam will soon learn that his days are numbered. And I can tell you, as sure as any oracle, the honour you’ve already earned will be nothing compared with what the gods will heap on you in Ilium. I’ll be proud to have you at my side.’

Odysseus, who was busy unyoking the ass with Arceisius and Eurybates, looked over his shoulder at these words.

‘We don’t know there’ll even be a war yet, Agamemnon. The Trojans might still be persuaded to return Helen unharmed, which will save us all a lot of time and effort, not to mention further heartache for Menelaus.’

‘Satisfying my heartache is one thing,’ Menelaus growled. ‘Satisfying my anger will be quite a different matter altogether.’

Odysseus left the animal in Eurybates’s care. ‘That may be so, Menelaus,’ he said, ‘but wars need fleets and armies, and the time and wealth to bring them together. If you want Helen back, a peaceful solution is quickest and best. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I suggest we return to the palace, enjoy a few kraters of wine and a roast hog, and discuss what needs to be done.’

book

TWO

Chapter Ten

LEAVING ITHACA

The great hall was filled with conversation as the men seated around the burning hearth discussed the events of recent days. Only Eperitus remained silent, lost in thoughts and memories as his gaze wandered about the high-ceilinged chamber for what he mused might be the last time. He looked at the bright, active murals that ran the circuit of the lime-washed walls and recalled a time when the hall had been a dark and decrepit place, the plaster peeling away and the old frescoes lost beneath layers of smoke and grime. Odysseus had changed that. The walls had been replastered and new murals painted. These were kept clean by an army of slaves, and as Eperitus looked at them now they were almost as vivid and colourful as they had been when they were first laid down nine years before.

Most depicted wars of legend – between the gods and the giants on the north wall, the centaurs and lapiths on the west wall, and the gods and the Titans on the south wall. On the east wall, however, was the battle for the liberation of Ithaca. It was a celebration of Ithaca’s recent history and the achievements of its king, and for that reason was filled with careful detail. Even Eperitus was shown, leading the attack on the walls – or so he was told, as each figure looked the same to his eyes – while Odysseus was at the centre, an oversized figure fighting the Taphians inside the palace.

Eperitus, though quietly satisfied that his part in the battle had been so generously recognized, nevertheless felt embarrassed by the mural. His bullying and critical father had never allowed him to develop anything other than a modest image of his own value, and the resulting humility was unusual for a warrior. Ironically, it was also the fuel that fed his desire to prove himself.

He turned his eyes from the mural to the numerous alcoves in the walls, which housed clay statuettes of the different gods. They bore a variety of tokens and symbols that distinguished them from each other: Zeus held a thunderbolt, Poseidon his trident and Apollo his lyre; Hermes had his winged sandals and carried the caduceus, while Hephaistos, the smith-god, held aloft his hammer as if ready to strike; Ares and Athena were both armed with helmet, shield and spear, and Artemis the huntress had her bow and quiver; the flowering branch of a chaste tree was held by Hestia, and a head of corn by Demeter; the naked figure of Aphrodite held a dove in both hands, and finally Hera, the wife of Zeus, was depicted offering an apple. Eperitus felt as if their stern eyes were fixed on him in judgement and turned his face up to the pine-beamed ceiling, where a deep-blue firmament was filled with celestial bodies, clearly picked out in gold and silver as they circled the vent in the centre. Even the crimson of the four soaring pillars that supported the roof was hardly dimmed by the trail of smoke that filtered slowly upwards from the hearth.

An increase in the clamour of voices brought Eperitus’s gaze back down to the other members of the Kerosia, the council of the king’s advisers. Opposite him was Eupeithes, the former traitor who had been placated with the position of counsellor for trade. He was a fat man with thin, dangling limbs that made him look like a beetle. His ageing head was completely bald, but for a wisp of grey hair above each ear, and his skin was pale and covered with moles. Though defeated and pardoned by Odysseus, his face showed little humility; instead he wore the arrogant, self-assured look of a wealthy man who felt his opinion was superior to all others.

He was holding a discussion with Eurylochus, who Odysseus had made a member of the Kerosia to placate him after Eperitus was given the captaincy of the royal guard. In Eperitus’s opinion, Eurylochus was a fool and his worthless contributions were a waste of the council’s time, but the king always gave the impression that he valued his cousin’s viewpoint.

On Eurylochus’s right was the oldest member of the Kerosia, Phronius, a figure so bent with age that the carved back of his chair was visible as he leaned forward on his stick. Next to him was Halitherses, who had been captain of the guard for many years during Laertes’s reign. The wounds he received fighting the Taphians had forced him to resign the post, though he remained a tall, heavily built figure with an imposing presence. Between him and Eperitus sat Mentor, Odysseus’s boyhood friend who had lost his left hand to a Taphian sword.

Other than the king and Laertes, only one other member of the council was missing: Penelope. When Eperitus had first attended an Ithacan Kerosia ten years before, he had been shocked that Anticleia, Odysseus’s mother, had been allowed to partake in the debate. It was strange in the extreme for a woman to discuss politics with men, but Eperitus had soon learned that Ithaca was a kingdom of strange customs and ideas. So when Odysseus succeeded his father as king he was not surprised that Penelope took Anticleia’s place on the council, where her abundant wisdom quickly made its mark. But there were traditionalists on Ithaca, too: as a mother Penelope was now expected to turn her attentions from politics to Telemachus, the future king. Ever wise to the opinions of her subjects, she had temporarily excused herself from attending the Kerosia, much to Eperitus’s disappointment.

Phronius, Mentor and Halitherses were having a heated discussion about the number of men they could afford to send to Troy, and how many should be left behind for the defence of the island.

‘Over two thousand men answered the call to arms,’ Mentor said, ‘of which the king’s taking eight hundred.’

‘And they’re all fools,’ Phronius croaked, the feathery white strands of his moustache puffing out as he spoke. ‘This ain’t no local scrap with some boneheads from the mainland. It’s a full-scale war on the far side of the civilized world – if you can call Ilium civilized. Any man who sails today won’t be seen again in these islands for at least a year – you can count on that. So I say the same now as I said when I first heard mention of this so-called expedition: Odysseus should take sixty good men in a single ship and be done with it. That’s more than he needs to do to fulfil this cursed oath, and it’ll leave the islands well-enough manned for their own protection, not to speak of the day-to-day business of farming and fishing and so on.’

‘That’s as may be,’ said Halitherses, ‘but it won’t be the way Odysseus sees it. If I know him at all, and I know him better than you do Phronius, he’ll want to show Ithaca in the best light possible. We may not be a rich or powerful kingdom, but we’ve come a long way since Laertes’s day. Just look at this hall, for example, or the number of slaves and guards there are now compared with ten years ago. If the other kings are bringing large numbers of ships and warriors, as Agamemnon says, then Odysseus won’t make Ithaca a laughing stock by turning up with a mere boatful of soldiers. He’s leaving more than enough men at home for Ithaca to take care of itself, though if he could’ve begged and borrowed more than a dozen ships I’m sure he’d have taken as many as could fit in their black hulls.’

‘It’s more than just a matter of pride,’ Mentor added. ‘Odysseus may be a king, but he’s a husband and father first. His heart is here with Penelope and Telemachus, and he wants to get this war over as quickly as possible so he can come back to his family. The more men he takes, the bigger the Greek army and the better the chance of a speedy victory.’

‘Whatever the reason, I’m just glad he’s taking a good number of men with him,’ said Halitherses. ‘I wouldn’t want to think of Odysseus facing a Trojan army with just a handful of Ithacans around him, no matter how many other Greeks there might be. At least his own people will stick by him if things get rough. And Eperitus’ll see that he comes home safe – won’t you, Eperitus?’

Eperitus, who had been watching the flames twitching in the hearth, looked up.

‘Aren’t you forgetting something, Halitherses? You were there when the Pythoness spoke her words of doom. Haven’t you given any mind to what she said?’

‘Of course I have!’ Halitherses hissed, lowering his voice. ‘And I mean to remind Odysseus of it, too . . .’

Before he could say any more, the door at the back of the great hall opened and Odysseus entered with his father. They were followed by slaves bearing tables laden with bread and cold meat, which they hurriedly placed around the circular hearth before retreating into the shadows. More slaves brought kraters of mixed wine for the members of the Kerosia as they stood for their king. Finally, a troop of four fully armed soldiers entered and stood guard at the door, which they closed behind them with a bang.

Odysseus took two kraters from a slave, handed one to his father, then approached the hearth and poured a libation into the flames. The others did the same, uttering quiet prayers as each slop of wine was welcomed with a hiss. Then Odysseus retreated to the granite throne and sat on the embroidered cushion that had been placed there by one of the slaves. Taking a tall staff of dark wood from another slave, he signalled for the others to return to their seats.

Laertes lowered himself into the vacant chair beside Eperitus, releasing a pained sigh as his joints bent to accommodate the simple movement. He turned his rheumy eyes on the captain of the guard for a lingering moment, then passed his gaze one by one to the other members of the Kerosia. When, finally, it was the turn of Eupeithes, his eyes narrowed and his stare remained fixed on the fat merchant. Eupeithes, however, had become used to this treatment some years ago and had learned to simply ignore it.

Odysseus leaned back into the throne and faced the council. Two large, grey dolphins decorated the wall behind him, their bodies arced over his shoulders and their noses almost touching. Odysseus had adopted the creature for his coat of arms long before he had become king, but now the image was found all through the palace and even on the sails of the ships that were waiting in the harbour below the town, ready for the long voyage to Troy.

‘Agamemnon has been sighted coming up from the south,’ he announced. ‘He promised us a fortnight to prepare our forces, and that’s exactly what we’ve had – there can be no further delay. Have the men who were chosen arrived, Eurylochus?’

‘Yes, cousin, and many more besides. Most have come pleading to join the expedition, and some have even offered money to the lucky few to take their places. Several others were caught trying to stow themselves away on the ships. We were forced to drag them off and there were more than a few quarrels about it.’

‘Their enthusiasm encourages me,’ Odysseus said, though there was little sign of it in his face.

‘Their spirits may be willing,’ Phronius grunted, ‘but any lunatic can rush off to war if they’ve never raised a spear in anger. I want to know what the abilities are of the men you’ve picked. How many of them have seen battle? What training have they had? Can they fight as a unit? These are the sorts of question we need to ask now if any of them are to come back.’

Eperitus stood and received the staff from Odysseus.

‘You’re right to ask these questions, Phronius. You saw your fair share of fighting when you were our age and you know what it can do to a warrior. But I’ll be honest with you: most of these men are untrained and almost none have seen battle. I can vouch for the two hundred men that are being released from the guard, of course – Halitherses and I have trained them hard over the years, and they’re fit and well used to working together as a unit. About a quarter have seen combat, too: the men who came with us to Samos recently, and those who fought to liberate Ithaca years ago from the Taphian invaders. But we chose the eight hundred as much for their fitness, strength, courage and willingness to fight, and I have complete faith that they will not let Odysseus down.’

Eurylochus stood and looked at the captain of the guard with contempt. ‘No more than a dozen have ever been in a real battle,’ he sneered. ‘And only the guards have had any formal military training, or know how to manoeuvre as a disciplined unit. The rest will be a shambles if they go to war. They barely know how to use their weapons, let alone how to work together as an army.’

‘That’ll be taken care of,’ Eperitus responded, ignoring Eurylochus and facing the other members of the council. ‘We’ve already started giving the volunteers rudimentary weapons training and teaching them a few moves and basic tactics. There’s been no time to make them into warriors or a functioning army, but Odysseus and I have worked out a proper training schedule, which we’ll have enough time to implement when we reach Aulis.’

‘Aulis?’ asked Mentor.

‘It’s a sheltered bay in the Euboean straits,’ Odysseus answered. ‘Agamemnon has made it the muster point for the Greek fleet. We’ll be there for weeks or even months while we wait for latecomers and make the proper preparations for war. Before we even think of sailing for Troy, the kings will need to agree on a leader for the expedition – which will almost certainly be Agamemnon – and then decide on strategies, tactics, reserves, supplies and so on.’

‘As far as our own army is concerned, you can leave the problem of supply with me,’ said Eupeithes, standing and sweeping his yellow cloak over his shoulder with a flourish. He received the speaker’s staff from Eperitus and turned to look at the members of the Kerosia. ‘In fact I’ve already made arrangements for corn to be shipped from Dulichium and wine from Samos – and all at a reasonable discount, considering the cause is a patriotic one. As for the army’s other needs – clothing, replacement weaponry, not to mention lesser trifles such as pots, pans, bedding, and so on – I’ve discussed this with local merchants and we’ve agreed . . .’

‘Sit down, you fat fool,’ Laertes interrupted, glaring contemptuously at his old enemy. ‘Don’t you know Agamemnon and Menelaus have offered to provision the whole Greek army?’

‘But . . . But nobody told . . .’

‘Oh stop stammering and get back to your seat,’ Laertes snapped, walking around the hearth and snatching the staff from Eupeithes’s hand. ‘Now, this is the question I want to ask: what about the Trojans? We know the Greeks should be able to provide a large army – if the oath is honoured and each king brings his fair share of soldiers – and that a good core should be well trained, properly equipped and experienced, but what do we know about the enemy? Well, when I was the king of Ithaca I wasn’t as idle or ignorant as some of my subjects thought,’ Laertes glared at Eupeithes, ‘so I’ll tell you what I know. Priam, they say, is a womanizer with more brains in his penis than his head, but he has – or at least he had – a particular son who effectively rules in his stead. His name is Hector, a violent brute of a man with a sharp mind when it comes to fighting. He rules over an empire of vassal states and allied cities, which he keeps on a tight rein through the ruthless application of violence and fear. The Trojan army is considerable in size and battle-hardened through its unending border wars, and they can call on large numbers of warriors from the rest of the empire. These foreigners breed like dogs, so even with the whole of Greece against them they’ll easily be able to match us man for man. I can’t speak for their quality, but when a man is defending his home and knows the only thing between a vicious enemy and his wife and children is his spear, he will fight twice as hard as any invader.

‘What’s more,’ Laertes continued, turning his calm, knowing eyes on Odysseus, ‘the Trojans boast that the walls of their city were built by Apollo and Poseidon. They’re impenetrable. Even if you defeat their walls of flesh and blood, my son, you won’t pass their walls of stone. As I see it, if you go on this mission to Troy then it’ll be many years before you see the halls of your own palace again – if at all.’

At this point, Halitherses stood and moved towards Laertes, who gave him the speaker’s staff and returned to his seat.

‘Odysseus,’ Halitherses began, ‘your father speaks with the wisdom of a god. As soon as I heard of this proposed mission to rescue Helen – the moment I learned she was being held in Troy – my heart sank. Did you think I’d forgotten Mount Parnassus and the oracle the Pythoness gave you? Indeed, could any man forget the sight of that poor girl, transformed as she was with the face and tongue of a serpent, speaking those fateful words? It’s always been kept a secret between those of us who were there – you, Eperitus, Antiphus and I – but now the time has come to share it with the Kerosia. Give me leave to reveal what she said, so that the council will know the doom that awaits you.’

Odysseus looked pensively at the old soldier, then gave a quiet nod of his head. Halitherses turned to the others and, in a slow voice, began to repeat the words of the priestess.

‘“Find a daughter of Lacedaemon and she will keep the thieves from your house. 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.”’

As he spoke the flames in the hearth sputtered and threatened to fail altogether, while the shadows about the hall multiplied and grew darker. A silence fell and it was only after the last words had died away that the fire began to spit and crackle again, and the fidgeting of the slaves could be heard once more in the background.

‘It doesn’t seem like any choice at all to me,’ said Mentor. ‘Stay at home and be cursed by the gods for breaking an oath, or go to Troy and be doomed not to return home for two decades.’

‘Which is why I say Odysseus should abandon this expedition and risk the fury of the Olympians,’ Halitherses replied. ‘The alternative is unthinkable.’

‘Don’t be foolish, Halitherses,’ Odysseus admonished him. ‘If anything in this life is certain, it’s the vengefulness of the gods. We live by their blessing and provision, and suffer through their anger or fickle moods. No, I wouldn’t willingly incur their wrath for anything – even when the alternative is being sentenced to twenty years at the other end of the world, away from my home and family. But there is still hope! The force Agamemnon is gathering is powerful indeed: Diomedes will be there; both the Ajaxes; Idomeneus of Crete; Menestheus of Athens; Nestor the famous charioteer. Even Achilles is to be asked.’

‘Hope!’ Phronius exclaimed, his voice cracking with disbelief. ‘Hope? An oracle is the will of the gods, Odysseus – there can be no hope.’

‘Then let me reveal another secret,’ the king retorted. ‘Ten years ago the Kerosia – yourself included, Phronius – sent me on a mission to compete with the best men in Greece for the hand of Helen. The odds were against me, but that has never stopped me from taking up a challenge. Then, before I had even reached Sparta, Athena herself told me that Helen was to be given to Menelaus. I believed her, of course, because the will of the gods cannot be changed by mortal action. Or that was what I had always believed. But then Helen offered herself to me, and her father was prepared to honour her wish.’

‘What’s that?’ Laertes said, sitting up. ‘If Helen offered herself to you, why didn’t you take the chance and be sure of saving Ithaca?’

‘If I had, then perhaps this expedition to Troy would have been for my sake instead of Menelaus’s! As it is, I fell in love with Penelope instead and after that there was no question of marrying Helen. But my point is this: a goddess had told me that Helen was to be given to Menelaus, and yet it was within my power to make her mine. Do you understand? For a moment my destiny was in my own hands – not the hands of the gods or of anyone else, just mine. And if it was the case then, it can be the same now. I intend to fight this war as if that oracle had never been uttered. I’m going to use every bit of my cunning to finish it quickly, and if I have to I’ll scrap like a cur until Troy lies in ruins and our black-hulled ships are speeding back home to Ithaca.’

At that moment, the guards stood aside and a soldier entered the great hall, his footsteps echoing from the walls as he marched up to the king.

‘What is it?’ Odysseus asked.

‘Agamemnon, Menelaus and Palamedes have arrived, my lord. Their ship was moving into the harbour as I left to report.’

The king stood as the soldier left and, belatedly, received the staff from Halitherses’s hand.

‘This has been a difficult meeting and some things have been revealed that I would rather have remained secret. But there is hope, whatever Phronius says – maybe not of a swift victory, but we shouldn’t dismiss the power of a united Greece to win this war in good time. It only remains for me to propose that Mentor takes charge of Ithaca until my return, deferring only to my father’s experience and Penelope’s wisdom. I have also asked Eperitus to be my second-in-command, a role that befits his position as captain of the guard and my friend. Are you in agreement?’

The members of the Kerosia – with the exception of Eurylochus – nodded, and the slaves began clearing away the tables and their untouched food. Odysseus signalled for Eperitus to join him, but before he could say a word to the captain of his guard Halitherses approached with a concerned look on his old face.

‘Odysseus,’ he said, ‘Eperitus told me he offered to lead the army in your place, but that you insisted on going.’

The king nodded.

‘Well, I’m your friend and you trust me,’ Halitherses continued. ‘Although your optimism in the face of the gods is admirable, don’t forget Helen did marry Menelaus, whatever opportunities came your way. And my instincts are against you going to this war. Why don’t you accept Eperitus’s offer?’

Odysseus placed a hand on the old warrior’s shoulder and looked him in the eye.

‘Because I don’t really have that choice, Halitherses. I was the one who took the oath, not Eperitus. Besides, I may not be as accomplished a fighter as Achilles, Diomedes or the greater Ajax, but I have more brains than the rest of them rolled up together. I’ll think of a way to shorten this war when all their brawn and fighting skill fails, and when I come back home to my family in a couple of years the honour for the victory will be mine. I’ll prove the oracle wrong yet, old friend.’

Halitherses embraced Odysseus and Eperitus briefly, the tears flowing openly down his cheeks as he bade them farewell. Phronius followed, silently taking the hands of both men before shuffling away, stooped over his stick. Eupeithes, in his usual aloof manner, shook the king’s hand and wished him well.

‘The last time you led an armed mission overseas,’ he added in a quiet voice, ‘a certain rich fool used the opportunity to seize the throne. Well, you’ve proved yourself a just and merciful king and I want you to know that rich fool has learned from his errors – he won’t be making the same mistake again. That’s all I wanted to say, Odysseus. Goodbye.’

He bowed low, then with a brief nod to Eperitus was gone.

‘What was that all about?’ asked Laertes after his nemesis had left.

‘I believe that was the first heart-felt apology Eupeithes has ever offered me,’ Odysseus answered. ‘Will you and mother be coming to watch the fleet disembark?’

‘Fleet?’ Laertes scoffed. ‘That’s a very grand expression for a dozen ancient galleys pulled together at the last moment. If your Taphian friend Mentes hadn’t offered to sell us six of his ships, half of the army would have been sailing in merchant vessels. Even now I doubt you’ll make it to Aulis, let alone Troy.’

‘Well, that would be one way to avoid my doom,’ Odysseus replied, sardonically. ‘But on the assumption the fleet makes it out of the harbour, will you and mother be there to see us off?’

‘She said her goodbyes to you last night, Odysseus, and won’t say them again. She already believes she’s seen you for the last time, so I don’t know how she’ll take this oracle you’ve been keeping secret all these years.’

‘She’ll see me again, I know it,’ Odysseus said firmly. ‘And what about you father? Will you come to the harbour?’

Laertes took his son’s hand. ‘I don’t like crowds, so I’ll say farewell here. Look after yourself and come back as quickly as you can. Mentor and I will take good care of Penelope and Telemachus for you.’

With that, he turned his pale, watery eyes away and departed, leaving only Eperitus, Eurylochus and Mentor with the king. Odysseus took a last look around the hall he had known so well for all of his life, then turned and left.

The changeable weather had brought a sky full of grey cloud to cover the departure of the Ithacan fleet. Odysseus marched out of the palace gates with his three companions to a loud cheer from the waiting army and the crowds of Ithacans who had come to see them off to war. He waved his hand in acknowledgement and looked at the hundreds of faces. The soldiers stared back with something close to adoration, all of them eager to risk their lives for a war not of their making, in a foreign land none of them had ever seen. Each man wore a chelonion flower tucked into his belt or in a joint of his armour, to act as a reminder of their homeland. Odysseus knew almost all of them by sight and many by name, even amongst those who had come from the furthest corners of his small kingdom. As he stood before them, a wave of nervous energy burst through his stomach and filled him with a feeling of nausea. Every moment of the past two weeks had been consumed by preparation for the great expedition, but now he was finally able to understand that he was leaving his beloved homeland for a faraway country, unable to say when – or if-he or any of his men would return.

At that moment, a bark erupted from the crowd and Argus came bounding towards him.

‘Hello, boy,’ he said, bending down and patting the puppy vigorously as it licked his beard. ‘I was wondering where you’d got to. Thought perhaps you didn’t want to see me off.

Argus barked and wagged his tail.

‘I’m sure you’d love to come along for the voyage, youngster,’ Odysseus said, holding the dog’s face in his hands and looking into his eyes. ‘And you’d be better company than most. But a ship’s no place for a dog, and neither is a battlefield. Mentor’s going to look after you until I come back.’

‘That’s right, boy,’ said Mentor, bending down to pat Argus’s head. ‘We’re being left at home while Odysseus and Eperitus go to reap all the glory. But at least we can hunt a few boar while they’re away, eh?’

Odysseus grinned at his old friend, then turned to Eperitus.

‘Time to divide the men into their units,’ he said.

Eperitus nodded and stepped forward. ‘Form up by your commanders,’ he shouted, his voice rebounding off the walls and houses.

Suddenly the hum of conversation grew louder and more urgent as the men hurriedly kissed their loved ones goodbye and gathered their arms and belongings about them. This was followed by a disorderly stampede of warriors searching to find their nominated commanders, who in their turn were calling out their own names so that their men would be able to find them in the chaos.

‘You’ll have your work cut out getting this lot into shape,’ Odysseus said in a low voice that only Eperitus could hear.

‘We’ll manage it,’ Eperitus replied.

As he was the commander of Odysseus’s ship, large numbers of men were now emerging from the mayhem and making their way towards Eperitus. They included the hand-picked warriors of Odysseus’s personal bodyguard, Antiphus, Eurybates and the titanic figure of Polites among them. Arceisius was also with them, grinning in anticipation of his first great adventure.

‘This is quite a rabble you’ve got here, Eperitus,’ Antiphus sighed, looking about at the chaotic assembly.

‘Anything we can do to help?’ asked Eurybates.

‘Yes. Organize our lot into ten rows of twelve, get rid of the women and make sure we haven’t gained any stragglers,’ Eperitus ordered firmly.

An instant later the old soldiers of the guard were barking commands and using the shafts of their spears to chase people into, or out of, the orderly ranks their captain had requested.

‘Having trouble with your army, Odysseus?’

Odysseus turned to see Agamemnon standing behind him. Menelaus and Palamedes stood on either side of the Mycenaean king and an escort of a dozen well-armed men stood watchfully at their shoulders.

‘If you’re in a hurry, gentlemen,’ Odysseus said, shaking the hands of the two brothers, though pointedly avoiding the hand offered by Palamedes, ‘I can send them back to their homes and just take the one ship.’

He pointed to Eperitus’s unit who, though still lacking a few men, were standing in orderly rows.

‘We can wait,’ Agamemnon replied, clearly enjoying the sight of hundreds of armed men running around with little semblance of order. ‘I’m sure that once your men separate themselves from their families they’ll make a fine body of men. Unless, that is, the women and children are coming too.’

Odysseus gave a tired smile and shook his head. ‘Not yet. Now, if you’ll forgive me, I have to say goodbye to my own family. Eperitus, get the men down to their ships a unit at a time, with ours last.’

Eperitus watched the king stride back through the palace gates with Argus barking at his ankles. Odysseus was about to face one of the hardest challenges of his life, but this time there was nothing Eperitus could do to help him.

Actoris gave Telemachus to his father and stepped back.

‘Such a shame,’ she tutted as Odysseus bent to kiss the child on his warm, red cheek. ‘Such a shame. I hope this war doesn’t last long, my lord, or you won’t hear his first words or see him learn to crawl.’

‘Don’t make matters worse, Actoris,’ said Penelope, her voice strained. ‘Leave us now, and take Telemachus with you.’

Odysseus pressed a final kiss on the baby’s forehead before passing him into the old nursemaid’s waiting arms.

‘Go with Telemachus, boy,’ Odysseus ordered, looking down at Argus. ‘Guard him until I return.’

He barked once and promptly followed Actoris out of the room, trotting along beside her with his head craned up at the white bundle in her arms. Odysseus watched them go, then shut the double doors behind them and walked over to the bed in the middle of the room. Each post had a thick girth and was inlaid with patterns of gold, silver and ivory that twisted and turned all the way up to the ceiling.

‘Do you remember when I made this bed?’ he said, sliding his palm like a plane over the smooth surface of one of the posts.

Penelope smiled and sat on the pile of furs that covered the thick straw mattress. ‘Of course I do. You refused to sleep with me for two weeks until you’d finished it.’

‘Ah, but it was worth the wait.’

Penelope lay back on the bed, her long, dark hair spreading over the light-coloured fleece like a fan. ‘Yes, I couldn’t forget that either.’

‘I made this post from the bole of a living olive tree,’ Odysseus continued. ‘The others I just cut to size and fitted, but this one was from the tree that used to stand here before I built this part of the palace. Its roots still run beneath the bed we’ve shared for ten years – the best ten years of my life, Penelope.’

‘Will you be away long, Odysseus? The talk among the slaves is that the expedition will take over a year – it’s an awfully long time to be apart from you.’

‘Who can say for certain?’ Odysseus mused, sitting beside his wife and placing his hand on her warm stomach. ‘The Trojans might give Helen back the moment they see our fleet anchored off their shores, or they might decide to fight it out. But I promise you I’ll do everything I can to bring this quarrel to a quick end, even if I have to give up eternal glory and all the plunder in Priam’s treasury to achieve it. There’s nowhere I want to be more than back here with you and our son.’

‘I know,’ Penelope said, reaching up and touching his face. ‘But I’m going to miss you however long you’re gone. It’ll be lonely without you.’

‘Don’t say that. There are many people here who love you dearly, and you’ll have Telemachus to look after. Besides, the war may not happen at all, and if it does victory should be swift.’

‘Only the gods can say how and when it will end,’ Penelope replied, sitting up. ‘But I know this much, Odysseus: the Greeks won’t succeed without you. Your intelligence and courage are already well known, but this war is going to reveal the true greatness that I know is hidden within you. I want nothing more than for you to be here, in this bed with me every night, but your potential can never be realized on this forgotten collection of rocks at the world’s edge. So go to Troy and fulfil your oath, and let everyone see the kind of man you really are.’

She stood and took Odysseus’s hands in hers, pulling him to his feet.

‘The time is nearly upon us,’ she said, her voice low to hide the emotion that was welling up inside her. ‘But before you go, husband, I want you to have something to remember me by.’

She led him by the hand from the bedroom to the older part of the palace. There were no slaves in any of the corridors – everybody was outside, seeing Ithaca’s army off to war – and soon they were alone in a torch-lit storeroom that smelled of wine and old leather.

‘Here,’ she said, taking a heap of cloth from a table and unfolding it. ‘It’s a double cloak. I made it myself.’

Odysseus unclipped his worn-out old cloak and let it fall to the dirt floor, then took the garment from his wife’s hands and swung it over his shoulders. Even in the weak torchlight, the purple wool had a silvery sheen like the skin of a dried onion. The fine material felt soft and smooth on his upper arms, and despite its extra thickness was light and moved freely.

As he admired the feel of it, Penelope stepped up and fastened it over his left shoulder with a golden brooch. Odysseus looked down at it, but could not make out the design in the gloom.

‘What does it show?’ he asked.

‘A dog killing a faun,’ Penelope answered, putting her hands behind his neck and kissing him tenderly on the lips. ‘I thought it suited you; it’s like the motif on Agamemnon’s sail, but more restrained. You’re a greater king than he is, Odysseus, though your strength is more subtle.’

‘I’ll need subtlety if I’m to make my mark on this adventure. You remember the sort of men who paid court to Helen – powerful, rich, great warriors to a man. What am I compared to them? The only advantage I have is up here.’ He tapped his head with his forefinger.

‘Just make sure you use your brains to bring the rest of you back safely,’ Penelope said, throwing her arms about his broad chest and leaning her head on his shoulder. ‘I’ve heard terrible things about these Trojans, Odysseus. Is it true they’re battle-hardened and show their enemies no mercy?’

Odysseus thought of his father’s words to the Kerosia, as well as the things he had heard said at the failed council of war held by Agamemnon ten years earlier.

‘They’re good soldiers, I’m told – skilled with the spear, the bow and the chariot. Many Greeks will meet their deaths in Ilium, and I can’t promise you I won’t be one of them – that’s for the gods to decide. But I’m no weakling, either, and there won’t be many Trojans who can better me on the battlefield. If I die, though, or if I’m not home by the time Telemachus is old enough to take the throne for himself, then you must marry whoever you choose and start again. I don’t want you to be lonely, Penelope.’

She opened her mouth to speak, but he placed a finger against her lips.

‘Now I must go,’ he said, kissing her on the forehead and holding her close. ‘Look after my father and mother while I’m gone – they love you very much. And take good care of Telemachus. I’ve left him the horn bow that Iphitus gave me – it’s in its box, hanging from a peg in the armoury. When he’s able to string it, you can tell him he’s old enough to be king in my place.’

‘You’ll be back long before then,’ Penelope replied, then hid her face in her hands as the hot tears stung her eyes.

She felt Odysseus touch her hair with his large, gentle fingers, but when she opened her eyes again he was gone.

When Odysseus returned to the terrace, his newly donned armour gleaming in the grey light, most of the army had moved down to the harbour. The majority of the crowd had gone with them and the hubbub of their conversation could still be heard drifting up from the bay and over the wooded ridge to the town. Only the sixty men of the king’s own ship remained, standing in rows awaiting his return. At their head were Eperitus and Mentor, talking to Omeros.

‘Let’s move,’ Odysseus said, striding up to them. ‘If I don’t go now I might never leave at all. What are you doing here, Omeros?’

‘He was caught hiding in a grain sack on one of the ships,’ Eperitus explained. ‘Apparently, he wants to come with us to Troy so he can experience war for himself and compose a song about our exploits.’

‘Does he, now?’ Odysseus asked. Then, sliding his sword from its scabbard, he turned and presented the handle to the angry-looking bard. ‘I admire your spirit, lad – it’s worthy of a true Ithacan, so I’ll do you a deal. If you can strike any one of us – Eperitus, Mentor or me – with the flat of this sword, I’ll take you with us. Fair?’

Omeros, his surly expression lightening a little, nodded silently and held his hand out for the sword. Odysseus laid the handle gently in the boy’s palm, then let go.

The point fell straight into the dirt. Omeros placed both hands on the hilt and with all his strength was only able to lift the sword level with his knees, before dropping it again. Odysseus took the weapon out of his hands as if it weighed no more than a piece of driftwood, then slid it back into its scabbard.

‘A warrior carries a sword, two spears and a shield made with at least four ox-hides sewn one on top of the other. He also has his breastplate, helmet and greaves. Without any one of these, Omeros, his chances in battle are reduced. He must be able to cast his ash spear as far as the palace wall is from us now, with enough power to drive the point through several layers of leather or bronze. Once his spears are used he must draw his sword and with one hand – the other is holding his shield, don’t forget – fight his enemies to the death. All this with the sun on his back, the sweat in his eyes and the strength draining from his muscles with every passing moment. I’m not telling you this to humiliate you, Omeros, just to make you understand why you’re not yet ready to come with us. If all a soldier needed was a stubborn will and a courageous spirit, I’d put you back in that grain sack myself. But it’s not like that, son.’

‘No, sir,’ Omeros replied. ‘But I can still sing for you. They say all the other kings have their own bards.’

‘Terpius can sing well enough for my liking. And I know you think the man’s an artless buffoon,’ Odysseus added quickly as Omeros’s mouth opened to protest, ‘but he has the advantage of being a grown man who can throw a spear as well as anyone in Ithaca. Now, I won’t argue about it any more – go back into the palace and sing something cheerful for my wife. I think she’d like that.’

Omeros, his head lowered, trudged back to the palace.

‘You’d better go, too, Mentor,’ Odysseus continued. ‘I’m going to miss your counsel, but at least I can feel at peace while I’m away if I know you’re running things here.’

He embraced his boyhood friend, then after sweeping the familiar town and the palace one last time with his eyes, he turned and led his men down the road towards the harbour.

Chapter Eleven

REGRETS AND HOPES

Helen sat in the soft, thick grass and looked across the bay towards the horizon. The sun was nearing the end of another day’s journey, and in its final, magnificent moments the skies above were transformed into brilliant bands of magenta, orange, gold and indigo. As the shimmering orb dipped into the waters at the furthest edge of the world its reflection stabbed out like the head of a bronze spear, reaching the Trojan galley anchored at the broad mouth of the bay so that the ship’s black silhouette seemed to be floating on a sea of yellow fire.

It was from these waters, off the western coast of Cyprus, that Aphrodite had been born. The legends told how the Titan Cronos castrated his father, Uranos, and cast his genitals into the sea. Aphrodite emerged from the foam they created and came ashore at Paphos, possibly even on the same crescent of beach that sloped away before Helen now.

Helen closed her eyes and rested her forehead on her raised knees.

‘Goddess, my beloved Lady Aphrodite, have I ever failed to make pleasing sacrifices at your temple in Sparta, burning fat-covered thighs on the altar as the gods prefer? Since I was a small girl, haven’t I always honoured you above the other Olympians? And yet, how have you rewarded my devotion? With disdain!’ Helen sniffed and wiped an angry tear from her cheek. ‘The beauty you gave me has been nothing but a curse. It’s made me a prize for men to drool and compete over, and yet all it has ever brought me was marriage to Menelaus. Were you punishing me, my lady, or just mocking me? And the only things of worth to come from our wedlock, my beautiful children, have been taken from me in the cruellest manner – by my own choice. Only Pleisthenes was allowed to escape with me, and only then because his little, crippled form would be a foil to my own perfection. Why couldn’t you have crippled me instead and spared him?’

She paused for a moment, sensing that the sun had finally disappeared below the horizon. A cool breeze drifted up from the sea, fanning her long feet and bare shins.

‘And what is this choice I’ve made? Paris and I haven’t even become lovers yet; we’ve sailed from one place to another – Egypt, Phoenicia and now Cyprus – and though I know I love him and he loves me, we’ve shared nothing more adulterous than a kiss. I know why. My mind has dwelt too long on what I’ve left behind: Hermione, Aethiolas and Maraphius; a safe and familiar home; even Menelaus’s devotion and tenderness. And all that lies ahead are an unknown future with a strange man in a foreign city. Will his family and the people of Troy love me, or will they despise me if war and suffering follow in my wake? Will even Paris continue to love me, or will he tire of my fine looks and abandon me? Worse still, will he return me to Menelaus, an unfaithful and despised wife? Oh, why did you make me fall in love, turning my mind so that I deserted a loving husband and my beautiful children? I should have been a follower of Artemis or Athena instead!’

‘Could anything be as dull as worshipping those old maids?’

Startled, Helen looked up and saw an ancient crone standing on the beach before her. She was dressed in a collection of brown rags that covered her from head to foot, leaving only her wizened, toothless face exposed. Her back was bent almost double and her leathery fingers were twisted about clumps of seaweed that hung down to the sand. Helen’s faultless features soured in revulsion at the woman’s appearance.

‘You shouldn’t eavesdrop on a person’s private prayers, old hag.’

‘Prayers is said to be heard, so they say. I might as well hear yours as anyone else.’

‘Why would I pray to you?’ Helen frowned. ‘You can’t answer prayers.’

‘It sounds to me like your prayers aren’t being answered anyway.’

‘How long have you been listening to me?’

To Helen’s disgust, the old woman began shambling up the sand towards her.

‘Longer than you might think, my young beauty,’ she said, sitting on the grass beside her. ‘Much longer than you might think. Now, tell me about this young man – this Paris.’

‘I’m not going to discuss Paris with an old sea-wife who stinks of brine and . . . and stale piss!’

The crone smiled and her eyes almost disappeared beneath a mass of brown wrinkles. ‘Then I’ll tell you something about him, my dear. Paris’s passion has always been for fighting, and his loyalty has always been to Troy. But deep down he boils with a desire to be wanted – to be loved! He was rejected as a child, you see, and that has never left him, even if his warrior’s self-discipline has helped him to control his emotions. But now you’ve entered his life and left him confused. You’ve torn him in half.’

‘How do you know these things?’ Helen interrupted, her revulsion momentarily forgotten.

‘I know men, my dear. Look into his eyes and you’ll see his heart belongs to you, but that male brain of his is still possessed by notions of duty and service. For years he has trained and fought and followed orders; every atom of his being has been polarized towards these trivialities. But ever since you opened his eyes to the world within – the world of the heart – he has struggled between two choices: a leap into the unknown or a return to what is familiar.’

‘What do you mean?’ Helen demanded, her face now filled with concern.

‘I’m sorry, my sweet,’ the crone replied. ‘Have I upset you? Perhaps I should leave.’

‘No! Stay, please. Are you suggesting Paris is regretting what he has done? Will he send me back to Sparta?’

‘A few moments ago you were rueing leaving your loving husband and beautiful children.’

‘Paris isn’t the only one who is confused by all this, you know.’

‘I know, I know,’ the crone said, patting Helen gently on the shoulder and filling her with a strange sensation of warmth. ‘It’s such a shame for both of you. There’s you on one side, wishing you were back in Sparta when all you’ve done since puberty is dream about escape – I would have thought the sight of the Nile and the Pyramids would have cured you of any desire to return home. And on the other side there’s Paris, concerned about what his father and brother will think when he brings you back, and whether he was right to abandon his mission and risk war with Greece. Poor boy; all he has ever wanted is to love and be loved, and now he’s discovered it he finds himself terrified and filled with uncertainty. Your own restraint and doubt isn’t helping, either. But if you act quickly you can make him yours forever.’

‘You mean there’s still hope for us?’

‘Hope?’ The old woman smiled, and though her eyes were again almost consumed in folds of skin, the crescents that remained gleamed with an amused light. ‘Who needs hope when you can have certainty? I can give you certainty, if you really want it. But do you, Helen? That’s the question you have to answer. Do you want to be with a man you truly love, in a marriage that can fulfil you both, even though the future is uncertain; or do you want to go back to your children and be yoked once more to a man who has always shown you kindness and respect, but for whom your heart does not race?’

Helen looked into the crone’s knowing eyes, only vaguely wondering how she knew her name, and for a moment her thoughts and emotions seemed lost in a fog, inscrutable and beyond her capacity to decipher. Then the fog dissipated and the answer came to her clearly. She heard a scream of excitement, and looked over her shoulder to see Pleisthenes emerge over a high, grassy bank and run down to the beach, chased by Aeneas with whom he had formed a strong friendship since leaving home.

‘I don’t want to go back. Tell me what I must do to dispel Paris’s doubts.’

‘That’s the simplest thing in the world, but I’ll tell you all the same.’ The crone leaned over and whispered something in Helen’s ear. Despite the overwhelming stench of brine and stale urine, a knowing smile spread across the Spartan queen’s full lips and she nodded. Then the old woman produced a vial containing a pearlescent liquid and handed it to Helen. ‘A single droplet of this in his cup at tonight’s meal, and another in your own if you think it’ll help, and your problem will be solved.’

‘If it’s what I think it is, I doubt I’ll need it,’ Helen said, taking the small bottle anyway.

‘Don’t be ashamed, my sweet. The liquid can only work where love already exists, and the stronger the love the more irresistible the effect. No doubt you’ll see for yourself. And now for my price.’

Helen, who had been staring at the swirl of strange colours trapped within the vial, looked up at the crone and made no effort to hide her scorn.

‘For some foolish reason, I’d allowed myself to believe you were offering me your help out of kindness. But your advice has been sound and there’s something of the witch about you – I should know, my sister is one – so I’ll not quibble. We have plenty of gold.’

‘I can have as much of that stuff as I desire, Helen. My price is not an earthly treasure – I want Paris for myself. And don’t look at me like that, young girl. I want him to reject Ares and follow me, just as you already follow me. Do you understand me, Helen? When the morning comes and you have succeeded in your task, make sure Paris builds an altar to me here in honour of what I have done for you both.’

The light was quickly fading and as the first star of the evening appeared, shining brightly above the horizon, Helen saw that she was no longer sitting next to an old crone dressed in rags, but a tall and beautiful woman whose naked skin shone in the twilight. Her loving eyes captured the light of the evening star and seemed to reflect it from a depth that was timeless. But before Helen could think to throw herself to the ground before Aphrodite, the goddess had faded into nothing.

As Paris lay alone in his tent, listening to the shushing of the waves in the bay, he knew he had been rash. In the heat of his passion for Helen he had risked the lives of himself and his men – many of whom had died as a result – and had brought the threat of war to Troy. What would Hector think of that? He had allowed Apheidas to persuade him of the merits of such an action, but in his heart he knew the only reason he had taken Helen was because he had fallen in love with her. Everything else was an excuse.

And yet, despite his longing to be with her, they had still not slept together. They had come close as they sailed from port to port and island to island, their lips meeting urgently in moments of passion and the closeness of their bodies filling them with a heart-stopping need for each other, but always she had backed away at the last moment. She excused herself by saying that she was not ready – that she was still mourning the children she would never see again – but with each new rejection Paris’s doubts grew. Had he misjudged her? Despite her assurances to the contrary, was she regretting her decision to leave Sparta? Had she simply confused sexual desire for love? He did not know the answers, and part of him was left longing for a return to his safe, familiar life of duty and discipline.

But after tonight his doubts had weakened, driven back by a renewed intoxication with Helen. They had spent the evening feasting on the beach and drinking wine until their heads swam, after which they had kissed with an intensity that had not yet left him. As he lay naked between layers of soft fleeces, looking up at the roof of the tent, his whole body was taut with the need of her. His mind was far from sleep and all he could think of was crossing the beach to where her tent was pitched, entering and taking her. On the northern borders, he had slept with his share of captured women before they were sent back to Troy as slaves. But he also knew that to take Helen before she was willing to give herself would damage the love she had spoken of as they had fled Sparta. And he wanted that love more than anything. He closed his eyes.

As he lay there, listening to the surf advancing and retreating endlessly over the sand, the flap at the front of his tent opened briefly and shut again. Paris leapt to his feet and reached for the sword that hung from the back of a nearby chair. In an instant he had tugged the blade free of its scabbard and was pointing it at arm’s length towards the throat of the intruder.

The metal gleamed threateningly in the moonlight that penetrated the thin walls of the tent. Helen looked at it for a moment, then wrapped her fingers around the blade and gently pushed it aside, feeling the tension of her soft skin against the sharpened edge. Her large eyes were filled with longing, and as she looked at Paris he knew she was ready for him. He felt his own passions responding, churning hotly within him like waters gathering against the walls of a dam. But he made the walls hold for a little longer, moving the point of his sword to rest against the thick wool of her cloak.

‘I acted foolishly,’ he told her, hating each word that he forced from his lips. ‘You love your children more than you can ever love me. Tomorrow I will return you to your home.’

‘All lovers are fools, Paris, and I am the greatest. But I have finished mourning for my children; my heart and my body are yours now. You are my only home from now on.’

Again she pushed away the blade and this time Paris let it drop from his fingers. Then she unfastened the brooch at her left shoulder and, with a slight shrug, the cloak fell about her ankles. She stepped back from it and planted her feet apart in the mess of skins that covered the tent floor, enjoying the softness of the fur between her toes. Confident of her own nakedness, she leaned her head back and ran her fingers through her hair, revelling in the certainty that Paris’s eyes were feeding rapaciously on her heavy breasts, the smooth, pale skin of her stomach and the vertical slit of her navel. She could almost feel his gaze flowing down her long legs and back up again to the triangle of black hair where his lust was concentrated.

Then she felt his arms fold about her, the firm muscles of his chest crushing her breasts as he ran his lips over her exposed neck. For a moment the strength of his passion stunned her, threatened to overwhelm her as he covered her ears, cheeks and lips with kisses. Then he lifted her easily in his arms and lay her down on the pile of furs, which were soft and yielding beneath the naked skin of her back and buttocks.

‘I’ll never give you up, Helen,’ he told her, staring into her irresistible eyes. ‘I love you!’

‘Do you love me enough to leave your soldier’s life behind and be a proper husband to me?’ Helen responded, closing her legs against the probing of his hand. ‘Will you reject Ares and follow Aphrodite?’

‘Ares has never let me down,’ Paris said, lowering his head to her breast and kissing her nipple. ‘Even if I agree to give up fighting, what can Aphrodite do for me?’

‘She can bless our marriage with eternal love. Isn’t that better than anything Ares can give you?’

‘Then, for your sake, I’ll fight no more and worship Aphrodite. I remember her clearly from my dream on Mount Ida; I’d never seen a more lovely woman in my life, either sleeping or waking. Not until I saw you that night in Sparta.’

‘You mustn’t say that,’ Helen half-protested, allowing Paris to slip his knee between her thighs. ‘It was Aphrodite who brought us together, and tomorrow you must build a shrine to her.’

‘I’ll make one at home in Troy,’ he said, kissing her ear lobe and neck. ‘A proper one, with dressed stone and . . .’

‘No. Make it here. To celebrate our becoming lovers.’

Paris smiled. ‘As you wish. And when we’re old and our children have found husbands and wives of their own, we’ll sail back here and remember the time Aphrodite gave you to me.’

In response she felt a rage of passion well up from the pit of her stomach. It was stronger than anything she had ever known before, a surging intensity that flooded into every part of her body and made her light-headed as she lay beneath him. Suddenly, for the first time in her life, she was giving up control; and as she surrendered the restraint of a lifetime she felt an overpowering sensation of freedom, of becoming the wild creature the gods had created her to be. She stared up at Paris, at the lurid scar that split his face, and was greedy for the press of his lips against her again. She threw her arms about his neck and kissed him fiercely, and as he entered her the bonds of her former life – Sparta, Menelaus, her children – dropped away like locks of shorn hair.

The Ithacan fleet and the lone ship from Mycenae had reached the Cape of Malea by sunset of the third day of their voyage. The thirteen vessels were drawn up in a large bay along the eastern coast of the cape, where the crews threw their stone anchors overboard and made camp on the beach. Here they baked bread using stores of grain from the ship, or went up into the hills to hunt wild goats, rabbits and birds. That evening they feasted, drank wine and told stories until they fell asleep on the soft sand, whilst their commanders gathered in Agamemnon’s tent and talked long into the night.

As Helen made love to Paris on Cyprus, her husband was pacing up and down and listening to the argument between Odysseus on one side and Agamemnon and Palamedes on the other. After a while he could no longer hold back his thoughts.

‘You’re suggesting, Odysseus, that we send a single ship to Troy to plead for the return of my wife?’

‘Not plead, Menelaus – negotiate. There’s a difference.’

‘I don’t care if there is a difference. We’re gathering the largest force of men and arms ever witnessed and you think we should negotiate for Helen like a pack of beggars? They kidnapped her along with my youngest son, don’t forget! I agree with my brother – the Trojans need to be taught a stern lesson, one that will show the rest of the world we Greeks aren’t to be toyed with. We should slaughter them to a man, reduce their city to rubble and bring Helen back to Sparta where she belongs.’

‘I agree with everything you and Agamemnon have done so far,’ Odysseus replied. ‘Calling in the oath; gathering the armies as quickly as possible; preparing for a quick strike. But an embassy to Troy could save hundreds of Greek lives – even thousands – as well as the possibility of a long and expensive war paid for from Mycenaean and Spartan coffers.’

‘We all appreciate your desire to return to your wife and son as quickly as possible, Odysseus,’ Agamemnon said. ‘I, also, have no desire to spend long months away from my lad, Orestes. He’ll eventually take my place on the throne and needs his father’s example to follow. Then there’s my daughter, Iphigenia; without my influence to check her feminine nature, I fear she will become rebellious and gain ideas above her station. But how can we consider our needs more urgent than those of my brother? Menelaus has had his beloved wife torn from him and taken to Troy! He wants nothing more than to return her to the loving safety of her own home, where her children weep constantly for the loss of their mother. That’s why the Greeks are gathering in Aulis as we speak, eager as hounds to be at Trojan throats. Of all those called only Achilles has not yet responded, though if he’s even half the warrior he is said to be then it won’t be long before he joins us. But these negotiations you suggest could take months and will dampen the ardour of the army. So why don’t you forget this noble but hopeless notion and turn your brilliant mind to thoughts of winning this war?’

Agamemnon folded his arms across his chest and stared at Odysseus, challenging him to respond. But the Ithacan did not meet his gaze, turning his eyes instead on the king of Sparta.

‘Menelaus, my friend, Agamemnon is right – our sympathies lie with you first and foremost. You’re the one who has had his family broken apart. It’s you who have suffered the loss of a matchless wife and a devoted son, so you should be the one to decide on the matter.’ He looked at Agamemnon, who was the most powerful of them and the one most opposed to a peaceful resolution. The Mycenaean king nodded and Odysseus continued. ‘But first, listen carefully to what I have to say on the matter. Teach the Trojans a lesson, you say; wipe them out and destroy their city. Who can say they deserve any less? But ask yourself this – do you want revenge or do you want your family restored? If it’s revenge, then let’s all head for Aulis and rouse the Greeks to war. And don’t tarry there – sail to Troy at once and launch our attack without delay, for this won’t be a quick war. The Trojans will be defending their homes, and that alone will give them twice the stomach for a fight than our men will have. They’re well trained and battle-hardened, and with their allies they can at least match us in numbers; they will have the safety of their walls to return to each evening and a sure supply of food and reserves, whereas we will sleep in tents or on our beached galleys, exposed to night attacks and relying on ships for our provisions. This won’t be a speedy raid, Menelaus, and Troy is not some minor city with a weak army and no defences. Even with names like Diomedes, Ajax and Achilles – if he comes – in our ranks, this war won’t be concluded until next year at the earliest, and not without the loss of much Greek blood. And all the time we must worry about attacks on our own kingdoms while we are absent.’

He paused and caught Menelaus’s eye, holding his gaze for a long moment as if the others in the tent were not there.

‘But if I were you,’ he continued, ‘I would forget revenge. If you want Helen back at all, then you need to act quickly – and with much more speed than the mechanics of war will allow.’

‘What is that supposed to mean?’ Menelaus asked, his eyes narrowing.

‘Be realistic, Menelaus. Helen may have been able to keep Paris at bay thus far, but for how much longer? He took her because of her beauty. He wants to make her his lover and wife, and the longer she is kept prisoner behind the walls of Troy the greater the risk he will succeed. He won’t be above forcing himself upon her either. Do you want Paris to violate Helen? Do you want her to bear his children?’

Menelaus’s eyes widened and his face turned red. Suddenly the fury burst free and he smashed his fist down on the table, sending the cups and plates leaping into the air. Wine, meat and bread spilled over the fleece-covered floor.

‘How dare you!’ he shouted, grabbing a handful of the purple robe Penelope had given Odysseus and pulling the Ithacan king towards him. ‘How dare you speak of such an outrage!’

Odysseus placed his hand on Menelaus’s wrist and calmly forced it back down to his side.

‘I dare to speak of these things, Menelaus, because I’m your friend. Palamedes there has spent the evening goading you with talk of revenge, provoking your anger by reminding you of the injustice Paris has committed against you. That’s because he thinks that’s what you want to hear, and he doesn’t have the courage to tell you the painful truth. But what I’m telling you is the truth, whether you like it or not. And unless you’re prepared to put aside your desire for revenge, then Paris and Helen will become lovers. That much I can guarantee. Your only hope – and my only hope of returning to Penelope and Telemachus – is to allow me to go to Priam and speak with him. I can make him see reason and let Helen go, especially if he knows about the army that’s being gathered against him.’

‘An embassy to Troy is a waste of time,’ Agamemnon said, icily. ‘We’ll lose the element of surprise if you tell Priam about our preparations. We can’t afford to risk an opposed landing on the beaches of Ilium. And I know my sister-in-law better than you do, Odysseus. Helen won’t betray Menelaus. She’ll be expecting him to come with an army, and that thought alone will help her to resist Paris.’

‘No it won’t,’ Menelaus said, shaking his head slowly. ‘Odysseus is right. But there’s something else he hasn’t said, whether he thought it or not. I know Helen doesn’t love me. She respects me and enjoys my friendship, but I don’t consume her thoughts or fill her with desire. That I can live with, and have done for ten years. What I will not be able to bear is if she falls in love with another. I can’t risk laying siege to Troy and knowing that, as each day passes, Helen is closer to giving her heart to Paris. It won’t do! Agamemnon, you agreed the choice should be mine, and so I say Odysseus should get his chance. What’s more, he should be given the power to make any bargain he thinks is necessary, as long as it results in the rapid return of my wife.’

‘Think about what you’re saying, brother . . .’

‘I have, Agamemnon! I want Odysseus to go to Troy and bring Helen back before . . . before it’s too late.’

Agamemnon sighed and shook his head. ‘Very well,’ he said reluctantly. ‘There’s none better than Odysseus to win a man over, and even a proud old fool like Priam might be persuaded.’

‘That’s settled then,’ Odysseus said, standing as if to leave. ‘Eperitus and I will leave at dawn tomorrow, while the rest of the fleet will be placed under my cousin Eurylochus. They’ll escort you to Aulis, Agamemnon, and train in the full expectation of war.’

Palamedes stood. ‘One more thing, my lords. I’d like to be part of this embassy – I’ve always wanted to see the famous walls and towers of Troy – and I think Menelaus should come too.’

Odysseus opened his mouth to protest but Agamemnon held up his hand to silence him. ‘I agree that you should go, Palamedes – after all, two great minds are better than one. But not Menelaus. The Trojans pretend to honour the customs of guest-friendship, but we’ve already seen Paris break one sacred oath – I can’t risk my brother falling into their treacherous hands and being held hostage or killed.’

‘Paris is not a king, my lord,’ Palamedes said. ‘But Priam is and he won’t dare lose face by mistreating his guests. For one thing, no other nation in the civilized world would ever trust his word again, so you can rest assured Menelaus will be safe. What’s more, if Priam hears from Menelaus himself the grief that Paris has caused him, that will be far more effective than any argument Odysseus or I could make.’

He gave Agamemnon a look, which the king appeared to understand.

‘Very well,’ Agamemnon announced, signalling for the guards to open the entrance flaps of his tent. ‘Menelaus and Palamedes will board with you in the morning, Odysseus, and may the gods speed you on your voyage to Troy. The rest of us will sail to the gathering at Aulis.’

They rose at first light the next day and set off before sunup, rowing the ships out of the bay to find a breeze, then hoisting the cross-spars and letting the sails fall. Eperitus stood in the prow of his galley as it rounded the cape, watching the cotton and flax sail flap and sputter several times before catching the wind and bellying out. The dolphin motif swelled in the orange light of the rising sun and for a moment seemed like a living creature, hauling the ship forward across the troughs and swells of the restless sea. In a flurry of activity, the sailors adjusted the leather ropes to distribute the wind pressure before returning to the crowded benches, their weight acting as ballast to make the ship ride evenly across the waves.

Although he had spent the past ten years living on an island, Eperitus was no sailor and was happy to leave the running of the ship to the crew. They were drawn from the islands of Ithaca, Samos, Zacynthos and Dulichium, so had spent their entire lives travelling on boats of some form or other, whereas he had not even seen the sea before he met Odysseus. Despite that, he loved the oceans with a passion that could rival any of the veteran seamen. He had never forgotten the first time he had smelled the unfamiliar reek of brine, heard the cawing of the great white gulls and then, supremely, stepped aboard a ship and taken his first, swift voyage over the ceaseless waters. It had been the strangest and most exhilarating experience of his life to feel himself afloat on the powerful and shifting body of the ocean, its dark mass impenetrable and full of primeval mystery. That first experience had sparked a love that had never left him, and as he looked down at the waves breaking over the red-cheeked bows of the ship – each one painted with a large eye that stared fixedly at the horizon – he felt his joy of life renewed by the prospects of a long voyage to Troy.

He turned and leaned against the prow, enjoying the feel of the waves slapping against the thin planking beneath his feet and the wind whipping through his hair. He looked across the rows of benches at the faces of the warriors who would be under his command. Each craft had been constructed to carry sixty men in basic comfort, but with all their war gear and provisions for a long voyage the ship was horribly overcrowded. The two hundred men of the palace guard who had been chosen to form the backbone of the expedition had been divided to provide fifteen trained fighters per ship, with an additional twenty to act as Odysseus’s bodyguard. These included the most experienced and longest-serving soldiers, whom Eperitus was happy to see dotted in twos or threes on the benches. Some caught his eye and gave a nod or a smile of recognition, while others were busy in conversation, playing dice or just looking out at the waves, where groups of dolphins raced the great wooden vessels and occasionally leapt out to eye the men that sat in them.

At the helm were Odysseus, Eurybates, Menelaus and Palamedes. Eurybates, one of the best sailors in the guard, stood with his hands on the twin steering oars, his eyes narrowed as they watched the sea ahead and read the wave caps to find the best current. Odysseus was beside him, looking displeased at the presence of Palamedes, yet with an indomitable glint in his eye. After leaving Agamemnon’s tent, the king had confided to Eperitus that he suspected Palamedes would try to thwart his attempts to bring Helen back to Greece, but that he was determined not to allow him. Eperitus agreed to keep a careful eye on the Nauplian prince.

Before long, the king called down to the crew and ordered a change in the sail. Slowly the ship began to move away from the fleet, no longer shadowing the coastline but heading out towards the cluster of islands that formed the gateway to the Aegean Sea, which lay hidden beyond the haze of the horizon. Suddenly a cheer began to rise up from the crews of the other galleys, which was echoed by the men of the lone vessel. Eperitus, too, stood on one of the rowing benches, waving and calling to his adopted countrymen with wishes for a speedy voyage to Aulis and the protection of the gods. How long would it be, he wondered, before they met again? Would it be a triumphal reunion, as they returned from Troy with Helen, or would they come back with thoughts of a long and bitter war ahead of them? It would depend on the ability of his friend and king to work his charm on the Trojans, but in his heart Eperitus hoped for war.

Chapter Twelve

TROY

Progress had been good since leaving the Cape of Malea. Strong winds kept the sail full most of the time, whilst the waves were rarely steep enough to hinder the speed of the galley. Though not one man had ever sailed to Troy before, or even passed the belt of islands that separated the Cretan Sea from the Aegean, Agamemnon had provided them with a map showing the way. This had been drawn at the king’s command by a Mycenaean merchant who was a frequent visitor to Troy. Though rough, it showed the coasts of Euboea, Attica and the Peloponnese on the left, all the major islands in between, and the shores of Asia on the right. The positions of significant ports and cities had been recorded, and in a northerly bulge of the Asian coastline were the words Ilium and Troy.

For seven days the crew had risen before the first light of dawn, eager to set the sail and forge on to new waters and new sights, but by late afternoon every man would be looking for a safe mooring before the approach of evening. To sail in darkness was to invite peril, with no lights to mark the shoreline and no way to spot reefs and other dangers. It was just as important – with the level of overcrowding on the ship – to camp on land, where the men would make themselves comfortable, light fires and cook their food. But Odysseus and Eurybates, who took turns at the helm, also insisted on finding a port or a bay with a fishing village. As helmsmen on galleys are only able to navigate from one headland to the next, they were keen to find sailors who could give them the benefit of their experience for the next day’s voyage.

Using this method, they sailed eastward through the islands of the Cyclades, stopping at Melos, Myconos and Icaria, before turning north towards the Asian seaboard. Here the strong offshore wind took them past the islands of Chios and wooded Lesbos until, on the afternoon of the eighth day from Malea, they came within sight of another, much smaller island close to the mainland.

Odysseus was the first to spot it. He was leaning with one hand against the prow and the other gripping the bow rail, watching the features of the alien coastline as it slipped by on the starboard side. Eperitus was next to him as usual, his arms folded over the bow rail as he watched the waves sliced open by the blue beak of the galley, sending a constant sea spray over the bulging red cheeks and the ever-watchful eyes that adorned them. The light of the lowering sun was still bright and created circular rainbows in the fine mist. Suddenly Odysseus placed a hand on his friend’s forearm and pointed. A moment later, Eurybates cried out from the helm, ‘Tenedos! Tenedos on the northern horizon.’

There was a surge of activity on the benches as the crew crowded to the sides or stood to catch a glimpse of the still-distant island. Tenedos itself was of no significance, but every man knew it stood opposite a spur of land that protected a large inland bay, and on a hill in the plain to the northeast of the bay was Troy. At each stop there had been contact with sailors and merchants who had described to them its tall towers, high, sloping walls and strong gates, building in their minds a vivid mental picture of a city bulging with wealth and ripe for sacking. Despite their mission of peace, not one warrior on board wanted a bloodless resolution to their adventure. They had volunteered to fight, some inspired by dreams of glory or the desire to restore Greek pride, but all of them hoping to return to Ithaca laden with the spoils of war. After a while, when it was clear the lofty towers of their enemy’s city were not yet visible, they returned to the benches.

Last to return was Menelaus. His anguish over the loss of his wife had all but disappeared since leaving the Cape of Malea, either because he had learned to disguise his grief in front of the common soldiery or, as Eperitus believed, because of his growing confidence that he would soon be reunited with Helen. He had shared his time cheerfully between the commanders – Odysseus, Eperitus, Eurybates and Palamedes – and the Ithacan warriors. When he was not plaguing Odysseus with questions about how he would deal with the Trojans, he would sit on the benches with the men, casting dice and losing lots of money (deliberately, as Eperitus and Odysseus suspected), or sharing experiences of battle and fighting techniques. This had won over every one of the Ithacans to his cause; if glory and plunder had been the motives that drew them to the expedition, restoring Menelaus’s wife and his honour were now equally important. There was not a man among them who did not want to kill Trojans and raze their city to the ground. Yet as Eperitus watched the Spartan king look longingly northward, then turn away and go to sit despondently next to Palamedes in the helm, he knew the man’s torment had not lessened.

‘Won’t be long now,’ Odysseus said as the low, broad bulk of Tenedos drew nearer. ‘The merchant we spoke to last night said the bay is crawling with Trojan warships, but we should be able to find ourselves a mooring before last light. Then we can set off to the city and seek an audience with Priam.’

‘And if they attack us?’ Eperitus asked sceptically.

‘We’re not at war yet, Eperitus. They won’t harm us.’

‘I wish I shared your confidence about that.’

Odysseus gave a relaxed shrug. ‘Trojans are said to treat visitors the same as we do in Greece. If nothing else, they’ll welcome us as guests and protect us while we’re within the borders of Ilium.’

‘But you heard what happened to Menelaus,’ Eperitus said, lowering his voice and indicating the Spartan with a jerk of his thumb. ‘Paris is no respecter of xenia, so why should any of the rest of them be? They’re foreigners and barbarians, after all.’

Odysseus gave him a knowing look. ‘I suspect Paris clapped eyes on Helen and all his notions of honour turned to dust. You can hardly blame the man for that, can you?’

‘You know I can. A man without honour is worthless.’

Odysseus laughed at the uncompromising look on his friend’s face. ‘You’re a warrior in the old-fashioned style, Eperitus – principled, dependable and as hard as iron. There aren’t many of your kind around any more.’

‘Some warrior I’d have been if Agamemnon’s sail hadn’t appeared that day on Hermes’s Mount,’ Eperitus sniffed, arching his eyebrows. ‘I’d have left you in search of glory and missed the greatest war in history!’

Odysseus shook his head. ‘You’d still have got there, just under another king’s banner.’

‘Then you think it’ll be war?’

‘I can’t say,’ Odysseus replied. ‘Not until I’ve spoken to Priam. But he’s old enough to have seen three or four generations, so he won’t be as hot-blooded as men of our age. He also has a kingdom to think of – will he want to sacrifice everything he’s built for the sake of a woman? I hope not. I hope he’ll give up Helen so that we can go back to our homes and families.’

‘And more years of peace,’ Eperitus sighed despondently.

‘Peace is the most precious thing we have!’ Odysseus said, his face serious. ‘I used to dream of adventure and fame, too, but nowadays all I care about is persuading the Trojans to release Helen without a blow being struck. If men are still honoured for success in debate as well as battle, then I’d rather win renown that way than in a war that could last for months – or years.’

‘I hope you’ll get your wish,’ Eperitus said, sincerely. ‘It would make me happy to know you were safely back on Ithaca with Penelope and Telemachus. I’d be pleased for Menelaus, too – did you see his face a few moments back, when Eurybates spotted Tenedos? I’ve never seen such a melancholy look in a man. But my heart tells me our mission won’t succeed, and that Agamemnon will have to resort to war to get Helen back.’

‘Agamemnon doesn’t give a damn about Helen,’ Odysseus said, shaking his head and looking towards Tenedos. The eastern side of the island was already in shadow, though the detail of olive groves and small farmsteads could now be seen as the galley sailed closer to its shores. ‘All he wants is to conquer Troy, and Helen is just a convenient excuse to unite the Greeks under his banner. I doubt his ambitions have changed since the failed council of war in Sparta ten years ago.’

‘Maybe,’ Eperitus replied. ‘But he also says that if we don’t teach the Trojans a lesson now, they’ll think the Greeks are afraid of them. Before long they’ll be sailing across to steal our women whenever they feel like it. Then it’ll be our homes and our land. What if he’s right about that, Odysseus, and this embassy of yours is just putting off the day when we have to fight them anyway?’

‘Then at least you’ll have your chance of glory!’ the king snapped. A moment later he dropped his gaze to the deck and wiped the sweat from his brow. ‘I’m sorry, Eperitus. The truth is, I don’t know what Priam or his sons have in mind, but I do suspect what Agamemnon wants. He wants to make Troy a Mycenaean colony.’

‘That’s ridiculous!’

‘No it’s not. You know Agamemnon: he’s ruthless and ambitious, and won’t stop at anything to have his way. You remember what he did to Clytaemnestra?’

‘Of course I do,’ Eperitus replied, his mind suddenly filled with the memory of Clytaemnestra’s naked body, thin and hard as he made love to her on a Spartan mountainside. That was ten years ago and he had not seen her since, but he could still recall her pale skin glowing like bronze in the firelight, the sweat glistening on her ribs and small breasts. She had given herself to him that night because of her hatred for Agamemnon, who had murdered her first husband and infant child so that he could make her his wife. Yes, Eperitus thought, he knew how ruthless Agamemnon could be.

‘Think about it,’ Odysseus continued. ‘If Agamemnon could eliminate Priam and make Troy into a Greek stronghold, the whole of the Aegean would be his. That would mean control of the trade in gold, silver, copper, timber, oil, cinnabar, linen, hemp and Zeus knows what other goods. He’d have the wealth to subdue the whole of Greece to his will, and maybe even oppose Egypt and the other great powers before long. If he defeats the Trojans it’ll lead to one war after another, until even you’ll be sick of the glory. The age of heroes has gone, Eperitus; we’re entering a time of kings, men ruling empires that cross oceans and who have power over hundreds of thousands of lives. I’ve been thinking about this ever since that night on Malea, and I don’t like it. I don’t want Ithaca to be part of a single Greece ruled by Agamemnon, or part of an empire that stretches into Asia. I want it to remain peaceful and free, its own domain at the edge of the world. That as much as anything else – Penelope and Telemachus included – is why I want peace.’

Eperitus wanted to reply, but did not know what to say. He had always been a simple warrior with little understanding of politics, and yet the truth of Odysseus’s words was inescapable. Perhaps the world was changing: the era of heroes, monsters and gods was fading, to be replaced by the cold, hard reality of power. Was his personal search for glory and a name that could cheat the totality of death already a thing of the past, like the bones of Heracles, Perseus and Jason? Would this war he so desired actually bring an end to the very values for which he was fighting?

As he struggled to comprehend the things that Odysseus had seen almost from the first appearance of Agamemnon’s sail nearly four weeks before, the galley slipped slowly into the straits of Tenedos. To their right was a large bay that had been scooped from the gentle, wooded hills of the mainland, and on their left were the low humps of the island, behind which the sun was now sinking. Though Tenedos was an insignificant-looking rock – about the same size as the southern half of Ithaca – it was the last marker in their long journey to Troy. Eperitus felt a thrill of anticipation course through him as the strong coastal wind filled the sail overhead and pushed the ship forward against the prevailing current. The straits were soon left behind and new, much larger islands became visible. Odysseus, standing at the bow rail beside him, pointed at each one in turn and named them – distant Lemnos to the west; Imbros ahead of them to the north; and rising out of the blue haze beyond it, the high peaks of Samothrace. Then the reclining cliffs to their right fell away to reveal a wide, northeasterly gulf, into which Eurybates steered the ship.

Almost immediately, the coastline to their right opened out into a large bay that penetrated the plain beyond like the head of a spear. It was fed by two rivers – the greater emerging from an area of green marshland to the south and the lesser running down from sloping pastureland to the northeast – and the calm waters in between were crowded with fishing vessels, merchant galleys and an ominously large number of powerful-looking warships. Standing back from the plain, on a high plateau between the two rivers, was the city of Troy. Its sloping walls caught the last light of the setting sun, staining the great blocks of dressed stone a vivid pink and striking awe, wonder and fear into the hearts of the Greeks. The crenellated ramparts were lined with guards, who stood with their tall spears and flashing armour, staring down at the foreign ship that had come creeping into their waters. Rising above the level of the battlements were numerous tall, broad structures that were clearly the palaces and temples of the Trojans. Knots of people were gathered on the flat roofs, causing Eperitus to wonder whether Paris and Helen were among them. If Menelaus’s wife was watching their arrival, he thought, she would surely recognize the shape of a Greek warship and know they had come for her.

The galley slipped through the assortment of different craft, the majority of which were warships – over fifty of them, with their spars removed and stowed to leave the masts naked. Without their crews they were but peaceful shells, drifting at anchor on the quiet surface of the bay; and yet the power of such an armada, when armed with a full complement of warriors, was easy to imagine. The Ithacans looked in awe at the Trojan fleet, discussing in hushed voices the curiously curved bows and sterns, the double-banked oars and the second decks that ran the length of each ship to provide raised fighting platforms. The long, sleek form of their own craft fell into shadow as it glided between them, giving the crew a sense of how puny their vessel was in comparison.

On the yellow sands between the two rivers were the unfinished hulks of a dozen more ships. These were propped up on wooden platforms that kept them above the waves, and were hung about on all sides with spars and ropes where teams of workmen had been busily finishing hulls, fitting benches, adding masts and fastening rigging. They were abandoned and lonely now – the workmen having returned to their homes for the evening – but still seemed to echo with the noise and activity of the day just ended.

Beyond the rolling beaches, between the city and the mouth of the smaller river, a multitude of tents flapped noisily in the gale. A strong smell of smoke and roast meat drifted across the water from them, and large numbers of men – many of them armed – had left the cooking of the evening meal to watch the arrival of the newcomers.

The Ithacans stared back, curious and eager to see their first Trojans. None of them could look upon the fleet that was being created, or the army camped beside the bay, and not realize that Troy was preparing for war. But were they simply getting ready to defend Paris and Helen from the possibility of pursuit, or had they already heard of the planned gathering at Aulis? Whichever it was, the Greeks felt their stomachs sink at the sight of the organized and capable enemy before them, and as their eyes stretched eastward across the plain towards the well-built city of Troy their enthusiasm for war diminished even further.

‘Is it true Troy’s walls were made by Poseidon and Apollo?’ Eperitus asked, glancing across at Odysseus.

‘I’m sure of it,’ the king answered. ‘How could mere mortals build walls like those? When I saw them in my dream I knew they were strong, but now I see them with my own eyes they make the defences back on Ithaca look like a child’s sand palace. Even Sparta’s walls look weak in comparison.’

Eperitus stared at the city and could not help but be filled with admiration for its grandeur, might and sheer beauty. The north-west circuit of the walls stretched in an unbroken line that followed the contours of the steep-sided plateau. No gate or tower punctuated their smooth, reclining flanks. Then, where the hill dropped away to the south, the citadel ended and the city began. Here, flooding out across the plain, were the homes of the ordinary Trojans. Few structures could be seen beyond the high walls, which continued down from the citadel to surround the lower town in a vast loop, but the innumerable trails of grey smoke drifting over the towering battlements testified to the size of the population within.

As his eyes feasted on the vastness of the city, Eperitus was already probing the fortifications for weaknesses. The walls of the citadel benefited from the additional height of the plateau and were insurmountable. Even the walls of the lower city stood as tall as three men above the plain, and the western circuit that faced the bay was protected by three strong towers that could pour archery down on attackers from all sides. With his sharp eyes, Eperitus could see that the battlements were well made and in good repair, which meant the only vulnerable spot would be the single gate that opened onto the plain at the southernmost point of the walls. This was reached through a narrow defile that was protected by the tallest and broadest of the towers. In the event of an attack, the surrounding parapets would be crammed with archers who would send down a hail of arrows on any assailants as they squeezed into the gap that led to the gate.

‘We’d better succeed, Odysseus, or we’ll be a long time knocking those walls down.’

Odysseus and Eperitus turned to see Menelaus standing behind them, with Palamedes at his side. Both men had donned their breastplates, greaves and helmets and had slung their shields across their backs. Their swords were ready in the scabbards that hung from their shoulders, and naked daggers had been tucked into their belts.

‘A very long time, if we manage it at all,’ Odysseus replied. ‘But if you do want us to succeed, Menelaus, then I suggest we don’t start by marching into the city dressed like conquerors. You will have to leave your armour and weapons here.’

‘But that’s lunacy,’ Menelaus snorted, tightening his grip on the ivory handle of his sword. ‘I’m not going to walk up to Paris and demand my wife back armed with nothing more than my fists. If anything goes wrong up there, they’ll slaughter us like lambs.’

‘We’ll be their guests,’ Odysseus insisted. ‘They won’t dare harm us, not unless they want to bring the wrath of Zeus down on themselves.’

‘Those foreign dogs have no respect for xenia or the gods – if they worship the gods at all,’ Menelaus retorted, his face reddening with anger. ‘Paris broke his oath when he was a guest in my house! What’ll stop him from killing us all in cold blood?’

‘Nothing, my lord,’ Eperitus commented. ‘Nothing at all. But once we’re up in that citadel, surrounded by ten thousand Trojans and penned in by their god-built walls, what difference will a sword and some armour make anyway?’

Palamedes, who seemed irritated by the delay, stepped forward. ‘They’re right, Menelaus. The Trojans won’t dare mistreat us and dishonour the gods, but we shouldn’t risk provoking them either.’

Menelaus huffed in response, then lifted the shield off his back and threw it on the narrow decking of the prow, following it with his dagger, sword, and one by one the different elements of his rich armour.

‘Bring in the sail!’ Eurybates called from the helm.

There was an instant flurry of activity and within moments the sail had been furled and the spar detached. Odysseus looked on with pleasure as his crew demonstrated their excellent seamanship to the watching Trojans. Then there was a large splash from the anchor stone being cast overboard, followed by a jerk as the slow motion of the galley was brought to a sudden halt.

‘Looks like they’re sending a welcoming party,’ Palamedes said, raising his chin towards the beach as he unbuckled his breastplate.

They turned to see an old man and two fully armed soldiers walking along the road that wound down from the city gate to the bay.

Odysseus peered over the bow rail.

‘It’s shallow. We can jump down and wade ashore from here. Eurybates,’ he called, ‘you’re in charge while we’re gone. I want half the men to camp on the beach and half to remain on the ship, just in case we need to leave hastily. No one is to steal any goats or sheep; there’s enough food onboard, and I don’t want you lot causing an incident while I’m trying to talk peace. Do you understand?’

‘Yes, my lord,’ Eurybates replied.

‘Antiphus,’ Odysseus said, beckoning the archer forward from the benches. ‘I want you and Arceisius to come with us. And bring Polites with you; if we do get into trouble, someone of his size will be useful.’

Antiphus nodded and went to find the others. Odysseus seized the bow rail and, with surprising agility for his size, leapt overboard to land with a splash in the water below. The others followed and soon they were wading ashore to where the Trojan greybeard and his armed escort were awaiting them.

‘My name is Antenor,’ the old man announced in perfect but heavily accented Greek. His head hung down between his shoulders as if it had sprouted from his breastbone, and as he looked up at them – pronouncing each word with a slight nod and a flourish of his right hand – they could see his left eye was blind and looked away at a slight angle. ‘King Priam has asked me to welcome you to Troy.’

‘I am King Menelaus of Sparta, son of Atreus. These men are my companions: King Odysseus of Ithaca, son of Laertes; Palamedes, son of Nauplius; and Eperitus, who keeps his lineage to himself but has the honour of captaining Odysseus’s guard. We’re here to speak with King Priam about a matter of the gravest concern.’

‘Good, good. And my brother-in-law is equally keen to see you, King Menelaus,’ Antenor assured him, with another series of nods and flourishes. ‘He’s intrigued to learn what business could bring a Greek warship to our shores, and has asked if you will eat with him in the morning.’

‘What’s wrong with now?’ Menelaus said, his forehead gathering into a dark frown.

‘I’m afraid the king is predisposed,’ Antenor answered. ‘He is with one of his wives.’

‘Wives!’ Menelaus repeated, looking aghast. ‘You mean he has more than one?’

Antenor gave the angry Spartan another smile. ‘Of course – he’s the king, after all – but my sons and I will be greatly honoured to entertain you and your escort in our home tonight. It’s just outside the walls of Pergamos, by the gates.’

‘Pergamos?’ Odysseus asked.

‘The citadel,’ Palamedes explained, pointing up at the lofty buildings on the raised plateau.

‘Then we will be happy to accept your hospitality, Antenor,’ Odysseus continued, ignoring the Nauplian. ‘And as your Greek is so good, perhaps you can teach us a little about your country as we walk? We’re unfamiliar with Ilium and her customs.’

And so Antenor led them across the windswept plain to the city. Herds of goats and sheep could be seen wandering freely across it in the dusky twilight, while here and there were large, circular corrals where groups of well-fed, strong-looking horses chewed at the grass or peered over the bars of the wooden fences that penned them in. Many stone-built farms and settlements sat nestled between olive groves and clumps of poplars, which seemed permanently bent over by the unceasing northeasterly wind that swept the open flats. Odysseus and Eperitus strolled either side of the old man who, despite his age and crumpled posture, was quick on his feet; Menelaus and Palamedes followed close on their heels, both staring at the city walls with undisguised interest, and the three Ithacan guards tramped behind them. The two Trojan soldiers, their spears sloped lazily over their shoulders, brought up the rear. The evening sky above them was now a deep violet sprinkled with a few early stars, and as the copper glow on the western horizon faded it was impossible for the Greeks not to envy the Trojans the beauty of their land.

The large river to the south of the city was the Scamander, Antenor informed them, which had been named for its crooked course. Its smaller cousin to the north was the Simo¨eis. The area around both deltas was notoriously marshy and had grown more so since the cutting down of large numbers of oak trees in recent months, something the old man regretted. But when Odysseus asked if they had been felled to build the fleet of ships in the bay he quickly forgot his sadness and pointed out the peak of Mount Ida in the south-east. It was sacred to the goddess Demeter, but several of the immortals were rumoured to frequent its wooded slopes. He went on to confirm that the city walls had been made by Poseidon and Apollo a few years before he was born, though some of the younger men in the city questioned the truth of the claim.

‘It’s because they’ve never had the privilege of seeing a god in human form,’ he added.

Odysseus and Eperitus looked at each other, but said nothing.

‘It didn’t stop Heracles from sacking the place, though,’ Antenor continued. ‘I remember watching from the citadel walls, just a frightened youth quaking inside my inherited armour as he and Telamon breached the defences of the lower city. I can picture him as easily as if it was happening right now – he was as tall as a young tree, with muscles sticking out all over the place. But he was no brute to look at. He had flowing hair and a thick beard, yet his face was the handsomest you could ever hope to see. A true son of Zeus, he was.’

‘Where did he breach the wall?’ Eperitus asked, trying to sound only mildly interested.

‘Just over there, by that fig tree – you can still see the repairs now. Shoddy work in comparison to the rest, but we Trojans aren’t gods, after all.’

‘Yes, I see it,’ said Odysseus, sharing another quiet glance with Eperitus. They looked at the repaired breach with its ill-fitting stones that gave ample foot and handholds, and for the first time noticed the broad ditch that surrounded the walls of the lower city. Further along, at the foot of the plateau below the walls of the citadel, a group of women were filling jars with water from a two small pools, one of which was wreathed in steam.

‘And this is the Scaean Gate,’ Antenor said, pointing to the entrance they had seen from the galley. ‘One of the four ways into Troy. The others all face inland.’

It had been a long walk from the beach to the city walls, and a hazy half-moon was already rising over the citadel as they reached the defile that fed into the Scaean Gate. A dozen spearmen stood watching them from the ramparts, dressed in the same curious style of armour worn by Antenor’s guards. Each had a leather tunic covered in overlapping bronze scales that ran from the neck to the groin or upper thighs. The fish-like armour was supplemented by a tall, rectangular shield of ox-hide – sometimes with a layer of bronze over the top – that curved in at the sides, and a bronze cap with a horsetail plume that hung down at the back or side. Two more soldiers leaned against the trunk of a solitary oak tree to one side of the dirt track. They nodded to Antenor, but eyed the Greeks with undisguised hostility as they passed by.

The old man led his guests between the high walls of the salient to the open doors of the Scaean Gate. These were tall, made of thick wood and fitted closely with the surrounding stonework. Any attempted assault through them, Eperitus now felt sure, would be suicidal.

As they passed beneath the majestic, menacing battlements they heard a clamour of voices and suddenly found themselves surrounded by a great crush of onlookers. It was as if the whole town had rushed down to see the foreign warriors, and the armed escort now moved in front of Antenor and began using their shields in a brutal manner, herding the crowd back against the walls of the closely packed stone houses to clear a route. But the more people they thrust back, the more seemed to emerge from the doorways and side streets, swelling the multitude and pressing closer on all sides in their eagerness to see the Greeks.

Eperitus looked about himself at the sea of strange faces. All had dark skin, shining black hair and large brown eyes that stared at the newcomers with mistrust and even hatred. Why they should hate them Eperitus did not know, but the tension was palpable and he feared the tiniest spark could turn the mob violent. Some called out in their abrasive foreign tongue, the words unfamiliar but the meaning clear, and only the towering presence and withering gaze of Polites seemed to keep their anger from spilling over. Eperitus instinctively clutched at the hilt of a sword that was not there, and felt suddenly, horribly vulnerable.

‘They’ll not harm us,’ Palamedes assured him, standing at his shoulder and looking calmly around at the many faces.

Eperitus said nothing as more soldiers barged past them to help disperse the crowd with the butts of their spears. Instead, following his protective instinct, he moved closer to Odysseus as Antenor led the way up the broad, paved street towards the citadel. The babbling voices on either side drowned out all other sounds and seemed to close in on him like a swarm of angry bees. His nostrils were full of the smells of roast meat and cooking fires, mixed with the sharp stench of a mass of unwashed bodies. Beyond the staring faces, the buildings on either side of the street were low – none of them more than a single storey high – poorly built and small in dimension. They reminded him of the slums in his home town of Alybas: tightly built shelters where families were crammed together in one or two rooms, taking their warmth at night from each other’s bodies as they slept in a mass on the dirt floors. They were places where privacy – the preserve of the nobility – was unknown, and hardship and deprivation were a certainty. After ten years in the idyllic island kingdom of Ithaca, the experience of lower Troy revolted him.

Then, as they struggled up the cobbled road towards Pergamos, Eperitus noticed a young man elbowing his way through the crowd. A flash of clean white robes from beneath his black cloak marked him as wealthy – possibly even a noble. He would also have been taller than the rest of the throng, but his crooked back and stooping gait robbed him of any advantage, obliging him to fight for a position at the front of the press. All the time he maintained an unfaltering watch on the Greeks, his nearly black eyes gleaming out of the shadow cast by his hood as he scrutinized them one by one. The others hardly seemed to notice him in the noise and bustle, but Eperitus found himself fascinated by the pale, skull-like face. Then their eyes met and Eperitus was drawn helplessly into the man’s gaze, which was deep and at the same time edged with a fierce intensity, like spots of sunlight trembling on the surface of a lake. At first he felt as if the Trojan was looking through him, and then he realized he was looking into him, searching his thoughts with a freedom Eperitus could do nothing to resist. It took all his strength to just close his eyes and force his head away, but even this, he felt, was only possible because the hooded man had already taken what he wanted. When he opened them again, the man was gone.

Eventually the crowds thinned and the guards were able to form a holding line across the road, allowing Antenor to proceed unhindered with his guests. They still found themselves watched from numerous doors and windows, but the higher they climbed up the winding road the larger and better built the houses became, and the less threatening the attention of the city dwellers. Before long they were at the walls of the citadel, where the white crescent of the moon looked down at them from above the high-toothed battlements. A tall tower stood away to their right. At its base were six carved figures mounted on stone plinths. They were clearly depictions of the gods, but their strange forms were unrecognizable to the Greeks, who drew no comfort from the sight of them and felt more distant than ever from the homes they had left behind.

‘My house is just down here,’ Antenor announced, indicating a two-storeyed, square building halfway down a side street to their left. Two young men stood at the open doorway, the light from within pooled at their feet. ‘My wife, Theano, and our sons have been preparing a feast in your honour. Come inside, now, and put your weariness behind you. Whatever tomorrow brings, tonight I want you to taste real Trojan hospitality.’

Chapter Thirteen

PERGAMOS

‘Is this any way to treat guests, Antenor?’

Menelaus was red with anger. He sat on a stone bench outside the soaring, highly decorated portals of Priam’s throne room and looked at the old man sitting opposite. Antenor shrugged his sloping shoulders in resignation and gave the Spartan king a reassuring smile.

‘My brother-in-law is a busy man, my lord. I’m sure he’ll be as quick as he can, but these affairs of state demand much of his time.’

‘You mean he’s with another of his blasted wives!’ Menelaus retorted, gripping his knees until his knuckles turned white. ‘Well, we’ve been waiting here all morning and I’m getting tired of it. If those doors don’t open soon I’m going to go in there myself and teach him a few manners!’

‘We’re not in Sparta now, Menelaus,’ Odysseus chided him. He sat between Antiphus and Polites on one side and Eperitus and Antenor on the other, slouching back against the wall with his arms folded across his chest. ‘Trojan ways aren’t our ways, but as long as we’re in their country we’ll just have to put up with them.’

‘I don’t believe Trojans do treat their guests like this,’ said Palamedes, who was sitting between Menelaus and Arceisius. ‘Antenor and his sons were perfect hosts last night. You and Menelaus were given the places of honour, and Eperitus, myself and the others were seated on either side of you; when the animals were sacrificed, the gods were given their due and then you both received the long chines, just as we give the choicest parts to the guests of honour at home. Whenever any of us spoke, Antenor and his sons listened respectfully and without interruption. So if Trojans know as well as any Greek how to care for their guests, then Priam is deliberately snubbing us. He wants to provoke our anger and force us to fail in our mission. In my opinion, he has no intention of giving up Helen at all.’

‘Palamedes!’ Eperitus hissed.

Antenor raised his head inquisitively. ‘Who’s Helen?’

‘Nobody to concern yourself about, friend,’ Odysseus replied, patting the old man amicably on the shoulder. ‘A matter between us, that’s all.’

Antenor seemed to accept this and returned his bored gaze to the doors of the throne room, but Eperitus could sense Odysseus’s anger as he stared across at Palamedes. Only the night before, as they had bathed in preparation for the feast in Antenor’s house, the Ithacan king had insisted that none of them should reveal the purpose of their mission until they were standing before Priam. Palamedes, Eperitus felt, had deliberately defied him, and the brief look of triumph on his pinched, rat-like features suggested Odysseus’s suspicions about the Nauplian prince were true.

Eperitus turned to look through the open doorway of the antechamber, where the wide courtyard of the palace was bright in the sunlight, and trawled his mind through the events of the night before. Odysseus had left none of them in any doubt as to why he believed they should not speak to anyone about their mission. Despite the readiness of the Trojans for war, his instincts told him things were not as they seemed. People were bemused or angered by their arrival, but not afraid. If they had thought the Greeks were there to reclaim Helen, they would have known the threat of war was not far behind them. But their faces did not show anxiety or fear, and because of this Odysseus was convinced the ordinary Trojans did not know Helen had been brought to their city – if she was even within the walls of Troy at all. For this reason, he said, they should not speak of their mission until they had tested Priam on the matter.

Although Menelaus scoffed at the idea that Helen might not be a prisoner in the city – and Eperitus had been quietly doubtful – both men were quickly forced to agree that her presence was at least a closely guarded secret. Antenor and his eleven sons certainly seemed ignorant of the fact: they had even enquired about their guests’ families – a bold question to ask, had they known the true reason for their visit.

Though normally suspicious of non-Greeks, Eperitus had quickly grown to like his hosts. Their household shrine was well maintained and treated with reverence by the entire family, even if the depictions of the gods were strange to Eperitus’s eyes. He was also pleased with the honourable way they treated their guests, which was especially surprising for foreigners. However, it soon became clear that Antenor was an admirer of the Greeks and had passed this love down to his sons. As a buyer and seller of pottery and silver and gold artefacts, he had had dealings over many years with merchants from Mycenae, Sparta, Athens, Crete and other Greek kingdoms. This had led to an understanding of their language and an appreciation of their culture, for which reason Priam had sent him to Salamis to request the return of Hesione. Despite the poor reception he had received there, Antenor stayed long enough to intensify his fondness for all things Greek and become fluent in the language. This, as far as Eperitus was concerned, explained Antenor’s excellence as a host.

‘Does Priam speak any Greek?’ Odysseus had asked, as they said goodbye to Theano and Antenor’s sons at the threshold of the house that morning, before leaving for their audience with the Trojan king.

‘He speaks several languages, but Greek only passably,’ Antenor replied. ‘I’ve been teaching him myself, at his insistence. But he will probably only speak in our native tongue when you come before him. He likes foreigners to think he can’t understand them, then listens in on their private conversations. I shouldn’t have told you that, of course.’

‘Of course. What about his sons?’

‘Hector speaks your language with a fluency equal to my own. He’s thirsty for knowledge of all things Greek and has his own tutor – a man from Pylos – who instructs him daily in Greek language, culture, politics, warfare . . .’

‘Warfare?’ Eperitus interrupted.

‘Yes. Hector has always loved anything to do with war, and you’ll not find a more formidable fighter anywhere.’

By then they had reached the tower they had seen the evening before. Its soaring walls sloped to the height of two tall men, then continued vertically, up and up until they reached the crenellated battlements, from which the helmeted head of a guard was peering down at them. In the broad light of morning they could see the walls were constructed from massive limestone blocks, so finely fitted together that they did not need mortar. At the foot of the tower, facing south, were the six statuettes they had noticed the night before, deliberately placed so that all newcomers to the citadel would see them. Whether they were intended as a sign of welcome, or simply to warn visitors that the place they were entering was holy, was unclear, but their crude features and roughly formed bodies were unrecognizable as any gods the Greeks knew, and their lifeless eyes seemed only to offer the visitors hostility.

The great bastion jutted out from the walls and it was not until the party had passed the strange gods that they saw the gateway to the citadel, hidden in the shadow of the tower. Its carved wooden doors were already open and the two guardsmen stepped aside at a word from Antenor.

‘And Paris?’ asked Menelaus sternly, eyeing the black, rectangular mouth of the gateway. ‘Is he a fighter like his brother, or a womanizer like his father?’

‘Paris is a warrior, too,’ Antenor said, choosing not to defend Priam or Paris against the Spartan’s insults. His voice echoed slightly as they walked beneath the thick walls, where the air was cool and smelled of damp. ‘Not of Hector’s calibre, but he is known for his ferocity in battle and his strong sense of duty. And to further answer your question, Odysseus, Paris also speaks Greek, though he and Hector are unique in this among Priam’s fifty sons.’

They emerged into the sunlight again and for the first time set their eyes upon the might and glory of Pergamos. On their left the walls fed out in a line to the west, while on their right they curved up and back to the north-east. Their thickness had already been made clear as they walked through the gate into the citadel, but now the visitors were able to see the wide parapets on top – where four fully-armed men could walk abreast – and the steep flights of steps leading up to them. At the foot of the walls were long wooden huts, where scores of heavily armed guards stared with hostile curiosity at the newcomers.

Beyond the gates, the citadel rose up in three distinct levels. Each new tier was separated from its predecessor by a sloping wall and the only way up was via a succession of stone ramps. Although the entrance to Pergamos was barely wide enough for one wagon to squeeze through at a time, the road beyond it was broad and well paved with flat cobbles. Indeed, as Antenor led the Greeks up the busy road, they could see two wool-laden wagons climbing the hill ahead of them, drawn easily abreast of each other so that the drivers could chat freely.

Lines of poplar trees stood on either side of the road, providing shade for the numerous townsfolk as they went about their daily business. By their dress, a quarter of them were wealthy nobles and probably lived or worked in the many tall, well-built and highly decorated buildings of the citadel. The rest were merchants, tradesmen, warriors and slaves, an even mixture of men and women from every craft and profession imaginable. From farmers to washerwomen and priests to prostitutes, the many different roles and trades flowed together to form a great stream of humanity that swirled and eddied through the wide, teeming streets of Pergamos, as powerful a demonstration of Troy’s wealth as the great buildings that filled the citadel.

Eperitus had never imagined such greatness could exist and stared open-mouthed at the two-and even three-storeyed structures that rose up all around him. The others shared his awe, particularly Palamedes, who gazed about himself with a look of wonder and joy on his face. Even Menelaus – who had seen the most powerful cities in Greece – looked with reluctant admiration at the dozens of mansions and temples crowded together on either side of the road. Antenor, who had seen them almost every day of his life, pointed out each building with pride, eager for his guests to appreciate the glory that made Troy famous throughout Asia and the Aegean.

‘This mansion,’ he said as they mounted the ramp to the first tier, indicating a palatial building over their left shoulders, ‘is home to some of Priam’s sons, where they live with their wives, children and slaves. There are many houses like it in on the lower tiers of the citadel, where other members of the royal family and high-born nobles live. Those buildings ahead of us are the temples of Athena and Zeus.’

Eperitus looked to the second tier, where on either side of the lines of poplars were two of the largest constructions he had ever seen. Both were fronted with marble columns and had wide, dark entrances reached by narrow flights of steps. The one to the right was tall and long, and on the plinth before it stood a large wooden statue of a male god, scaled to twice the size of a man. It had been painted with bright colours – though the once vivid hues had been faded by years of sunshine and rain – and its clothing was picked out with flashes of gold. A beard was visible on its chin and its right arm was raised in readiness to strike, though its hand was empty. By these tokens, Eperitus guessed the statue was meant to represent Zeus, though it did not clutch the customary thunderbolt.

On the opposite side of the ramp, which the party was now mounting, stood the temple of Athena. Though not as high as the temple of Zeus, it was wider and more square in shape. On a plinth before it was an oversized figure of Athena, dressed in a chiton though not sporting her usual helmet, spear and aegis. The wood had been recently repainted and now the purple clothing with its gold hem gleamed in the early morning sun, while the goddess’s brown eyes looked down her long nose at the passers-by. Unlike the temple of Zeus, a dozen armoured warriors stood or sat on the bottom steps, their spearheads and helmets flashing viciously in the sunlight.

‘I’d like to pay my respects to the goddess on our way back, if I may,’ Odysseus said.

Antenor smiled. ‘Of course. No visitor to Pergamos should leave without seeing the temple of Athena. Along with the temples of Zeus and Apollo – which lies in the western corner of the citadel – there are no more sacred or awe-inspiring sights in the whole of Ilium. It also holds the famous Palladium, on which the fate of Troy depends.’

‘The Palladium?’ Eperitus enquired, trying to make his interest sound purely casual. ‘What’s that?’

Antenor looked at him with genuine surprise. ‘You mean to say you haven’t heard of our precious Palladium?’

Eperitus shook his head.

‘Me neither,’ said Odysseus. ‘What manner of thing can carry the fate of a city with it? No, let me guess. It holds Priam’s treasure and funds his armies?’

‘Oh, no,’ said Antenor, shaking his head dismissively. ‘It has no value. In fact, it’s nothing more than a small wooden effigy, about . . . so big, and with no legs.’

Eperitus caught Odysseus’s eye and gave him a questioning glance.

‘That’s ridiculous,’ Menelaus said, gruffly. ‘How can Troy’s safety depend on a lump of wood?’

‘Because it’s no mere lump of wood, my lord. They say that it fell from heaven when the city was first built. The temple was nearing completion when the Palladium came down through an unfinished gap in the roof and landed before the altar, where it sits to this day. Ilus, the founder of the city, was told in a dream that the image had been made by Athena herself, in memory of her dead friend Pallas, and as long as the image was preserved then Troy would be preserved with it. Some say it’s just a legend – the same voices that say the walls were not built by Poseidon and Apollo – but most believe the story to be the truth. That’s why Priam keeps guards there day and night.’

They had reached the ramp to the final and highest tier of the city, where a dozen warriors stood in a line with their shields and spears at the ready. They eyed the approach of the Greeks with suspicion and, unlike the other guards they had met, did not move aside at the sight of Antenor. Instead, their officer stepped forward and questioned the old man in a hushed voice, before ordering his men back and waving the visitors brusquely up the ramp.

And so, they had finally reached the palace of King Priam. As Eperitus sat in the cool, high-ceilinged antechamber to the throne room, waiting to be summoned into the king’s presence, he pondered the size and magnificence of the palace as he had first seen it from the top of the ramp. Odysseus’s home in Ithaca could not compare; neither could the palace in Alybas, where he had spent his youth. Although Menelaus’s palace was similar in size, even that lacked the sheer beauty of the building that crowned the highest tier of Troy. The tall marble colonnades soared up to the heavens and left the visitor feeling daunted, whilst the many alcoves and stone plinths with their painted idols made certain that no one could doubt the reverence in which Troy held the gods. But most magnificent of all were the limestone walls and their large, richly decorated murals. These depicted many scenes from Trojan life: warriors fighting shield to shield; ships floating on seas full of dolphins; forests alive with bears, lions and all manner of creatures; but above all, the murals were filled with images of horses. Some were with riders and others without; many ran free, while more were being trained or were tethered to chariots. Antenor, when asked, explained all Trojans had a passion for horses, and Eperitus – who had loved horses since his childhood and had always rued the lack of them on Ithaca – was beginning to regret that war might be necessary against such an accomplished civilization.

At that point, the doors to the throne room swung open with a heavy wooden creaking to reveal a short, grey-bearded man in a long robe. In his right hand he carried a staff, which he beat importantly on the stone floor three times.

‘His magnificence, King Priam, ruler of Troy, emperor of Ilium and all its protectorates and vassal states, guardian of the east and favourite of Zeus, bids you welcome. Those who wish to be humbled by his presence will please follow me.’

Chapter Fourteen

THE HOUSE OF KING PRIAM

Leaving Antiphus, Polites and Arceisius in the antechamber, the others followed the herald through the doors into a long, high-ceilinged chamber that echoed their footsteps as they entered. A rectangular hearth stretched before them, filled with purple flames that shivered on a bed of grey coals. Six black columns stood on either side of it; on a low dais at the far end was an empty stone seat with a high back, partially obscured by the haze of smoke and heat that trailed up from the fire.

The Greeks approached the four chairs that had been provided for them, while Antenor went to one of the many seats that lined each of the long sides of the hearth. Other than the throne and a single stool at the foot of the dais, every chair was now occupied and there was a large commotion of unintelligible voices as the Greeks took their places. The seats were of carved wood with a thin covering of silver plate and, despite the cushions, were uncomfortable. This and the scores of foreign faces that were now staring at them gave them a feeling of being criminals brought to trial, rather than honoured guests.

Eperitus sat on the far left next to Menelaus, whose eyes were scanning the crowd for sight of the hated Paris. Odysseus, sensing the Spartan king’s growing anxiety, took the seat next to him and placed a large, reassuring hand on his shoulder. Palamedes, on the far right, lowered the palms of his hands towards the fire, enjoying the sensation of the heat on his skin. As soon as they were seated a dozen slaves rushed to pile food on the tables of Greeks and Trojans alike – baskets of bread, selections of nuts, cheeses, olives, grapes and fruit, platters of mutton or skewered fish – and pour wine into silver goblets for the assembled nobles.

Menelaus, stiff-backed, refused to either eat or drink. Palamedes also refrained, whilst Odysseus – after washing his hands in one of the bowls provided – helped himself to bread and mutton. Eperitus poured a small libation onto the flagstones at his feet, before raising the wine to his lips. It was the best he had ever tasted, and after a mouthful of the sweet, heady drink he felt refreshed and light-limbed. He looked about at Priam’s throne room. It was unusually light, compared with the great halls of the Greek kings, with a broad column of blue daylight coming in through the lozenge-shaped vent in the ceiling, as well as several other shafts of light from openings high up on the walls. This was an innovation Eperitus had never seen before, and he could only guess that ducts had been built to pipe daylight from the roof into the hall. There were also numerous large torches fastened to the walls, which ensured that the magnificent murals that lined the room were not lost in shadow.

As with the architecture, dress and customs, the Trojan murals were very different from those of the Greeks. One whole wall was filled with a religious procession, featuring lines of priests, nobles and sacrificial animals. Another was painted sky blue and filled with depictions of men fighting bulls and other animals. The next wall showed fishing boats on a sea of wavy blue lines that teemed with fish, while on the hills behind (with Mount Ida in the distance) were flocks of sheep and herds of wild horses. On the fourth side a golden-skinned shepherd played a lyre as another golden-skinned man was fitting great blocks of stone into a high wall. Beyond the unfinished battlements were scenes of everyday life: people spinning wool, smiths working glowing bronze rods over an anvil, a potter removing vases from a kiln. Both men and women were depicted, distinguishable by the way they wore their hair or the colour of their skin: the men were brown because they led active, outdoor lives, the women were white, reflecting the ideal of a life spent indoors.

Around the walls were a number of guards wearing the strange, scaled armour of the Trojans. The spears at their sides and the swords that hung in scabbards over their shoulders reminded Eperitus of his vulnerability, and he prayed silently for Athena’s protection and a safe return to the ship. As he finished his prayer, a door opened quietly in a dark corner of the chamber and a stooping figure entered. His black cloak made him inconspicuous amidst the activity that filled the room, and as he moved along the southern wall below the mural of the religious procession only Eperitus’s watchful eye seemed to notice him. He walked with a faltering hop, his left hand hanging limply at his side while his right dangled before his chest, like a child riding a pretend horse. Then, as he drew level with Eperitus, he turned and his pale skin and dark, sunken eyes became visible under the shadow of his hood. Eperitus recognized him at once as the man who had pushed his way through the crowds the night before.

‘We must speak, Eperitus,’ he said in perfect Greek, whispering so that only Eperitus’s supernaturally sharp hearing could distinguish the words. ‘Come to me.’

Eperitus felt as if his legs had been kicked from under him. How could this stranger have discovered his name? More disturbingly, how could he know that he would be able to hear a whisper across a crowded room? Eperitus turned and stared into the hearth, as if hoping the hiss of the flames would drown out his confusion.

‘Priam will be here soon,’ came the same whisper in his ear. ‘We don’t have long. Leave your friends and come to me. Now.’

Eperitus backed his chair away from the table and stood.

‘I need to relieve myself,’ he told Menelaus, who nodded briefly before returning to his scrutiny of the crowd.

Eperitus crossed to the back corner of the throne room, where a large amphora reeked of urine. He lifted his tunic and emptied his bladder, then sensed the presence of the hooded man behind him.

‘Who are you?’ he said, lowering the hem of his tunic and turning. ‘How do you know my name?’

The man stared at him from beneath the shadow of his hood. His face was contorted by a constant series of twitches, but his dark eyes remained firmly fixed on Eperitus.

‘I know many things, my friend. For example, I know you’ve come to seek the return of Menelaus’s wife.’

‘Then she’s here – in Troy?’

The man smiled. ‘I did not say that, and if she is then I am not aware of it. Yet I know your mission all the same, and many other things besides. Perhaps you will be more convinced,’ he added, seeing the look of scepticism in Eperitus’s eyes, ‘if I tell you that you were once brought back from death by Athena. Or if I say that I know you are ashamed of your past, and even now hate the mention of your father. I also know you are torn between your desire for war and your loyalty to Odysseus, who is keen to secure the peaceful return of Helen and go back home to his own family. And if that is not enough, then how about this: Odysseus has given you a powder to pour into Palamedes’s wine that will – now, what were his words – that will have him emptying his bowels by the second gulp. Am I right?’

‘You can’t possibly know that – any of that.’

‘But I do, and much more. I know things about you that even you don’t know – yet.’

Eperitus felt his impatience growing. ‘Stop talking in riddles and speak plainly. Tell me who you are and how you know these things, or by the name of Athena I’ll knock you down where you stand.’

‘My name is Calchas, son of Thestor, son of Idmon the Argonaut,’ he announced, making Eperitus’s eyes widen as he realized this was the man Athena had said would find him. He drew his hood back to reveal his shaven head, then opened his cloak to expose the white robes beneath. ‘I’m a priest of Apollo. The god speaks to me in dreams – sleeping and waking. It’s a gift, a wonderful, terrible gift. It shows me things that few can see, and few should see.’

Calchas pulled the hood forward to cover his hairless scalp and fixed his gaze on Eperitus once more. The pain and the madness glistered like sunken treasure beneath the surface of his eyeballs.

‘And yet even I only see the shadow of things. Apollo allows me glimpses of the past, the present or the future, but I never see the complete picture. That’s for the gods only. But I do know we live in momentous times, Eperitus. Our world is heading into a great terror – a war that will choke Hades’s halls with the dead and bring a lasting darkness in its wake. Apollo has revealed it to me, and it is horrifying.’

‘But what’s that got to do with me?’ Eperitus asked, uncertain that he wanted any part of the priest’s awful visions. ‘I’m a warrior, not a prophet.’

‘It has everything to do with you, Eperitus. War is inevitable, but the choices you make today will decide which of our nations will survive and which will be destroyed. Odysseus gave you that powder to pour in Palamedes’s drink because he knows Palamedes is acting for Agamemnon and will try to prevent a peaceful agreement for the return of Helen. One dose of that, though,’ the priest said, tapping Eperitus’s leather pouch with his finger, ‘and Palamedes will be spending the rest of the day crouched over a latrine somewhere, leaving Odysseus free to use his powers of persuasion on Priam. But we have to stop him succeeding; although Odysseus does not know it, the safety of Greece depends on Agamemnon laying siege to Troy.’

‘And why should a Trojan care what happens to Greece?’ Eperitus scoffed.

‘I may be Trojan by birth,’ Calchas responded, ‘but my loyalty is to Apollo, not Priam. I do whatever the god tells me to do, and he has ordered me to abandon Troy and join the Greeks.’

‘But Antenor says Apollo has always favoured Troy.’

‘And he still does. But Zeus is intent on war between Greece and Troy, and out of obedience to his will Apollo has ordered me to offer my services to Agamemnon. You are to take me back with you to the gathering at Aulis – yes, I know all about it – so that I can speak with him. But first we must prevent Odysseus’s attempt at peace.’

‘If you think I’ll disobey Odysseus for your sake, Calchas, then you’re as mad as you look,’ Eperitus said, angered by the priest’s presumption. He was beginning to wonder whether Athena had been right to say he should listen to the man at all. ‘I’m going back to my seat.’

‘Hear me out, Eperitus!’ Calchas hissed, grabbing his arm. ‘If your king succeeds the war will still come, but on Trojan terms, not Greek. Why do you think there’s an army camped on the plain? What about the warships in the harbour? Don’t you understand? The Trojans are planning to attack Greece. And it’ll be no raid, either – it’s going to be an invasion!’

Eperitus shook off Calchas’s bony hand. ‘Priam wouldn’t dare.’

‘No, he wouldn’t. But Hector would. He’s the real power behind Troy, not Priam – as you’ll soon see. If Agamemnon doesn’t attack Troy first, then Hector will conquer Greece city by city until he makes it part of Priam’s empire – the empire he will inherit. Even Ithaca will fall, in the end. Do you believe me, Eperitus?’

Eperitus looked across the throne room to where Odysseus was sitting, pointedly ignoring Palamedes while trying to persuade Menelaus to eat some food. His friend had been optimistic about obtaining a peaceful resolution from the start, but was he just avoiding facing up to the inevitable? Ever since they had arrived in Troy Eperitus had sensed a threat; not just the curses and spitting of the crowd, but a deeper undercurrent. There was something sinister about the half-built war fleet and the gathering army camped on the plain, followed by the unwelcoming treatment they had received from Priam (or was that Hector’s doing?). Even the large gathering of Trojan officials in Priam’s throne room felt like a jury, waiting to decide the fate of the Greeks.

‘Whether I believe you or not – and I’m not saying I do – how do you suggest I should prevent Odysseus from obtaining a peaceful solution?’

‘Palamedes must be allowed to speak,’ Calchas answered. ‘If you don’t pour the powder into his drink, he has the cunning and intelligence to upset Odysseus’s plans. Odysseus will be angry, of course, but when he hears what I have to say he’ll realize that war is inevitable anyway and will see reason.’

‘You’re assuming I’ll do what you want me to.’

Calchas looked at him carefully, reading the thoughts behind his eyes.

‘That’s your decision, Eperitus. But remember this: one way or another, the fate of all Greece is in your hands tonight. The army you saw on the plain is but the first crop of a mighty harvest. Before long other armies will join it, just as other ships will swell the Trojan fleet to an armada. If Odysseus gets his way he could be back with his family in a matter of weeks, but his happiness will be short-lived. Within a year or two Hector’s conquering armies will have reached Ithaca, and then Odysseus will see his precious wife and son butchered by Trojan swords and his people enslaved. Think on that when you let your king negotiate a peaceful end to this matter.’

Eperitus looked thoughtfully at the stooping priest. ‘You’re asking me to defy him when he needs my loyalty most,’ he said. ‘And in other circumstances your impudence would earn you a beating, priest or not. But I’ve seen the Trojan army you speak of, and the fleet in the harbour, and something tells me you’re right. So I’ll think about what you ask, Calchas, and if Odysseus does fail, for whatever reason, I’ll make sure that you return with us to Aulis.’

‘Then I will go and wait for you by your ship – Priam has already left his chamber and is on his way here with Hector. But first there is one other thing I have to say. It concerns you personally, Eperitus.’

‘Go on,’ Eperitus said apprehensively.