The Oracles of Troy (The Adventures of Odysseus)

PRAISE FOR GLYN ILIFFE

‘The world of this novel appears as many scholars see that of Homer: a rich melange of different eras … It has suspense, treachery and bone-crunching action … It will leave fans of the genre eagerly awaiting the rest of the series’

Harry Sidebottom,

author of the best selling Warrior of Rome series

‘Iliffe is a talented storyteller’

Times Literary Supplement

‘A ripping swords-and-sandals treatment of The Iliad’

The Telegraph

‘A thrilling adventure full of bloody battles, vibrant characters and the heart-stopping romance that makes ancient Greece so universally appealing. Dazzling drama on a grand scale’

Lancashire Evening Post

‘A must read for those who enjoy good old epic battles, chilling death scenes and the extravagance of ancient Greece’

Lifestyle Magazine

‘The reader does not need to be a classicist by any means to enjoy this epic and stirring tale. It makes a great novel and would be an even better film’

Historical Novels Review

‘Another gripping and thrilling tale from the new demi-god of the genre, one which fans will relish getting stuck into’

The Catholic Herald

THE ORACLES OF TROY

Glyn Iliffe studied English and Classics at Reading University, where he developed a passion for the stories of ancient Greek mythology. Well travelled, Glyn has visited nearly forty countries, trekked in the Himalayas, spent six weeks hitchhiking across North America and had his collarbone broken by a bull in Pamplona.

He is married with two daughters and lives in Leicestershire. King of Ithaca was his first novel, followed by The Gates of Troy and The Armour of Achilles. He is currently working on the fifth book in the series, The Voyage of Odysseus.

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Copyright © Glyn Iliffe 2013

The Author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

This book is a work of fiction. It has been written for entertainment purposes only. All references to characters and countries should be seen in this light.

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Also by Glyn Iliffe

King of Ithaca

The Gates of Troy

The Armour of Achilles

Visit www.glyniliffe.com to read more about

The Adventures of Odysseus.

GLYN ILIFFE

THE ORACLES

OF TROY

FOR TABITHA

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

As ever, I am grateful to my wife, Jane, for her patience and encouragement.

My thanks also go to Richard Sheehan, Steven A McKay, Maureen Corderoy, Deven Kanal, Jane Davies, Kevin Marlow and Bruce Villas for their proof reading skills and improvements to the original text.

CONTENTS

Glossary

Book One

1. Lemnos

2. Philoctetes

3. Heracles

4. Reconciliation and Healing

5. The Eye of Apollo

6. Nisus of Dulichium

7. Helenus

8. The Return of the Outcast

9. Death in the Morning

Book Two

10. A Way Out

11. A Widow’s Fate

12. In Apheidas’s House

13. The Oracles of Troy

14. The Legend of Pelops

15. The Golden Vine

16. Pelop’s Tomb

17. The Maze

18. The Guardian of the Tomb

19. Eurypylus Arrives

20. Neoptolemus

21. The Greeks at Bay

22. The Shadow of Achilles

23. Neoptolemus and Eurypylus

Book Three

24. The Kerosia

25. Prisoner of Apheidas

26. An Unwelcome Visitor

27. An Ultimatum

28. Odysseus Unmasked

29. Temptations of the Flesh

30. Unexpected Help

31. The Palladium

32. The Insanity of Kings

33. Hope out of Defeat

Book Four

34. The Wooden Horse

35. Cassandra’s Woe

36. Voices From Home

37. The Gate Falls

38. Inside the Palace

39. Helen and Menelaus

40. Love and Vengeance

41. At the Temple of Zeus

42. The Snake Pit

43. The Rape of Cassandra

44. Ambition’s End

45. At the Ships

46. The Last King of Troy

47. The Dead Child

Author's Note

GLOSSARY

A

Achilles

–

Myrmidon prince, killed by Paris

Aeneas

–

Dardanian prince, the son of Anchises

Agamemnon

–

king of Mycenae, leader of the Greeks

Ajax (greater)

–

king of Salamis, killed himself after being sent mad by the gods

Ajax (lesser)

–

king of Locris

Alybas

–

home city of Eperitus, in northern Greece

Anchises

–

king of the Dardanians, allies of Troy

Andromache

–

wife of Hector

Antenor

–

Trojan elder

Anticleia

–

Odysseus’s mother

Antinous

–

Ithacan noble, son of Eupeithes

Antiphus

–

Ithacan guardsman

Apheidas

–

Trojan commander, father of Eperitus

Aphrodite

–

goddess of love

Apollo

–

archer god, associated with music, song and healing

Arceisius

–

Ithacan soldier, murdered by Apheidas

Ares

–

god of war

Artemis

–

moon-goddess associated with childbirth, noted for her virginity and vengefulness

Astyanax

–

infant son of Hector and Andromache

Astynome

–

daughter of Chryses, a priest of Apollo

Astyoche

–

daughter of Priam and mother of Eurypylus

Athena

–

goddess of wisdom and warfare

Aulis

–

sheltered bay in the Euboean Straits

C

Calchas

–

priest of Apollo, adviser to Agamemnon

Cassandra

–

Trojan princess, daughter of Priam

Clymene

–

servant to Apheidas and mother of Palamedes

Clytaemnestra

–

queen of Mycenae and wife of Agamemnon

D

Dardanus

–

city to the north of Troy

Deidameia

–

mother of Neoptolemus and widow of Achilles

Deiphobus

–

Trojan prince, younger brother of Hector and Paris

Demeter

–

goddess of agriculture

Diocles

–

Spartan soldier

Diomedes

–

king of Argos

E

Elpenor

–

Ithacan soldier

Epaltes

–

Argive soldier

Epeius

–

Greek craftsman and notorious coward

Eperitus

–

captain of Odysseus’s guard

Eumaeus

–

swineherd and faithful slave to Laertes

Eupeithes

–

member of the Kerosia

Euryalus

–

companion of Diomedes

Eurybates

–

Odysseus’s squire

Eurylochus

–

Ithacan soldier, cousin of Odysseus

Eurypylus

–

Mysian king, grandson of Priam

H

Hades

–

god of the Underworld

Halitherses

–

former captain of Ithacan royal guard, given joint charge of Ithaca in Odysseus’s absence

Hecabe

–

Trojan queen, wife of King Priam

Hector

–

Trojan prince, killed by Achilles

Helen

–

former queen of Sparta, now wife of Paris

Helenus

–

son of Priam and Hecabe

Hephaistos

–

god of fire; blacksmith to the Olympians

Heracles

–

greatest of all Greek heroes

Hestia

–

the goddess of the hearth

Hippodameia

–

wife of Pelops

I

Idaeus

–

herald to King Priam

Idomeneus

–

king of Crete

Ilium

–

the region of which Troy was the capital

Ilus

–

founder of Troy, grandfather of Priam

Iphigenia

–

daughter of Eperitus and Clytaemnestra, sacrificed by Agamemnon

Ithaca

–

island in the Ionian Sea

K

Kerosia

–

Ithacan council meeting

L

Laertes

–

Odysseus’s father

Lemnos

–

island in the Aegean Sea

M

Menelaus

–

king of Sparta, brother of Agamemnon and cuckolded husband of Helen

Menestheus

–

king of Athens

Mentor

–

close friend of Odysseus, given joint charge of Ithaca in Odysseus’s absence

Mycenae

–

most powerful city in Greece, situated in north-eastern Peloponnese

Myrmidons

–

the followers of Achilles

Myrtilus

–

King Oenomaus’s charioteer

Mysia

–

region to the south-east of Troy

N

Neoptolemus

–

son of Achilles and Deidameia

Neriton (Mount)

–

highest point on Ithaca

Nestor

–

king of Pylos

Nisus

–

Ithacan elder

O

Odysseus

–

king of Ithaca

Oenomaus

–

king of Pisa, killed in a chariot race against Pelops

Oenops

–

member of the Kerosia

Omeros

–

Ithacan soldier and bard

P

Palamedes

–

Nauplian prince, executed for treason

Palladium

–

sacred image of Athena’s companion, Pallas

Pandion

–

murdered king of Alybas

Paris

–

Trojan prince, eldest remaining son of King Priam

Parnassus (Mount)

–

mountain in central Greece and home of the Pythian oracle

Peisandros

–

Myrmidon commander

Peloponnese

–

southernmost landmass of Greek mainland, named after Pelops

Pelops

–

grandfather of Agamemnon and Menelaus

Penelope

–

queen of Ithaca and wife of Odysseus

Penthesilea

–

queen of the Amazons, slain by Achilles

Pergamos

–

the citadel of Troy

Philoctetes

–

Malian archer, deserted by the Greeks on Lemnos

Pisa

–

region in the north-western Peloponnese

Pleisthenes

–

youngest son of Menelaus and Helen

Podaleirius

–

famed healer, son of Asclepius

Polites

–

Ithacan warrior

Polyctor

–

member of the Kerosia

Poseidon

–

god of the sea

Priam

–

king of Troy

Pythoness

–

high priestess of the Pythian oracle

S

Scamander

–

river on the Trojan plain

Simöeis

–

river on the Trojan plain

Sthenelaus

–

companion of Diomedes

T

Talthybius

–

squire to Agamemnon

Taphians

–

pirate race from Taphos

Telemachus

–

son of Odysseus and Penelope

Tenedos

–

island off the coast of Ilium

Teucer

–

famed archer, half-brother and companion to Great Ajax

Theano

–

priestess of Athena and wife of Antenor

Thebes

–

northern Greek city, sacked by Diomedes

Thetis

–

chief of the Nereids and mother of Achilles

Trechos

–

Argive soldier

Troy

–

chief city of Ilium

X

xenia

–

the custom of friendship towards strangers

Z

Zacynthos

–

southernmost of the Ionian islands under Odysseus’s rule

Zeus

–

the king of the gods

BOOK

ONE

Chapter One

LEMNOS

Odysseus, king of Ithaca, stood at the stern of the galley, his short legs planted firmly apart on the deck and his muscular, top-heavy torso rolling gently with the subdued motion of the sea. His green eyes were impassive as they studied the walls of dense fog that surrounded the ship, seemingly unconcerned at the possibility they could be creeping towards their doom on a rocky shoal or drifting past their destination altogether. King Diomedes showed less patience, beseeching and cursing the gods with alternate breaths as he stood at Odysseus’s left shoulder, his blue cloak swept back to reveal a gleaming breastplate and the golden pommel of a sword hanging at his side. Eperitus, captain of the Ithacan guard, was at Odysseus’s other shoulder, his eyes on the crew as they pulled at the oars.

‘What do your senses tell you, Eperitus?’ Odysseus asked, his smooth voice amplified by the silence. ‘Are we near to Lemnos?’

Eperitus stared out at the thick mist, raising his chin a little as he focussed his hearing on sounds that were beyond the gentle creaking of the long oars in their leather loops and the swish and trickle of water across the blades. As he concentrated he began to hear things the others could not, noises diminished by distance that took a few moments to understand. With them came odours and aromas, and different tastes carried on the air, all of them delicate and insubstantial, but nevertheless distinct to his raised perceptivity.

‘I can hear crowds of gulls,’ he began, ‘squabbling and cawing like they used to on the cliffs and hillsides around Ithaca. And waves crashing against rocks. There’s a stink of seaweed and wet stone, but with a hint of soil and vegetation. It’s definitely land, though I can’t say whether it’s Lemnos or not.’

‘It is,’ Odysseus said confidently. ‘Which way?’

Eperitus pointed at an angle to the bearing they were travelling along. Odysseus gave a satisfied smile and glanced back over his shoulder.

‘North a little, Antiphus.’

The man at the helm nodded, a determined look on his face as he leaned the twin steering oars to the left.

‘I’m going to the prow,’ Odysseus announced. ‘I remember the rocks the first time we came here, and the last thing I want is one of them popping up out of this fog and tearing a hole in the hull.’

‘I’ll come with you,’ Eperitus said.

‘No need,’ Odysseus replied, placing an arresting hand on his broad chest. ‘Why don’t you stay here and make sure the anchor stones are ready? You can prepare the boat, too, while you’re at it.’

The fact the anchor stones and the small rowing boat could be quickly readied by any of the seasoned crew made Eperitus suspicious, and when Odysseus added one of his reassuring smiles he felt sure he was hiding something. Not that there was any point in questioning him; after twenty years as the king’s friend, Eperitus knew he would not reveal anything he did not have a mind to.

Odysseus bent down to pick up a bundle of fur and a wooden club that were stowed beneath one of the rowing benches.

‘That’s Agamemnon’s lion’s pelt, isn’t it?’ Diomedes said.

‘I borrowed it from him,’ Odysseus explained innocently.

‘What in Athena’s name do you want that for? And what’s the point of the club? If you’re planning to beat Philoctetes to death, don’t forget Calchas said we need to bring him back to Troy alive.’

‘Philoctetes probably perished years ago,’ Odysseus replied, ‘especially with that stinking wound of his. The important thing is to find his bow and arrows.’

Eperitus and Diomedes watched him walk down the centre of the galley, pausing halfway beside a gigantic warrior crammed onto the end of one of the benches. Odysseus leaned down and spoke close to the man’s ear, then handed him the lion’s pelt and the club before continuing to the prow.

‘Why’s he giving them to Polites?’ Diomedes asked. ‘He’s definitely up to something.’

Eperitus nodded. ‘But what?’

‘Some trick or other, no doubt.’

‘No, he promised me he’d act honourably, especially after the unjust way Philoctetes was marooned on Lemnos. All because the poor wretch was bitten by a snake.’

‘It was a harsh decision, but perhaps the years have helped us forget the stench of the wound and how he used to groan and wail.’

‘We were too harsh, my lord,’ Antiphus interrupted from his position at the twin rudder. As an archer himself, he had always empathised with Philoctetes. ‘With the bow and arrows Heracles gave him he could have ended the war in the first year. Hector and Paris were the backbone of the Trojan army, but two shots from Philoctetes would have brought them down in the dust and left the gates of Troy virtually undefended.’

‘Then perhaps it was the will of the gods that we abandoned him on Lemnos,’ Diomedes replied. ‘Though if he has survived, I wouldn’t want to fall foul of him if he still has his weapons. A good reason for us to remind Odysseus of what we agreed, don’t you think Eperitus?’

Eperitus nodded.

‘Omeros,’ he barked, staring at a lad who was sitting with his back against the side of the ship, busily restringing a tortoiseshell lyre, ‘put that damned thing away and make the boat ready. Get Elpenor to help you. And I want my breastplate, greaves and sword ready the moment we’re at anchor. If I find you’ve been spending more time on that instrument than you have cleaning and oiling my armour then you’ll only have yourself to blame for the consequences.’

Omeros leapt to his feet and called over to another young man who had been busy casting dice with his shipmates. Eperitus was certain his armour would not have been cared for nearly as well as Omeros’s lyre, but he felt no anger at the fact. The truth was, since arriving at Troy only a few months before among a shipload of Ithacan replacements, he had proved himself to be a promising warrior with a propensity to learn quickly and a calm intelligence that was not flustered by the confusion of battle. That was why Eperitus had made him his squire. More than that, though, he found he liked the boy.

‘And you, Eurylochus,’ he continued, looking at a pot-bellied sailor who was sitting at one of the benches and gnawing on a scrap of dried beef, ‘I want you to prepare the anchor stones.’

‘I’m rowing,’ Eurylochus replied through a mouthful of meat, refusing to look at Eperitus.

As much as Eperitus liked Omeros, he despised Eurylochus, who used the fact he was Odysseus’s cousin as an excuse to be lazy and arrogant. Eperitus’s dislike was more than matched by Eurylochus’s own hatred for him, which was driven by jealousy and a misguided belief that the position of captain of the guard should have been his by right. But the years had taught Eperitus how to deal with Eurylochus.

‘You’ll be swimming if those anchor stones aren’t ready by the time I return,’ he said, and followed Diomedes to the prow while Eurylochus fumed behind him.

‘You shouldn’t embarrass my cousin in front of the crew, Eperitus,’ Odysseus chided as they joined him.

Eperitus raised an eyebrow. ‘You’re right. I should’ve just stood there and let him undermine my authority.’

‘The petulance of a small-minded fool won’t harm the respect these men hold you in, you know that. And humiliating Eurylochus will only provoke him to acts of petty revenge – he’s done it enough times in the past. Talking of disrespecting authority, didn’t I ask you to prepare the anchor stones and the boat?’

‘They’re being seen to,’ Diomedes answered. ‘Besides, you’ve had your chance for a private word with Polites, so you should be grateful for two extra pairs of eyes in this fog.’

Odysseus grinned and the three men turned to stare out at the milky vapour that shifted spectrally around the galley.

‘I don’t know what you’re up to, Odysseus,’ Diomedes continued, scanning the mist, ‘but you promised us no tricks, remember? Philoctetes was shamefully treated when we left him here, and if he’s still alive after ten years then I doubt he’ll be feeling any better disposed toward us – especially as you were the one who brought him here. The first sign of deceit from you and he’ll shoot us all down like tethered doves.’

‘I brought him here to save him from being murdered after he beat Achilles and Medon,’ Odysseus retorted. ‘They’d have silenced his groaning for good if it hadn’t been for me. Not that I expect him to appreciate that. But I’ve agreed to let you do the talking and I’ll keep my promise, Diomedes – unless he speaks to me, that is. He’d sooner shoot me than talk to me, though, so that’s unlikely. And to make sure he doesn’t recognise me, I’ll keep my hood over my face and my lips sealed.’

Eperitus gave him a sceptical look. ‘And if we fail to persuade him?’

‘How can you? Assuming he’s survived this long and no passing ship has offered him passage back to Greece, then he’ll have been alone on this rock for ten years. Do you think he won’t snatch at the chance to get back to civilisation and a bit of human company? If he does show hesitation, any hesitation at all, just do what I said: offer him food and drink, and tell him about Calchas’s prophecy – that Troy can’t fall until he has rejoined the army. Believe me, after ten years without a sip of wine it’ll be impossible for him to refuse, and when the alcohol reaches his brain he’ll be yours for the taking.’

Diomedes frowned. ‘That’s trickery! I won’t dishonour myself by fooling the poor wretch.’

‘Forget the wine, then,’ Odysseus said with an exasperated wave of his hand. ‘Just appeal to his sense of glory! What is it Omeros says about warriors, Eperitus? Always to be best, and to be distinguished above the rest. Once you tell him he’s the key to the downfall of Troy, he’ll have swum to the galley before we can row there – lame or not. Persuading him to rejoin the army couldn’t be easier, even for a pair of oxhide shields like you.’

‘And if the end of the war and your returning home to Ithaca depends on us persuading him, and we fail?’ Eperitus asked. ‘What will you do then?’

‘You won’t fail. Calchas told us a decade ago that Troy would fall in the tenth year of the siege, so if that can’t happen without Philoctetes then we’re fated to succeed. It’s the will of the gods.’

‘Then may the gods help us,’ Eperitus replied, leaning forward and staring into the fog.

The three men fell silent again as they watched for black shapes amid the creeping fronds of mist ahead of them. Eperitus’s thoughts drifted back to the conversation he had had with Odysseus the evening before, after they had buried Great Ajax, the king of Salamis, on a cliff top overlooking the Aegean Sea. When Achilles had been slain by an arrow fired from the walls of Troy, Ajax had demanded his cousin’s god-made armour be given to him. And who could say he did not deserve it, after carrying Achilles’s corpse to the safety of the Greek lines while Odysseus and Eperitus had fought off the pursuing Trojans? Then when Odysseus deceived the Council of Kings into awarding the armour to him, the disgrace and humiliation had driven Ajax insane and he had taken his own life. Racked with guilt, Odysseus had sworn by Athena that he would never again pursue false glory, act with dishonour or be distracted from his sole purpose of returning home to Ithaca. From that point on he resolved only to seek the destruction of Troy and the ending of the war. But Eperitus knew that his friend’s ideas of honour and glory were different to his, and however deep his remorse over Ajax’s death he was unlikely never to resort to cunning or trickery again. To expect Odysseus not to use his natural guile was like asking a bird not to use its wings.

‘What’s that?’ hissed Diomedes, thrusting a finger towards a tall black shape emerging from the swirls of mist ahead of them.

Eperitus narrowed his eyes; there were other shapes beyond it, more rocks waiting to rip open the ship’s belly and condemn its crew to the same fate as Philoctetes. And suddenly every man on board could hear the seagulls and smell the pungent seaweed piled up on the crags, though only Eperitus’s nostrils could detect the underlying stench of corruption emanating from the island, a reek he had not known in such strength for ten years. They had found Philoctetes and he was still cursed by the terrible wound the gods had inflicted on him a decade before.

‘Throw the anchor stones overboard,’ Odysseus shouted. ‘And ready the boat. We’re going ashore.’

Chapter Two

PHILOCTETES

The boat bumped against the shelf of black rock and Odysseus leapt out, slipping slightly on the layered seaweed before finding a handhold and pulling himself to safety. Antiphus threw him the rope and he held the vessel fast as the others clambered free of its cramped confines. Eperitus was last behind Diomedes and seeing Polites had left the club and lion’s pelt that Odysseus had given him, stooped to pick them up.

‘You can leave those,’ Odysseus said quietly, passing the rope to Polites and offering Eperitus his hand. ‘We’ll only need them if all else fails.’

Mystified, but knowing better than to ask for an explanation from his friend, Eperitus left the club and pelt in the boat and took the king’s hand. He stepped ashore and looked about himself. Through the thick fog behind them he could just see the mast and cross spar of the galley, swaying gently between two sentinels of rock. The sea in-between was lost beneath the curling fronds of white mist that rose like steam from its surface, creeping inland across the stony shore to lap at the knees of the cliffs that loomed harsh and forbidding above the party of Greeks. The bluffs were dotted with seagulls, huddled into pockets in the rock for protection from the cold breeze, and Eperitus could hear many more of the creatures nestled on the invisible cliff tops above. There was little else to see or hear in this barren corner of Lemnos, but the stench he had picked up from the galley was stronger and more offensive now, forcing him to lift a corner of his cloak to cover his mouth and nose.

‘What is it?’ Diomedes asked.

‘Can’t you smell it yet?’ Eperitus replied. ‘It’s Philoctetes’s wound, I’m sure of it.’

‘Impossible,’ Diomedes scoffed. ‘There’s no way he could have survived for ten years in that sort of pain. Either the wound healed itself, or it killed Philoctetes long ago and we’re here to find his bones – and the weapons he left behind.’

‘You forget he wasn’t bitten by any ordinary snake,’ Odysseus said. ‘It was sent by Thetis, in answer to Achilles’s calls for vengeance because Philoctetes beat him in the race to Tenedos. The wound’s a curse from the goddess, and if she wanted the pain to last for ten years without killing him then you can be sure he’s still alive. One thing’s for certain, though: the pain and the loneliness of this place will have sent Philoctetes half-mad at the least, if not completely insane. We need to be on our guard and do nothing to frighten him – nothing at all! And that means leaving our weapons in the boat.’

Diomedes laughed, his handsome face genuinely amused as he patted the ivory pommel of his sword.

‘This blade is never more than a few paces beyond my reach, old friend, and if you think I’m going to face an embittered madman like Philoctetes without it –’

‘With respect, my lord,’ Antiphus interrupted, ‘what good will your sword be against the bow and arrows of Heracles? It’s said they never miss their target and the tips are poisonous, so if Philoctetes wants to shoot us dead then our weapons aren’t going to stop him.’

‘I’d rather take my chances with my sword than without it, thank you Antiphus,’ Diomedes replied. ‘Besides, I’ll keep it well hidden beneath my cloak.’

Odysseus slipped his sheathed sword from his shoulder and set it down on a pile of black seaweed.

‘One careless movement of your hand’ll be enough to show you’re armed, Diomedes, and then you’ll only have yourself to blame if Philoctetes gets the idea into his head that we’re not friendly. Either leave your sword here with Polites, or stay by the boat yourself and let Polites take your place.’

Diomedes gave him a surly look, then unbuckled his baldric and placed his sword down beside Odysseus’s. Antiphus’s bow, arrows and dagger were next, followed by the spears and swords of Eurylochus and Eperitus.

‘Good,’ Odysseus said, flicking his hood up to hide his face. ‘Eperitus, lead the way – just follow your sense of smell and we’re bound to find him.’

Eperitus paused to sniff the foul air, then, pulling his cloak about his shoulders, began to pick his way between the seaweed-festooned rocks and the small, dark pools that hid between them. The others followed, except for Polites, who had been given the task of keeping watch over the boat and their weapons while they were away. Glancing back, Eperitus saw Odysseus reach into the boat for a skin of water, which he threw over his shoulder before turning to speak to the giant warrior. His words were too low even for Eperitus’s acute hearing to pick out from the constant cawing of the gulls, and a moment later the king had turned back and was following behind Antiphus.

Eperitus moved with the cliffs to his right – an unending wall that forbade access to the rest of Lemnos and confined them to the narrow, rugged strip of land that skirted the sea. The fog, if anything, was growing thicker. It condensed on his beard and eyelashes to form little droplets of water that would occasionally merge and trickle into his eyes or down his neck. The stench of brine and seagull droppings pervaded everything, but soon even this was eclipsed by the reek Eperitus had first picked up on the galley. The others could smell it too by now and began to complain under their breath or cover their faces with their cloaks. Diomedes and Odysseus both wore scarves to keep the rims of their breastplates from rubbing against their necks, but had pulled them up over their mouths and noses to filter out the foul odour; the others had no choice but to endure it. After a while Eperitus detected a low groaning that reminded him of a battlefield after nightfall, when the fighting had stopped and the opposing armies had settled down by their campfires, only to be haunted by the cries of the wounded among the corpses in-between, calling out for their friends to find them or to the gods to claim their wretched souls. The sound grew nearer, though none of his comrades remarked on it, and he noticed there were no more seagulls on the cliff faces above them. There was something else, too, something his instincts had been aware of for a while but he had not been able until that moment to identify. He realised they were being followed.

‘What’s that?’ Eurylochus hissed, stopping and pointing into the mist.

Eperitus traced the direction of his finger and saw a ring of small, fist-sized stones on a plateau of rock ahead of him. They were grey with ash and a pile of burnt wood lay heaped up between them. Scattered about the remains of the fire were thin white sticks of varying lengths, which Eperitus quickly realised were the bones of seagulls. He could tell the ashes were cold, but by the smell of them they were no older than the previous night. He reached instinctively for his sword and remembered he had left it with Polites.

Odysseus moved past his shoulder and gave the remains of the fire a kick with his heel. The heavier ash that had not been blown away by the sea breeze now rose up in a small cloud about his ankles.

‘It’s recent,’ he declared, slipping his scarf momentarily down from his mouth. ‘He’s here somewhere.’

As he spoke Eperitus sensed a change and realised the groaning had stopped. He raised a finger to his lips, gesturing the others to silence. A number of large boulders had rolled down from the cliff countless years before, forming a clumsy ramp that led up the sheer rock face. Eperitus’s gaze followed the boulders up the side of the cliff, noticing signs of smoothing here and there, as well as smaller stones that seemed to have been put in place to act as steps where the rocks were steepest. And then, as he looked higher up the fog-shrouded precipice, he saw the triangular mouth of a cave.

‘He’s in there,’ he whispered, pointing.

The five men moved forward together, craning their heads back to stare up at the opening above them. Odysseus laid a hand on Diomedes’s shoulder.

‘Be careful of everything you say. He’s had ten years to dwell on his hatred of the Greeks, so don’t provoke him or threaten him in any way. Remember his bow and arrows.’

He covered his face again and drew back to stand behind the others. Diomedes looked up at the cave and cupped a hand to his mouth.

‘Philoctetes,’ he called. ‘Philoctetes, son of Poeas, if you’re up there then show yourself. We wish to speak with you.’

There was no reply. After a few more moments, Diomedes turned to Eperitus with a frown.

‘Are you certain he’s up there? I know your senses are keener than ours, but –’

‘Look again,’ Eperitus said, nodding at the mouth of the cave and pinching his nose against the fresh stench polluting the already bad air.

The others peered up through the mist and saw that a figure had appeared. A tall bow was clutched in its left hand and an arrow had been fitted, drawn in readiness to fire at the hooded figures below. The weapon was undoubtedly the one Heracles had given to Philoctetes, but whether the creature that held it was the Malian archer – or even a human being at all – could barely be discerned. Its skin was pale and ingrained with years of dirt; its bare limbs were so thin and wasted that they were no thicker than a small child’s; the rags that covered its torso seemed to hang like the tattered remnants of a sail over a mast; and the creature’s long beard and hair made its head seem much too large for its emaciated body. But Eperitus’s sharp eyes were able to see the face clearly. It was a face that was as twisted and misshapen as the trees that grew on the windswept plains of Ilium, a face that had been distorted irrevocably by years of excruciating pain and cancerous hatred, but a face that had undeniably once belonged to Philoctetes.

Diomedes stepped back, groping for Eperitus’s wrist and seizing it.

‘Is that … is that him?’ he hissed, unable to tear his eyes away from the savage figure aiming its bow at them from the boulders above.

‘Yes, it’s Philoctetes,’ Eperitus replied, freeing his wrist and placing his hand on Diomedes’s shoulder, urging him forward once more.

The archer lowered his weapon a fraction, revealing dark eyes as he stared down at the newcomers to his island.

‘Who are you?’ he croaked, the very act of speaking causing him to break out in a fit of dry coughing that took a few moments to recover from. ‘Who are you and what do you want on my island?’

‘Are you Philoctetes, son of Poeas?’ Diomedes repeated.

‘This is the body that once bore that name, though both the man and his fame have been forgotten by this world. But this is the bow of Heracles, whom the gods raised up to live with them on Mount Olympus, having made him immortal like themselves. Its arrows never miss and their tips are poisonous, so if you’ve come to mock the ghost of Philoctetes or steal the rocks and stones that are his possessions, then beware.’

‘It’s true you’ve become a pitiful figure, Philoctetes,’ Diomedes replied. ‘Yet you were once a prince of Malia, and custom dictates a prince should treat his visitors with decorum, even if his home is a cold and lonely rock like this. You speak of the gods with respect in your voice, so if you honour them then honour us.’

Philoctetes frowned angrily, then shifted his position with surprising speed, using the rocks for support. Diomedes and the others flinched instinctively as he raised his bow and fired into the air. A moment later there was a squawk, followed by a loud thump as a gull crashed onto the rocks before them.

‘You see?’ he crowed, his eyes wide as he stared at them along the shaft of a new arrow. ‘Philoctetes has provided a feast to celebrate your arrival on Lemnos! But first – just to show he hasn’t forgotten how to observe the rules of xenia – he must know your identities and what it is you want of him? Are you merchants, seeking the way to Ilium or Greece? He’d lead you there himself, though you aren’t the first visitors to this rock and none of your predecessors ever offered Philoctetes passage on their ships. Not as soon as they caught wind of this!’

He raised his leg to show a foot bandaged in cloth that was black with filth. As he did so he gave out a cry of anguished despair and fell back against a boulder, beating the stone with the flat of his free hand and raising a scream to the invisible skies above, where he knew the gods remained indifferent to his pain. Eperitus caught a movement from the corner of his eye and turned to see that Eurylochus had taken a step forward. His hand was cupped over his mouth and nose to filter out some of the reek of Philoctetes’s wound, and in his eyes Eperitus could see he was debating whether to leap up the rocks and take the bow and arrows by force while their owner was paralysed with agony. Then, before Eurylochus could make his decision, the screaming ended in another fit of coughing and Philoctetes slid himself back up against the boulder. He raised his bow and drew back the arrow once more, though weakly, and aimed it at the men below.

‘So who are you?’ he called in a tired voice. ‘Do you have any lineage to speak of? And what in the name of Heracles brings you to this forsaken place?’

‘As for whom I am, you know me already,’ Diomedes answered, tipping back his hood. ‘I am Diomedes, son of Tydeus. I have come to ask if you will rejoin the army and fight with us against Troy.’

Philoctetes did not move. His eyes narrowed slightly as they stared down the shaft of the arrow at the king of Argos, but he said nothing. Then a flicker of anger touched his twisted features. He gripped the bow tightly and drew the string back to his sneering lip.

‘He prayed you would come one day,’ he said, heavy tears swelling up in the corners of his eyes before rolling down his filthy cheeks and into his beard. ‘Philoctetes prayed you would come back for him, snivelling like curs, pleading for him and his arrows to save your worthless skins. He prayed for this day so hard and so long, to Heracles and any god who would listen, offering the only sacrifices his kingdom of rocks could provide – birds, fish and crabs! Have you ever tried to sacrifice a crab, Diomedes? Do the gods even accept such meagre sacrifices? But of course they do, or why else have you come?’

‘Indeed, why else have we come, Philoctetes, unless it was the gods who sent us? The Greeks have need of your bow and arrows and Agamemnon himself requests that you return to the army and help us secure the final victory over Priam.’

‘Agamemnon!’ Philoctetes spat. ‘What does Philoctetes care for that man and his requests? What service does Philoctetes owe to him, or to any of you for that matter? How long has it been since you abandoned him here? It must be at least five years by now.’

‘It’s ten.’

‘Ten!’ Philoctetes reeled back, bearing his blackened teeth in a snarl and slapping repeatedly at the boulder with the flat of his hand. ‘Ten years alone, with nothing but seagulls and his hatred of the Greeks to keep him company! In the name of Heracles, can it have been so long?’

‘Be glad it doesn’t have to be any longer,’ Diomedes said, a little impatiently. ‘What’s more, Agamemnon realises you were wronged when we left you here and doesn’t expect you to return to the army without compensation. He offers seven copper tripods and cauldrons to go with them, never touched by fire, along with ten ingots of gold and three slave women trained in all the household arts. These are fine gifts, Philoctetes, and you will bring yourself great honour by accepting them.’

Philoctetes was half lost in a sheet of fog that had rolled down from the cliff tops above, but his husky voice was clearly audible in the damp air.

‘Philoctetes always liked you, Diomedes. You were one of the few kings who had a shred of decency in them. Yet you don’t have Odysseus’s powers of persuasion, or that honeyed voice of his; indeed, you make Agamemnon’s gifts sound as exciting as roast seagull. The King of Men should have sent Odysseus instead; Philoctetes could have enjoyed the skill of his arguments, and then had the satisfaction of shooting him dead in payment for marooning him here! Now go back in your ship and tell Agamemnon to keep his offer. Philoctetes doesn’t need cauldrons or gold – not here – and any “honour” attached to them would be more than compensated for by the shame of serving an army that betrayed him!’

‘Then forget the gifts,’ Diomedes snapped, jabbing his finger at the mist-shrouded figure above. ‘Forget Agamemnon, forget the army, forget the oath we took to protect Helen. If you’re so twisted with hatred of your own countrymen –’

‘Curse all Greeks!’

‘Then if you hate us so much, do it for the love of the gods – or fear of them, if that’s easier. Do you think Agamemnon or any of us’d give a damn about your bow and arrows, whatever their powers are claimed to be? If the spears of Achilles, Ajax and a host of others haven’t defeated Troy in ten years, what difference will your weapons make? None that I can see! The only reason we came here was because Calchas, priest of Apollo, had a vision that Troy will not fall without you. Until the bow and arrows of Heracles are brought to Ilium, every drop of Greek blood will have been spilled in vain. So if you won’t return for our sakes, then do it out of respect for the gods. Or do it for yourself. Isn’t it payment enough that men will say the walls of Troy only succumbed to the arrows of Philoctetes? That’s more than thousands of those who have already died can claim, and many of them were greater men than you are.’

There was a long silence, during which Philoctetes was lost to sight behind the drifting mist. When it cleared they saw he had descended a little and was sitting on a smooth rock with his bow and arrows at his side. A thick, twisted branch that he used as a crutch was leaning against his inner thigh.

‘Perhaps you’re not as clumsy with words as Philoctetes thought, Diomedes,’ he said. ‘At least, not when you‘re touched with a little passion. And the will of the gods – and the promise of everlasting glory – are not easy things to deny, especially when the alternative is to remain here, forgotten by the civilised world and left to feast on stringy gull’s meat and seaweed. What Philoctetes wouldn’t do for a taste of wine, or even the feel of bread in his mouth again! Not to mention a little conversation and the company of his fellow men.’

He paused and Eperitus sensed the hesitation in Philoctetes’s tone.

‘Go on,’ Diomedes said, cautiously.

‘And yet you ask too much. Can you even begin to understand what it’s like to spend – what did you say it was – to spend ten years alone? To be cursed by the gods and abandoned by your comrades, nursing a desire for vengeance and longing for human companionship, only to be offered salvation by the very men whose downfall you’ve been praying for all that time. Yes, he wanted you to return and plead for his help, but only so he could have the satisfaction of telling you to go to the halls of Hades. But now you’ve come, it’s not how he’d imagined it. He’s not even sure whether this isn’t some sort of trick, the kind of thing Odysseus would dream up; or whether, if he went with you to Ilium, Philoctetes would spend his arrows on the Trojans or turn them on the Greeks. He needs time, Diomedes.’

‘Zeus’s beard, haven’t you had enough time?’ demanded a new voice.

Eurylochus pulled back his hood and turned to Diomedes.

‘He’s never going to come with us, Diomedes. He’s as stubborn as a mule and twice as stupid, not to mention driven out of his senses. If you’d let Odysseus do the talking we’d have been back at the galley by now, sailing for Ilium with this twisted maggot of a man hankering to get into battle and end the war.’

‘Odysseus? Odysseus is here?’ Philoctetes said, leaning down over the boulder and staring at the piglike features of Eurylochus. Eurylochus looked down at his feet, realising his slip, and Philoctetes turned his fierce eyes on the hooded figures behind him. ‘Which one of you is Odysseus? Declare yourself or Philoctetes’ll shoot all three of you where you stand!’

‘You’re a damned fool, Eurylochus,’ Odysseus snarled, removing his hood and walking out in front of the others. ‘Get from my sight before I cut out your tongue and feed it to the seagulls!’

Eurylochus could not meet Odysseus’s angry gaze and retreated into the mist. As he slipped away, a gurgle of cold laughter spilled down from the rocks above them.

‘He should have known you’d be here,’ Philoctetes crowed, smiling with triumphant hatred. ‘He should have guessed Agamemnon wouldn’t send Diomedes for a task like this. Only the great deceiver – Odysseus himself – would do. Ha, ha! Philoctetes has prayed for this chance for so long. And now, Odysseus, your treacherous ways have finally caught up with you!’

He drew back his bow and took aim.

Chapter Three

HERACLES

Eperitus felt his heart race. If he had been allowed to bring his spear he could have launched it at the skeletal, wild-haired wretch perched among the boulders above them, but as Philoctetes drew back the feathered arrow so that its poisonous head rested against the top of his left fist there was not even enough time to throw himself in front of his king. Then, in the split moment before Philoctetes released the bowstring, Odysseus raised his hand.

‘Stop!’ he commanded.

His voice had such power and authority that Philoctetes was compelled to retain his pinch-hold on the arrow and lower his bow a little. He looked down the shaft at the man he had spent ten years hating – hating him still, but powerless for an instant to bring about his destruction.

‘Philoctetes, I do not deny your right to kill me,’ Odysseus began. ‘Indeed, what man who had suffered as you have suffered would not want to kill the one he blamed for his misfortunes. If you send my spirit down to Hades then I would not begrudge you your vengeance, even though your haste will have deprived Penelope of a husband and Telemachus a father. You, after all, are the victim, the man who through no fault of his own was betrayed and abandoned to die on this forbidding rock.’

He swept his hand in a half-circle, looking up at the churning walls of mist and the dark mass of the cliff faces beyond them.

‘In truth, I’m amazed you were able to survive this long in such a place. There are few, even among the greatest warriors of Greece, who could have kept themselves alive amid this desolation.’

‘Philoctetes had the bow Heracles left him,’ Philoctetes said. ‘And his hatred of you, of course.’

Odysseus nodded as if in sympathy, though his eyes did not leave Philoctetes for one moment.

‘Of course. Hatred is a powerful force among mortals. It gives a man endurance in adversity, a purpose to go on living when there is nothing else to live for. In battle it focusses his strength and gives him an urgency that is difficult for his enemies to overcome. But hate does not nourish a man, Philoctetes, nor is it something he can master. I know a warrior who, for twenty years, has been crippled by his loathing of his own father. If he could leave his hatred behind there would be few men to match him in this age of the world, but it distracts him and holds him back, preventing him from becoming what the gods meant him to be.’

Eperitus felt a flush of anger that Odysseus should dare draw parallels between himself and the wretched figure standing among the rocks above them. His father was a black-hearted murderer who had killed a king and taken his throne for himself, and when Eperitus had refused to support his vile crime or acknowledge his rule he had exiled him from the kingdom for life. Shortly afterwards he had fallen in with Odysseus and followed the new path the gods had laid before him; but he had never forgiven his father’s sin or forgotten his desire to kill him and wash clean the stain from his family’s name. Indeed, a man of honour could do no less, and Odysseus’s comments were a stinging betrayal. Eperitus stared at the back of his head, willing him to turn so he could challenge his accusation, but the king kept his gaze stubbornly fixed on the Malian archer whose arrow was still pointed at his heart.

‘No doubt the man you speak of had his choice,’ Philoctetes said. ‘And yet what choice did Philoctetes have? His hatred of you was the only difference between life and death. He chose life.’

‘Wrong, Philoctetes. You chose death. The Philoctetes who led his fleet out from the Euboean Straits and beat Achilles in the race to Tenedos is dead. His hatred murdered him and left you, a living wraith, a mere husk of humanity!’

‘No!’ Philoctetes shouted, raising his bow and drawing the string taut. ‘No! Philoctetes is alive, and when you’re dead he’ll be free again.’

‘Kill me and any vestige of Philoctetes that remains in you will die with me,’ Odysseus retorted. ‘Just listen to your babbling speech. Ever since you emerged from that cave you’ve referred to yourself as he and him, never I or me. Whatever you are, you aren’t Philoctetes. But perhaps you’re right that he isn’t completely dead yet. Perhaps something of the old Philoctetes, the true Philoctetes, is left inside you. And to him I’m as vital as that crutch you lean on. The thought of me has kept him alive all these years, and though you hate me, without me he would disappear forever. Kill me and Philoctetes will truly die. Only you will be left!’

As Philoctetes stared back down at Odysseus, it was clear the king’s words had provoked a shift deep within his consciousness; a realisation that without the object of his hatred he would succumb fully to the wild, insane creature that lurked among the rocks of Lemnos, reeling between pain and hunger while it eked out an existence on the flesh of seagulls. If he killed Odysseus, the precious Philoctetes – the proud, handsome archer whose memory he guarded like cherished treasure – would be lost forever. While Eperitus watched, a sharp jolt of pain brought Philoctetes crashing down onto the rocks with a cry. His thin voice, stripped bare of any humanity, rose up into the fog-filled air and screamed to the gods for mercy. His screams broke the trance Odysseus’s voice had thrown over the others and both Diomedes and Antiphus raced towards the foot of the cascade of boulders to help him. Odysseus called them back.

‘Leave him! The pain will go, but let us see what it leaves behind.’

Philoctetes’s shouts continued and all they could see was his hand flailing above the boulders, slapping pitifully at the stone until the pain began to ebb and, at last, he found his voice again.

‘Have mercy!’ he shouted, still lost from view. ‘Kill this poor wretch and put an end to his pain. Kill Philoctetes and the bow and arrows are yours, that’s what you came for isn’t it? It’s the weapons that have magical powers, not him. He’ll give them to you if you’ll take his life, just as Heracles gave them to Philoctetes for ending his suffering. For pity’s sake, do what Philoctetes has never been able to bring himself to do!’

‘For pity’s sake we will not,’ Odysseus replied. ‘Pity and the will of Zeus. Don’t you realise the gods gave you your hatred of me to keep you alive? And now they’ve sent me to bring you back to the world of men, Philoctetes. I may have earned your loathing for abandoning you here, but it was Achilles who wanted you dead and Medon – your own lieutenant –who had agreed to murder you. Yes it was my suggestion that you be marooned on Lemnos, but it was made to save your life.’

Philoctetes had pulled himself up onto the rock and was staring down at Odysseus again.

‘Medon was going to kill … me?’

A slight lift of one eyebrow was Odysseus’s only outward reaction to the fact Philoctetes had referred to himself as me for the first time since they had coaxed him out of his lair. He opened his mouth to reply, then abruptly shut it again. Surprised by his silence, Eperitus and Diomedes looked at Odysseus and then followed his frowning gaze to the figure scaling the boulders to Philoctetes’s right, just beyond the edge of his sight. It was Eurylochus.

‘Damn him,’ Eperitus whispered.

‘Yes, Medon,’ Odysseus answered, his voice calm despite the threat posed by Eurylochus as he stole up on Philoctetes, intending to take the bow that had been left on the boulder behind him. ‘But Medon is dead – slain by a woman, as befits his treacherous nature. And Achilles has also given up his spirit, which now resides in the Chambers of Decay. Nothing stands between you and a return to the army, Philoctetes. The gods have already stated that great glory awaits you – renown that will eclipse all that has passed before. If you can just surrender your bitter hatred and forgive a group of foolish men who’ve been made wiser by ten years of suffering and loss, then you can leave this place forever and return with us to civilisation.’

Philoctetes’s restless eyes betrayed the struggle that was taking place within. And yet it was a struggle he had only moments to win, for Eurylochus had now emerged on the large boulders behind him, the hem of his cloak floating in the breeze as he looked down at the bow and arrows just a short dash away from him.

‘Decide, Philoctetes,’ Odysseus said, more urgently now. ‘Will you come with us to everlasting glory or will you remain king of your island realm? Will it be bread and wine, or seagulls and mist? Decide!’

The scuffing of a leather sandal on stone gave Eurylochus away. With a speed that seemed impossible for such a miserable creature, Philoctetes had snatched up his bow and fitted an arrow to the string before Eurylochus could leap down onto the rock and take them for himself.

‘Treachery!’ he shouted, pointing the weapon at Eurylochus, who fell back over the boulder with a squeal of fear, followed by a loud cry of pain. Philoctetes turned now and aimed at Odysseus. ‘Philoctetes should have known better than to trust a beguiling serpent like you. You say that if you die he will die with you, but that’s just another lie; when he shoots you down he will become free.’

Philoctetes pulled back the bowstring and Odysseus dropped to his knees, throwing his hood over his face. Then, as Philoctetes let out half a breath and steadied his aim, a booming voice rolled down from the cliff tops, startling the men below as it echoed between the rocks and rebounded from precipice to precipice.

‘Stay your hand, Philoctetes!’

The archer felt the strength in his arms weaken, forcing him to relax the bowstring and lower the weapon. He looked about himself, searching for the owner of the voice in the fog. Down on the rock shelf below him, Eperitus, Diomedes and Antiphus looked around in confusion, while Odysseus tipped back his hood and glanced discreetly upwards. Then Eperitus gave a shout and pointed to the cliffs above, where a giant figure stood silhouetted against the swirls of white mist.

‘Who are you?’ Diomedes called, feeling instinctively for the sword he had left by the boat.

‘Silence!’ commanded the newcomer. ‘The gods speak only to those whom they choose, and I have not left the halls of Olympus to waste words with you, Diomedes, king of Argos. I have come to talk to Philoctetes.’

The archer lurched forward to lay across a boulder, from where he could scrutinise the figure in the mist.

‘Heracles!’ he exclaimed after a moment, his eyes growing wide with shock and wonder. ‘Then you did become a god after your death, just as the priests declared. And now you’ve come back to save Philoctetes from these liars and cheats! See, lord: he’s looked after your bow and arrows for you; everything just as when you gave them into his care.’

‘Looked after them?’ Heracles scoffed. His features were impossible to discern, but the outline of his famous lion’s pelt was visible on his head and over his shoulders, as was the thick club that hung menacingly from his fist. ‘You’ve no more looked after them than if I had entrusted them to one of the sheep you were tending that day you lit my funeral pyre! You’ve used it for nothing more than shooting down seagulls, when it should have been on the battlefields of Ilium killing Trojans. And when Odysseus and Diomedes offer you the chance to use them for your own glory – and for mine – what do you do? Complain and bemoan your lot!’

‘Forgive your faithful servant!’ Philoctetes groaned, burying his face in his hands. ‘Command him, lord, and he will repay your trust.’

‘Philoctetes,’ the booming voice ordered, ‘you know full well what you have to do. Take my bow and arrows to the killing fields of Ilium. Use them as the seer, Calchas, directs you and reap the glory that is rightly ours. Go with Odysseus and do not hold on to your hatred for him, but be thankful that he saved your life and returned for you.’

With that, having spoken more words than Eperitus could remember him putting together in all the ten years he had known him, Polites slipped away into the mist and headed back to the boat.

Chapter Four

RECONCILIATION AND HEALING

Odysseus must have known they would fail to persuade Philoctetes to give up his hatred and return to the army. He must have known it from the moment he had heard Calchas’s prophecy, hence his plan to disguise Polites as Heracles using an oversized club and Agamemnon’s lion’s pelt. He must have planned every detail during his whispered conversations with Polites on the voyage to Lemnos, knowing that the one man whom Philoctetes revered and respected above all others – and whose command he would obey – was Heracles. Eperitus realised all of this the moment Polites had been swallowed up by the fog, and though the deception did not sit easily on his conscience he could not deny that Odysseus’s foresight had saved their lives. What was more, it had ensured Philoctetes would come back with them to Ilium and bring the end of the war one step closer.

Philoctetes was the first to speak after Polites had gone. He pulled himself up to lean against the nearest boulder, and as he turned to the men below it was no longer the face of a man half deranged by pain and loneliness that stared down at them. Suddenly his eyes seemed full of life, lifted from their despair and given purpose and meaning once more.

‘Odysseus,’ he began, ‘will you help a cripple down from these treacherous rocks? And will one of your men fetch the rest of Philoctetes’s arrows … no, my arrows from the cave above? It is the god Heracles’s command that I return with you to Troy, and it is with pleasure I will fulfil his wish.’

Odysseus and Diomedes ran forward to help him, followed closely by Eperitus and Antiphus. As the kings took Philoctetes by his arms, Antiphus picked up his bow and the clutch of arrows he had brought with him – handling them with reverence – while Eperitus sprang up the rocks towards the mouth of the cave. He passed Eurylochus on the way, still hiding behind the large boulder where he had fallen, though whether out of fear of Philoctetes’s arrows or Odysseus’s wrath Eperitus could not say. He ignored him and quickly reached the entrance to the cave. Here the stench was at its strongest, where Philoctetes had holed himself away for so many years, gnawing on his bitter memories as he waited between the bouts of pain that would paralyse him for long moments at a time. For Eperitus, whose sensitive nostrils were almost overwhelmed by the stink, he felt as if he were standing at the entrance to the Underworld, that place of deepest misery where a man’s soul was condemned to spend infinity in loneliness, forgotten by the rest of the world. Indeed, that was where Philoctetes had been the last ten years of his life. How had he endured such an existence without hurling himself onto the rocks below, Eperitus wondered? And the answer had to be hope – hope of rescue and returning to the world of men. To have taken his own life would have been to have damned himself to an eternity in the halls of Hades, where even hope did not exist.

Eperitus stepped into the darkness and immediately felt something crunch beneath his sandal. Another step brought the same sensation, as if he was walking on small, brittle sticks. Looking down, he saw that the cave floor was carpeted with bones, the scattered skeletons of countless birds that Philoctetes had shot and eaten to eke out his squalid existence. It was like the lair of some ancient beast, and there was no way through except to tread on the littered bones. He carried on, one step at a time, deeper into the gloom until the ceiling of the cave forced him to stoop. Eventually he was able to pick out a pale circle on the floor ahead of him. It was Philoctetes’s bed, made entirely of seagull feathers. They had been compacted down by his weight over the years and the pus from his wound had permeated them so that the stench in that confined space was now unbearable. It took all of Eperitus’s self-discipline not to turn back. Finally, just when he thought he could not bear to take another step, he saw the leather quiver lying on the edge of the bed. Eperitus snatched it up and ran out of the cave.

He stood atop the cascade of boulders and took several lungfuls of the clean sea air. On a clear day he would have been able to see far across the Aegean, and the approach of the Ithacan galley would have been obvious a long time before its arrival. But the fog had shrouded everything, leaving only the tips of treacherous rocks, appearing and disappearing among the white billows like the humps of great sea monsters. Below him, barely distinguishable in the mist, were the figures of the others gathered on the rock shelf. Eperitus swung the quiver onto his shoulder and picked his way down between the tumble of boulders.

The array of expressions he met at the bottom was almost amusing, and were it not for the fact he wanted to vomit from the smell of Philoctetes’s wound, Eperitus would have smiled. Eurylochus looked like a whipped child, his usually ruddy jowls now flushed crimson and his eyes fixed firmly on his sandals. Odysseus, who was normally able to prevent his feelings from spilling out into his features, wore a rigid look that was as much to do with the foul stench of Philoctetes – who he was carrying on his back – as it was his anger with Eurylochus. As for Philoctetes, the archer’s face was as bright as a breastplate as he clung to Odysseus’s shoulders, staring around at the dark cliffs that had been his home for a decade and beaming triumphantly. Antiphus was passing the length of Heracles’s bow up and down through his fingers, his wide eyes oblivious to everything else, while Diomedes was almost green as he tried manfully to hide his nausea in such close proximity to Philoctetes’s foot.

‘Come on,’ Odysseus said as Eperitus joined them, and set off at a jog.

With Philoctetes calling out the best path through the rocks and little pools, they would have made quick progress back to the boat had they not been stopped by the sudden screeching of their guide as a fresh wave of pain attacked him. Odysseus laid him down and the others stood by helplessly as Philoctetes thrashed about on the rock, crying out almost gull-like and cursing each of them in turn before turning his ire on the gods. When it was over, it was as if nothing had happened and Philoctetes urged Odysseus to pick him up again and press on.

As they reached the boat, Polites sprang to his feet and hauled on the rope a little too sharply, causing the small vessel to bang against the edge of the rock. Philoctetes eyed him closely, and the others could not disguise their anxiety as they turned and paused.

‘I know you,’ Philoctetes said. ‘Yes, I know you. You were with these others when they abandoned me here all those years ago.’

A look of momentary relief crossed Polites’s face, but was quickly replaced by shame as he lowered his eyes.

‘Sorry, my lord.’

‘Did you hear that?’ Philoctetes crowed, turning to the others and half pulling Odysseus around with him. ‘He called me “lord”! Me, the most wretched creature that has ever dwelt beneath the face of the sun. Lord Philoctetes!’

He was still laughing as they lowered him into the boat and rowed to the galley, only stopping to look back at Lemnos in a moment of contemplation. His reflections on ten years of misery did not last long though, and soon he was cackling again as he was handed up to the crew on the deck of the ship, their faces already pale from the stench of their new passenger. They fed him bread – he refused to eat anything else – and gave him wine weakened with five parts water, which quickly had him roaring drunk. Then, as the anchor stones were pulled up and the oars slipped back into the sea, he fell asleep savouring the simple texture of bread in his mouth, while Odysseus carefully – and with greater resolve than it took to charge into battle – removed the tattered dressing from his foot, bathed the wound and wrapped a new bandage about it. He was violently sick afterwards, but that single gesture of mercy earned him more respect from Eperitus than possessing the armour of Achilles could ever have done.

‘You knew I’d fail, didn’t you,’ Diomedes said.

He was standing between Odysseus and Eperitus as the three men waited at the prow of the galley, watching the humped shape of Tenedos growing ever nearer. Its rocky flanks had been given a coppery glow by the sun as it set behind them in the west, as had the low cliffs of the mainland of Ilium that lay in a thin line beyond it. Eperitus’s keen eyes could pick out goats hugging the steep hillsides, and the small white houses and olive groves of the few islanders who had clung on to their occupied homeland. A Greek warship and three merchant vessels lay at anchor in the harbour below, the same harbour that had seen Philoctetes claim victory over Achilles in the race from Aulis to Tenedos, which had provoked Achilles’s jealous anger and resulted in Philoctetes’s abandonment on Lemnos. The archer was sleeping in the stern, his snores still audible over the creaking of the rigging and the slapping of the waves against the hull.

‘Admit it,’ Diomedes insisted, turning to Odysseus. ‘Before we even left Ilium you knew how everything would turn out. You knew Eperitus and I wouldn’t want you to use your tricks on Philoctetes – not after the army had abandoned him so cruelly – and you knew we’d insist on doing the talking. But you also knew we wouldn’t stand a chance of succeeding. Am I wrong? And did you guess your own turn at persuading him would come, but that even your honeyed tongue would fail? You did, didn’t you?’

A glimmer of a smile crossed Odysseus’s lips, but no answer. Diomedes smiled, too, and shook his head.

‘Either way, you must have known we’d only get the poor cripple to come with us by tricking him.’

‘You make it sound as if that’s what I was hoping for all along,’ Odysseus protested. ‘You’re wrong, though. Polites and the lion’s pelt were a contingency, that’s all. I’d rather Philoctetes had responded to the call of the prophecy and come with us because he recognised his chance of salvation. And when he wouldn’t listen to you, I’d hoped that reason and good human logic would convince him to give up his anger. It nearly worked, too,’ he added. ‘As it was, I had to use the only means guaranteed to win him over – Heracles, whom Philoctetes worships above all else. You can call it a trick if you like, but without my foresight we’d all be back on Lemnos with poisoned arrows sticking up from our lifeless bodies.’

Diomedes shrugged his acknowledgement of the truth.

‘I thought you agreed to conquer Troy by honourable means,’ Eperitus said, his tone accusative. ‘You said your guilt over Ajax’s suicide was going to keep you from stooping to trickery.’

Odysseus turned his piercing green eyes on his captain.

‘Ajax would still be alive today if I hadn’t used deceit to win the armour of Achilles. He was my friend; I should have spoken to him rather than humiliated him, even if the gods wanted to see him humbled. Do you think with hindsight I wouldn’t have found another way? Do you think your father would have murdered King Pandion and stolen his throne if he’d known it would result in the death of his eldest sons and earn him your undying hatred? Of course not. Besides, when I swore not to act with such dishonour again, Eperitus, I never said I’d stop using my cunning. It’s the greatest gift the gods have given me and to reject it would be to disrespect them. It’d be like asking you to ignore your sense of honour, or Diomedes to cast aside his courage. On the contrary: I intend to use my guile at every opportunity I get, if it brings the destruction of Troy closer and opens the way for me and my friends to go home. And though I’d rather Philoctetes had chosen to come with us for his own sake, the most important thing is that he’s with us now and, somehow, he is going to fulfil the will of the gods.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Eperitus said. ‘Sometimes my principles make me a harsh judge.’

Odysseus shook his head dismissively. ‘Not as severe as you used to be. I think the war has taught you a few things about the true meaning of honour, Eperitus; it’s mellowed you. One day you might even reconsider your hatred towards your father.’

‘That’s twice you’ve questioned my desire to avenge his crimes, my lord.’

‘Hate eats a man from within, my friend, and vengeance does not cure it.’

‘Neither will mercy.’

‘And his servant, Astynome?’ Odysseus persisted. ‘What about her?’

Eperitus did not reply, but turned his burning gaze on the flanks of Tenedos and kept them there while the island grew steadily nearer.

They did not beach the galley among the other Ithacan ships in the sprawling Greek camp, but sailed further up the coast and tossed out the anchor stones in a small cove. It was Odysseus’s intention they should try to clean Philoctetes up and heal his wound before they presented him to the Council of Kings, though he did not say how he hoped to cure such a vile and persistent injury. Nevertheless, he ordered the crew ashore and by the time the sun had set, leaving a blood-red smear across the western horizon, they were already busy making fires and preparing their evening meal. In earlier years they would have been taking a reckless risk, exposing themselves to death or capture by a Trojan night patrol, but these days their enemies had had enough of war and were resigned to staying within the safety of the city walls, abandoning the plains to the Greeks.

Philoctetes was the last ashore, where they laid him still sleeping on a litter. Shortly afterwards, two Greek horsemen arrived at the top of the beach and trotted down towards the Ithacans. Odysseus, who by his constant glances in the direction of the camp appeared to have been expecting their arrival, went to meet them. They spoke briefly, then the riders pulled their horses about and galloped off.

‘Agamemnon sent them,’ he explained, returning to the others. ‘They spotted our sail, of course, and wanted to know what we were up to. I told them to send Podaleirius; Asclepius’s son will know how to treat Philoctetes’s wound.’

‘Neither he nor his brother could cure him ten years ago,’ Diomedes said. ‘Why should he succeed now?’

‘Because it’s the will of the gods, my friend,’ Odysseus replied with a confident smile.

The smell of the wound grew in its offensiveness without the sea air to carry some of it away, but they were at least relieved of the archer’s intermittent fits of pain as he remained in a deep sleep until Podaleirius arrived on horseback, his leather satchel bouncing against his hip. The healer dismounted and, after a curt nod to the others, knelt beside the sleeping form. Repeatedly sweeping his long hair from his eyes, he undressed the wound and bent low to inspect it.

‘Bring me a torch,’ he ordered.

Eperitus fetched a brand from one of the campfires and stood over Podaleirius, wincing in disgust as he prodded and picked at the black sludge of rotting flesh on the top of Philoctetes’s foot. Podaleirius took a wooden bowl from his satchel and set it down on the sand.

‘You have water?’ he asked.

Antiphus knelt and filled the bowl from the skin at his hip, while the healer pulled out a cloth and unwrapped two sharp knives. He dropped the cloth into the bowl, then held up one of the knives so that it glinted in the torchlight.

‘Lord Apollo, grant me the skill to heal this wound,’ he whispered, then lowered the blade to the liquefied flesh.

Chapter Five

THE EYE OF APOLLO

Cassandra pulled the cloak tighter about her shoulders in an attempt to keep out the cold west wind that haunted the plains of Ilium. Looking up, she could see a circle of tall plane trees at the top of the slope, their branches silhouetted by the waxing moon. She tipped back her hood to reveal a beautiful but melancholy face, her skin pale in the thin half-light. Her dark eyes contemplated the temple of Thymbrean Apollo with unease. As a girl she had encountered a young man there who offered to teach her the art of prophecy. In her naivety – partly enticed by his noble looks and partly thrilled at the thought of reading the future – she accepted and for months he had shown her the mysterious secrets of divination. Inside the shadowy temple, where the pillars were the boles of the trees and the ceiling the interlaced fingers of their branches, he showed her how to peel back the dark layers of her mind and use her inner eye to see far and wide, into things past and things yet to come. The knowledge was fearful for one as young as she was, but it quickly enslaved her, and when the man had taught her everything she needed to know he told her his price. Her virginity. She was at once horrified and excited by his impudent demand, but in spite of the way he made her heart race and her skin flush with desire she reminded herself that she was a princess of Troy, the daughter of King Priam, and she refused him. His handsome face became dark and terrible and in that moment he revealed his divine nature to her, transforming into a being of light and glory before her eyes. But Apollo did not rape her, as she had expected, or threaten to take back the gift of prophecy; instead he cursed her, announcing that her visions would continue but her words of doom would never be believed. And so it had been ever since.

She shuddered at the memory – and at the knowledge she would soon be calling on the god again. Inside the temple she would ask him to open the future to her. Though she had refused her body to Apollo, to have his divine spirit inside her was an experience much more intense and intimate than she imagined physical intercourse could ever be. And like sex, prophecy had its dangers. When a woman allowed a man to enter her body, she risked pregnancy and death in childbirth, but when she allowed a god to enter her mind she risked insanity. Yet it was a risk she had always been ready to take, and all the more so now as she sensed the end of the war approaching. Looking back over her shoulder she saw the River Scamander in the vale below – gleaming like a line of mercury as it fed into the great bay – and the high walls and towers of Troy rising up beyond it. She loved the city with all her heart, though few within it loved her; and if, by sending her inner eye farther than she had ever dared to go before, she would discover how to keep Troy safe, then the loss of her sanity was a peril she was prepared to face.

She climbed to the top of the ridge and entered a dark gap in the circle of trees. The floor inside was laid with heavy flagstones that had been polished smooth by the feet of countless worshippers and gleamed in the filtered moonlight. Cassandra did not wait for her eyes to adjust to the deeper gloom – she could have found her way around the temple blindfolded if she needed to – but walked up to the pale monolith at the far end of the temple. She dropped to her knees before the marble altar, letting her gaze hover briefly on the carved effigy of Apollo in the shadows behind it, then lowered her forehead to the hard floor. As she bent her body, the leather satchel at her hip slipped to the flagstones and she heard the contents twisting and thrashing inside, hissing in protest before becoming still again.

‘Lord Apollo,’ she whispered, feeling the blood rush to her head and the coldness of the stone against her skin. ‘Bringer of dreams. Receive my sacrifice.’

She pushed herself up with the palms of her hands and, still kneeling, fumbled with the tie of the satchel. It came free and she thrust her hand inside, grasping for the smooth, cord-like body of the snake. She caught it close to the neck and lifted it free, holding it at arm’s length so that it danced in anguish before the rough image of the god. A small woollen bag had been tied around its head to keep it from biting or attempting to escape. Cassandra unslipped the knot and pulled the bag away to expose the thin, triangular head with its dark eyes and flickering tongue.

She had been given the creature by Apheidas in exchange for her prayers. He had been a follower of Apollo all his life, and though he bred snakes for the priests to sacrifice to the god, he was no priest himself. The Fates had made Apheidas a soldier, a powerful commander in the Trojan army, and with the deaths of Hector, Achilles and most recently – so rumour from the Greek camp had it – Great Ajax, he knew the zenith of the war had been reached. The conflict had endured for ten years because of the valour of these three men, and without them the end would come quickly for one side or the other. And so he had approached Cassandra with his gift, out of respect for her devotion to Apollo, and asked her to pray on his behalf so that the god would help him with what he had to do.

Cassandra pulled the satchel over her shoulder and let it drop to the floor. Her cloak followed, revealing white priestess’s robes. The icy wind that penetrated the ring of trees took away the heat that the cloak had retained and she felt her flesh stiffen beneath the gauzy material. Gripping the snake, she held it down against the altar and drew a dagger from her belt. The blade gleamed and Cassandra’s gaze hung on it for a moment before moving to the crude idol in the shadows. This had been carved from the trunk of a living tree long ago, when the temple had first been established, and the ravages of time and the weather had left it so featureless that only the horn bow and the bronze arrow that it clutched in its lumpish fists identified it as Apollo.

‘Protect your follower, Apheidas, son of Polypemon,’ she said. ‘Watch over him in battle. And aid him in this task he has taken upon himself, about which he keeps his own counsel but which he says is for the glory and preservation of Troy.’

She lowered the blade to the neck of the snake.

‘And I call on you to speak to me, lord. Enter me. Fill me with your presence and guide my inner eye. Show me the things I seek, show me how I, too, can protect Troy from the wolves at her gates. Lord of the bow and the lyre, show me and don’t spare me, even if I have to cross into the realms of madness to witness these things. Let me know what must be done to save my city.’

She pressed the knife against the snake’s skin, feeling the momentary tension as the scales resisted and then gave. The blade slid quickly through the flesh to the unyielding stone. Dark blood poured over the pale altar and, stopping her thumb over as much of the wound as it would cover, Cassandra hastily lifted the severed body to her raised lips. The warm liquid filled her mouth and spilled over her chin and neck to spatter her white robes. She squinted against the coppery taste and stumbled backwards, releasing the dead snake and the knife as she fell to one knee. She slumped forward onto her knuckles and her black hair fell over her face like a curtain, hiding the mixture of revulsion and fear on her features. Her heart was beating faster now, knowing from long experience that she had but moments left in the waking world, moments in which her mind remained connected to her body and could feel, smell, hear, taste and see the temple around her.

And then it came.

She was thrown onto her back. Her wide eyes stared up at the ceiling of dark leaves traced with silver. Then there was a rush of light as if the moon had expanded to a hundred times its own size, filling the temple and swamping her retinas with whiteness. At the same time, the gentle rustling of the wind grew to a roar like the sound of a monstrous wave rolling towards her. The cold night air bit into her flesh with the intensity of fire, burning her nerve endings and arching her back until, with a scream, she felt her conscious mind ripped from her body and pulled upward through the branches of the temple into the cloudless, moon-dominated sky. She continued to ascend, glimpsing the Scamander and the dark mass of Troy to her right, while away to her left was the semicircular wall of the Greek camp with the beetle-like hulls of their thousand ships blackening the shoreline. Then she was plunging forward, not by her own will but drawn inexorably on towards the great, glittering blanket of the ocean, until she was leaving Ilium behind and soaring over the waves at a height that made the islands below appear like stepping stones. Formless in her flight, as if she were a ghost rushing on its way to the eternal halls of Hades, she could neither feel the wind that herded skeins of cloud across the face of the moon, nor hear its roar filling her ears; neither could she taste the dampness in the air, nor smell the cold clarity of the night. But she could see. Like a great eye she could see far and wide, all the way back to Ilium – already in the dim distance behind her – and beyond. To the north she saw the mountainous lands of Troy’s former rivals, before the Greeks had come and Priam had bought their allegiance. South, she could see the country of Egypt, even though it was many days journey by ship and several weeks on foot. Yet it was towards the west, to the never-before-seen land of her enemies, that her mind was focussed.

The gods had shrouded Greece in cloud, but beneath its tattered edges she glimpsed mountains and valleys, rugged and beautiful, dotted throughout with white-walled cities and towns that slumbered peacefully in the darkness. This was the cradle of the fleet that had brought so much destruction to her homeland, and she felt nothing but revulsion as it came rapidly closer. Then the sea was gone and she fell through the clouds to skim bird-like across the land below. Now she could see orchards and vineyards; ramshackle villages and hillside enclosures half-filled with sheep; roads left unguarded by abandoned watchtowers, from which the soldiers had long since been called to war. She passed a city nestled beneath two mountain peaks and felt a surge of black fear at the sight of it, but before it could overwhelm her she had moved on, over more mountains and plains until she saw a river below, its surface shining like glass as the moon broke momentarily free of the clouds. She followed its course and saw a high mound that she instinctively knew was the barrow of a long-dead warrior, and without any lessening of speed plunged towards it. If she had possessed hands to throw before her face, or a mouth with which she could have screamed, she would have; but there was no sense of impact as she passed into the barrow, or of having come to a stop as she found herself inside the high-ceilinged chamber beneath. Though there was no light in the tomb, she could see a sarcophagus before her with the carved figure of a horse above it. Inside was a bone, one of many that made up the giant skeleton of a man, but this single shoulder blade was starkly white – made of ivory, the work of the gods. Briefly she wondered why she had been brought here, and immediately she knew that this was one of the answers that she had sought. A voice spoke the name of the man whose tomb this was, and she understood at once that unless the Greeks took the ivory shoulder blade from the sarcophagus the walls of Troy would never fall.

Then she was free of the chamber and returning east, moving through the air at great speed until the clouds opened to reveal a large island far below her. She saw a palace on top of a hill overlooking the main harbour, and as her mind’s eye descended to enter its empty halls she wondered what the significance of the island was and why Apollo had brought her here. Then a vision of a great warrior appeared, dressed in magnificent armour that she had seen once before from the walls of Troy. The helmet was gold with a red plume, the breastplate shaped in the perfect likeness of a man’s torso, and the shield had seven concentric circles filled with figures that moved as if alive. The armour had been made by Hephaistos, the smith-god, for Achilles. But Achilles was dead, his ashes buried beneath a barrow on the plains of Ilium. And then she understood the meaning of the revelation. The warrior in the armour was to take Achilles’s place on the battlefield; without him, the Greeks would return home defeated.

She turned from the terrible vision and found herself crossing the Aegean once more, hurtling back to Ilium and the temple of Thymbrean Apollo. But the oracles of Troy’s doom were not yet over. As she hung over the circle of plane trees, expecting at any moment to be reunited with her physical self, she looked across the Scamander to the great city with its high walls and towers and its gates that had withstood the might of Agamemnon’s army for ten years. And then the sloped battlements began to shake and crumble. The towers fell and the gates were torn from their mountings, while in the city behind the buildings caved in on themselves in clouds of dust. People were running everywhere, their screams unheard by her sealed ears as they were crushed by falling stones or disappeared into the chasms that were opening beneath their feet. Cassandra wanted to cry out in terror but was unable to make a sound, as the mound that Troy was built on started to rise up, like a monstrous subterranean creature waking from centuries of slumber, destroying the city on its back as it came to life. And as Troy disintegrated and was gone, all that remained was the mound – higher and blacker and smoother than Cassandra had ever known it before, and yet strangely familiar. It was then that she recognised it. The Palladium, the wooden effigy that stood in the temple of Athena in the citadel of Pergamos. Legend said that it was an image of Athena’s friend, Pallas, whom the goddess had accidentally killed. It had fallen from heaven when the city was being built and had landed in the unfinished temple, a sign of the goddess’s divine protection. Without it, Troy was doomed to fall.

As the meaning of the third oracle became clear to her the vision faded and the night grew suddenly dark, consuming the light of the moon and the stars until nothing was left but stifling blackness. Panic threatened for a moment, then Cassandra saw tall grey pillars emerge from the darkness on every side of her. Briefly she thought she had returned to her body in the temple of Thymbrean Apollo, but the absence of any of her other senses quickly told her she was still dreaming.

Something was different, though.

She could not feel the quickness in her breathing or the rapid beat of her heart, but she knew she was afraid. Something terrible had happened. She looked up and saw the figure of a woman above her, seated on a stone plinth with a spear in one hand and a shield in the other. The crude, stern features of her helmeted head were fixed in a cold gaze as Cassandra knelt at her feet with her hands raised imploringly to the statue of the goddess. She recognised the inside of the temple of Athena, but Apollo was no longer showing her the tasks the Greeks would need to perform to conquer Troy. This was the future, her future. Outside, though she could neither hear the flames nor smell the burning, she knew there was fire on the streets of Pergamos. People were fleeing in terror and soldiers were running among them, though whether they were Trojan or Greek she could not tell. Time blurred and she sensed herself curled up in fear at the feet of the statue, when the temple doors were flung open and the sounds of battle burst in. The once-peaceful chamber now echoed with the clash of bronze, followed by the screams of women and children in pain. Rough hands pulled at Cassandra, turning her over to stare into the eyes of a small man with a snarling, angry face. Coiled about his shoulders was a brown snake that hissed in defiance at the unfamiliar temple. The soldier’s eyes fell upon Cassandra and his malicious look transformed to one of sneering lust. She looked away and he slapped her hard, before seizing her clothes and tearing them from her. She was conscious of her naked breasts and the terrifying strength of the man as she tried to fight him. Then he hit her and her resistance ceased. She fell back to the floor beneath his heavy body, his leather armour doubtless cold and hard against her soft skin. He entered her roughly and forcefully, without any reverence for the purity she had preserved for so long. Suddenly her nostrils were filled with the smell of blood and, arching her back on the rough flagstones, she screamed.

The sound shattered the silence that had enclosed her senses and tore through the temple like a blast of wind, rustling the leaves overhead and spilling silver scales of moonlight across the ground. With a rush like water filling a clay jar, she felt the physical sensations of sound, smell, touch and taste pouring back into her, trapping her consciousness once more with the clumsy heaviness of the corporeal world. Her thin, underdeveloped body felt as if it was encased in bronze armour, each small movement suddenly cumbersome and ungainly; her ears were momentarily sharp, filling her head with the sound of the wind and the roar of the sea, and the nerve endings in her skin reported every detail of the flagstoned floor, while screaming at her with the coldness of it. Her mouth was saturated with the taste of blood. The smell of it – mingled with the odour of soil and bark and the different aromas from her own body – was so overpowering she thought she must be covered in it. Then, with a shock that sank straight to the pit of her stomach, she recalled the soldier in the temple and looked down to see that her dress had indeed been ripped open and there was blood over her neck and breasts. She placed a hand between her legs, dreading that she would find more blood, and when she felt nothing remembered, finally, that it had been a dream and the blood belonged to the snake she had beheaded. She relaxed, but only until she recalled that what she had seen had also been a vision of the future. And it was then she sensed she was being watched.

Chapter Six

NISUS OF DULICHIUM

Penelope, queen of Ithaca, paced the earthen floor of the great hall. The flames from the circular hearth cast a crimson glow over the four central pillars and the circle of empty chairs where the Kerosia – the council of Ithacan elders – had sat earlier that day. The warm light pulsed against the lime-plastered walls, where it fought with the dense shadows for possession of the murals. The contest ebbed and flowed, revealing hints of the scenes depicted high up on the walls, of armoured men fighting and dying in battles of their own. Penelope, who had seen the murals almost everyday for the past twenty years, hardly even noticed them any more.

She reached an alcove in one of the walls – where a small effigy of the goddess Athena stood stiffly clutching her spear – then turned on her heel and retraced her steps towards the high-backed throne. The long wait was making her nervous. Though the palace was her home, in view of what she was planning to do she did not want to be noticed out of her own quarters so late at night. She reached the vacant throne, glanced at the double doors that led to the courtyard beyond, then turned again and headed back to the alcove. The nerves that tightened her stomach were a welcome distraction from the hole left by her loneliness. She had felt incomplete ever since Odysseus had sailed to Troy a decade before, but at least her son’s presence had comforted her; now that she had sent Telemachus to safety in Sparta, though, she was completely alone. The heart that had longed so painfully for her husband’s return now yearned to breaking point for her son.

And yet, as she reached the alcove again and looked down at the crudely carved face of Athena, she knew she could not afford to show weakness. She was a queen, and while her husband was away the burden of ruling Ithaca lay firmly upon her shoulders. As a woman, though, she could not rely on the strength of her arms, only the ability of her wits.

She turned and stared at the doors, willing them to open. Nothing happened and she continued pacing. She had other weapons, of course. She was tall and beautiful and could use these assets to her benefit, an art that her cousin Helen had developed to perfection – at terrible cost to the Greek and Trojan worlds. But Penelope had never been adept at playing that game. It went against her nature: as far as she was concerned men should only be flirted with for one reason, and she already had a husband. No, she thought, her needs would have to be dire if she were to resort to so base a method.

She reached the throne where none had sat since Odysseus’s departure and ran her hand over the carved wooden back. Her husband had left her in a strong position, with the support of the Kerosia and the people behind her, but he had also left a viper in the form of Eupeithes, the power-hungry merchant who had once tried to usurp the throne. By allowing him a seat on the Kerosia, Odysseus had gambled on the hope that giving him some power might placate his greater ambitions. He had also gambled on a prompt end to the war and a quick homecoming. This was despite the oracle he had once shared with his wife, that if he went to Troy he would not return for twenty years. He had never felt restricted by prophecies, though, and had promised to return to Ithaca before anything could threaten his kingdom. So far, he had been wrong. Now the viper had raised its head and struck its first blow.

A low howl of wind shook the doors, causing her to look up. Again, they did not open and she headed back towards the alcove. Eupeithes had bided his time, of course. It was even possible he had never intended to make a bid for power, but the length of Odysseus’s absence, combined with disillusionment among the nobility, had stirred his dormant ambitions. Either way, he had made his move now and suddenly, unexpectedly, the Kerosia was his to control – and only the king could overrule the council of elders. Having bought Polyctor’s loyalty years before, after Phronius’s accidental death – or murder, as most suspected – Eupeithes had been able to bargain for Oenops, another of his cronies, to take the old man’s place. That had left Nisus, Halitherses, Mentor and Laertes – Odysseus’s aged father – still loyal to the throne, but recent events had changed the balance again. While Halitherses had secretly sailed to the Peloponnese with Telemachus, taking Odysseus’s heir to safety in Sparta, an assassin had been caught in the boy’s empty room. Eupeithes was the obvious one to have ordered the prince’s death, but the assassin had sworn his employer was Nisus of Dulichium.

Penelope looked over her shoulder at the ring of chairs around the hearth. They were still draped with furs for the members of the Kerosia who had met that morning to discuss the allegation against Nisus. As the accused, Nisus was unable to take his own seat, and with Halitherses travelling to Sparta with Telemachus that had given the majority to Eupeithes. The verdict was almost a formality: Nisus was guilty of treason and had been sentenced to be executed the next day. What was more, Eupeithes had used the absence of Halitherses to have his own son, Antinous, voted on to the Kerosia as Nisus’s replacement. At a stroke, the Kerosia was now in Eupeithes’s hands and there was nothing Penelope could do about it.

The doors creaked open and a splash of weak moonlight cut a wedge across the dark floor. A cloaked figure paused in the doorway, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the gloom before slipping into the hall. A second, shorter man followed him.

‘Who’s that?’ Penelope called, anxiously.

‘Penelope, it’s me.’

The tension eased from her muscles as she recognised Mentor’s voice.

‘You were longer than I expected,’ she said, moving from the shadows into the warm firelight. ‘Were you delayed?’

‘A little. The guard on the gates is one of the new men that replaced the reinforcements sent to Troy. I don’t know I can trust him, so Eumaeus and I found a way in over the palace wall.’

Mentor crossed the great hall and kissed Penelope on both cheeks. He was handsome with a neatly trimmed beard and hard, confident eyes. The stump where his right hand had been severed by a sword was cased in leather, and though the wound had prevented him from going to war at Odysseus’s side it had at least ensured Penelope his friendship and support in trying to preserve her husband’s kingdom at home. Beside him was a man with a red-brown face and a head of thick, curly hair. Eumaeus was a slave, but as loyal to Odysseus as anyone on the island.

‘What about Nisus’s guard?’ Mentor asked.

Penelope shook her head. ‘A Taphian.’

Eupeithes had a long association with the Taphians, old enemies of Ithaca, and had insisted a troop of the tall, ruthless spearmen be added to the palace guard.

‘Then we have to kill him,’ Mentor said, throwing his cloak aside to reveal the sword tucked into his belt. ‘We’ll take the body with us and dump it into the sea – at least then we can claim Nisus bought his loyalty and helped him to escape.’

‘Eupeithes will never believe that.’

‘It’ll seem the most likely explanation, and until he can disprove it he won’t be able to accuse anyone else. Are you still willing to draw the guard away from his post?’

Penelope nodded and crossed to a small door at the back of the great hall. The two men followed.

‘Wait either side of the door,’ she instructed. ‘I’ll make him follow me into the hall and then you can … do whatever is necessary.’

She pulled open the door and stepped into the long narrow passageway that skirted the great hall. It was dark but for two dying torches that hung at intervals along the walls. To her right was a corner that fed round to the rear of the palace and the stairs that led up to the sleeping quarters; to the right, the corridor stretched away into murky shadows, with several doorways on the right-hand wall that opened into storerooms. Nisus was locked in a room at the far end, where Penelope could just make out the figure of a spearman slumped against the wall. The sound of the door roused him from his slumber and he straightened up, watching Penelope as she approached.

‘Come with me,’ she ordered. ‘I have a task for you.’

The Taphian looked at her dumbly, then slowly shook his head.

‘I’ve given you a command,’ she said, more sternly this time. ‘If you wish to keep your position in the guard you will do as your queen tells you. Is that clear?’

The man simply stared at her, refusing to move. He even had the audacity to let his eyes fall to her breasts. She turned away indignantly, pulling her cloak about her, and fumed as she tried to think of how to get the brute away from the door.

‘The gods are mocking me,’ she hissed to herself. ‘A woman’s pride is her downfall, as Clytaemnestra used to say. And yet, what choice do I have?’

With a sigh, she loosened the sash about her waist so that her chiton fell open to expose her long, soft thigh. Biting her lip, she loosened it more so that the slit spread up to her naked hip. Then, forcing a smile, she pulled her cloak aside and turned to face the Taphian once more.

‘When the queen asks for a man’s help, she expects him to obey. Now, are you going to come with me or do I need to find someone else?’

The soldier’s eyes widened a little as they regarded the bare flesh of her leg. Then, as she turned and began to walk slowly away from him, he placed his spear against the wall and followed. Penelope sensed him getting closer and quickened her pace, at the same time trying to pull her dress together so as not to expose herself to Mentor and Eumaeus. The Taphian grunted something in his crude dialect, his voice sounding as if he was directly behind her. Quickly, she slipped through the open door into the great hall, but before Mentor and Eumaeus could emerge from the shadows the man’s arms slid beneath hers and his hands closed over her breasts. She gave a half scream, then Eumaeus appeared to her left holding a sack. He tried to throw it over the Taphian’s head, but the man spotted him and lashed out instinctively, catching the slave in the jaw and sending him flying back into the shadows. Mentor had rushed out in the same moment, sword in hand, but had fallen back as he saw the Taphian’s arm still wrapped about Penelope.

‘Kill him!’ she spat.

The Taphian turned to face Mentor, using Penelope as a shield. He fumbled for the dagger in his belt. Sensing what he was doing, the queen tried to grab his hand, but he was too strong for her and almost broke her wrist as he wrenched it away. Then Eumaeus appeared again, throwing the bag over the soldier’s head and drawing it down to his shoulders. The man shouted and Penelope was able to pull away as he seized hold of the bag and snatched it off again. Seeing his chance, Mentor leapt forward and pushed the sword into the man’s chest, forcing it through the ribs with all his strength until the point emerged out of his back. His arms ceased thrashing and his large body went limp, falling back against Eumaeus and then to the floor.

‘By all the gods,’ Eumaeus exclaimed. ‘Why don’t Taphians ever die easily?’

‘Do you think anyone heard?’ Penelope asked, rubbing her bruised wrist and wincing at the pain.

Mentor paused and cocked an ear, but after a moment of listening to the silence that had returned to the palace, he shook his head.

‘Wait here,’ he said. ‘I’ll free Nisus.’

‘The farthest storeroom, down to the left,’ Penelope told him as he disappeared through the doorway.

He came back moments later, followed by a grey-haired man whose rich clothes were now torn and shabby looking. One eye was black and swollen and there was blood in his nostrils and on his beard. Nisus looked down at the body of the Taphian, then at Penelope.

‘Thank you, my lady,’ he said. ‘Mentor has told me the risks you’ve taken to save me.’

‘A small repayment for the loyalty you’ve shown me over the years, Nisus. It’s too dangerous for you to remain on Ithaca, though; you must leave at once and not return until you hear my husband has come back. Go to Sparta and help Halitherses to protect Telemachus until I send for him.’

Nisus nodded. Eumaeus handed him the Taphian’s cloak, then bent down to heave the corpse onto his shoulder.

‘Sleep well, Penelope,’ Mentor said. ‘We’ll make sure Nisus reaches the boat, and that our friend’s corpse is never seen again.’

As they were going, Nisus turned to Penelope and looked at her a last time.

‘Take care, my lady,’ he said. ‘Things are changing rapidly now. You must play for time. In everything you do, try to buy time for Odysseus and the army to return.’

‘I will,’ she assured him.

And wondered how such a thing would be possible.

Chapter Seven

HELENUS

Cassandra looked up and saw the figure of a man silhouetted in the entrance to the temple. He was short, and though the shape of his body was hidden by the robe that reached down to his ankles, she sensed he was young and lightly built. He took a step towards her and a circle of moonlight fell across his pale, beardless face.

‘Did you do it?’ he asked.

His black eyes lingered on Cassandra’s nakedness and there was a carnal fascination in them, but as the girl sat up and drew back against the altar, pulling the halves of her torn clothing together, the longing in his features faded and he took another two steps into the temple.

‘I said did you do it?’ he repeated, his soft lisp becoming more pronounced.

She pointed at the decapitated body of the snake, the blood of which was still wet on her face, neck and chest.

‘Yes, Helenus, I did it.’

A smile spread across Helenus’s face. He stared down at his sister, his lustful curiosity replaced by an eagerness to hear more.

‘And? Did he answer? Did Apollo come to you?’

Cassandra met her younger brother’s gaze. He had inherited Priam’s handsome looks and piercing eyes, but there was none of his mother’s kindness in them. Hecabe’s only legacy to her son was her weedy, diminutive stature, which he hated because it meant he would never be a powerful warrior like his older brothers, winning honour in battle and earning the adoration of the people. Instead, he was destined to live in their shadow, privileged by his royal blood and yet overlooked because of his youth.

‘Of course he came. Does he ever miss the opportunity to torture me?’ she replied. ‘And, yes, he gave me visions.’

‘Of the future?’

Cassandra thought of the soldier in the temple of Athena, but that was personal. A gift from Apollo for her alone. She shook her head.

‘No, something greater. He gave me three oracles, the keys to Troy’s survival – or her destruction!’

‘What were they?’ he insisted, his voice harsh and eager.

Cassandra held her hand out to him and he helped her to her feet, his eyes dropping to her bloodied breasts again as the halves of her dress fell open.

‘I’m your sister, Helenus,’ she reminded him, standing up straight and no longer trying to hide her nakedness.

Helenus’s lowered his eyes to the floor. Seeing the heap of Cassandra’s cloak, he picked it up and – averting his gaze – handed it to her. Cassandra threw it about her shoulders and leaned back against the altar, lightly scrutinising her brother as he stood before her. Normally his clothes were expensive and fashionable, as befitted a son of Priam, but tonight she could see he wore the white robes of a priest beneath his rich double cloak. Not that he was a priest yet, of course – most priests of Apollo had shaven heads and were at least twice Helenus’s age – but he was already an initiate and had used his father’s authority to become an apprentice at the temple in Pergamos. His royal blood ensured he would one day rise to the priesthood, a position of power and influence, but not for many years yet. Not unless he could show Apollo had singled him out for a higher office. And for that he had to provide proof he had received the god’s blessing.

He glanced at Cassandra, saw that she was covered, and reached out to place his hands on her upper arms.

‘What are these oracles, Sister? If we know the secrets of Troy’s survival, given to us by the gods themselves, then the Greeks can never be victorious! Tell them to me so that I can announce them before our father’s court.’

‘And reap the glory for yourself.’

Helenus dropped his arms to his side and turned away again, this time in a sulk.

‘It was your suggestion. Nobody ever believes a word you say, remember?’

‘Yourself included, Helenus. When I asked you to tell Father that Queen Penthesilea would be killed by Achilles, you almost refused to go.’

‘And I would have refused if you hadn’t begged me,’ he snapped. ‘What if you’d been wrong? I would have looked ridiculous, claiming visions from Apollo that never came true.’

‘But they did.’

‘And who couldn’t have predicted that Achilles would kill the queen of the Amazons?’ he retorted. ‘That arrogant bitch was asking to be sent to Hades.’

Cassandra gave a dismissive laugh. ‘A lucky guess then, was it? So when I told you Achilles would die trying to storm the Scaean Gate, why were you happy to announce your vision in front of the whole assembly of elders?’

‘Because I’m a gambler,’ Helenus answered, meeting Cassandra’s gaze and holding it without shame. ‘I saw how they looked at me after I’d – after you’d – predicted the defeat of Penthesilea, and I knew that if you were right about Achilles’s death they’d think I was truly blessed by Apollo. I admit I didn’t believe you, but my instincts told me to risk it. And what choice did I have? I’m never going to match Paris or Deiphobus on the battlefield, and as for becoming a priest of Apollo – I barely dream when I’m asleep, let alone receive revelations from the god when I’m awake! That doesn’t mean I’m not ambitious, though. I am,’ he said, punching the palm of his hand, ‘and if by telling your prophecies to a believing audience I can speed my way into the priesthood, then so be it. That’s why you approached me in the first place, isn’t it? Nobody would believe these visions if they came from you, but people will listen to them from me. And you know I’ll never let on because I want all the glory for myself.’

‘I’m sorry, Helenus,’ Cassandra said. ‘I didn’t mean to mock you. If you’d rather not hear the oracles, I’ll understand.’

‘Don’t play coy with me, Sister – you’re as desperate to tell them to me as I am to hear them. Share the visions Apollo gave you and I promise they’ll be revealed before the whole assembly. There’s to be a council of war in a few days time: I overheard Father telling Paris he wants to discuss new allies.’

‘Yes, I know,’ Cassandra said. ‘He wants to send an embassy to Eurypylus and his Mysians.’

‘How could you know that?’

Cassandra closed her eyes and let out a long breath.

‘I dreamed it, of course, some days ago. The Mysians are the only people in the whole of Ilium that have refused to help us, because of Astyoche’s feud with Father. But even though she hates him, she’s still his daughter and Priam is prepared to offer her the last and greatest of Troy’s treasures – the Golden Vine – if she’ll send her son to our aid. I have foreseen that she will accept his offer.’

‘And will Eurypylus rid us of the Greeks?’ Helenus asked hopefully, leaning forward to study her face in the gloom.

Cassandra answered with a dark look and an almost imperceptible shake of the head. Helenus felt an instant of dismay, then frowned and pulled back from his sister.

‘All the more reason to hear these oracles, then. Tell me what you saw, Cassandra.’

As he spoke, the wind outside the temple picked up, whistling between the silver trunks and rustling the branches overhead so that the spots of moonlight on the flagstones danced and whirled. In the flurry of sound and movement, Cassandra stepped forward and embraced her brother tightly, pressing her lips to his ear and whispering to him the things she had seen. His expression was momentarily void of thought and emotion as he listened intently, his gaze resting on the crude effigy of Apollo behind the altar. Then she finished speaking and kissed him on the cheek, before dropping back against the marble plinth and staring at him. He frowned back at her as he took in what she had said to him. Then his eyes narrowed questioningly.

‘The god told you these things? You’re certain of them – you’re certain you understood the visions correctly?’

Cassandra sighed and shook her head, though her gaze grew more fierce at his disbelief.

‘Of course I am. And you’ll tell Father? You’ll keep your promise?’

‘Yes,’ Helenus answered after a pause. ‘I’ll tell Priam and the whole council of war. What have I got to lose, after all? If the oracles aren’t fulfilled and Troy survives, then who’s to say I was wrong? If they aren’t fulfilled and Troy falls anyway, who will be left alive to care?’

Chapter Eight

THE RETURN OF THE OUTCAST

Odysseus leaned against one of the laurel trees at the entrance to the temple of Thymbrean Apollo and looked down the slope to the wide bay below. Once it had been home to hundreds of vessels, from visiting merchant ships and high-sided war galleys to the small cockle boats favoured by the local fisherman. Now it was empty, its occupants either destroyed or driven away by the war. Two rivers fed the bay – the Simöeis to the north and the Scamander to the south, the latter gleaming darkly in the faint starlight. Rising up from the plain beyond the river were the pallid battlements of Troy that had defied the Greeks for so long. At the highest point of the city was Pergamos, a fortress within a fortress, its palaces and temples protected by sloping walls and lofty towers where armed guards kept an unfailing watch. Further down, sweeping southward from the citadel like a half-formed teardrop, was the lower city. Here rich, two-storey houses slowly gave way to a mass of closely packed slums where thousands of the city’s inhabitants lived in squalor and near starvation. Here, also, were camped the soldiers of Troy and her allies, ready at a moment’s notice to man the walls or pour out onto the plains and do battle. And though it was the Greek army that laid siege to Troy’s gates and penned its citizens in like sheep, the very stubbornness of its defenders ensured that the Greeks were no less prisoners themselves, doomed never to see their homes and families again until those god-built walls could somehow be breached and the bitter war brought to its bloody conclusion.

A little way off, sitting on a boulder overlooking the slope, was Eperitus, his back turned to the temple as he looked down at the few lights that still burned in the sleeping city. Odysseus wondered whether he had sensed his presence or was too consumed by whatever thoughts had driven him away from his comrades to seek his own company among the rocks and shrubs of the ridge. Odysseus could guess what those thoughts were though, and felt it best not to disturb them.

‘He’s still asleep,’ said a voice behind him.

‘Good,’ Odysseus replied, turning to face Podaleirius as he emerged from the shadows of the temple. ‘It’s the best thing for him.’

Podaleirius had cut away the dead flesh from Philoctetes’s foot while they had been on the beach, and, after bathing the wound with a mixture of herbs from his leather satchel and binding it, had insisted on them carrying him on a stretcher all the way to the temple of Thymbrean Apollo. There they had found a trail of fresh blood leading to the headless body of a snake on the altar, but Podaleirius had said it was a good sign and set about offering prayers to Apollo for Philoctetes to be healed. The ceremony, it seemed, was over and Podaleirius had left his patient in the care of Antiphus.

He looked over to where Eperitus sat.

‘Is he alright?’ he asked, with the natural concern of a healer.

‘He will be,’ Odysseus replied, lowering his voice to a whisper. ‘This isn’t a good place for him.’

Podaleirius nodded, as if he understood, and looked over at the great city on the other side of the vale.

‘I’ve heard his father is a Trojan,’ he whispered back. ‘A nobleman, some say.’

‘A highborn commander in Priam’s army, but no less a bastard for it. He was exiled to Greece many years ago, making his home in the north in a city called Alybas. There he married a Greek woman, Eperitus’s mother. Then when Eperitus was barely a man, his father killed the king, who had once accepted him as a suppliant, and usurped his throne. Eperitus refused to support him and was banished – that was shortly before I met him. Sometime later, the people of Alybas rebelled against his father and he fled back here to Ilium, but Eperitus never forgave him for his treachery.’

‘He chose honour over blood, then,’ Podaleirius said. ‘But the call of a man’s ancestry is strong. Are you certain he can be trusted not to go over?’

He tipped his chin toward the city to indicate what he meant. Odysseus could have taken offence at the questioning of his captain’s loyalty, but Podaleirius, it seemed, had already guessed some of the truth.

‘Not to his father,’ he replied. ‘He has already faced that test.’

‘Then he passed?’

‘Barely.’

‘I think I see,’ Podaleirius said. ‘And the test happened here, in the temple. Am I right? That’s why he doesn’t like the place.’

Odysseus had been regarding Eperitus’s back throughout the conversation, but now turned his gaze on Podaleirius.

‘You’re an astute man.’

‘I can gauge the moods of others, that’s all. Healers learn to read things that warriors cannot. How was he tested?’

Odysseus, who had used subtle words to draw information from many men, recognised that Podaleirius was playing the same trick on him now, lulling him into letting slip the dangerous truth of what had happened in the temple of Thymbrean Apollo. He could refuse to answer, of course, and the conversation would end there and then. But he knew Podaleirius was a man of integrity and was not one of Agamemnon’s many spies. He felt he could trust him with the anxieties that had been troubling him about his captain.

‘His father wanted to speak with him, hold a parley on neutral ground here in the temple. Yet he knew Eperitus was too proud to listen to him. So he sent a woman to entrap him, to whisper in his ear as they shared a bed, to slowly and lovingly persuade him that he had misunderstood his father all along; that all he wanted was to offer a deal to Agamemnon that would ensure peace. And so Eperitus agreed, knowing it was treachery to meet with an enemy but in his heart hoping that the offer was genuine and the war could be brought to a close. He did it for my sake, so that I would be released from my oath and could go back home to Ithaca and my family. But he was wrong. His father did not want peace, but power. He offered to open the city gates in exchange for Priam’s throne. Agamemnon would receive his fealty and he would receive a crown, with Eperitus as his heir to continue his legacy. It was nothing more than Alybas all over again and Eperitus saw straight through it.’

‘Then he refused.’

Odysseus nodded. ‘Though his refusal came at a price. There was a fight and Eperitus’s former squire, Arceisius, was killed. He blames himself for the lad’s death and now he’s more determined than ever that his father should die. But this anger isn’t good for him. It holds him back, gnaws away at his soul.’

Podaleirius pursed his lips and looked over at the seated figure.

‘That isn’t the posture of a man burning for revenge. There’s something else. The woman you mentioned – his father’s servant – he fell in love with her, didn’t he.’

‘And she with him.’

‘Genuinely?’

‘Yes, though that wasn’t part of her mission. And now they are separated by the walls of Troy and her treachery. His sense of honour won’t let go of that, though I wish it would. It’s love he needs, not revenge.’

‘Now you’re beginning to sound like a healer,’ Podaleirius said with a smile.

‘Are you ready?’ Odysseus asked.

He looked Philoctetes up and down, barely able to believe the change in him. The wild, half-mad wretch they had found on Lemnos looked almost human again as they stood waiting outside Agamemnon’s palatial tent. After a night of fitful dreams in the temple of Thymbrean Apollo, he had woken at dawn refreshed and free from his pain. More miraculous still, when Podaleirius had changed his dressing the wound was clean and already beginning to heal – a result that Podaleirius admitted was beyond even his skill and could only be attributed to the gods. The rest of the day had been spent at the temple, awaiting the summons to the Council of Kings. While Eperitus had remained silent and reflective, Odysseus had put the time to good use. He cut Philoctetes’s hair and trimmed his beard, and, after he had bathed, gave him fine new clothes. By the time the messenger from Agamemnon arrived, he was recognisable as the man who had set out with them from Aulis ten years before. The only differences were his wasted limbs and painfully thin body, and the stick that he was forced to lean on as his foot recovered. He also seemed to have put aside his animosity toward Odysseus, accepting the Ithacan’s help without grudge and even asking him to carry his sacred bow and arrows – rolled up in a cloth – as they set off for the Council. Odysseus felt no qualms, though, that the change had come about because he had tricked Philoctetes into believing Heracles had ordered him to go to Ilium. If it brought the defeat of Troy closer, it was justified.

‘I’m ready,’ Philoctetes replied.

‘Then let’s enter,’ said Eperitus with a nod to the guards, who pulled aside the entrance to Agamemnon’s tent and ushered them in.

Though it was late in the evening, the summer sun had not yet disappeared beyond the edge of the world and its distant fire gave the flaxen walls and ceiling of the great pavilion a pink tinge. The air inside was warm and stuffy from the heat of the day, the flames of the hearth and the press of bodies that had crammed in to witness the return of the man they had left for dead. The smell of fresh sweat mingled with the sweet aroma of roast meat, spiced wine and the platters of still-warm bread that were laid out on the long tables around the hearth. Behind them, crowded thigh to thigh on the low benches, the kings, princes and commanders of the Greek army fell suddenly silent and stared at Philoctetes.

The archer shuffled forward, leaning heavily on his crutch.

‘You have beef?’ he asked, looking at the overlapping platters, stacked like so many pebbles on a beach. ‘And red wine?’

‘We have every meat you could desire, Philoctetes,’ answered a voice from the hushed assembly. ‘Beef, mutton, goat, ham, fish … whatever you want. And as much wine as you can drink, so long as you keep a clear head. Now, come sit before us and eat your fill. We will talk when you are ready.’

Agamemnon, dressed in his customary white tunic, blood-red cloak and the ornate breastplate King Cinyras had given to him, snapped his fingers and a swarm of slaves rushed out from the shadows to attend to the Malian prince and his companions. Within moments, Philoctetes, Odysseus and Eperitus were seated on a bench before the circular hearth, behind a long table on which the slaves set down dish after dish and basket after basket of the richest foods imaginable. Kraters of wine were pushed before them and Eperitus was forced to place a warning hand on Philoctetes’s wrist as he drained his vessel and raised it for more. Meanwhile, Odysseus looked at the bearded faces beyond the heat haze of the flames, all of them watching keenly as the skeletal phantom of the man they had abandoned helped himself to handfuls of food from every platter in reach. There was fascination and not a little revulsion in their eyes, and also guilt. Though every one of these men had committed acts that were heinous even by the savage standards of warfare, something about the abandonment of a comrade-in-arms had never left them, as if they knew the wrath of the gods had been upon them ever since their betrayal. Agamemnon, in particular, regarded Philoctetes with absorption, resting his chin on his knuckles and fixing his cold blue eyes on the man in whose hands the future of the war lay. On his left sat Nestor, the old king of Pylos who acted as Agamemnon’s military adviser. His grey hair and beard had turned almost white since the death of Antilochus – his favourite son – only a few weeks before, and his eyes were now deep wells of grief that had forgotten the joy of life. To Agamemnon’s right was his brother, Menelaus, his red hair thinning on top and his plaited beard spread like a net across his broad chest. Though embittered by the loss of his wife to Paris, his face was kinder than his older sibling’s and he watched Philoctetes with nothing but pity.

Eventually, Philoctetes leaned back, lay his hands across the bulge of his belly, and let out a rolling belch. He smacked his lips together and wiped his greasy beard on the sleeve of his tunic.

‘Beats seagull,’ he said, then repeated his appreciation with another belch.

‘Then if you’re ready, we’ll begin,’ Agamemnon said. ‘You know why we sent Odysseus and Diomedes to bring you back to the army, of course – the prophecy that the gates of Troy will not fall without the weapons of Heracles. You have them with you?’

Philoctetes nodded and there was an almost palpable stilling of breath as Odysseus handed him the long bundle of cloth. Philoctetes whipped off the covering to reveal the tall, perfectly crafted bow and its leather quiver, tightly packed with black-feathered arrows. A murmur passed among the assembly, but was quickly stilled by Agamemnon’s raised hand.

‘Good. But before we speak more of the prophecy, we must first look back ten years to your wounding and our stranding you on Lemnos. You have to understand, Philoctetes, that for our part it was not personal. It may have been for Achilles, who was jealous that you beat him in the race from Aulis – and he was a hard man to defy when he was determined about something – but the rest of us can only blame our weakness. The stench of your wound and the constant wailing were enough to drive any man insane, even hardened warriors like us, and we succumbed to our moral flaws. That it was the will of the gods, too, shown by the fact Podaleirius healed you last night but could not a decade ago, does not lessen our guilt. We abandoned you to terrible deprivation and suffering and for that we are sorry.’

Grunts of approval met the apology, but Philoctetes had been reminded of the wrongs that were done to him and stared sullenly about at the circle of faces, bathed in the orange glow of the fire.

‘A gracious confession of your guilt, and one which I will accept,’ he grunted. ‘Though only because my lord Heracles personally ordered me to put aside my anger and come to Troy. It’s for his glory and mine that I am here, so let us get to the crux: why am I here, exactly? These arrows never miss and they kill every living thing they pierce, but they cannot knock down walls or shatter gates from their hinges. So what do you want from them?’

‘This has nothing to do with what Agamemnon wants,’ spoke a voice from the mouth of the tent’s entrance. ‘Indeed, the King of Men knows only a portion of what the gods have shown to me. And that is why he has summoned me here now – to speak the rest of the prophecy.’

A stooped figure, cloaked and hooded, moved in a shuffling hop to stand between the hearth and Agamemnon’s golden throne. One pale hand dangled limply from the opening in his cloak, beneath which could be seen a white dash of his priest’s robes. He raised his other hand to the lip of his hood and slipped it back, revealing a bald head and skull-like face. His dark eyes swept across the Council of Kings and came to rest on Philoctetes. One outcast facing another.

‘I am Calchas,’ he announced, ‘one-time priest of Apollo in the city of Troy, and now a worthless wretch forgotten by most and valued by none.’

‘Then we have much in common, Calchas,’ Philoctetes replied. ‘But if you are the reason I was brought here, speak and let us know what the gods command.’

Calchas nodded, then paused and bowed his head, as if summoning a difficult memory.

‘The night Great Ajax took his life, I was asleep beyond the boundaries of the camp. It was there that Apollo visited me, telling me that Troy can only fall if certain conditions are met. What they are I don’t know, for the god only showed the first of them to me: that you, Philoctetes, should be fetched from Lemnos to kill the one enduring stalwart of Troy’s defences. Of all the sons that once served King Priam, only one remains of any note. His arrows have slain many great heroes and with a bow in his hand he has no match, which is why you and the weapons of Heracles are the only way we can rid ourselves of him. Philoctetes, if Troy is to fall you must first kill Paris.’

‘No!’ Menelaus bellowed, leaping from his chair and seizing Calchas by the front of his cloak. ‘Paris is mine! He stole my wife and brought this miserable war upon us. If anyone’s going to kill him, it’s going to be me.’

Calchas shrank back in fear, but Agamemnon was quick to come to his rescue.

‘Leave him, Menelaus,’ he commanded. ‘If the gods have said Paris will be killed by Philoctetes then that’s what must happen.’

‘Damn the gods and damn all prophecies! Paris is going to perish at my hands, not by some shepherd prince because of the words of a drunken priest. Admit it, Calchas! You’d been drinking again and this supposed prophecy was nothing more than a wine-soaked dream.’

‘I said leave him!’ Agamemnon boomed, rising from his throne and pointing at his brother. ‘You had your chance weeks ago when you faced him on the battlefield, and you squandered it. Now the gods have taken it out of your hands.’

Calchas tore himself from Menelaus’s grip and almost fell back into the fire.

‘It’s true,’ he croaked. ‘The gods are tired of waiting. Paris must die now, and his death will cause the Trojans to lose heart.’

‘What?’ scoffed a short warrior with a single, angry eyebrow that sat low over his fierce-looking eyes. A large brown snake hung from his shoulders, hissing and flicking out its pink tongue at the watching Greeks. ‘The Trojans lose heart over Paris? Did they lose heart when Hector died? And he was ten times the man Paris is.’

Voices were raised in agreement, but Calchas was not cowed by them. He had seen the will of the gods and he knew he was right.

‘What Little Ajax does not appreciate,’ he said, looking round at the Council, ‘is that with Paris dead many in Troy will demand Helen be returned to Menelaus. Others will insist she remains, and both sides will squabble over who will have her. There will be division within the walls of Troy and the Trojan people will lose their resolve to continue. If Philoctetes can kill Paris then the reason for the war – his love for Helen – will have been taken away.’

Agamemnon stepped down from the dais on which his throne sat and dragged Menelaus back in the direction of his own chair.

‘The gods have spoken. Paris’s death will sow dissent among our enemies and perhaps open the gates of their city from within. Philoctetes, tomorrow morning you will ride with Odysseus and Eperitus to Troy where you will challenge Paris to a duel, offering the bow of Heracles as his prize if he can defeat you. Are you ready to honour Heracles’s command and cover yourself in glory?’

‘Or a shroud,’ Philoctetes replied. ‘Whichever the immortals deem most fitting.’

‘Hector, don’t go. We need you here!’

Helen opened her eyes. The first light of dawn was stealing in through the eastern windows and casting its rosy glow over the muralled walls of the bedroom. The painted trees and flowers and the animals that gambolled through them never seemed so lifeless as they did at this time of the morning, when the flat, hazy light robbed them of their colour and motion.

‘Hector, no. If you die, Troy will fall. I can’t take on your mantle alone.’

Paris was talking in his sleep. The same old slurred anxieties that had haunted his dreams since the death of his brother, pleading – she guessed – for Hector not to go out and face Achilles. Pleading not to be left the crushing responsibility of the hopes and expectations of the whole of Ilium. Though he could feign courage and calm conviction before the people as he walked the streets in his fine armour, and though he could even fake confidence to Helen in their waking time together, his dreams betrayed his uncertainty, his fear. Had Hector been the same, she wondered? Had Andromache lain beside him at night and listened to his worry and self-doubt?

She reached out a hand and brushed the black locks of sweat-damp hair from his forehead, tracing the long pink line of the old scar that ran from above his eyebrow diagonally across his nose and cheek to end almost at his jaw. It was not a handsome face, but it had strength and endurance; and beneath the closed eyelids was a passion that showed itself as much in love as it did in war. Much more so, she thought with a smile as her long fingers drifted to the streaks of grey above his ears and began stroking him.

‘Shush now, my love. I’m here. Your Helen’s here.’

He turned to face her, eyes still shut firmly in sleep, and laid a rough hand on the curve of her waist. His flesh was hot, causing her to flinch. Then she heard voices echoing along the narrow corridor outside their room. Frowning, she sat up and looked at the door, the furs slipping down to expose her chest.

There was a soft knock.

‘Mistress?’

The maid’s voice was low but urgent.

‘What is it?’

The door was pushed open and Helenus strode in, followed by the apologetic maid. The prince looked alarmed and ready to speak, but the sight of Helen’s nakedness stopped the words before they left his mouth. Surprised by his unexpected entrance, Helen pulled the furs over her breasts and glared her anger. Paris woke beside her.

‘What is it?’ he mumbled.

Helenus blinked twice then looked at his brother.

‘Paris, there are three men at the gates. Greeks.’

‘Then kill the bastards!’

‘But they’ve come asking to speak with you. One of them is demanding … well, he’s demanding an archery duel.’

Paris rubbed the sleep from his eyes and sat up.

‘What do you mean a duel?’ he asked. ‘Is it … is it Menelaus?’

‘No. It’s Odysseus and his captain.’

‘Odysseus?’ Paris repeated, frowning this time. ‘Why in the names of all the gods would Odysseus want to challenge me to personal combat?’

‘Not Odysseus,’ Helenus said. His eyes kept flickering towards Helen, who was holding the furs firmly over her nudity. ‘It’s the third man, a stick of a figure who looks like he hasn’t eaten for a year. He has a bow that must have been made by the gods – far too grand a weapon for a wretch like him.’

Paris was intrigued now. He swung his legs out of the bed and waved his younger brother back towards the door.

‘Tell them I’m coming,’ he snapped.

Helenus bowed, and, with a last lingering look at Helen, left. Helen laid a hand on her husband’s shoulder and he turned to look into the irresistible eyes that had won so many victories over him in their ten years of marriage.

‘Don’t go,’ she said. ‘Call Helenus back and tell him to send Odysseus and his companions away.’

‘I can’t. I’m a prince of Troy, Priam’s eldest remaining son. I should at least hear what they have to say.’

‘You know what they have to say,’ Helen replied, her dark eyebrows furrowing. She swept aside a lock of black hair that had fallen across her face. ‘They want to kill you, Paris. Don’t give them the chance.’

Paris looked away. His tunic and sandals lay where he had left them the previous evening, but before he could reach for them Helen threw aside the furs and took hold of his wrist. He turned to her as she raised herself on her knees before him, still retaining her grip on his hand but making sure he could see the full glory of her naked body. And just as she had known it would, the sight of her white skin and the orbs of her breasts captivated him at once. Helen knew there were many in Troy who had accused her husband of losing his manliness for her sake, who, despite his increasingly selfless – even reckless – feats on the battlefield, grumbled to each other that he was not the commander he had once been, in his years spent conquering Troy’s enemies on the northern borders, before she had entered his life and brought a new war. What they meant, of course, was that he was not Hector. Since his older brother’s death, Paris had felt ever more acutely the weight of expectation that had been placed on his shoulders – by his father, by his younger brothers, by the army and its allies, and by every other man, woman and child in Ilium. And with that expectation came a growing resentment towards her, whom many thought of as a barrier preventing him from devoting himself to the cause of his nation. And they were right. She would do anything in her considerable power to stop him from throwing away his life for Troy. She no longer cared whether the city was destroyed a thousand times over and every living being in the whole of Ilium put to the sword, as long as he lived and they could be together.

As he looked at the face that had pierced his heart a lifetime ago, and the flawless body that he had come to know with such intimacy, she could sense his resolve wavering. That he wanted nothing more than to climb back beneath the furs with her and enjoy the soft warmth of her body enveloping his was written in every feature of his face, but she knew he was not hers again yet. She stroked the back of her hand across his stomach and down into his pubic hair, letting her palm turn inwards so it brushed across him and came to rest on his inner thigh. He responded by reaching down to cup her breast and run his thumb over her nipple.

‘Stay here with me,’ she said in a half-whisper, dropping back invitingly onto the rumpled furs. ‘The sun’s barely in the sky and our bed is still warm. Let Odysseus and his archer friend go back to their fellow Greeks, while you and I make love.’

He knelt across her as she spoke and the dawn light gave his muscular torso a coppery tinge. Then something in his expression changed and he pulled away, almost angrily. And she knew she had lost him.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘I can’t.’

‘Can’t what? Paris!’

‘I can’t let them go back. Not without at least speaking to them first. Hector would have gone.’

‘You’re not Hector!’ Helen snapped.

‘No, I’m not. But Hector’s dead because of me –’

‘Because of me, you mean.’

‘Because I fell in love with you and brought you back here,’ Paris countered, though gently. ‘Thousands are dead because of my decision. And that doesn’t mean I regret taking you from Sparta, Helen. I will never regret that, whatever may happen. It does mean I have a responsibility to bear, though – to my father, to the people of Ilium, and above all to you. When Achilles slew Hector, his burden fell on me: to protect this city and its honour. If I fail to meet even the smallest challenge, then the people won’t blame me so much as they’ll blame you. And I won’t have that.’

He snatched up his tunic and pulled it over his head, then knelt and put on his sandals. Helen, seeing that her naked body could no longer hold him, picked up the dress that lay where she had discarded it the night before. It had taken only an instant to throw off in her eagerness to make love to her husband, but long, agonising moments to put back on as Paris ignored her pleas and threw open the door of the bedroom. She hurried after him barefoot, not caring that the sides of her chiton were loose and revealed her ribcage and thighs as she ran down the corridors and out of the palace.

‘Wait Paris,’ she insisted, catching up with him.

‘Don’t try to dissuade me, Helen. I’m determined to speak with these men.’

‘Then speak to them if you must, but do you have to accept the challenge? A duel between skilled archers is little more than a game of chance. Will you put your life so freely into the hands of the gods?’

He stopped and turned to her. They were standing in the middle of the wide courtyard that fronted the palace, where scores of slaves and soldiers were already going about their morning chores. Not one failed to cast a glance at Helen, whose beauty was radiant and enthralling even without the pampering of her maids. She barely noticed them, used as she was to the stares of men and women alike.

‘Our lives hang by the will of the gods every day,’ Paris replied. ‘But I promise you I won’t accept this challenge blindly. Hector knew his importance to the survival of Troy and never risked himself needlessly, unless it was when he walked out to face Achilles alone. I won’t make the same mistake. And yet I will speak with Odysseus. It’s my duty.’

Chapter Nine

DEATH IN THE MORNING

Then be all the more careful,’ Helen said. ‘To exchange words with that man is as perilous as any duel.’

Paris smiled and kissed her forehead, then carried on walking. Helen followed a few paces behind, down the ramps that led to the walls of the citadel, through the arched gateway and out into the streets of the city. Before long they were mounting the steps to the battlements that overlooked the Scaean Gate. Helenus was waiting for them, along with a number of guards who turned to stare at Helen in her half-dressed state. A glance from Paris forced them to look away again.

‘There they are,’ Helenus said, pointing down to where three men stood in the shadow of the sacred oak tree outside the gates. The plains down to the River Scamander and the slopes beyond the ford were empty: they were completely alone. ‘Odysseus, Eperitus and a man who calls himself Philoctetes. Who he is I don’t know – I’ve never seen him on the battlefield before – but he’s the one who dares to challenge you.’

Helen stared at the thin figure with the drawn face. Though he was unimpressive in himself, the weapons he carried inspired awe and fear: a bow of gigantic size – as tall as its owner – and an ornately decorated leather quiver stuffed with black-feathered arrows. Any one of those bronze-tipped barbs could bring death to the man she loved, and with a growing sense of dread she reached for Paris’s hand. Before her fingers could entwine themselves between his, though, he pulled away and leaned over the parapet.

‘I am Paris, son of Priam,’ he shouted in Greek to the small party below. ‘I know you, Odysseus, Laertes’s famed son, and I know the face of your captain from the thick of the battles our armies have fought. But you I don’t know. State your name and lineage, if indeed you are human at all – for you look more to me like a wraith conjured up from Hades.’

Helenus translated for the men on the walls and sneers of laughter rippled through their ranks as they forgot Helen’s beauty and pressed closer against the battlements, eager to watch the spectacle unfold. Philoctetes was untroubled by their mockery and hobbled forward on his crutch.

‘I am Philoctetes, son of Poeas, and these are the weapons of Heracles, which he bequeathed to me. If I appear unfamiliar and somewhat malnourished to you, it’s because my fellow countrymen stranded me on the island of Lemnos shortly before the war began, where I lived on a diet of seagull and rainwater until Odysseus brought me back to the army just two days ago.’

‘I’ve heard of you,’ Paris nodded, ‘though your suffering is news. Tell me, why would a man who had been left to starve by his comrades want to return and fight for them?’

‘For glory, and to honour the name of Heracles,’ Philoctetes answered. ‘And because Heracles himself ordered me to kill you, which I must do if the gates of Troy are ever to fall to the Greeks.’

Helen heard the words and stepped forward to stand beside her husband. Unseen by any of the others – except for Helenus, whose eyes had not left Helen since her arrival – Paris slipped his arm about his wife’s waist and smiled mockingly at the Greek archer.

‘But I have no intention of fighting you, Philoctetes. Why should I? Who are you but a half-starved cripple whose only fame comes from an accident of place and time? That you were present when Heracles wanted to take his own life is neither here nor there. That he gave you his bow and arrows in exchange for lighting his funeral pyre does you little credit. And who have you killed of any renown? Go back to your bed and sleep off your drunken bravado; I’m going back to mine to enjoy the company of my wife.’

He turned to go, but the laughter of his soldiers as they pointed at Philoctetes could not hide the voice that now called out to him.

‘Why should you meet Philoctetes’s challenge?’ it said, with such calm reason that Paris was compelled to stop and listen. ‘Why indeed, for what man of honour would fight unless something was at stake? Something worth fighting for.’

Paris turned and looked down at the short, bulky figure of Odysseus. Despite his lack of elegance and physical beauty his voice was delightful on the ears, so much so that anyone addressed by it felt obliged to reply just so that they could hear it again. Paris had fallen into the trap and stepped up to the battlements, ignoring Helen’s attempts to pull him back.

‘What can you possibly offer that would tempt me away from the caresses of my wife?’ he asked, slipping his hand free of Helen’s fingers.

‘Look for yourself,’ Odysseus replied. ‘The bow and arrows of Heracles. They are yours if you can defeat Philoctetes. This is no trick, Paris. As you can see, we’re alone; no army will spring out from the stones or rise up from the river bed if you possess the courage to step out from behind your walls.’

‘No thank you, Odysseus,’ Helen answered. ‘Paris has a good enough bow already, as several score of your comrades would tell you if they were still alive. Now, go back to your camp and use your powers of persuasion to make Menelaus return to Sparta without me. Or don’t you want to see your beloved Penelope again?’

‘Indeed I do, my lady, but with Hector dead and his place only half-filled I doubt I will have long to wait. What do you say, Paris?’

‘I say damn you, Odysseus,’ Paris returned, angrily. ‘Is that the best your famous voice can do?’

‘And is this the best you can do?’ Odysseus replied, matching his anger. ‘To let a woman fight your battles while you cringe in the shadow of your dead brother? Don’t you even have the guts to fight a cripple with a weapon that’s almost too big for him to wield? Hector wouldn’t have refused, not with the eyes of his countrymen upon him and his reputation at stake.’

Helen saw Paris look left and right at the soldiers on either side of him. They were not laughing now, but were staring at him with expectation. His honour had been insulted; worse still, Odysseus had compared him to Hector – the one test Helen knew he dared not fail. He looked at her, into her eyes, and she sensed the struggle within him, the choice between duty and love.

‘If you came to challenge my brother, Odysseus, you’re too late,’ he replied. ‘Go home and take your scarecrow with you. I’ll not fight him.’

‘Then retreat to your palace and fight your battles in bed; let Helen be the only Greek you bring down, piercing her with the one weapon you’ve still got the courage to wield.’ There was a ripple of laughter from the men on the battlements. ‘But leave your bow. Give it to someone worthy of calling himself a Trojan, someone brave enough to stand in your place. Perhaps Helenus, there? Or did the greatness of Troy die when Achilles slew your brother and dragged his body behind his chariot –’

‘Enough!’ Paris shouted, gripping the parapet. He turned to his brother. ‘Helenus, send for my armour and my bow. No man accuses me of cowardice; I’m going to kill Philoctetes, and then I’m going to put an arrow through Odysseus’s black heart, too.’

‘Wait!’ Helen ordered, staring at Helenus. She turned to Paris. ‘You’re a fool if you let Odysseus provoke you into this nonsense. Why don’t you stop thinking of Troy and filling Hector’s place, and think of me instead – of us! I love you, Paris. Did you drag me halfway across the world and fight a war for ten years just to gamble everything we’ve built for this? For an accusation of cowardice, when you know you’re the bravest man in Troy. In Aphrodite’s name, won’t you think about what you’re doing?’

Paris looked into her blue eyes for a moment, then turned to his brother.

‘You decide, Helenus. If I fight this man, will I win or lose?’

Helenus frowned. ‘I don’t understand –’

‘You have the gift of prophecy, don’t you? You foresaw Penthesilea’s death, and the fall of Achilles. The priests talk of you with awe; they say Apollo has blessed you greatly. So tell me, will I be victorious or not? If you say yes, I will fight; if no then I will remain here with Helen and let the wind blow this straw man back to the Greek camp.’

Helenus looked at his sister-in-law and she saw his eyes fall briefly to her breasts, doubtless savouring the impression of her nipples beneath the thin white cloth. She could sense his strong desire for her in that moment, a desire she knew he had felt ever since he was a boy, before he could have understood the nature of his feelings for her. And it was then she noticed something darker than lust enter his expression, a realisation of the power that had just been given to him. With a nod to Paris, he closed his eyes and bowed his head in concentration. He stayed like that for a while, with all eyes upon him, then clapped his hand to his forehead and grimaced. Stifling a cry, he fell forward into Paris’s arms.

‘What did you see?’ Paris urged, gently shaking Helenus’s shoulder. ‘Did you see me shoot Philoctetes? Is that it?’

‘No,’ Helenus groaned, looking groggily up at his brother. ‘But I did see you holding the bow of Heracles above your head, with the straw man lying at your feet.’

‘Then I will be victorious!’ Paris smiled, triumphantly. ‘Guard! Go fetch my bow and arrows.’

‘And your armour, my lord?’

‘Just my weapons.’

Helen watched the soldier run down the stone steps and up the main road towards the citadel of Pergamos. She did not trust Helenus or his vision and it was with a quickening heart that she turned to Paris. The light of the morning sun was resting fully on the city now, drawing the people out of their houses and casting long shadows behind the soldiers on the battlements. Paris was looking at her, but as their eyes met his gaze wavered guiltily for a moment before he could force himself to resist her accusative stare. Then his rugged face with its familiar scar broke into a smile.

‘Don’t worry,’ he reassured her. ‘Helenus has foreseen my victory. This will be over in moments.’

‘Helenus is just a boy whose ambitions outstrip his abilities,’ she countered. ‘But you are a warrior, and the last hope of Troy rests on your shoulders. You don’t have to fight this man, Paris.’

‘I do, and the reason I have to fight him is precisely because the hopes of Troy rest on me. There are enough witnesses here to let the whole army know I backed down from an open challenge, even after Helenus predicted my victory. I would lose my authority, and in an army authority is everything.’

He placed his arms about Helen and drew her into an embrace. The muscles of his chest and stomach were firm beneath his tunic and yielded little to her touch, making her feel like a child.

‘What about us?’ she asked. ‘This whole war has been about us, our love for each other. Thousands dead and maimed, thousands more widowed and orphaned. If you die it will all have been for nothing.’

Paris gave a half-laugh and stroked her hair as she lay her head on his chest.

‘The war was never about us, Helen. It was about power and greed and honour and hate. We’re just symbols for all the rest of them to hide behind. We’re unimportant, really.’

‘But you’re everything to me, Paris. If you die, I don’t want to live. I love you.’

She looked up at him but was distracted by a noise on the steps. The guard had returned and now stood awkwardly a short distance away, Paris’s bow and quiver of arrows held in his hands. Paris loosened his hold on Helen and stepped back from her.

‘I love you, too,’ he said.

Then he took the weapons from the soldier and descended the steps to the gate.

‘There’s your new home,’ Halitherses said. ‘At least for the foreseeable future.’

The old man sat on his tired horse and looked down at the city of Sparta, a flash of white halfway across the wide plains of the Eurotas valley. Telemachus was beside him, sitting astride his pony with his hand held across his forehead to shield his eyes from the sun.

‘It’s big.’

‘Of course it’s big. Do you think a powerful king like Menelaus would rule over a little backwater like Ithaca?’

Telemachus turned his green eyes on his ageing guardian.

‘Ithaca may be a backwater, but it’s home and one day I’ll be its king.’

‘Let’s hope so, lad. Let’s hope so.’

Halitherses smiled down at the young boy. He had his mother’s good looks and would inherit her height too, in time. His facial expressions and way of speaking, though, were reminiscent of Odysseus. It seemed strange to the old soldier that Telemachus’s mannerisms should be so like those of the father he had never known, and yet it was also a comfort in dark times. To have a physical reminder of the absent king kept Halitherses hopeful that Odysseus would one day return.

He looked back at the valley stretched out below them. From the heights of the pass that had led them through the Taygetus Mountains they could see the River Eurotas sparkling in the distance as it wound its way from the great city southward to the coast. A thick heat haze shimmered over the farmlands on either side, but the distorted air could not hide the fact the crops were scanty and meagre, a patchwork of swaying stalks that held no comparison to the oceans of corn and barley Halitherses had witnessed here twenty years before. The little farmsteads that dotted the plain were ramshackle and in some cases deserted, while the city itself had lost its golden lustre, if not its size. It was typical of all he had observed on the journey from Ithaca. The whole Peloponnese had grown dull and shabby without the governance and protection of its kings, like a once-beautiful house that had fallen into disrepair. Its inhabitants had become suspicious and unfriendly, while here and there migrants had begun to drift down from the lands north of Greece, resented but not resisted as they built their homes and communities in a country that was not their own. Everything was in decline, and Halitherses doubted even the return of the armies from Troy could reverse the decay that had set in.

‘Come on then, lad,’ the old man said, touching his heels to the flanks of his mount. ‘There’s still a long way to go, and I want to get there before nightfall. The gods have kept us safe so far, but I don’t want to spend another night in the open if it can be avoided.’

‘Halitherses?’

Halitherses turned to see Telemachus had not moved.

‘What is it, lad?’

‘Is my mother safe?’

‘Of course she is,’ the old man answered, trying to disguise his hesitation. ‘Her enemies are becoming more powerful, and they want your father’s throne – I’ve never kept that a secret from you – but they know they can’t get it without Penelope. She’s the key and they need her alive, or I wouldn’t have left Ithaca. And she’s more than clever enough to handle Eupeithes until your father returns.’

Telemachus frowned and looked down at the ears of his pony, twitching randomly in the faint mountain breeze.

‘What if my father never returns?’

Halitherses turned back and laid his large, sun-browned hand on the boy’s head.

‘Don’t worry about that, lad. Ithaca’s like a lodestone to Odysseus. He’ll come home again one day. I promise you.’

‘I wish I had your confidence in him,’ Telemachus said, then kicked back his heels and sent his mount trotting in the direction of Sparta.

Halitherses watched him thoughtfully, then, with a click of his tongue, urged his horse forward to catch up with his young charge.

Odysseus saw Helen appear at the battlements, her perfect face stricken with concern. A moment later he heard the squeal of wooden hinges as the Scaean Gate swung open. The movement raised a thin haze of dust, through which the figure of a man could be seen striding towards them.

‘He’s fallen for it,’ Odysseus said.

Philoctetes shifted nervously and Eperitus placed a hand on his bony shoulder.

‘Don’t be concerned,’ he reassured him. ‘You have Heracles’s bow and arrows that never miss. This is why the gods gave them to you. It’s time to fulfil your destiny.’

Philoctetes nodded but did not speak. Still in the shadow of the walls, Paris was removing the arrows from his quiver and pushing them point-down into the soil by his feet. When a dozen had been planted he tossed the heavy quiver to one side and stood with his legs apart. Helen sobbed quietly on the walls above, while all along the parapet a crowd of soldiers and townsfolk were gathering to watch the duel.

Philoctetes began pulling the arrows from his own quiver and setting them in the ground to his left. After the sixth he handed the leather tube to Odysseus, who replaced the lid and slipped it over his shoulder. There was a tension in the air that reminded him of the nervousness he felt before every battle, but was made oddly more acute by the knowledge he would not be fighting and could, therefore, do nothing to influence the outcome. The thought made him suddenly uncomfortable. The conclusion of the war had been compressed into a single action, to be decided between just two men. If Philoctetes failed, then the siege would drag on and it would be more long years before Odysseus saw Ithaca and his family again; if he succeeded in killing Paris, another barrier would be removed and the prospect of going home would come a little closer. But at that moment, there was little else Odysseus could do to sway his own destiny.

He slipped the thin, grubby scarf from about his neck and looked at Philoctetes.

‘Are you ready?’

The archer, tight-lipped and slightly pale, nodded. Odysseus glanced at Eperitus, who moved out wide to his right. When he was well beyond the range of even the wildest shot, the king turned and walked out to the midpoint between the two opponents. He glanced at Paris, who took a deep breath, exhaled and gave a curt nod. Odysseus stepped back a few paces then held up his hand and let the scarf dangle from his fingertips.

‘No arrows to be fitted before my signal,’ he declared. ‘When the scarf touches the ground – and not before – you will fit your arrows, aim and fire. After the first missile, you can continue shooting until either you or your opponent is dead or mortally wounded. There will be no other bloodshed, whatever the outcome,’ he added in the Trojan tongue, staring up at the walls where several archers had appeared.

Paris waved them back and they melted into the crowd. His eyes moved to Helen, lingered on her tear-stained beauty for a heartbeat, then returned to Philoctetes. Despite the cool morning breeze, beads of sweat stood out on both men’s foreheads. Their eyes squinted, reluctant to blink as the moment approached. Then Odysseus raised his hand a fraction and, suddenly, the scarf was falling.

It fluttered down onto the grass and the two men reached for their arrows. Philoctetes’s fingertips grasped clumsily at one of the flights and knocked the missile to the ground. He went for a second, but Paris had already seized his first and was fitting it to his bow. He fumbled slightly, causing the crowd to gasp as he almost dropped the arrow; then he was pulling the string back to his cheek and taking aim. Philoctetes plucked up an arrow, just as Paris’s missile whipped across his jaw and drew a red line through the flesh. He blinked with shock and Odysseus felt his heart thundering within his chest, wondering whether Philoctetes would falter and panic. Then the archer’s instincts took over. He fitted the arrow and pulled back the string.

‘Aim for the body,’ Eperitus shouted, forgetting that the arrows of Heracles were magical and could not miss.

Philoctetes’s hand rested against his bloody cheek. He closed his left eye and looked down the shaft at Paris, who was already fitting his second arrow. Philoctetes snatched half a breath, steadied his aim and fired.

The point hit Paris between the second and third fingers of his left hand, the bronze tip driving through the tendons and bones until it emerged spitting blood and flesh from the back of his wrist. Paris’s bow dropped to the floor as he lifted his hand above his head and cried out in pain. The crowd on the battlements shouted out in horror, but by this time Philoctetes’s second arrow was racing towards its target. It entered Paris’s right eye and the force of the impact spun him around so that his screams echoed back at him from the walls that he had fought so hard to defend. A third arrow then tore into his ankle, as if in cruel mockery of the shot with which Paris had claimed the life of Achilles a few weeks before. It knocked his leg from beneath him and brought him crashing to the ground, where he gnawed at the dust in his agony. Philoctetes had already fitted a fourth arrow to the giant bow and, when Paris began to claw at the earth in an effort to pull himself towards the Scaean Gate, raised the weapon to his cheek once more and took aim. But before he could release the string, Odysseus appeared beside him and pushed his arm down so that the arrow thumped into the ground at his feet.

‘Enough!’ the king exclaimed. ‘Damn it, Philoctetes, you could have killed her.’

They looked over to the shadow of the gates, where the radiant white figure of Helen had run out to be with her dying husband. She knelt beside him, cradling his head in her lap and hiding his disfigured face behind a veil of her black hair. Her shoulders shook and they could only imagine the tears she was shedding over her lover, from whose eye one of Philoctetes’s arrows still protruded.

‘Enough then,’ Philoctetes agreed as Eperitus joined them. ‘Let him die in peace with his wife. I’ve done what the gods demanded of me. Let’s return to the camp.’

BOOK

TWO

Chapter Ten

A WAY OUT

Helen could still see Paris’s face in the darkness, a mass of blood with the open wound where one of his men had drawn the arrow from his eye. The other eye was a lifeless orb, finally still and dull after so much suffering. She saw it even though night had fallen and every light in the room had been extinguished. She even saw it when she closed her eyes and pressed the palms of her hands over the lids. Though ten days had passed since his death, his maimed features would not leave her.

She slid down in the fur-covered chair and flopped her arm towards the table, where the fingers groped clumsily for the krater of wine. She found it and pulled it to her lips, spilling it over her chin and slender white neck as she drank. A dark line of liquid raced down into her cleavage, but she hardly seemed to notice as she fumbled the empty krater back onto the table and drew herself heavily to her feet. The room swayed unsteadily about her as she stood, snapping back to its start point each time she blinked. But even among the uncertain blurring of furniture and darkened corners she could still see Paris’s dead features staring back at her. With an effort she walked to the window and tugged at the heavy curtains clinging on to them for balance until she found the sill of the window beyond and leaned out.

Just like the room behind her, the clustered buildings in the citadel below the palace slid towards the corner of her vision, as if a Titan had escaped from Tartarus and was tilting Troy onto its side. She leaned onto her elbows and buried her face in her hands, closing her eyes and finding Paris there waiting for her.

‘Enough!’ she shouted, not caring less for any eyes that might be watching her from the streets and buildings below. She slapped her hand down on the cold stone and looked up at the night sky, bejewelled with a thousand stars. ‘Enough. I told you not to listen to Helenus, not to leave me. Oh Paris, how long will I have to suffer like this?’

She listened to the silence, then steadied herself against the side of the window and stared down at the roof of the great hall a little below and to her right. A pool of red light marked the hole in its apex where a line of smoke from the fire below trailed out into the night sky. A murmur of voices escaped with it, competing against each other in anger or agitation. Helen looked at the red glow and closed her eyes despairingly, knowing that they were debating her fate at that very moment. Even before the ashes of Paris’s funeral pyre had grown cold, both Deiphobus and Helenus had asked for her hand in marriage. Deiphobus, she knew, had loved her from the very first, always showing her the highest respect and courtesy and never allowing a word to be said against her. Nevertheless, his request had outraged her and she had let him know this in the harshness of her rebuttal. Helenus had followed shortly after, brimming with arrogant self-confidence and no doubt buoyed by her refusal of his older brother. His determination to wed Helen and use her as a stepping stone for his ambitions was not lessened by the fact he had been a playmate of her son, Pleisthenes, or that his vision of Paris’s victory had led directly to his death. Consequently, Helen’s dismissal of him was even more severe than it had been of Deiphobus. But both men were princes and not used to having their requests denied, even by a woman who had once been the queen of Sparta. And so they had demanded of Priam that he choose one of them to marry Helen. The old king agreed, though not because of any sympathy for his sons. He informed his daughter-in-law that she should take a new husband. His subjects, he explained, were restless after the death of Paris and many wanted to send her back to the Greeks, something which Priam was determined would not happen.

Helen groaned.

‘Why did you leave me, Paris?’

And then, on the sighing of the wind, she thought she heard a voice answer her.

‘Come,’ it said. ‘Come to me.’

She sat on the stone sill and drew her knees up beneath her chin, looking down at the long drop. Her befuddled mind tried to calculate if it was enough – enough to kill her. She thought it was; all she had to do was relax and lean sideways. That was all, and then the torment of being apart from Paris would be over. The forgetfulness of Hades would envelop her. Helen of Troy would be no more.

But not the war. That would go on regardless of her fate. Thousands more would perish. Thousands more widows and orphans would have personal reason to hate her memory. Even though she would be gone and Agamemnon and Priam’s fight would become openly the struggle for power it had always been, they would still blame her as the spark that brought death to their husbands and fathers. And that was why she could not just take her own life. The only way to end the war was to find a way back to Menelaus. If she was with her first husband again, the oath taken by the other kings would no longer hold. She would not be a prisoner of Troy any more, and neither could Agamemnon use her death to call on the Greeks to avenge her. The war would have to stop.

She swung her legs off the sill and felt the smooth floor beneath her bare feet. Pulling herself up by the curtain she walked unsteadily to the chest at the foot of her bed, where she found her black travel cloak folded ready. She had always known, from the moment Paris had died in her arms, that this would be her fate – to return to Menelaus and end the war. And yet it had taken the realisation that Priam and his remaining sons were determined not to give her up to force her into action. The very thought of facing Menelaus again after so long filled her with fear and revulsion, but she could not put off her doom any longer. She pulled on her sandals, threw the cloak about her shoulders and crossed to the door.

Outside her bedroom the corridor was dark and quiet. She followed it to the left, unsteady on her feet as she took the stairs down to the lower level of the palace, the leather soles of her sandals scuffing softly over the worn steps. She wandered past several open doorways – mostly storerooms – then turned a corner into a high-ceilinged antechamber that led out to the starlit courtyard. A soldier guarded the arched doorway at the far end, where he was talking in hushed tones to a small and curvaceous slave girl, their faces lit by a torch that burned brightly in a bracket on the wall. They were too absorbed in each other to notice Helen, who slipped back into the obscurity of the shadows. The soldier had a hardened mien – all members of the royal guard were veterans of the battlefield – but he was not so tough that he could resist the bold flirting of his pretty companion, who was leaning towards him so that his eyes could not fail to miss her deep cleavage. Taking the bait, he placed a large hand on her hip and slowly slid it up to her left breast. She angled her face towards his, but before their lips could meet a gaggle of voices in the courtyard forced them to back away from each other. Helen saw torches and the glint of armour in the darkness and ran back to the last doorway she had passed, nudging the door open and slipping inside. It smelled strongly of hay and she realised it was one of the fodder rooms for the nearby stables.

A clamour of voices and the rattle of bronze filled the antechamber. Something in the urgency of the rapidly approaching footsteps told her the soldiers had come with orders to take her to the great hall, where her fate was to be announced by Priam. Leaving the door slightly ajar, she waited until they had moved down the corridor – there were four of them, all fully armoured as if she might pose some threat – then slipped out and returned to the antechamber. The sentry and the servant girl had resumed their earlier closeness, but this time she did not care whether they saw her depart: her absence was about to be discovered anyway, and if she was to leave Troy she had to act at once. She pulled her hood up and walked to the door, forcing the would-be lovers to move apart again. The flicker of annoyance on their faces quickly disappeared as they recognised her, but she cared nothing for the guard’s admiring eyes or the jealousy in the girl’s features as they bowed their heads before her.

The air outside was cold and stank of horses. She almost ran across the courtyard, her cloak billowing out behind her and revealing her thin dress and bare limbs to the soldiers at the top of the ramp. They stood aside as she approached, allowing her to run down to the second tier of the citadel without challenge, although she could still hear their voices discussing her as she disappeared down a narrow side street beside the temple of Athena.

In ten years of living in the city, she only knew of one way out that did not involve gates or guards. It was not easy and it was not pleasant, but it was her only choice and she was glad that the wine had given her a bravado she would not otherwise have possessed. A couple more alleyways and side streets led her to the west-facing wall of Pergamos, where broad steps led to the parapet above. Helen froze and fell back into the shadows. Two cloaked soldiers were standing at the top, their helmets gleaming silver-like in the starlight and their horsehair plumes trailing out in the wind. Fortunately their faces were fixed on the plain beyond the walls and they did not notice Helen in the darkness behind them. After a few moments, they turned and ambled northwards with their spears over their shoulders. Aware her absence would have been discovered by now, Helen sprang up the stairs, only to stumble on the top step and cry out in pain as she cut her shin. She crouched down, biting her lip and holding the wound as she looked tensely to the north-east, but the guards did not return.

She limped to the ramparts and the one place where she could escape the city without being discovered. The stench from the latrine was almost overwhelming, but she wrapped a corner of her cloak over her mouth and forced herself forward. It was little more than an alcove with a hole in the floor that opened out over the walls. There were similar openings all along the circuit of the battlements, but only here was the long drop shortened by a flat outcrop of rock a short way down. The rock also caught most of the waste from the soldiers that used the latrine and ensured that the reek at this point of the walls was particularly close and strong. Helen looked down the hole and felt her stomach turn. It was wide enough for her to pass through, but now that she saw the dark mess against the grey rock below her resolve disappeared and she was forced to step back a few paces.

A little way to the north was the Simöeis. She would be able to wash away the filth there, but even if she could stomach escaping through the latrine and make it undetected to the river, she would have wet clothes for the whole of the long, circuitous journey to the Greek camp. Why had she not thought of that before? Her ridiculous plan had been poorly thought out and now seemed utterly impossible. But she knew she had to go through with it, however disgusting and gruelling it would be. There was no other way to end the war and prevent further misery and suffering being inflicted on the people of Troy, the people for whom Paris had sacrificed his life. She wound the cloak more tightly about her body and stepped up to the gaping, malodorous hole in the floor.

‘What are you doing up here?’ demanded a stern voice.

Helen spun round to see the tall figure of a man at the top of the stairs. The starlight glittered on his polished armour and there was a naked sword in his hand. For a moment she was filled with fear. Then she recognised Apheidas’s handsome, battle-hardened face and her fear turned to anger.

‘You may be a commander in the army, Apheidas,’ she snapped, ‘but I am a member of the royal family. You will address me accordingly.’

‘Very well, my lady,’ he replied, sheathing his blade and stepping towards her. ‘You’ve caused quite a fuss leaving your quarters at night without an escort. There are search parties all over the citadel looking for you.’

‘I’ve walked these walls every night since I arrived in Troy. Is my imprisonment now so strict that I’m no longer allowed to look up at the stars?’

‘A woman of your beauty can still be attacked, even in Pergamos,’ he warned. ‘And you had Paris to protect you before.’

Helen turned away, stung by the reminder of her husband’s death, and let her gaze rest on the dark Aegean beyond the opening to the bay. Its surface shifted gently, belying the depth and power of what stirred beneath. Far on the other side lay the land of her birth; the land where three of her children had grown up without her; the land to which her instincts told her she was doomed to return.

‘And what will you do with me now you’ve found me?’ she asked, turning to face Apheidas. ‘After all, you’re not here purely out of concern for my safety.’

‘You’re required in the great hall,’ he answered, taking her gently but firmly by the upper arm. ‘Priam is going to announce your fate, but first he wants you to have the chance to speak.’

‘Very gracious,’ she laughed, ironically. ‘If being allowed to voice an opinion about the method of one’s own detention can be called gracious. But before you drag me away, Apheidas, I want to ask you something.’

‘What is it?’

‘Must you always do what Priam tells you to do? I’ve heard the rumours, about how your mother was raped and murdered by a member of the royal family, and how your father killed her attacker out of vengeance. They say you were forced to flee to Greece, and that Priam took all your family’s wealth and land for himself. Doesn’t that anger you?’

A dark look flickered over Apheidas’s features before being forced away.

‘You forget Priam also allowed me to return to Troy,’ he answered.

‘Out of pity and guilt! He didn’t feel so bad, though, that he was moved to restore your inheritance to you, did he. Everything you have now you have won by your own strength, fighting in Priam’s wars. You owe him nothing. And if you and I have never been good friends, can you say I’ve ever wronged you?’

‘Get to the point, Helen.’

‘Can’t you have some pity and pretend you never saw me? There’s nothing left for me in Troy now and my misery will only be a little less with Menelaus, but if you help me over the walls I can at least return to my former husband and end the war.’ Helen took a step towards him and raised her face to look into his eyes, her lips tantalisingly close to his. ‘I’ll give you whatever you want in return.’

‘If you had that much power perhaps you’d be worth listening to.’

She seized his wrist and raised his large hand to her breast. Raising herself on tiptoes, she pressed her lips to his. He kissed her back, lightly, and passed his thumb over her nipple where it pushed against the thin material of her chiton.

‘I’m yours if you let me go,’ she whispered.

Apheidas looked down at her with his hard, merciless eyes and shook his head.

‘Those aren’t my orders,’ he said. ‘And you’ve been drinking. Come on.’

He gripped her arm and pulled her forcibly toward the steps.

Chapter Eleven

A WIDOW’S FATE

The great hall was hot and stuffy, contrasting the chill air outside. The long, rectangular hearth glowed fiercely and sent thin trails of smoke up to the shadowy ceiling high above. Its scarlet light shimmered on the faces of the men who sat in rows on either side of it, all of whom fell silent and turned to look as Helen entered accompanied by Apheidas. Most were elderly – having earned their positions of rank in the wars of their youth – and the warm glow emphasised the lines on their soft, bearded faces. But not all were old: the commanders of the armies of Troy and her allies were there, along with the remnant of Priam’s sons – Deiphobus and Helenus among them. These two stood on opposite sides of the hearth, staring at Helen; Deiphobus, the eldest, had a look of relief and joy on his handsome features, while Helenus watched her with expectant confidence. Priam himself sat on a dais at the back of the hall, leaning forward from his high-backed stone chair and gazing vacantly at the flames. His vanity spent with grief at the deaths of Hector and Paris, he had stopped trying to hide his age behind black wigs and face powder and now looked the tired old man he was. His hair was sparse and grey, as was his beard now that he no longer dyed it. His eyes were watery pools of sorrow, and even his great height seemed to have been taken from him as he slumped on his throne. His clothes were still colourful and richly embroidered, but like Priam they had lost their lustre.

Idaeus, the king’s herald, moved out of the shadows by the entrance to announce the arrival of Helen and Apheidas. At once, Priam lifted his head and a flicker of life returned to his eyes. He pushed himself up from the arms of his throne, his forearms shaking with the effort, and stepped down from the dais. Straightening himself with a hand into the small of his back, he brushed aside Deiphobus’s attempts to help him and moved towards his daughter-in-law. There had been a time before the death of his favourite sons when, however much he adored Helen, he would have considered it beneath his position to leave his throne for her sake in the presence of so many of his advisers and commanders. Now he did not care how they regarded him, so Helen, stirred by pity, ran around the hearth and past the rows of black columns to meet him, dropping to her knees and bowing before the old king. He laid his hands on her head and stroked her soft hair.

‘Stand, Daughter, and let me embrace you.’

‘My king,’ she whispered, and for a moment the others in the hall were forgotten as they closed their arms about each other and shared their grief for the loss of Paris.

After a moment, one of the elders stood and coughed lightly.

‘My lord,’ he said.

Priam released Helen and looked at the man with impatience.

‘What is it, Antimachus?’

‘The princess has been brought here to learn her fate?’

‘I haven’t yet decided my daughter’s fate,’ Priam snapped, throwing the elder a dismissive gesture. He shuffled back to his throne, assisted by Helen, and eased himself down onto the hard stone.

‘Then may I urge you again to listen to your advisers, and indeed to the people of Troy,’ Antimachus continued. ‘While Paris lived we were happy to fight, so that Helen could remain among us and not be taken against her will back to Sparta. Now Paris is dead there’s no reason to prolong the war.’

Helen looked at Antimachus’s face with its broken nose and pointed beard. It was a face she had always disliked, for it had always looked on her with aversion. Among all the elders, only Antimachus had never been afraid to voice his disapproval of her presence in Troy. Now, for once, she hoped his argument would be heard by Priam and accepted.

Priam merely grunted.

‘You’ve always hated Helen, Antimachus, so don’t try to convince me you’ve ever been anything but opposed to this war. And since when have the elders and people of Troy decided what the king should do?’

‘Nevertheless, my lord, we should give her back to her own people –’

‘We are her people!’ Priam roared.

Helen rushed to the king’s side as he slumped back into his throne, drained by his anger and fighting for breath. She was joined a moment later by Deiphobus, the prince’s hand touching hers as they sought to calm the old man.

‘I must insist on this point,’ Antimachus continued, with a boldness he would never have dared to show before the deaths of Hector and Paris. ‘Helen has brought great evil to Troy. Tens of thousands of Ilium’s young men have died for her sake, leaving many thousands more widows and orphans. Your commands will always be obeyed, great king, but only so long as you have subjects to follow them. Give her back before she proves the end of us.’

‘You go too far, Antimachus,’ said another elder, rising from his chair. ‘Destruction may have followed Helen to Troy, but the guilt is not hers alone. She’s as much a victim as any of us – a victim of men’s lust and the cruel gods that gave her such beauty. Let the king deal with her as his greater wisdom sees fit, and pray to the gods he doesn’t deliver you to the Greeks instead!’

Helen looked at Antenor with gratitude. Though he had once hosted Menelaus when he had come to Troy on a mission of peace – and his sympathies for the Greek cause were well known – he had never shown her anything other than the greatest courtesy and kindness. Yet compassion of his kind was rare, and however much she was to blame for bringing war to Troy, unless she left soon its doom would be sealed.

‘Whatever the cause of this war, Antimachus is right,’ she said. ‘If I stay here, Troy will be razed to the ground, every man, woman and child slaughtered. One way or another, the Greeks will be victorious. But now that my husband is dead, what reason is there for the war to go on? Send me back to Menelaus and save yourselves.’

‘Never,’ said Helenus, his high voice out of place in the presence of so many old men. ‘Agamemnon doesn’t give a damn about you, Helen. All he wants is Troy.’

‘Helenus is right,’ Apheidas agreed. He had moved unnoticed to lean against one of the broad black pillars, his battered armour gleaming in the firelight. ‘This war was always about who would rule the trade routes across the Aegean – Paris and Helen were just the spark in the kindling. Agamemnon is typical of all Greeks, greedy and self-serving; he won’t go home until the threat of Troy has been wiped out, now and forever.’

‘He may not,’ Helen retorted, ‘but there’ll be nothing to keep the other kings here. If I’m returned their oaths will be fulfilled and Agamemnon won’t be able to stop them leaving. And for all the power of the Mycenaeans, they can’t win this war alone.’

There were voices of agreement from the elders, many of whom looked to Priam’s bowed head in anticipation. Eventually the king raised his eyes to meet Helen’s.

‘I will not throw you out now, Helen. Not after we have fought ten long years to keep you here. Besides, I love you as if you were my own flesh and blood, and with Hector and Paris gone it would break my old heart to lose you too. No, this much I have decided: that you will remain a princess of Troy, and that for your own protection you will marry one of my other sons.’

‘For my protection?’ Helen exclaimed. ‘Surely –’

‘Don’t argue with me, Daughter. The widows of Troy’s fallen are gleeful that you’ve joined their ranks and are full of mockery for you now, but the death of your husband hasn’t lessened their hatred for you. Widowhood is a hard and lonely place to find yourself, and your son, Pleisthenes, won’t be of much help to you with his withered hand. But if you marry one of my other sons your position will be restored, and both Deiphobus and Helenus have asked me to make you their wife.’

‘I don’t want Deiphobus, or Helenus!’ she protested.

‘So you would prefer Menelaus?’ Helenus asked, his tone aloof.

‘I only ever wanted Paris.’

‘Paris is dead,’ Apheidas reminded her. ‘He can never share your bed again, or meet the intimate needs a woman like you craves. And though your love for him is still fresh, his ghost has already lost all memory of you. Helenus, on the other hand, is alive and full of youthful strength. He can fulfil you again, and in time you will learn to love him like you did Paris.’

‘A boy!’ Helen scoffed, shocked by the suggestion and yet mystified as to why Apheidas had taken it on himself to support Helenus. ‘He’s the same age as Pleisthenes. He’s barely started growing a beard!’

‘What you think doesn’t matter,’ Apheidas snapped. ‘The choice belongs to your father, and what’s more, Helenus has something to offer in return for your hand. Haven’t you, Helenus.’

Every eye turned to the prince, who had been staring lasciviously at the outline of Helen’s body beneath her dress, before realising all attention was suddenly upon him. He switched his gaze to his father, who was leaning forward from his throne to look at his son.

‘And what is this thing with which you think you can buy my favour?’ Priam demanded, slowly.

‘A new prophecy, Father,’ Helenus answered. ‘One that will ensure the safety of Troy forever.’

‘Then share it with us, Son. Tell me what I must do to keep my people safe.’

Helenus swallowed and glanced at Apheidas, then back at his father. The colour had drained from his face.

‘Not until Helen is my wife.’

‘What?’

‘Not until Helen is my wife.’

‘Do you dare defy me?’

Priam’s voice was like a clap of thunder, silencing the great hall in an instant. Helenus looked at him fearfully, but something within him knew that if he revealed the oracles Cassandra had shared with him then his father would have no reason to make Helen his wife. He forced his lips shut and looked down at his sandals.

‘So be it,’ Priam said. ‘And what about you, Deiphobus? What do you have to bribe me with?’

‘Nothing, Father, except my loyalty and my courage in battle, which I have shown again and again – unlike my younger brother, who has yet to raise a weapon in anger against Troy’s enemies. But there is one thing I can offer that is genuine and true. My love for Helen.’

He looked at his sister-in-law, who met his gaze without flinching. Both she and Paris had always known of Deiphobus’s love for her and so the revelation came as no surprise. It was clear from the way his expression changed when she entered a room, and from his unfailing defence of her whenever anyone dared to question her presence in Troy. Paris had found his younger brother’s infatuation amusing, though Helen had felt only sympathy for Deiphobus, knowing that his love could never be returned. Paris’s death had done nothing to change that.

‘I have loved you since the first moment I saw you ten years ago at the Scaean Gate, when you were standing in Paris’s chariot,’ he declared. ‘I’ve never stated my feelings openly, but you must have known them. And though it isn’t my intention to disrespect Paris’s memory so soon after his funeral, I believe you have to marry again for your own protection. My father has said as much, and if he indeed loves you like one of his own daughters he will forget Helenus’s supposed oracle and allow you to choose your own husband.’

‘No!’ Helenus protested. ‘Are we peasants, letting our women choose their own husbands for the sake of love? Father, I insist that you decide between us, not a mere woman whose judgement will be dictated by emotion and desire.’

‘If I were to choose, Helenus,’ Priam asked, arching an eyebrow at his son, ‘what qualities would I see in you? Indeed, you show your inexperience and ambition when you speak of Helen with such disregard. Remember this: a man cannot find happiness in marriage unless his wife is happy too. And for that reason Deiphobus is right – I will give the choice to Helen.’

There was a murmur of surprise among the assembled elders, who leaned in towards each other to share whispered opinions. Deiphobus and Helenus both looked at Helen, who waited for the hushed discussions to cease before replying to the king.