The Gates Of Troy (2 page)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘A welcoming committee?’ Aeneas suggested.

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

Paris’s rugged face was emotionless.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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