The Gates Of Troy (21 page)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter Eleven

R
EGRETS AND
H
OPES

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘How long have you been listening to me?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘You mean there’s still hope for us?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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