The Oracles of Troy (The Adventures of Odysseus) (11 page)

‘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.