The Gates Of Troy

by Iliffe, Glyn

  He turned and walked further along the lines of restless horses. Every animal in Menelaus’s stable was alert to his presence, each one pressing up against the wooden bars of the pens as he walked by. The rich odour of straw and dung filled his senses and reminded him of Troy, but his ever-present longing for his homeland was tempered by an unexpected reluctance to leave Sparta. It was now the third day since his arrival, and though he had no love for the austere city and its hostile people, their queen had cast a spell over him that had thrown his thoughts and emotions into turmoil. One flash of Helen’s blue eyes had filled him with a madness that had cut into his very soul, disturbing his once peaceful conscience and threatening to rob him of his self-control. He had lain awake all night after the feast – during which he had eaten very little – thinking of Helen, seeing her face in the corners of his mind and recalling the look she had given him as she had left the great hall, a look that seemed filled with a longing to match his own. Was it possible that such a godlike woman could set her heart upon a hardened warrior like himself? The thought chased away all prospect of sleep and he had risen before dawn to roam the palace corridors in the hope of encountering her.

  But he saw neither Helen nor Menelaus for the whole of that day, and to his disappointment only the king was present at the feast that evening. Menelaus apologized for his lack of hospitality during the day, as he was busy preparing for a visit to his grandfather in Crete; but he assured the Trojans he would be able to discuss the purpose of their mission within a few days. Until then he cordially offered them the freedom of his palace, although at this point the king’s gaze rested briefly on Paris, as if he knew the malady that had struck his guest and the thoughts that were in his mind. Indeed, Paris did not see Helen the following day or night either, and the worry he might never set eyes on her again deprived him of yet more sleep and drove away all but the most rudimentary appetite. Before arriving in Sparta his life had been simple: he was a Trojan warrior, honour-bound to serve his king and country without question, earning glory where possible or death if required. Helen, though, had purged him of these trivialities and left him with nothing but a yearning to be with her – a hunger that could only be satisfied by stealing her from Menelaus and making her his own.

  It was a shameful thought for a man of honour, but one which he could not free himself from despite all the arguments against it. The consequences of such an act were unguessable. Certainly his mission would fail and Hesione would never be returned to Troy. And even if he succeeded in taking Helen with him, Menelaus would surely do everything in his power to bring her back. These were the least of Paris’s concerns, though. His noble blood and tough upbringing had given him the courage to take whatever he wanted, but to kidnap Helen from under her husband’s nose meant going against his sense of duty to his father and his country. Ironically, such an act would also make him worse than Telamon, who when he took Hesione from Troy had at least been able to claim her as a spoil of war. But the greatest obstacle would be Helen herself. When he had looked into her eyes he had seen a trapped animal, longing to be free of its gilded cage. He could sense her pain, the pain of a free spirit slowly being crushed to death, and he had wanted to be the one to release her from that. But unless she wanted him in return then he could not force her to leave – not without the fear that he had removed her from one cage, only to earn her contempt by placing her into another.

  This internal struggle between conscience and desire had dominated his thoughts when he should have been thinking of his mission. After the third night of feasting, when Helen was absent and her husband had again avoided all talk of the Trojans’ purpose in Greece, he fought against his growing tiredness and rose early again to wander the palace corridors in contemplation of the Spartan queen. But as the dawn brought a day of difficult decisions and far-ranging choices, he found his old self returning in strength. The honour-bound soldier, the loyal Trojan and the dutiful son fought back with renewed vigour against the obsession with Helen. She could never be his, he told himself: she was married, and a foreigner whose background and customs were not his own, while he had a responsibility to his mission, his father and to his country that would not be denied. Even if Helen was willing to leave Sparta with him, her wild beauty would change his ordered life beyond recognition. The honour and pride that were the pillars of his existence would be pulled down for the sake of a woman he had only seen once, and as he thought of what it would mean to follow his heart and surrender everything for her he felt suddenly afraid. In a moment everything became clear: he must leave for Mycenae tonight, or risk stepping into an abyss, changing everything for ever.

  He passed from the stables out into the broad palace courtyard. The quiet, moonlit space of the first night he had arrived was now filled with activity. A dozen slaves with wooden rakes were smoothing out the hoof-prints and wheel ruts of the previous day, only to see the neatly furrowed dirt trampled again by scores of servants hurrying about their early morning duties. Sleepy soldiers stumbled from their barracks, adjusting their armour as they went yawning to their posts, while over by the gates a group of light horsemen were discussing the morning’s patrol, their mounts snorting and stamping with impatience. The sky above was flushed pink with the first light of dawn, and from the roofs and treetops of Sparta an army of birds were greeting the morning in song.

  Paris did not share their enthusiasm. Feeling frustrated and moody, he lowered his head and walked across the newly levelled soil to the palace. Inside, the cool, gloomy interior was thick with bustling slaves, few of whom had time to take notice of the foreign prince. Weaving his way between them, he came to a flight of stairs and leapt up them two at a time, hoping to find somewhere to be alone with his troubled thoughts. Fortunately, the upper level was deserted except for a young slave girl sweeping the corridor. She stared at Paris with indignation – making him suspect he had entered the women’s quarters – but he ignored her and continued up the narrow, white-walled passageway. Unlike the lower level, which was an organized collection of large, functional rooms feeding off from a central hallway, the floor above was a maze of corridors and small rooms where he soon became lost.

  His dark looks as he moved through the upper level of the palace caused several slaves to avoid his eye or move aside. When he stopped one of them and demanded to know where the Trojans had been billeted, the old man could do little more than point and give hurried directions in a shaking voice. Paris strode on. He intended to discuss his plans with Apheidas and Aeneas, see his men fed, and then demand an audience with Menelaus regarding Hesione. The fact the Spartan king had witnessed the look that had passed between Paris and Helen on that first night would almost guarantee his agreement – he would want the foreigners away from Sparta and his wife as quickly as possible.

  It was as these thoughts raced through his mind that Paris heard a sudden burst of laughter coming from one of the windows ahead of him. Despite his grim mood, he stopped at the window and looked out onto a small, rectangular garden below. It was enclosed by a high wall and bordered by spring flowers, whose rich scents reached as high as the upper window. In the middle of the garden was a circular pond covered with lily pads, through which Paris could see the flitting shapes of large, golden fish. Around the pond was a lawn where four children – three boys and a little girl – were chasing each other and laughing merrily. But Paris’s gaze was immediately drawn to the slim, black-haired woman seated on a stone bench beside the pond. She was dressed in a dark blue robe that covered her shoulders against the morning chill, but fell open slightly to reveal the white chiton beneath.

  Initially her hair shielded her face from his eyes, but with a sudden rush of nervousness he knew it was Helen. A moment later she lifted her face to the sky and with an easy movement of her slender fingers tucked the long strands of hair behind her ears. Paris stepped back from the window, where he could watch her from the cover of the shadows. When he had first seen her she had enthralled him with her untamed beauty, but n
ow he looked on her with astonishment as her purity and perfection were revealed to him by the daylight. She lowered her face again to look at the children – her children – and as Paris saw the loving smile she gave them his heart yearned for her to smile at him in the same way. Then he remembered that he had resolved to leave Sparta before nightfall and a great swell of sadness and anger washed through him.

  The smallest of the boys ran to his mother, who folded him into her arms and covered him with kisses. The child’s face – like those of his siblings – showed a clear physical resemblance to both Helen and Menelaus, proving Helen’s faithfulness to her marriage bed. And despite the withered hand that the boy held tucked into his chest, Paris envied him.

  ‘Magnificent, isn’t she?’ whispered a voice over Paris’s shoulder.

  The prince turned with a start and saw Apheidas in the shadows. ‘What are you doing here?’ he said impatiently.

  ‘Looking for you. Nobody’s seen you since the feast.’

  ‘I’ve been minding my own business, Apheidas. There are times when I wish you’d do the same.’

  ‘Now, now,’ the older man tutted with an amused smile. ‘Besides, isn’t it the business of both of us to seek the return of Hesione? That is why we’re here, isn’t it?’

  ‘Keep your voice down,’ Paris hissed as Helen’s head turned in the direction of the window. ‘Of course that’s why we’re here. What else do you think’s kept me awake all night?’

  ‘I’m glad to hear you’re focused, Paris,’ Apheidas replied tartly. ‘Hector told me to give you my full support, and I want to see the mission succeed just as much as you do. It just irks me that, whatever we say, the Greeks are still going to send us back to Troy with nothing more than bellies full of their tough food and bitter wine. After all, if we’re made to look like fools then Priam and the whole of Ilium will look like fools with us.’

  ‘We won’t go back empty-handed or looking like fools, Apheidas,’ Paris snapped, wishing the man would leave him alone. ‘Besides, I imagine you’re more worried about your own pride than my father’s.’

  ‘A man’s pride is his motivation, but unlike you, my motivation has been thinking of ways to achieve our mission.’ Apheidas waited for Paris to react, but the prince merely narrowed his eyes and remained silent. ‘Anyway, the Greeks hurt my pride ten years ago when they drove me out, and I don’t intend to pass up this chance to have my revenge.’

  ‘We’re not here to satisfy your stung pride, so just forget whatever it is you’re dreaming up and concentrate on what I tell you to do.’

  ‘Our success will be all the revenge I need, Paris. Nothing else. And if you really want to see Hesione returned and Troy’s honour restored, then you’d better listen to what I’ve got to say.’

  Paris felt his anger rising again. ‘You’re forgetting yourself, Apheidas,’ he warned. ‘Hesione’s my father’s sister and I want her back home as much as anyone, but it won’t be as simple as you seem to think. Has it occurred to you she might not want to return to Troy with us, whether she’s given leave to by the Greeks or not? Why would she give up her home and family to return to a place she hasn’t seen for years?’

  ‘Who cares what the stupid woman wants?’ Apheidas retorted. ‘We’ve been given a mission to take her home to Troy, and it’s your duty to carry it out. And if you haven’t got the guts, then I’ll do it myself.’

  There was a long, tense moment as the men stared at each other, punctuated by the laughing of the children below and the smooth voice of their mother. Apheidas had directly challenged Paris’s authority, an act that no commander could tolerate if he expected to maintain his position. But Apheidas was always standing up to those above him, and most had learned to tolerate this fault with magnanimity because it was outweighed by his excellence in battle. And perhaps Paris was in the wrong. He had assumed too much of Hector’s attitude – that they would never bring Hesione back and the best they could do was to spy on the Greeks and come back with a reason to make war on them in the future; however, it was Priam’s wish that his sister be returned to Troy and the city’s pride be restored along with her. And Priam was still the king.

  ‘All right, tell me what you’re thinking.’

  Apheidas smiled. ‘Simple. The Greeks took one of ours; I say we take one of theirs in return.’

  He indicated the garden with his thumb.

  ‘Only a fool would suggest something as ridiculous as that,’ Paris snapped, shaking his head.

  ‘Think about it, Paris,’ Apheidas countered. ‘Having her will give us the upper hand when it comes to bargaining for Hesione’s return. And if the Greeks aren’t interested then Troy will at least have its pride back – and you can have Helen for your own.’

  He leaned back against the wall and gave the prince a knowing glance. Paris looked away, doubt furrowing his brow. Having just convinced himself that he must leave Sparta at once for the sake of his mission and his honour, his second-in-command was offering him a way to resolve all his dilemmas with one fell deed. Was it madness to consider such a possibility? he asked himself. But as he considered Apheidas’s words, he realized that it was not. To kidnap Helen would be to fulfil his mission, not abandon it. Troy’s pride would be reinstated and Priam would be able to offer Helen in exchange for Hesione. The Greeks would never agree, of course, and Hector would get his war. More importantly, Paris would have Helen for himself without betraying his mission, his father or his homeland. It was as if the gods had spoken to him, and yet his excitement was checked by uncertainty. He looked back down at the garden, his eyes dark as he stared at the oblivious Helen.

  ‘I won’t deny the gods have blinded me with Helen’s beauty, Apheidas – a fact you seem fully aware of – or that I have already thought of taking her back to Troy with us. But Menelaus is our host and I like him, even if he is a Greek. What’s more, to take Helen would be a dishonourable act, an offence to the gods.’

  ‘Sometimes we must swallow our pride if we are to have our heart’s desire,’ Apheidas said earnestly. ‘And as for offending the gods, don’t you realize that our very presence here is their doing? It’s by their will that we – you – are fated to take Helen back to Troy. In your pride, don’t forget your mortality and the fact you are a pawn of the immortals.’

  ‘You know it will mean war.’

  ‘War’s been brewing for years,’ Apheidas said dismissively. ‘The Greeks are growing all the time, and we Trojans are looking westward for a bit of elbow-room ourselves. It won’t be long before one side goes too far, and then it’ll be a war to the death – our culture against theirs. And the sooner we get the chance to wipe them out the better!’

  Paris nodded, resigning himself to Apheidas’s argument and, with it, the unknown future he had feared and rejected not long before. ‘And how do you suggest we smuggle the queen of Sparta out of her own palace?’

  ‘Menelaus departs for Crete in five days. It’s a journey he can’t postpone, but after that look Helen gave you the other night – oh yes, I saw it – he’ll want to send us on our way before he leaves. We have to convince him to let us stay.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Demand to speak with him today. Tell him the reason your father sent you here and ask him to send messages to Agamemnon and Telamon, requesting an audience on neutral ground in Mycenae. That’ll give us a reason to wait in Sparta until we receive their response, by which time Menelaus will have sailed for Crete. He won’t trust us, of course, but if you can make him swear an oath of friendship the customs of xenia will oblige him to let you stay here. And once he’s gone, we’ll steal his wife and head home.’

  ‘And what if Helen doesn’t want to leave – have you thought of that?’

  Apheidas gave another of his self-assured smiles and looked down at the garden. ‘She will. Her eyes may have been on you the other night, but I could see what was burning inside them. It’s obvious she doesn’t love Menelaus. She’s like a trapped animal, desperate to escape.’

&
nbsp; ‘There’s no escape with a face like hers,’ Paris replied. ‘Men will follow her to the ends of the world. But even if you’re right in everything you say, you’re forgetting her children. We’ll be hard pushed to take them with us, so your whole plan relies on her giving them up.’

  ‘That will depend on how much she wants her freedom,’ Apheidas said. ‘But if she won’t leave them behind, then we’ll just take her without them.’

  ‘No,’ Paris said, firmly. ‘I will gladly endanger my life trying to get her out of Sparta; I will even surrender my honour for her sake; but I will not force her to leave against her wishes, with or without her children. To do that would be to make Troy her new prison, and myself a new Menelaus!’

  Then you must find a way to speak with her, my lord,’ Apheidas insisted. ‘If you want her consent, then you must get it as soon as you can. In the meantime, I’ll find Eteoneus and demand an audience.’

  Apheidas rushed off and Paris returned to the window, only to find the garden below quiet and empty. His spirits plunged, but only for a moment as the thought of taking Helen with him to Troy quickly revived his mood. Apheidas’s foolhardy plan would require suicidal courage and recklessness, but the risk had to be taken. It was the will of the gods, and what was more, Paris had finally accepted he would never find peace again without Helen at his side.

  Helen sat by the pond and watched her children playing, aware that the Trojan prince was looking down at her from one of the upper windows. Her youngest son, Pleisthenes, ran to her and she wrapped her arms about him, enjoying the warmth of his small body against hers. She kissed his hair and sent him off to play again with his brothers and sister, telling him not to overexert himself because of his weak chest.