The Gates Of Troy

by Iliffe, Glyn

  ‘Don’t say it,’ Eperitus said, squeezing his elbow. ‘It’s natural to be afraid, but she’s in good hands. Promise Artemis the sacrifice of a goat if she’ll see Penelope and the child safe, and then let’s go in.’

  ‘A goat?’ Odysseus said, looking his friend in the eye. ‘If everything goes well, she’ll have my best bull before night-time – the thigh bones and fat, which all the gods love. And we’ll feast on everything else, eh? Come on, Eperitus, let’s find out whether I’m a father yet.’

  They walked through to the courtyard, followed by Antiphus and Polites (the sight of whom caused a great stir in the crowd). The scene inside the walls was no less busy than on the terrace outside, with slaves and soldiers scurrying to carry out their duties. Since taking over from his father, Odysseus had transformed Ithaca from a poor, unsophisticated kingdom into a prosperous and bustling state. His palace had also grown in size and richness: in Laertes’s day, it had been a tired and neglected place with no more than two dozen slaves and a guard of thirty men; now it was completely rebuilt, boasting hundreds of slaves and a standing army of three hundred soldiers.

  It was an achievement that Odysseus could be justifiably proud of, though many of his decisions had proved unpopular to start with. The first of these concerned Eupeithes, the affluent merchant who had initiated the rebellion against his father. Laertes’s last act as king had been to banish the traitor to Dulichium, but after a year on the throne Odysseus had brought him back and appointed him his chief adviser on trade. In a single stroke, he had gained the benefit of his former enemy’s commercial acumen and guaranteed his loyalty and support (if causing Laertes a certain amount of anger and embarrassment). Odysseus also made peace with the Taphians, who had supported Eupeithes’s rebellion, and now counted their chieftain, Mentes, as one of his closest friends. Eventually, the whole of Ithaca came to appreciate their king’s wisdom and learned to trust his judgement.

  Eperitus had always believed in Odysseus’s cleverness, but it was for his hard-working nature that he respected him most. As they walked across the busy courtyard, he looked about at the many improvements his friend had made. Their visit to Sparta years ago had impressed on Odysseus that a king’s home reflected his position and authority, and he had quickly set about redesigning the palace and helping in its reconstruction. The ash planks of the threshold to the great hall, which they were now approaching, had been cut to length and fitted by the king himself; even the cypress pillars that supported the roof had been tapered and rubbed smooth by his hands. His mark was in every aspect of the kingdom, and soon it would be made complete. The child that he and Penelope had wanted for ten years would continue his bloodline and, more importantly, preserve the memory of his deeds so that when death claimed his body it would not claim his renown also.

  As Eperitus pondered these things, the doors of the great hall swung open to reveal a tall woman standing in the shadows. She was dressed in a white chiton with a bright-red cloak draped over her shoulders. Her tangled brown hair was tucked behind her ears, revealing a pale face with dark, tired eyes that blinked against the bright sunlight. Penelope’s calm beauty reminded Eperitus of the first time he and Odysseus had seen her, at a feast in Sparta ten years before. Then she had worn a full-length, green dress and her hair had been tied in a ponytail that danced cheerfully with each movement of her head. Odysseus had fallen in love with her that night, and with a combination of persistence and wiliness he had won her heart and made her his queen.

  She turned and received a small white bundle from her body slave, Actoris, who stood in the deeper shadows behind her. Then she stepped forward into the sunlight and, with a smile, held the silent baby at arm’s length towards her husband.

  ‘It’s a boy,’ she said, as Odysseus mounted the threshold and took the child in his arms.

  The king looked down at his son and there were tears in his eyes. The people who had been criss-crossing the courtyard now stopped and stared at their king and queen, while at the gates the crowd pressed so close that many were forced over the porch. The hubbub of voices from beyond the palace walls fell silent, and in that moment of blissful peace Odysseus pulled Penelope to him and kissed her with a fierce passion. Then he stepped forward and, raising his son above his head, showed him to all who could see.

  ‘A son!’ he boomed proudly, the tears now flowing down his cheeks into his beard.

  A great cheer erupted from the crowd of onlookers, and as the noise swept back through the town Odysseus took the sleeping child back into his arms and whispered something in Penelope’s ear. Then he turned and beckoned Eperitus to join them.

  Despite the continued cheering and his father’s handling of him, the baby was still asleep as Eperitus looked down at him. He had a red face with little features that were screwed up as if with concentration; his tiny fists were pulled up to his cheeks, and his head was covered in shiny black hair that curled in every direction.

  ‘What will you call him?’ he asked, looking at Odysseus and Penelope. The king was still staring down at the child, studying the miniature details of his son, but Penelope met Eperitus’s eyes and smiled.

  ‘It’s the father’s duty to name his son,’ she said.

  ‘Telemachus. His name is Telemachus,’ Odysseus answered. He gave Eperitus a wide grin. ‘And when he’s old enough to walk, you can teach him to use a sword and throw a spear.’

  ‘And I’ll teach him how to use a bow,’ Antiphus added, stepping onto the raised threshold. He was followed by Polites, whose brutal face was softened with wonder as he stared down at the baby. Then Actoris appeared and reminded Penelope that the child should not be exposed too long to the sun.

  Eperitus slipped into the crowd that had formed before the threshold. As he made for the gate, an old woman stopped him.

  ‘Is it true what they’re saying, sir?’ she asked eagerly. ‘A son?’

  ‘Yes, a healthy looking lad,’ he replied, forcing a smile.

  ‘Praise Zeus and Artemis and all the gods!’ she exulted, holding both hands in the air and spinning round with glee.

  But Eperitus was already starting to run, wanting to be as far away from the cheering crowds as his legs could take him. He forced his way through the press of bodies until he was beyond the town and climbing the twisting path that led up the flanks of Mount Neriton. When he reached the top he relieved the lookout of his duties and sat down beneath the thatched awning that provided the only shelter from sun, rain or wind, and looked out at the blue mass of the Peloponnese. He watched the merchant ships drift gently up and down the coast until the setting of the sun forced them to find ports or inlets for the night. The eastern sky was beginning to pale and the rocks all around him had turned a gentle shade of pink, reflecting the crimson fire in the sky behind Eperitus as the sun sank below the western edge of the world. Then he heard the sound of loosened gravel and saw Arceisius approach from the direction of the town.

  ‘I saw Thestor wandering around the palace,’ he said as he approached the awning, ‘when I knew he should have been up here, so I guessed this was where I might find you.’

  ‘Did you bring any wine?’ Eperitus replied. ‘I’m as thirsty as a hunted deer.’

  ‘I’ve some water,’ Arceisius said, slipping a leather bag from his shoulder and tossing it towards his master. ‘You were missed down there. Odysseus was asking everyone if they’d seen you.’

  ‘I thought he needed some time with his new family.’

  ‘Is that all, sir?’ Arceisius asked. Though young, he was not blind to his master’s anguish.

  Eperitus stood and looked down at the wine-dark sea, washing the jagged skirts of the mountain far below with its ceaseless rocking.

  ‘No, Arceisius. No, it’s not. I’m thinking of leaving Ithaca.’

  ‘But Ithaca’s your home.’

  ‘Ithaca’s my prison,’ Eperitus retorted, instantly regretting his sharp tone. ‘I’m sorry, Arceisius. It’s just that, suddenly, everything’s changing, a
s if I’m being reminded that my destiny lies beyond Ithaca. I’ve been thinking of my father for some time, wanting to wipe away the shame of what he did. Then there was the fight this morning. It was the first time I’ve killed a man in ten years, and I enjoyed it – not the killing, as such, but the thrill of danger and the pride of victory. It woke something inside me, a yearning for glory that’s been dormant for too long, and a need to prove myself.’

  ‘But you have proved yourself,’ Arceisius protested. ‘If it wasn’t for you Ithaca would be ruled by Taphians.’

  Eperitus shook his head. ‘I’m still a warrior, Arceisius – Odysseus reminded me of that on the ship, and it was he who said Ithaca is a prison to me. But do you know what it was that made me decide to leave? The sight of that baby in Odysseus’s arms. After all, a man needs a sense of his own eternity, something that will carry his memory beyond death. Telemachus will give that to Odysseus. But it made me realize that I’m slipping into obscurity. I need to get back out into the world and make a name for myself in battle – that’s all I ever dreamed of when I was your age.’

  The wind, which had been constant since Eperitus had reached the top of Mount Neriton, whipped at their cloaks and hair, bringing to them the sounds of the sea crashing against the rocks far below. The chariot of the sun had disappeared and in the cool of the evening they saw the first stars shining in the deep blue skies above.

  ‘And now there’s talk of war in the east,’ Eperitus continued. ‘A great war between Troy and the whole of Greece. Odysseus knows about it and is determined not to be drawn in. But for the likes of me – and you, if you’re willing, Arceisius – it’s an opportunity to become what we were always meant to be: warriors, killing and dying for the sake of glory.’

  The squire took the skin from his master’s hand and swallowed a mouthful of water. For a long time they watched the Peloponnese fade and the sea grow darker, then Arceisius broke the thought-filled silence.

  ‘Let’s go back, while we can still find our footing.’

  ‘I’m leaving for the mainland,’ Eperitus said. ‘Once Telemachus has been dedicated to the gods I intend to ask Odysseus to release me from my oath. If he does, I will go to Mycenae and join the army of King Agamemnon.’

  Then I’ll come with you, sir,’ Arceisius replied. ‘It felt strange killing that man this morning, but I know now it was only because I’d crossed a threshold into a new world. I’m a warrior now, and I don’t think I’ll ever find happiness on Ithaca again.’

  Menelaus sat on his raised throne and eyed the Trojan prince with stern formality.

  ‘Well, Paris, son of Priam, I’m told you want to see me as a matter of urgency. What is it you wish to discuss?’

  A broad column of light plunged like a waterfall from a vent in the high ceiling of the great hall, illuminating the Spartan king as he waited for a response. Paris stood stiffly before him, with Apheidas and Aeneas on either side. The low flames of the hearth crackled behind them and they felt its warmth in the smalls of their backs, coaxing the sweat from their armpits and increasing their discomfort.

  Paris cleared his throat and stepped forward into the golden, dust-filled light.

  ‘I come with an offer of alliance from the king of Troy,’ he began. ‘My father is a great man, but his greatness lies in his desire for peace and friendship with his neighbours. With this wish at heart, he has sent me to speak with you and the other significant kings of Greece.’

  ‘Priam rules over an empire of vassal cities that pay him homage and provide him with ships and armies to serve his will,’ Menelaus interrupted. ‘From all reports, the gods have already blessed your father with wealth and power far beyond the needs of any man. What could he possibly gain from an alliance with Sparta, or any city in Greece?’

  ‘Peace, most importantly,’ Paris answered. ‘And the freedom to trade, the life blood of all truly civilized peoples.’

  ‘But trade thrives, even though the Trojans have been demanding tribute from Greek merchants for some years now. Does your offer of alliance include the removal of this unjust taxation on our goods?’

  ‘I will raise the matter with my father, if everything goes well.’

  ‘You should grant this as an immediate concession if you expect any kind of profit from our meeting.’

  ‘There will be no immediate concessions,’ Paris countered. ‘Priam wants cordial relations between Trojans and Greeks, to our mutual benefit.’

  Menelaus leaned back in his chair and stroked his beard, eyeing Paris shrewdly. ‘To our mutual benefit, but at a cost to Greece no doubt. And what does Priam want in exchange for the friendship of Troy?’

  ‘There is something,’ Paris nodded. ‘My father’s desire for peace and trade is genuine, but the plain truth is he’s getting old, and old men are sentimental. He wants his family around him: he wants Hesione back.’

  Menelaus looked at him through narrowed eyes.

  ‘Telamon married Hesione thirty years ago,’ he said. ‘She was his by right of conquest, after he and Heracles sacked Troy. Do you refute this?’

  ‘That is what the Greeks believe, but we Trojans say she was raped and kidnapped by Telamon.’

  Menelaus raised a quizzical eyebrow. ‘Shame and defeat often bring denial. But whatever the truth about Hesione, she has been Telamon’s wife for many years now and has given him a son, Teucer the archer. And if I remember correctly, a Trojan delegation was sent to Salamis some time ago and rejected by Telamon himself.’

  Aeneas stepped forward.

  ‘Anchises, my father, was amongst them,’ he said, angrily. ‘The Greeks treated him like dirt and he and the others barely escaped with their lives!’

  Apheidas placed a hand on the young warrior’s shoulder and pulled him gently away from the Spartan king. Ignoring the others, Menelaus continued to fix his attention on Paris.

  ‘I don’t know what happened in Salamis and I don’t know Telamon well enough to speak for his character, but as a husband I don’t think I would have taken kindly to an attempt to rob me of my wife. Hesione’s home is Greece, and no offer of alliance is going to change the fact.’

  ‘Her home is Troy,’ Paris responded sharply. ‘Though Priam hasn’t set eyes on his sister for thirty years, he still loves her and wants her back. All I request is that you send a message to Agamemnon, asking him to invite Telamon to meet with us at Mycenae. After the experience of the previous delegation we would rather discuss these matters on neutral ground, and I am sure Telamon will not be able to refuse a direct request from the sons of Atreus. In return for your help, we will lift the taxation on Greek trade in the Aegean. My father is also prepared to compensate Telamon generously for the return of his sister.’

  ‘Priam seems to forget that his sister is now a wife and a mother!’ Menelaus snapped. ‘Do you Trojans care nothing for marriage? Is it your desire to rob a man of his wife?’

  The accusation rang back from the walls of the great hall and at last Paris knew that Menelaus suspected him of coveting Helen. The cordiality of the evening feasts had gone and as he stared at the older man, the legitimate husband of the woman who had stolen his heart, he felt a rush of hatred. He wanted to spring forward and close his fingers about Menelaus’s throat, but as he looked at the flush of grey in his hair and beard and the heavy lines about his eyes and forehead, he realized it was the fear of losing Helen that had aged him prematurely. Suddenly his anger turned to shame. Menelaus was not a man to be despised, but pitied, and yet for the sake of a woman’s glance Paris was going to win his trust and then betray him. His scorn turned upon himself, and yet he knew there was nothing else he could do. What were honour and morality compared to his desire for Helen?

  ‘Nevertheless,’ the king continued, ‘I am prepared to grant your wish and send a message to my brother, but I require something of you in return.’

  ‘Name it, my lord?’

  Menelaus narrowed his eyes at the Trojan prince. ‘I do not know you, Paris. You are a stranger fr
om a foreign land and your ways are unknown to me. Though you speak of friendship and alliances, how do I know you don’t harbour evil or mischief in your heart? In a few days I will leave for Crete, but before I go I want an assurance that you will act honourably in my absence.’

  ‘There’s only one way to do that, my lord,’ said Apheidas, standing beside Paris. ‘You know the answer, too: a solemn oath of friendship.’

  ‘Do Trojans respect the gods?’ Menelaus tested him.

  Apheidas did not respond. Instead, he gave Paris a subtle nudge in the ribs and stepped back.

  ‘The gods are highly revered in Troy,’ the prince replied. ‘As you will see if you ever come to our homeland. Though we are foreigners in your eyes, an oath of friendship is as binding on a Trojan as it is on any Greek. If we give you our word, you can trust us to keep it.’

  ‘So be it. While you are under my roof, let it be as a friend.’

  Menelaus offered his hand, which Paris gripped firmly.

  ‘Eteoneus,’ the Spartan king shouted, ‘bring me my best dagger.’

  The herald, who had been waiting in the shadows of the great hall, snapped his fingers at a slave, who disappeared through a side door. A short while later he returned and, crossing the hall, placed a sheathed dagger in Menelaus’s palm.

  ‘I, Menelaus, son of Atreus, call on Zeus the protector of strangers to witness my promise of friendship to you,’ he said, placing the weapon firmly in Paris’s free hand. ‘This dagger is a symbol of my oath, guaranteeing you my protection and help while you are in my kingdom, and ensuring that I will never be your enemy. Let this promise stand for myself, my children and their children until seven generations have passed, as custom demands.’

  Paris scanned the ornately detailed gift without releasing Menelaus’s hand – to do so before exchanging oaths would break the pledge under Trojan practice. Although the Spartan’s promise sounded strange to his ears, its integrity was assured by the witness of Zeus. And yet Paris was unable to return the oath without a gift of his own. He looked at Apheidas, who in turn nodded to Eteoneus.