The Gates Of Troy

by Iliffe, Glyn

  The herald reached behind himself and pulled a cloth bundle from his belt, which he handed to Apheidas. The Trojan, who had asked Eteoneus to retrieve the gift from the armoury, opened the swaddling to reveal a second dagger. Like the Spartan weapon, it had a black leather scabbard that was decorated with ornately worked gold filigree; but, where Menelaus’s gift had a wooden handle with gold inlay and a gold pommel, the handle of the dagger that Paris now gave to the Spartan king was shaped from a single piece of ivory. It was almost twice as long as Menelaus’s palm was wide and in it was depicted a scene of an archer hunting a stag, the intricate carvings inlaid with jet to make them stand out boldly. The blade was nearly double the length of the Spartan dagger and remained hidden beneath the scabbard, but Paris saw in his mind’s eye the design it bore, of more huntsmen and their dogs described in gold, chasing in the wake of the archer and stag on the handle. It was a rich weapon indeed, designed to impress the wealth and skill of Troy on Menelaus’s mind.

  ‘With this dagger I swear to you, before Zeus and all the gods of Olympus, my friendship and loyalty.’ As he said the words, Paris released his hold of Menelaus’s hand, making his words meaningless. In doing so he knew he had crossed a threshold, from honour to dishonour, driven by the insanity of love. ‘I will never bear arms against you, or bring harm upon your household in any form. I will honour and protect you when you visit my homeland. We will be allies until death takes us, or the words of this oath are broken – which can never happen.’

  Chapter Seven

  THE FLIGHT FROM SPARTA

  The light was failing fast as Paris walked through the quiet avenues and alleyways of Sparta, heading for the temple of Aphrodite. He felt both nervous and elated at the thought of being with Helen again, this time alone and without any fear of disturbance. For the first time since seeing her in the great hall, he would be able to discover what her true feelings for him were. His heart told him that her display of sexuality the day before had not been a mere act, but that, amazingly, she wanted him as much as he wanted her. And yet there was a heaviness in his step too. His deception of Menelaus had appalled him, bringing into clear focus the fact he was not only intending to betray his host, but he was also on the verge of betraying everything he had ever believed in and stood for. His honour would be lost forever, and even if Apheidas was right and the gods were behind the madness that had driven him to this point, he would still earn their contempt for stealing a man’s wife. Such was the way of the immortals. But despite the nagging voice of his conscience, he knew the only thing that could stop him now would be Helen’s refusal to leave Sparta, and the older part of him still hoped he had misjudged her.

  The directions he had been given by the armourer led him to a narrow side street that reeked sharply of dung and urine. Halfway down was an open doorway, from which a wavering orange light spilled out across the opposite wall. A tall, white-robed woman watched him from beneath the shadow of her hood, but as he quickened his pace towards her she ducked beneath the low lintel and entered the temple.

  He followed her in and pulled the double doors shut behind him. The temple of Aphrodite was not what he had expected – a modest chamber with an avenue of slim, wooden pillars leading to a crude altar. Two sputtering torches cast a fitful glow over the plastered walls, where dozens of murals depicted the lovemaking of gods and mortals from a forgotten era. Once they would have formed a rich decoration, but now they were faded, smoke-stained and peeling – simple shadows of their former glory. Rows of alcoves stared like empty eye sockets from between the decaying murals; they had been made to contain images of the gods, but now the only effigy that remained was on a raised platform behind the altar. It was as high as Paris’s waist, and was the crudest portrayal of a god he had ever seen – made of glazed clay, with huge breasts and a monstrous, leering face.

  The contrast with the woman who knelt before it could not be stronger. Helen had shed her hooded robe to reveal a gauzy white chiton, clasped above her left shoulder by a silver brooch and bound around the waist by a thin purple sash. A narrow parting exposed the left flank of her body, from the slight furrows of her ribs down to the smooth, white flesh of her thigh. Her slender hands were laid flat on her knees and her feet were tucked beneath her buttocks, the dirt on the soles the only visible blemish.

  Paris removed his sandals and walked across the cold flagstones to the altar. Taking some cakes from a bag that hung across his shoulder, he laid them down next to a similar offering that Helen must have placed there earlier. He then stepped back and knelt beside the Spartan queen, whose eyes were closed in silent prayer. Paris, though, had no thought for the gods. Instead he let his eyes rest on the perfection of Helen and imagined what it would be like to have her at his side for the rest of his life. The sight of her black hair tumbling across her forehead and cheeks, catching the red torchlight in its soft layers, filled him with an almost irresistible desire to reach out and run his fingers through its shining mass. But above all he wanted her long, curving eyelashes to part so that her eyes could meet his and read the strength of his love for her.

  ‘Do you like what you see, Paris of Troy?’ she said, her eyes still closed.

  ‘You know I do,’ he replied, gently.

  She smiled faintly. ‘And how do I compare to the women of your homeland?’

  ‘The women of Ilium are beautiful, but next to you they would be like the stars that surround the moon. No mortal can match you, Helen. Even Aphrodite . . .’

  ‘Shush!’ she said, opening her eyes and placing a finger to his lips. ‘My father may be Zeus, but it won’t do to compare me to the goddess of love. She’s jealous and can be cruel when angered.’

  Paris laughed lightly. ‘She might scare you, but I’m a warrior and a follower of Ares. In the world of men Aphrodite is among the least of the gods.’

  ‘Then has she never blessed you with the love of a woman?’ Helen asked, fixing him with her large, intelligent eyes.

  The amusement drained from Paris’s face and he looked away, frowning at the cakes on the altar as he composed his thoughts.

  ‘As I said, I’m a warrior,’ he answered. ‘Though Aphrodite has visited me once. In a dream.’

  ‘A dream?’ Helen echoed. ‘Tell me about it.’

  ‘It was some time ago, when I was a shepherd on Mount Ida. I had been sleeping in the shade of an old tree when I sensed a great light pressing against my eyelids, far more brilliant than the sun. I opened my eyes and there before me were three women, each one naked and possessing terrible beauty. They told me they were Athena, Hera and Aphrodite and that I was to award a golden apple to the one I considered the fairest. Then, though their mouths did not open, I heard their voices inside my head, each offering me great gifts if I would but choose them over the others. But their promises meant nothing to me, for though they were all wondrous to look on, Aphrodite’s beauty could not be matched. I gave the apple to her, heedless of the scowls of Hera and Athena, and the last thing I remember before waking was the smile on her lips, as if all the love in the world were given to me.’

  Helen watched Paris’s face intently as he spoke, then nodded her head knowingly.

  ‘It was the goddess who brought you here to me. For years I’ve prayed for someone to take me away from Sparta, but when I saw you in the great hall I knew my deliverance was at hand. Have you come to take me back with you to Troy?’

  Paris felt a nervous churning in the pit of his stomach. Strangely, it was the same sensation he felt before a battle, when he would sit on his horse trying to convince all around him that he was calm and unafraid, when his whole body was wracked with nerves. He looked at Helen and saw a similar helpless uncertainty, as if she too were standing at the threshold of a new world, wanting to step out but afraid of what she might find. She was no longer a great and beautiful queen, but a young woman, trapped and desperate for freedom and yet knowing that the price of her liberty was an end to everything she knew.

  ‘I will take y
ou if you’re willing to leave,’ he replied, his tone neutral, probing.

  ‘But I’m a queen and the wife of another man,’ she said, her voice shaking slightly. ‘I . . . I can’t just leave.’

  Paris felt as if a blade of ice had been pushed into his stomach. ‘But you hate Menelaus.’

  ‘No. I’ve never hated Menelaus,’ she protested. ‘I couldn’t have wished for a kinder husband or a better father to my children.’

  ‘But you don’t love him.’

  ‘No,’ she replied with a shake of her head.

  ‘But you think you could love me?’ he asked, unable now to keep the neediness from his voice.

  ‘What does it matter? Did you not take an oath of friendship to Menelaus? Aren’t you honour-bound never to harm him or his household? In fact, why did you even come here tonight? To tease me?’ She looked at him and there was anger in her eyes. ‘When I heard of the oath I cursed you for a fool, knowing he must have tricked you somehow. And yet I had to come, to see if it was true. Is it?’

  ‘The oath was not carried out in the proper manner, according to the customs of my people.’

  ‘Menelaus believed it was, and that’s all that matters. If you break it you will lose your honour.’

  Paris looked into her eyes, knowing the moment had come to choose between love and honour. He could concede that she was right, walk out of the temple and never see her again. There would be no loss of reputation; he would step back into his old life with no more damage than a broken heart and the thought of what might have been. Or he could step forward into a new world, a world of shame, danger and pursuit, but a world with her.

  ‘Compared to you, the oath means nothing to me.’

  She curled her fingers around his hand.

  ‘Then I will come with you, and love you like no other woman ever could!’

  He briefly caught the passion in her blue eyes, before she moved her face to his and kissed him. The press of her lips was warm and surprisingly tender, the scent of her perfume equally soft; the feel of her arms as they wrapped around his hard back was light and yet filled with urgency. He responded greedily, against his initial instinct, pulling her slender body against his and slipping his hand through the parting of her chiton, down to the flesh of her buttocks. Their embrace grew fiercer for a moment, and then she pulled herself free of his arms and moved back. She was breathing hard and there was a fire in her eyes as she stared at him.

  ‘No more, Paris. I won’t give myself to you – not yet, not even in Aphrodite’s temple.’

  ‘Then when?’

  ‘I’m no prostitute, damn you! I’m a queen and the daughter of Zeus himself!’ Her eyes were momentarily consumed by a terrible and beautiful fury, which subsided as quickly as it had appeared. ‘My mother was an adulteress and I vowed never to be like her. I’ve only ever given myself to Menelaus, and all my children are from his seed. But I can’t lead a life without love. I was made to love, Paris, and if you are prepared to break your oath then I will break mine. I promise I will love you with every beat of my heart, but if you want me you must take me away from Sparta first.’

  ‘I will!’ he said, reaching for her hand. ‘I can have my men ready to go tonight.’

  Again she stepped back from him, her eyes still alive with the passion that had been kindled by their kiss.

  ‘Not tonight – not while Menelaus is in the palace.’

  ‘Then when?’

  ‘He leaves for Crete in a week,’ Helen said. ‘He won’t want to go while you’re here, but he can’t change his plans now. Besides, he trusts in the oath you took.’

  Paris sensed the challenge in Helen’s words: she knew he was deceiving Menelaus, and that he could do the same to her.

  ‘My words to you aren’t hollow, Helen,’ he assured her. ‘I will take you back to Sparta with me. I’d have to be insane to refuse you, wouldn’t I?’

  ‘I have one condition, my prince.’

  ‘Name it.’

  ‘My children – they’re to come with us.’

  The sight of her irresistible face and the tantalizing glimpse of bare flesh where her chiton lay open filled Paris with the desire to do anything she commanded, but he knew what she was asking was almost impossible.

  ‘I can get out of Sparta with you, Helen, but with four confused children our chances will be narrow.’

  Helen stooped and picked up her robe, which she threw about her shoulders.

  ‘Think of a way, Paris. If you want me to be yours, you must bring my children too.’

  She turned and walked to the doors, pulling them open to reveal the twilight of evening in the narrow street beyond.

  ‘I’ll find a way,’ he said. ‘I promise – but stay with me a little longer. Helen!’

  ‘Keep your word,’ she said, and was gone.

  Paris yanked at the leather straps that held the two halves of the cuirass about his torso, pulling them taut before feeding them through the golden buckles. After nine days of feasting his armour was a tight fit, and heavy with the bronze plates that overlapped each other like fish scales from his neck and shoulders down to his groin. He looked around at his men, who were suffering similar agonies as they fitted their own armour and familiarized themselves with the feel and weight of their equipment. Greaves were tied about shins and leather or bronze caps – according to the wealth and rank of each man – were pressed onto heads.

  ‘Hurry up!’ Paris urged. He could feel the familiar sickness in his stomach that always preceded a fight, and just like the preludes to battle on the northern frontiers it made him irritable and quicktempered. ‘And pull your cloaks about yourselves – if the Spartans see our armour they’ll get suspicious.’

  ‘Much good it’ll do us without weapons,’ Aeneas grumbled.

  ‘This’ll do to start us off,’ Paris said, holding up the dagger Menelaus had given him. Though the weapons the Trojans had brought with them lay stored in the palace armoury, Paris planned to dispatch enough of the guardsmen dotted about the corridors to provide some of his men with swords, spears and shields. It was a foolhardy plan, but his gut instinct told him it would work. ‘Now, where in Hades is Apheidas?’

  ‘Here, my lord.’

  The tall warrior stepped into the room that had been the Trojans’ quarters for over a week and strolled over to where his armour was laid out on a straw mattress. He sat down and began tying on his greaves.

  ‘So, what did you find out?’ Paris demanded.

  ‘Menelaus left at sunset,’ Apheidas announced. ‘No fuss or fanfare, just him with his escort and a covered wagon.’

  ‘A wagon?’ Paris said, his heart rattling nervously in his chest.

  ‘Don’t fear – she’s not with him. The slave I spoke to said she didn’t know who or what was in the wagon, but she reassured me Helen is still in her quarters. Menelaus went up to see her before he left, but was told she was asleep so he had to do without his goodbye kiss.’

  ‘Poor Menelaus,’ one of the soldiers mocked, causing a ripple of laughter from his comrades.

  ‘What about the rest of the palace?’ Paris asked as Apheidas was helped into his cuirass. ‘Are the guards at their usual posts?’

  ‘The corridors and halls are quiet – there’s no feast tonight and there’s hardly a slave to be seen. But the guards are there, just like every evening. There’s only one outside the great hall tonight, and he’s virtually asleep already. I would have snapped his neck with my bare hands, if I didn’t know you wanted all the glory for yourself.’

  Paris frowned. His nerves were strained at the prospect of escaping from Sparta and he was feeling particularly surly.

  ‘I’ll kill him because I have to,’ Paris said, turning to his men. ‘But I want no unnecessary deaths. They may only be Greeks, but we are Trojans, not savages! Kill only guards or armed men; no slaves, no women, no one who does not stand in our way. Apheidas, Exadios – come with me. Aeneas, wait here with the rest of the men until we return; if you hear the alarm
, make your escape as best you can.’

  The three men made their way to the antechamber that led to the great hall, which was dark but for the restless glow cast by a handful of torches on the high walls. They waited in the shadows of a side corridor that ended only a short distance from where the solitary guard stood. They could hear his heavy breathing in the semi-darkness, and the occasional movement as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other and back again.

  ‘He’s still awake, then,’ Apheidas whispered.

  ‘Not for long,’ Paris said grimly.

  Wrapping his black cloak tightly about his armour to prevent it catching the light, he edged along the wall and caught his first sight of the guard. He was a young soldier with a wiry beard, wearing a bronze cap with cheekguards and a tall shield slung over his back. One hand rested on the pommel of a sword, while the other gripped the shaft of an ash spear. His head was tipped back against one of the ornate doors to the great hall and his eyes were fixed on the high ceiling, tracing the barely-visible murals that he already knew so well from long spells of guard duty. A moment later Paris slipped from the shadows, clapped his hand over the man’s mouth and drew Menelaus’s dagger across his exposed throat. The blade was so sharp it sliced through the flesh as if it were cutting into a leg of mutton. The guard gave a single, bloody choke before the life left his limbs and he collapsed against the door. Paris held him there until Apheidas and Exadios arrived to strip him of his spear, sword and helmet, then lowered him to the floor, when they also took the shield from his back.

  ‘Put the body in there, Exadios,’ Paris said, indicating the great hall. ‘There’ll be no feasting tonight. Apheidas – where’s the next nearest guard?’

  ‘By the wine store, but the only approach is in full view down a corridor. It’s too risky: we should forget him and make for the rear entrance to the palace.’

  ‘No – we need as many weapons as we can get, and as quickly as we can get them. How do I find this wine store?’