by Iliffe, Glyn
‘Follow me,’ Apheidas replied, smiling grimly as he clutched the unfamiliar Greek sword in his hand.
He ran through the gloomy corridors of the palace with Paris and Exadios close behind, until moments later they reached the mouth of a side passage where he signalled for them to stop. A low murmur of voices was coming from the corridor, and after pressing his finger to his lips Apheidas peered around the corner. A moment later, he gave a curse and drew back again.
‘How many are there?’ Paris asked.
‘Two – the guard and a servant girl.’
‘Are they . . .?’
‘Not yet,’ Apheidas grinned. ‘But he’s already got his hand inside her chiton. Give him a bit longer and he’ll be too distracted to notice you creeping up on him.’
‘No time for that – I’ll have to bluff it.’
‘But what about the girl?’ Exadios protested. ‘One scream from her and this place’ll be teeming with guards.’
‘Don’t worry about her,’ Apheidas whispered, giving Exadios a wink as he hid the sword beneath his cloak.
‘Keep a lookout for us here, Exadios,’ Paris ordered, before entering the side passage, closely followed by Apheidas.
There was just enough room for the two men to walk side by side. Though their weapons were concealed, neither man bothered to hide his armour with his cloak; by the light of the single torch at the end of the passageway they could see that the servant girl was now half-naked and the guard – who had already removed his armaments – was preoccupied with her. By the time he noticed the approach of the Trojans, Paris’s hand was over his mouth and the point of his dagger was forcing its way between his ribs. Beside him, his lover opened her mouth to scream, but Apheidas’s sword swept her head from her shoulders before the air could be forced up from her lungs. Without pausing, he opened the door to the wine storeroom, threw the body inside and kicked the head in after it.
‘Damn you, Apheidas!’ Paris hissed, dropping the corpse of the guard and stepping up to the older man. ‘I said no unnecessary killing.’
Apheidas’s pupils were wide with the exhilaration of the kill. He stared back at the prince for a defiant moment, then straightened himself up and lifted his gaze to the top of Paris’s forehead, in the time-honoured manner of a soldier facing his superior.
‘She was about to scream,’ he began. ‘But you’re right, my lord, I overreacted. I’m sorry.’
Paris knew there was no point in saying more. He nodded curtly and signalled to the corpse of the guard. Together they threw it into the storeroom, before retrieving the discarded weapons and returning to where Exadios awaited them, nervously clutching the spear and shield of the first guard.
‘Here,’ said Paris, sliding a sword into the soldier’s belt and handing him another spear. ‘Take these to the rest of the men and have them meet us by the back entrance. Apheidas and I will wait for you there.’
When Exadios reached the rear doors of the palace with the rest of the party, Paris and Apheidas had already killed the guard and hidden the body. All that remained of him was a bloodstain on the wall and his weapons, which the prince was holding. He quickly ordered the redistribution of the captured armaments so that three men had swords, three carried spears and three more at least had the protection of a shield each. Paris refused all weaponry for himself, except the dagger Menelaus had given him.
Apheidas opened one of the doors and peered out at a small, moonlit courtyard. Other than two guards by the small gate that led out to the city streets, there was nobody to be seen.
‘I doubt anyone will want to come through this way tonight,’ he said, shutting the door again. He picked up a beam of wood from against the wall and slid it into the iron brackets on the back of the doors. ‘And if they do, that’ll hold them for long enough.’
‘When will they change the guards?’ Aeneas asked.
‘Not before we’re beyond the city walls and riding back to the ship,’ Paris answered, his tone confident and reassuring to the ears of his men.
‘That’s assuming everything goes to plan,’ Apheidas countered. ‘Have you even let Helen know we’re leaving tonight?’
With so much to be gained or lost, Paris felt more rankled than ever by Apheidas’s insubordination. ‘I told her maid I would come for her tomorrow night.’
‘Tomorrow!’ Apheidas exclaimed. ‘We need her to be ready now – there’s no time to waste if we’re to get out of Sparta alive.’
‘I have my reasons, Apheidas,’ Paris warned.
But Apheidas was in no mood to accede – the drawing of blood had made him tense and quicktempered. ‘She should be in her room now, waiting for our arrival with her children dressed and ready to travel. It’s madness to pull them from their beds in the middle of the night and expect them to ride with us to the ship.’
The men shifted uncomfortably, gripping the unfamiliar armaments and looking nervously at their two leaders. Paris stepped up to his lieutenant with anger smouldering in his dark eyes, his knuckles white as he gripped the handle of the dagger.
‘Don’t cross me again, Apheidas,’ he warned. ‘If we’re to survive this night and take Helen back to my father, we’ve got to work together and under my orders.’
Apheidas stepped back slowly, his fierce, unbowed gaze still fixed on the prince. On this occasion there was no apology, but Paris knew that time was running out. Without wasting another moment, he signalled for Aeneas to join him and for the rest to follow on behind. As quietly as they could, using the cover of doorways and side passages, the group of soldiers returned to the antechamber before the great hall and then made their way down the central corridor towards the main entrance. The light from the few torches reflected warmly on the bronze of their weapons, but in the sleeping palace there was nobody to witness their silent progress. Then, just before they reached the ornate portals that led out to the main courtyard, Paris led them down a broad corridor to the left. Having become familiar with the labyrinth of passageways during their time in Sparta, they all knew that the royal quarters were up a broad flight of stairs only a short distance ahead, beyond a turning to the right.
It was usual for two soldiers to guard the stairs in the evenings. Paris hoped they would be fooled by the Spartan weapons his men carried, only discovering their error at the last moment, when it would be too late. Nevertheless, he felt his anxiety rise as he led his men down the shadowy corridor. He had not seen Helen since their meeting at the temple and their only contact had been through her maidservant, so his desire to see her again was increasing with every footstep.
As they approached the blind corner, Paris signalled for his men to stop before sending Aeneas ahead to check on the readiness of the guards. The young warrior came back at a run a moment later, his eyes wide.
‘My lord, there’re six men at the foot of the stairs – all of them armed and watchful.’
‘Zeus’s beard,’ Apheidas cursed. ‘Somebody must have alerted them.’
Paris shook his head. ‘No. It’s Menelaus’s doing – he’s not going to entrust the safety of his queen to two men while I’m still here, whatever oaths he believes may have been said. He must have tripled the guard as a precaution.’
‘But now what will we do?’ Aeneas asked.
‘Entrust ourselves to the gods, of course,’ Paris responded. ‘No time for guile or caution now. Pray to Ares and follow me.’
He closed his eyes, kissed the bloodstained blade of his dagger, then ran around the corner towards the Spartan guards. The passageway was dimly lit, but at its end he could see six helmeted men with tall spears and swords thrust into their belts. Each was protected by leather body armour and a broad, oval shield. For a moment they did not notice Paris running towards them, his cloak billowing; only when the remaining Trojans turned the corner behind him did they wake to the fact they were being attacked.
They formed a hasty line, locking their shields together and lowering their spears towards their assailants, but it was too la
te. Paris leapt over the bronze-tipped shafts and crashed shoulder-first into a pair of shields, sending two of the Spartans sprawling backwards onto the stair behind. By good fortune or the blessing of Ares, he landed on one of the ox-hide shields and pinned its owner against the stone steps. He instinctively sank the point of his dagger into the man’s exposed throat, killing him instantly.
The ringing clash of weaponry behind him signalled the arrival of his comrades. There was a brief cry of pain, followed by the grunts and shouts of men struggling against each other. Then the other man Paris had knocked down sprang to his feet and drew his sword from his belt. Not waiting to retrieve his shield from the steps, he rushed straight at the Trojan prince with the blade above his head and a vicious snarl contorting his features. Paris responded quickly, launching himself shoulder-first at the man’s midriff and driving him hard against the opposite wall. The sword flew from his opponent’s hand and clattered noisily down the stone steps to where the others were locked in a fierce battle. Ignoring the fists now raining down on his exposed back, Paris tightened his grip on the man’s waist and pushed him to the steps. The Spartan cried out in pain as Paris fell on top of him, but in the confusion his hands found Paris’s throat and his thumbs began to push into his windpipe. His grip was strong and painful for a moment, but quickly slackened and fell away as Paris pushed the point of his dagger into the man’s heart.
The struggle between the four remaining guards and the Trojans led by Apheidas was quickly over. Paris was pulled to his feet by Exadios, whose eyes were wide with exhilaration.
‘I can hardly believe it,’ he grinned. ‘They just seemed to collapse before us, and them fully armed as well.’
‘It was Apheidas,’ Aeneas added, stepping over one of the bodies. ‘He was like a Titan, cutting them down like nettles.’
‘Don’t talk nonsense,’ Apheidas said from behind them as he stooped to strip the weapons from one of his victims. ‘We’d have been spit like pigs if Paris hadn’t broken their line while they were still forming. Are you hurt, my lord?’
‘I’m fine,’ Paris replied, pleased that Apheidas’s animosity appeared to have been forgotten. ‘What about the men?’
‘Mestor’s dead,’ Apheidas said, handing a sword to one of the unarmed Trojans. ‘Got two spears through the belly.’
‘And Dolon’s lost half his leg,’ Exadios added.
Paris’s eyes fell on the young warrior, who was propped up against a wall. His face was screwed up with pain, though he somehow managed to stop himself from crying out. He had pulled one knee up to his chest, whilst his other leg was stretched out before him to reveal a bloody stump just below the knee. Two of his comrades were at his side, but stood up and moved back as Paris walked over.
‘We’ve seen a few battles together, Dolon,’ he said, kneeling down and placing his hand on the man’s shoulder. ‘Fighting on the northern borders.’
The wounded soldier smiled and nodded. ‘Yes, my lord. The best days of my life.’
‘But we’ll never get you out of Sparta with us.’
Dolon’s smile stiffened and faded.
‘No. Not with this leg. And yet I don’t want to be left to the mercy of these cursed Spartans,’ he added, spitting on the floor and wincing with pain. He picked up a dagger from beside him and presented the hilt to Paris. ‘If you understand me, my lord.’
Paris nodded and took the dagger. Placing it against the wounded soldier’s chest, he waited for him to look away then pushed the blade into his heart. Dolon’s eyes opened wide for a moment, then his head lolled onto his chest. Pulling the weapon free again, Paris stood and tossed it across the flagstones, feeling sick. He had lost two of his best men already and suddenly he realized that the price of his love for Helen would not just be the loss of his honour and possibly his life, but the lives of all those around him. There would be more bloodshed and more death, and as he looked at the bodies sprawled across the steps he knew it would not end in the corridors of Menelaus’s palace.
The others, who had stopped to watch their comrade’s demise, now looked expectantly at the prince.
‘We shall mourn Dolon and Mestor when we return to Troy,’ he told them. ‘Until then every thought must be on our mission. Strip the dead of their arms and share what weapons we have evenly. Apheidas and Aeneas, come with me. Exadios, guard the stairs until we return – nobody’s to come up or down.’
With the realization that nothing now stood between him and Helen, Paris took the steps three at a time to the next floor, where he found himself in a large antechamber surrounded on all sides by open doors. Several half-dressed women stood in the doorways with alarmed looks on their faces. Two more were sitting on straw mattresses in front of the only door that remained closed, brushing the sleep from their eyes and staring at the Trojans in confusion.
‘What do you want?’ one of the slaves asked. ‘You Trojans aren’t allowed up here.’
‘Where’s Helen?’ Paris demanded.
The same slave – a woman of over fifty years – crossed the antechamber and stood before the closed door. ‘When Menelaus hears of this outrage you’ll wish you’d never lived.’
‘We’ll be halfway to Troy by the time your precious king gets back,’ Apheidas laughed, striding towards the old woman with his sword poised in his hand. ‘And your mistress will be coming with us.’
‘I wouldn’t be so sure of that,’ she smiled.
The circle of slaves let out a loud scream as Apheidas struck the woman across the face with the back of his hand, sending her sprawling to the floor. In the same moment the door behind her opened to reveal Helen. Though just woken from sleep, her natural beauty was undiminished and Apheidas felt his anger fade before her. Her frightened slaves fell silent, unwilling to abandon their mistress and yet too afraid to throw themselves between her and the tall Trojan. Helen looked down at the nurse who had suckled her as a child – still groaning from the blow to her head – then at Apheidas and Paris.
‘My maidservant said you would come tomorrow night,’ she said, sternly.
‘I lied to her,’ Paris replied. ‘I couldn’t risk anyone guessing our plans. If you didn’t go to bed, or if you kept the children up, dressed for a journey, then someone would get suspicious. It would only take one servant loyal to Menelaus to inform the captain of the guard and everything we hoped for would be lost.’
‘Besides,’ Helen added sardonically, ‘you didn’t trust me not to change my mind. Well, I’m not going to, despite your doubts about me and the violence of your men. Neaera, go and wake the children and dress them in warm clothes. I’m leaving Sparta with Paris, and the children are coming with me.’
There were gasps of disbelief from the women, some of whom began to weep. One, a young girl in a brown woollen chiton, shuffled across the antechamber – carefully keeping her distance as she passed Apheidas – and disappeared down a passageway to the right of Paris and Aeneas.
‘Go and tell the men to be ready,’ Paris said, stepping forward and placing a hand on Apheidas’s shoulder. ‘As soon as the children are dressed we’ll be leaving.’
‘And have you thought about getting us all through the main gate yet?’ Apheidas asked, staring hard at the prince.
‘Leave that to me. Now go.’
As his lieutenant disappeared down the stairs, Paris crossed the antechamber to Helen and pulled her into his broad chest. She wrapped her arms about him and held him tightly, unable to disguise her relief that he had come for her. The five days since she had last seen him had seemed interminable, filled with doubt, worry and a longing to be with him. Then he kissed her and the anxieties that had plagued her melted away.
Suddenly Neaera returned, holding the small form of Pleisthenes in her arms.
‘Mistress,’ she said, her voice trembling. ‘Mistress!’
‘What is it? Where are the others?’
‘They’re gone, my lady. Their beds are empty – they haven’t even been slept in! Only little Pleisthene
s was there, so I brought him immediately.’
Helen slipped free of Paris’s arms and ran across to her youngest boy. Kissing him gently on the forehead and holding his face in her hands, she looked deeply into his sleepy eyes.
‘Pi, my baby, can you tell mummy where Aethiolas and Maraphius are hiding? Where’s your sister, Hermione?’
‘I don’t know,’ the child answered, rubbing his eyes with the back of his withered hand. ‘They went to say goodbye to father, but I was too ill to go.’
‘And they’re with him now,’ said the old nursemaid, getting to her feet and holding a hand to the wound on her forehead where Apheidas had struck her. Her face was sad and fearful. ‘The king asked me to bring the children to him as I was about to put them to bed – he told me he wanted to say goodbye to them before he went to Crete – and then he sat them in a covered wagon and said they were going with him. He would have taken Pleisthenes, too, if he’d been well enough.’
Helen looked at her with her mouth open and tears bonding her long eyelashes together.
‘Oh, forgive me, my lady!’ the maid cried, running across and kneeling before the queen, wrapping her arms about her legs. ‘Menelaus said the children were his only guarantee you wouldn’t run off. And how could I stop him – he’s their father and I’m only a slave? Besides, mistress, I don’t want you to leave us . . .’
‘That’s not your choice, Myrine,’ Helen announced. ‘It’s mine.’
Paris moved towards her, realizing that Menelaus had outwitted him and seeing his hopes falling away.
‘Helen,’ he said. ‘This is your only chance to be free. If you don’t leave now you’ll be doomed to live the rest of your life as Menelaus’s prisoner. You know you can’t do that – come with me!’
‘No, my lady!’ Myrine protested. ‘Think of your children. You have freedom through them.’
Helen lifted Pleisthenes out of Neaera’s arms and kissed his hair. She looked at the circle of her maids, most of whom had served her since she was a child, or since they had been children themselves. Some, filled with fear as their world was collapsing about them, held each other, while all were damp-eyed. The tears were flowing unchecked down Helen’s cheeks, too, as she thought about her children and her life at Sparta, the only life she had ever known. She pictured the faces of her two older boys, Aethiolas and Maraphius, both brave and strong like their father; and of her beautiful daughter, Hermione, who was as wilful and independent as she was. Then she looked at Paris and saw the passion that his eyes held for her, a passion that mirrored her own. Here, at last, was the one she had waited for all her life, a man who could free her from her gilded cage to lead a life of freedom; a man who she could love with all her heart. For his sake she would – must -surrender everything she had. She moved to him and pressed her lips against his.
