by Iliffe, Glyn
‘Neaera,’ she said, eventually turning to her faithful body slave, ‘fetch Pi’s cloak and sandals. When Menelaus returns, tell Aethiolas, Maraphius and Hermione I love them, and that I will never forget them. Kiss each of them for me.’
As Neaera ran off, sobbing openly, Helen hid her face against Paris’s shoulder and cried, overwhelmed by the sudden realization that she was giving up her children.
Seven fully armed Trojans stepped out into the moonlit courtyard. The guards by the gate gave them an inquisitive glance, but as the men carried Spartan shields and wore Spartan helmets they soon forgot them and returned to their game of dice.
This way,’ Paris said, leading the others to the royal stable where the strong smell of straw and dung filled their nostrils. They could hear horses shifting restlessly in the darkness, disturbed by the sudden presence of so many men.
‘Lipse!’ Paris whispered.
There was a corresponding snort a few stalls to his left. Paris greeted the horse warmly as if they were old friends, before opening the triple-barred gate and entering the stall.
That’s my girl,’ he said, rubbing the mare’s neck and placing his face against her nose. He led her out and told the others to bring ten more horses.
‘But there’re thirteen of us,’ Aeneas reminded him.
‘Helen will ride with me and Pleisthenes with you. Now hurry up – the alarm will be raised at any moment.’
They worked as quickly as they could in the faint light from the stable door, releasing the best animals they could find and throwing blankets over their backs. As Paris was fitting a leather harness to Lipse, Aeneas placed a hand on his shoulder.
‘We should hamstring the others, my lord. It’s the only way to stop pursuit.’
But Paris simply shook his head.
In quicker time than they had hoped – mostly due to the prince’s reassuring influence on the unsettled beasts – the Trojans emerged from the stables and led the train of horses towards the palace entrance. This time the gate guards were less ready to ignore them.
‘Hey!’ one of them shouted. ‘You there – where do you think you’re going with those horses?’
‘Mount up,’ Paris ordered.
Realizing something was not right, the Spartans pulled on their helmets and lifted their shields onto their shoulders. Their leader gave a harsh shout and more men came spilling out of a nearby guardroom.
At the same moment, Apheidas led the rest of the party out of the palace and across the courtyard to where the others awaited them. Helen was with them, carrying Pleisthenes in the folds of her green cloak. Paris directed Lipse to her side and plucked the child from her uplifted arms. He passed him to Aeneas then pulled Helen up onto the mare’s shoulders.
‘Menelaus won’t be happy if you steal his favourite horse,’ she said, throwing a leg over Lipse’s neck before turning and kissing the prince on the mouth. ‘But I expect that’ll be the least of his worries.’
As he watched his men jump skilfully on the backs of their mounts, Paris turned and saw a fully formed line of three-dozen Spartans barring the silver-sheathed doors that were the only way out to the city streets. The ten remaining Trojans gathered about their leader and looked at him with a mixture of desperation and – from those who knew him better – expectation.
‘Forgive me, my love,’ he said, and with a flick of his heels sent Lipse dashing towards the waiting ranks of men. The Spartan spear-points dipped in anticipation, while behind him he could hear the shouts of his own men calling him back. Then, as Helen threw her arms about Lipse’s neck, Paris turned the reins and brought the animal to a sliding halt, spraying the triple line of guards with dirt.
He threw his arm around Helen, pulling her tightly against his chest, and with his other hand pulled the dagger from his belt, pressing it softly but menacingly against her white neck.
‘Open the gate,’ he commanded. ‘Do it now or I’ll slit your queen’s throat!’
The Spartans hesitated.
‘For pity’s sake!’ Helen screamed, realizing Paris’s plan. ‘Do as he says or he’ll kill me.’
Moved by love of their queen and respect for her authority, the Spartan ranks melted away before them. A short, muscular soldier, whom Paris recognized as the man who had disarmed them on their arrival at the palace, ordered four of his men to remove the bars from the gates and swing them open. Within moments, all eleven horses had dashed through and were racing down the empty, moonlit streets of the city.
‘Don’t risk the main gate,’ Helen shouted over her shoulder. ‘There are three times as many guards to convince and I doubt they’ll all fall for the same trick.’
‘Can these horses fly over the city walls then?’ Paris laughed, enjoying the wind in his hair and the warmth of Helen’s body enclosed within his.
‘Of course not, but there’s another way: a gate on the east wall that leads out to a small road. It was made for trade to come in from the eastern hills, so it isn’t very wide – we’ll have to go through in single file – but it also means there’ll only be a handful of guards at best. Turn to the left down here.’
Paris followed her orders, keen to escape the claustrophobia of the city and know the freedom of the plains once more. The others kept close behind, the sound of hooves on flagstones echoing noisily between the narrow walls as they made their way through the city. Eventually they entered a final, short avenue where the dirt had been heavily rutted by the wheels of innumerable carts. This led to the high city walls and a slender gateway, which stood open to reveal the gentle blue hills beyond. Three guards were drinking wine and swapping stories, hoping to fend off the inevitable assault of sleep that always threatened the midnight watch. As the clatter of hooves approached, though, they snatched up their shields and spears and ran out into the road.
Paris halted Lipse and signalled the men behind to attack. Couching their captured spears under their arms, three Trojans sprang forward. One of the guards threw down his arms and ran up a side street, his cowardice preserving his worthless life for another day. His braver comrades were barely able to raise their weapons in time to meet the charging horsemen: the first was spitted through the throat and fell beneath the hooves of a tall grey stallion; the second died instantly with a spear through the bridge of his nose, splitting his head open.
The victorious horsemen did not wait to exult in their victory, but with deft flicks of their heels drove their mounts on through the open gate, drawing their swords to deal with any guards that might be waiting on the other side. When one of them returned to signal that the path was clear, Paris led the rest of the party through in single file. Suddenly they were looking at the rolling plains on all sides, at the broad Eurotas River at the foot of the slope, and at the cloudless, star-speckled firmament above. Some were breathing deeply, enjoying the fresh air of their freedom; others were laughing. Helen simply laid her head against Lipse’s neck and gazed out to the Taygetus Mountains in the west, their familiar outline black against the deep blue of the night sky.
‘Say goodbye to it all,’ Paris said, running his hand down the middle of her back. ‘Soon you’ll be on a fast ship, listening to the hiss of the waves before the prow and tasting the salt spray on your lips. There’s nothing like it.’
‘And then Troy,’ she whispered, closing her eyes and trying to imagine what the foreign city would look like.
‘Not straight away,’ Paris said. ‘Any pursuit will go there first, and I can’t risk that. No, we’ll head south, to Egypt, then work our way back up the coast. It’ll take longer, but there’s no hurry and it’ll be much safer. Think of it as a honeymoon, if you like.’
Helen opened a single eye to look at him. His tanned skin looked paler in the moonlight and the scar that ran down his face and into his beard shone white. It was a brutal face, but there was also strength and independence in it, a wild undercurrent that reached out and touched something deep within her. It was a quality she could feel throbbing through her like
a heartbeat, and with a contented sigh she knew she would be happy with Paris. If only Menelaus would let her go.
‘My lord!’
Paris turned to look at Exadios, whose urgent shout had startled them all, and with an angry curse he realized they had lingered too long. Towards the west, a large troop of horsemen was leaving the main gateway to the city and forming up before the hump-backed bridge that crossed a tributary of the Eurotas River. There were at least fifty of them, and more were still emerging from the gate.
Suddenly, one of them gave a shout and pointed towards the party of Trojans. Then the whole troop were galloping towards them, losing any semblance of order in their eagerness to save their queen and have revenge on the foreign thieves.
‘There’s a bridge in the trees at the foot of the slope,’ Helen said. ‘It’s wide enough and strong enough for a wagon, so we’ll get across if we’re quick.’
‘And have your countrymen pursue us to our doom?’ Apheidas snorted. ‘I’d rather stand and fight.’
‘There’s no need,’ Exadios told him. ‘Take the woman and her boy across the bridge and ride as fast as you can. With you and Aeneas for protection, you should all make the ship before dawn. The rest of us’ll buy you the time you need.’
‘Don’t be stupid, Exadios!’ Paris said. ‘They’ll slaughter you.’
‘No time to argue,’ the warrior smiled, and with a series of orders formed his comrades into line. Moments later they were drawing their swords and trotting out to meet the approaching onslaught of the Spartan horsemen.
Paris turned the head of his horse to go after them, but Apheidas leaned across and grabbed his arm.
‘Exadios is right,’ he hissed. ‘It’s the only way any of us will escape. Now, don’t let their sacrifice be wasted.’
‘Come on then,’ Paris said angrily. ‘I’m sick of this damned country.’
He watched as the two lines of horsemen charged towards each other, hoping that the woman seated before him was worth the deaths of his men. He had surrendered his honour for her, risking the wrath of the gods and the avenging fury of Menelaus; and for a moment he wondered whether he had done the right thing. Then she looked up at him, the wind whipping strands of black hair across her face, and like countless men before him he knew no price was too steep to possess her. Unlike them, though, he knew Helen wanted his love. He had given her her freedom and she was giving it straight back to him.
He turned Lipse’s head towards the bridge and dug his heels into her flanks. She covered the remaining distance at a gallop, followed closely by Apheidas and Aeneas.
Chapter Eight
ON HERMES’S MOUNT
It was a bright morning and the blue skies were filled with the harsh cawing of seagulls. They swept about the rooftops of Odysseus’s palace and the surrounding houses, landing and taking off, and fighting with each other over the scraps of food the townsfolk had thrown out for their livestock. A cooling breeze swept across the channel from Samos, washing away the stink of fish from the day’s catch and carrying in the smell of pine from the thinly wooded slopes of Mount Neriton.
The large expanse of open ground before the palace walls was thronged with people. Slaves bartered at the stalls of the many fishermen or haggled noisily with farmers who stood atop carts filled with grain or vegetables. A pair of herdsmen were driving in a score of pigs, using their sticks liberally on the pink backsides and shouting instructions to their dogs. Under the shade of a large olive tree a group of old men were watching the progress of a board game, giving advice or deriding unwise moves; colourful birds sat beside them in willow cages, singing cheerfully to each other. Young children were everywhere, clinging to their mothers or playing games that involved an unending flow of chasing and hiding.
Underneath the palace walls, not far from the folding gates, sat a semicircle of four boys and nine girls. They did not seem to mind the nearby dung pile, which had not been collected for three days and stank horribly; instead, their attention was fixed on a short, chubby boy with curly brown hair and large, staring eyes. He sat against the wall on an upturned basket and looked round at his audience.
‘When the resourceful Odysseus realized Penelope had been captured by Polytherses and his Taphians, he devised a plan to get into the palace and free her. With Mentor and Antiphus, he hid in a large clay pithos filled with wine and was carried through the heavily guarded gates on the back of a cart.’
‘How did they breathe?’ said a sandy-haired boy with skinny limbs and a long neck. ‘I mean, how did they breathe if the pithos was full of wine?’
‘They waited until the last moment, and then when the long-speared Taphians stepped forward to check the shipment, they ducked their heads under the surface of the dark wine and breathed through straws.’
‘See!’ said a fiery-eyed girl with dark skin and long hair bunched up on top of her head. ‘Now, why don’t you shut up and let Omeros tell the story?’
Omeros held up his hands.
‘Thank you, Melantho-of-the-pretty-cheeks,’ he said, making the girl blush coyly. ‘Now, after the cart had passed through the gates – those very gates to my right – and night had fallen, Odysseus, Mentor and Antiphus slipped from their hiding place and began their butchers’ work, slitting the throats of the sleeping Taphians until the courtyard was awash with their blood. Fully a hundred were dead by the time rosy-fingered Dawn appeared, and then the mercenaries woke and discovered what was going on. Up they leapt and, seizing their bronze-tipped spears and leather shields, set upon the three Ithacans with a great fury.’
Omeros scowled and thrust an imaginary sword towards one of the girls, making her fall back with a squeal.
‘At that moment a horn blew from beyond the walls. Out of the mist, striding across the plain came godlike Eperitus, leading an army of stout-hearted Ithacans.’ Omeros stood and pointed to the broad terrace behind the other children. Every head turned, and in their minds’ eyes the throng of slaves, peasants and tradesmen became an army, marching resolutely towards the palace walls. ‘Halitherses of the great war cry was with them; Eumaeus the swineherd and Arceisius, Eperitus’s squire, too. With a great shout they ran towards the gates, from which hundreds of Taphians were already issuing, eager to meet them in battle.’
Eperitus and Arceisius stood unobserved by the gates, listening to the story.
‘There you go,’ said Arceisius, his mouth full of apple. ‘Why go to the mainland to seek glory when we’ve already been immortalized in song at home?’
‘Omeros is eleven,’ Eperitus replied, snatching the apple from his squire’s hand and taking a large bite. ‘Besides, the boy’s imagination knows no limits – where’d he get this “godlike Eperitus” from, for instance?’
‘Now then, sir, you can’t lust after fame one moment and get embarrassed when you receive it the next.’
Eperitus tossed the apple-core on the dung heap. ‘Come on, let’s find Odysseus. We don’t want to miss Telemachus’s dedication, and afterwards I will ask the king’s permission to go.’
‘I was beginning to think you’d changed your mind about that,’ Arceisius said. ‘It’s been a month since Telemachus was born and you haven’t mentioned anything more about leaving Ithaca.’
‘I meant what I said, Arceisius. Did you?’
Arceisius nodded, firmly but without enthusiasm. Then, as Eperitus made to go, he threw his arm across the captain’s chest.
‘Wait a moment, sir,’ he said, pointing into the crowd. ‘Here come Eupeithes’s boy, Antinous, and his cronies. They’ll be looking for trouble, or I’m a Taphian.’
‘They mean trouble, all right,’ Eperitus agreed, eyeing the newcomers with distaste. ‘We’d better see what they’re up to.’
A group of three boys strutted up to the circle of children, just as Omeros was describing the moment when Odysseus shot dead the traitor Polytherses. Antinous, a tall, slim boy of fourteen with an arrogant face and a pampered air, scoffed at the story.
‘T
hat oaf couldn’t hit a horse’s arse at point-blank range, let alone shoot a man through the eye in a darkened hall. You should take your ridiculous songs and tell them to the seagulls, Omeros, for all the truth that’s in them.’
‘Everyone knows Odysseus shot my father in the back,’ rumbled Ctessipus, a large boy with a single eyebrow and a flattened nose. ‘And if you tell any more lies about him, I’ll chuck you on that dung pile and you can sing to the flies and worms, if you like.’
The boys stared menacingly at Omeros’s audience, who began to slink away until only Melantho was left. She scowled at the third boy, a rather slow-looking lout who was trying desperately to avoid her eye.
‘Melanthius,’ she spat, ‘if you don’t clear off at once and take these two vultures with you, I’m going straight to Pa and telling him you’ve been up to no good again.’
Melanthius shifted uncomfortably, but was saved from answering his sister by Omeros.
‘It’s all right, Melantho. Perhaps they would like to sit down and listen to the rest of the story.’ He turned to the three boys and indicated the recently vacated spaces before him. ‘I’m afraid you’ve missed the part about how Eupeithes usurped the throne, then was himself betrayed by Polytherses – but as they were your fathers, I expect you already know the story. Maybe you’d like to hear of how Odysseus found Eupeithes in a storeroom, still chained up where Polytherses had left him?’
