The Gates Of Troy

by Iliffe, Glyn

  ‘Who’s that?’ called a voice from the rank of soldiers. ‘Name yourself and your purpose.’

  ‘Don’t you know me yet, Deiphobus?’ Paris replied. ‘After all, we share the same father and mother.’

  ‘Paris? By the gods of Mount Ida, it is you!’

  A short youth with long black hair left the line of soldiers he had been commanding and ran towards the chariot, holding his hands towards the team of horses.

  ‘You’ve been gone an age,’ he said, peering up at Paris from between the heads of the black mares, as if to be sure it really was his older brother. ‘There’ve been all sorts of rumours about you and . . .’

  At that moment, Deiphobus’s eyes fell upon Helen and his words faltered.

  ‘This is Helen, formerly of Sparta, now of Troy,’ Paris announced. ‘She’s to be my wife.’

  Helen smiled at the lad, pleased her beauty was as powerful a weapon against Trojan men as it had been against Greeks. She sensed she would need it in the coming days, if the people of Paris’s city were to welcome her.

  ‘Then the stories are true,’ Deiphobus said, as if to himself. ‘Welcome to Troy, my lady. I’m pleased we are to become brother and sister; to be able to look at such beauty every day is more than any man could hope for.’

  ‘Thank you, Deiphobus. If all Trojans welcome me thus, I will find happiness here,’ Helen replied haltingly, the harsh-sounding words strange but satisfying as she heard herself speak them. She had never known any language other than Greek and it excited her to pluck the correct Trojan words from her memory and arrange them in her mind before conveying them to her lips. In time, she expected that both she and Pleisthenes would think and speak fluently in their new language.

  Deiphobus bowed low before her, revealing the back of his suntanned neck. This amused Helen, who was not used to seeing such gestures of subordination from the obstinate Greeks.

  ‘See, Helen,’ said Apheidas, ‘the gates of Troy have already fallen to you. Now we must see what waits inside.’

  He trotted towards the line of spearmen and ordered them to one side; each man’s eyes were upon the woman in Paris’s chariot as it rolled past. Helen, who was used to the stares of men, ignored the attention and looked through the approaching gateway at the upward-sloping street and its closely packed houses. The gateway walls echoed as they passed between them and out into the cool night air again.

  So this was Troy, she thought to herself. Large, impressive and asleep. The streets that branched off the main route were all empty and few lights burned in the windows. Part of her wished they had arrived in the daylight, when the whole city would be able to rejoice at Paris’s return and marvel at the beauty of the woman he had brought back with him. Commoners and slaves were easily won over by her looks, she had always found, and if she had been able to gain the approval of the rabble Priam may have felt unable to rebuff his son’s choice of wife. That had become her greatest fear, to be rejected and forced to return to Sparta. Paris had assured her no such thing could happen, and if it did he would sooner turn his back on Troy forever and live with her on an obscure island, far beyond the reach of Menelaus. But Helen knew the ways of politics better than he did: Menelaus may have already visited Troy and persuaded, bribed or cajoled Priam into returning his wife to him. Something in Deiphobus’s words at the gate, along with the strong guard there, made her suspect that her arrival would come as no surprise to the old king.

  And yet she was glad they had not hurried to Troy. Instead of sailing into the large bay before the city, they had landed on the beach opposite Tenedos, intending to make their way overland so that Helen could get a taste of the rich and beautiful country she hoped would become her home. After disembarking the chariot and finding a team of horses, Paris ordered the crew to wait a day before sailing home – so that news of their arrival would not precede them – before setting off at a leisurely pace with Apheidas and Aeneas for company. Under cloudless skies they drove between wide fields of corn and barley, the chariot bumping and jogging over the pitted cart tracks. Little Pleisthenes constantly called his mother’s attention to each new sight he saw, from the herds of wild horses that roamed the plains to the unfamiliar flowers that dotted the roadsides. After a while they reached a town where the market square was too crowded for them to pass through. Dismounting, they had forged their way through crowds of spectators to a cleared area where hundreds of youths were dancing together to the music of a lyre. The girls had on their finest dresses with garlands woven into their hair, and the young men wore close-fitting tunics and had rubbed oil into their brown skin. They stepped lightly around each other, the maidens resting their hands on their partners’ wrists as they circled smoothly and kept time with the music. The soft shuffle of their dancing feet was too much for Helen, and taking Paris’s hand she joined the lines of simple peasants and felt again the wonder of being young. And as she danced the crowds looked on in awe, believing a goddess had graced them with her presence. But her smile and her flowing black hair also filled them with joy as she danced late into the evening, Paris always at her side, until Apheidas had reminded them of the need to press on.

  Another wall rose in front of them as they climbed the road through the city, pierced by another gateway. Beside it, a pale tower loomed upwards into the night sky, crowned by the white moon. They passed the strange idols that stood in a line at its base and continued through the gate to Pergamos, Apheidas and Aeneas lowering their heads to clear the low archway as the hooves of their mounts echoed around them. On the other side Helen stared in wonder at the richly decorated buildings, which cried aloud the wealth and self-importance of the city. It all looked so alien and exotic, making her feel both afraid and excited at the same time. More than ever she realized there could be no return to her old life now; she had cut all but one of her anchor stones, and only Pleisthenes was left to remind her of the woman she had once been. Paris, noticing her wide eyes, placed his hand on her wrist and smiled at her.

  ‘Won’t be long now. You’ll like the old man, and I know he’ll like you. He’ll be angry at first, of course, but that’ll be at me, not you. He’ll curse me for failing to bring his sister back, and then when he learns I’ve brought a Greek queen with me he’ll probably threaten to cut my head off and send it to Menelaus. But he’ll forgive me sooner or later, if only for the sake of your beauty. Which reminds me, you should lower your veil.’

  Helen had always hated veils and thought them demeaning. They also took away her greatest weapon. But this was a foreign land and she trusted Paris’s judgement, so she unhooked the thin material from her hair and pulled it over her face, leaving only a faint impression of her perfect features visible through the gauze.

  They reached the ramp to the final level of the city, where the marble columns of Priam’s palace could be seen shining in the moonlight. Apheidas had ridden ahead and informed the guards of Paris’s approach, so they were unhindered as the prince spurred his horses up the slope to the terrace above. Here the chariot slowed to a halt and Paris threw the reins to Aeneas before jumping down.

  Helen looked at the ornately decorated walls and the many alcoves with their painted figurines of different gods, but her appreciation was cut short by voices coming from the threshold of the palace. She turned to see an old man crossing the terrace towards them. He was tall with long black hair and a handsome, but ageing, face; his pace was unhurried, but his long legs brought him towards them at speed, his purple gown flowing behind him. Hurrying at his side was an equally old woman, her short, plump body covered by a thin dress of what might have been a light green hue, though Helen found it impossible to tell the colour in the achromatic moonlight. She was wagging her finger at the old man and speaking with a fluidity that Helen’s understanding could not follow, only stopping as they reached the chariot.

  ‘Father,’ Paris said, stepping forward and embracing the old man. ‘How did you know I was here?’

  ‘I’m the king,’ Priam answered, placi
ng his hands on his son’s shoulders and staring into his eyes. ‘Even the birds of the sky are required to tell me what is going on in my realm. But if you must know, King Tenes informed me over a week ago that you were under his roof, and this morning he sent another message to let me know you had landed on the bay opposite his island and were travelling overland by chariot.’

  Paris leaned across and kissed his mother on both cheeks, which were wet with tears at the sight of her son.

  ‘We’ve missed you, my dear,’ she smiled. ‘Or I have missed you, at least. Your father has done nothing but curse your name, ever since he heard you’d abandoned the mission he sent you on and brought back a foreigner.’

  Paris turned to his father. ‘Then Tenes told you about Helen also?’

  ‘I heard long before he informed me,’ Priam answered, looking up at the tall woman standing aloof and motionless in the golden chariot. ‘Tenes only confirmed what I had already been told, though previously I had struggled to believe the news that had been brought to me.’

  ‘Brought by whom, my lord?’ asked Apheidas, bowing low before the king. Both he and Aeneas had handed their horses to slaves and now stood at Paris’s shoulder.

  ‘Ah, Apheidas. It is a comfort to have you back at Troy. Your prowess in battle may be called upon before long. But in answer to your question, a Greek embassy arrived several weeks back claiming you, Paris, had taken the queen of Sparta against her will.’

  ‘That’s a lie!’

  ‘Silence!’ Priam shouted, clenching his fists by his side. A moment later he was calm again. ‘This is not a debating chamber, Paris, and you will not interrupt me until I have finished. The king of Sparta himself sat in my hall, along with Odysseus of Ithaca and Palamedes the Nauplian, threatening war if this woman’ – Priam nodded towards Helen – ‘was not returned immediately. Unfortunately for Menelaus, you had not yet returned and I knew nothing of your antics in Greece; as their tone grew more bullying I’m afraid I lost my patience with them and had them returned to their ship. Since then, however, my blood has cooled and I have had time to think. Though a Greek, King Odysseus spoke wisely and reminded us that it is an offence against the gods to steal a man’s wife. So the matter now lies with you, my child.’

  The king looked at Helen and offered her his hand. She took it and stepped down from the chariot.

  ‘I do not know you, Helen, queen of Sparta, and my heart wishes you had never come to Troy. But here you are, and now our fate rests in your hands. It is in my power to send you back to your husband and prevent this war. If I do I may break my son’s heart, but I will save many lives, both Trojan and Greek. But I will ask you one question, and if your answer satisfies my sense of honour and justice, then you can remain here and the walls of Troy – and the blood of her sons – will have to bear the consequences. Tell me, did Paris take you from Sparta by force, or did you come of your own free will?’

  Paris had said he would tell her to remove the veil when the time was right. But Helen did not need to be told that the time had come, and lifting the veil from her face she looked Priam in the eye.

  ‘Sir, I came here by choice. I was forced to leave three children behind in Sparta, because their father had taken them with him to Crete. But I was prepared to sacrifice them because of my love for your son.’

  Priam stared at the incomparable face and his heart melted.

  ‘That is the answer I was dreading, daughter. But now that I look on you, I know that I could never have sent you back to Menelaus, whatever your reply had been.’ He leaned forward and embraced her with warmth and respect for her beauty. ‘Now you must go with my wife, Hecabe. She will show you to your quarters. You are to come with me, Paris. It may be late, but Hector and I want to discuss the consequences of what you have done. You too, Apheidas.’

  ‘And me, my lord?’ asked Aeneas, as Priam turned with Paris and Apheidas at his shoulders.

  ‘No, not you,’ Priam answered without looking back.

  Helen saw the young man scowl at the departing king, then turn and kick a stone halfway across the terrace.

  ‘Will you bring Pleisthenes, Aeneas?’ Helen asked, as Hecabe walked over and hooked an arm through her elbow. ‘Please?’

  Aeneas gave a surly nod and lifted the sleeping child from the gleaming chariot, before following the two women as they crossed the courtyard at a diagonal to the king.

  ‘Poor lad,’ said Hecabe without looking at Aeneas. ‘Priam treats him like one of the dogs that lick up the scraps from beneath his table.’

  ‘But isn’t he the son of a king?’

  ‘Yes: his father is Anchises, king of the Dardanians. Aeneas is kept here to ensure Anchises’s loyalty, though the lad still has the freedom to come and go as he pleases.’

  ‘Then why is he treated so badly?’

  ‘Most think it’s because Priam disdains any royalty that is not purely Trojan,’ Hecabe said. ‘But I know it has nothing to do with that. The old man’s simply jealous because Aeneas’s father slept with Aphrodite. Priam has always prided himself on the number and beauty of his lovers, you see, but he’s never had the pleasure of the goddess.’

  Helen was shocked at Hecabe’s indifference on the matter.

  ‘Doesn’t it bother you?’ she asked. ‘That your husband has had so many lovers, I mean.’

  ‘Not at all,’ the old woman responded, pushing open a side door to the palace. ‘He’s the king, and the king does as he pleases. The more wives he has, the more sons there are – fifty at the last count – and the more sons there are, the stronger his base of power. He also uses marriage to secure ties beyond the walls of Troy.’

  They entered a torch-lit corridor with a flight of stone steps to one side. Two women were sitting on a wooden bench and rose to their feet as Hecabe and Helen appeared, with Aeneas behind them.

  ‘Take Leothoë here,’ Hecabe continued, indicating the shorter of the two women. ‘She is the daughter of King Altes of the Leleges. Her father married her to Priam to seal an alliance between our two states. Now, if the Greeks are foolish enough to come after you, King Altes will be obliged to bring his army to our aid.’

  Leothoë stepped forward and bowed. She was no older than Helen and had a face and body that would be the envy of most women.

  ‘Welcome, Helen,’ she said, her voice light and leaving almost no impression. ‘I’m sorry you’ve been brought so far from your home. It must be difficult for you.’

  ‘I came freely,’ Helen replied.

  ‘Such beauty,’ said the other woman, reaching out and touching Helen’s cheek as if to assure herself she was real. ‘You must have the blood of a god in your veins. I am Andromache, daughter of King Eëtion of the Cilicians. My brother is a friend of Hector and brought me here to see the marvels of Troy.’

  ‘Then this is your first time here, too?’ Helen asked, looking at the tall, black-haired woman before her. Her face was beautiful and intelligent, though tinged with sadness.

  ‘Yes. My home is Thebe, beneath the wooded slopes of Mount Placus. It’s a lovely city, but very plain compared with Troy.’

  ‘I’ve asked Leothoë and Andromache to help you get used to the palace,’ Hecabe said. ‘They’ll show you to your rooms and make you feel at home. They’ll also teach you our customs and help you learn our language, although Paris already seems to have taught you much.’

  Helen took Pleisthenes from Aeneas’s arms and wished him and Hecabe a goodnight, before following Leothoë and Andromache up the steps.

  ‘Thank you both,’ she said. ‘I hope we can be good friends.’

  ‘I hope so too,’ said Andromache. ‘Though I fear that great suffering will follow in your wake, for all Trojan women.’

  Chapter Twenty-three

  IPHIGENIA

  ‘Do you think she’ll agree to the wedding?’ Eperitus asked.

  He stood in the middle of the courtyard, looking up at the humped shape of the mountain behind the great hall. The early morning sun was still hidde
n behind its black bulk, but the sky above glowed like heated bronze. A few purple clouds scudded through the fiery skies, their bellies transformed to gold by the hidden dawn.

  ‘I think I’ve convinced her there’s nothing to be lost by allowing the marriage,’ Odysseus replied, biting into the barley cake he had brought with him from the breakfast table. ‘The problem is whether she believes that’s the real reason why Agamemnon wants his daughter to go to Aulis.’

  ‘But if the marriage is just an excuse, do you think Clytaemnestra knows what Agamemnon really wants Iphigenia for?’

  ‘Shhh,’ Odysseus said, nodding towards the sentries at the threshold of the great hall and giving his friend a wink. ‘Come with me.’

  He walked to the low, rectangular building that blocked off the southern edge of the courtyard, between the great hall and the guest house in which they had slept. Inside was a stone staircase that led them down to a garden of broad lawns, edged with fruit trees and flowering bushes. At its centre was a circular pond filled with white and yellow lilies and with a long, semicircular wooden bench on its southern side. A high wall enclosed the garden, and the only entrance from the city was an arched gateway in its western corner.

  ‘I don’t think Clytaemnestra knows what Agamemnon really wants with Iphigenia, any more than we do,’ Odysseus continued. ‘But if she wants to know, she has powers that can tell her. You remember all those rumours about her being a witch?’

  ‘I remember them,’ Eperitus replied, avoiding Odysseus’s eye.

  ‘Well, it wouldn’t surprise me if she’s . . .’

  ‘Are you Eperitus?’ asked a voice behind them.

  They turned to see a girl with black hair and a stern, demanding look on her pretty face. She was staring at Odysseus and had her arms crossed tightly over her chest.

  ‘You mean Eperitus the Great, Sacker of Cities and Slayer of Thousands?’ Odysseus smiled, crouching down to face the youngster.