by Glyn Iliffe
‘Where are you going?’ Cassandra asked as Helen stepped out from the shadows and started up the road to the palace.
‘To find out the truth,’ Helen called back over her shoulder.
Her sandalled feet made small scuffing sounds on the flat cobblestones as she moved, but there was no one else on the broad streets of Pergamos to see or hear her. As she climbed the steep ramps from one tier of the citadel to the next, she passed between magnificent stone buildings that exceeded anything she had ever seen in Greece, though they barely caught her attention any more after all these years. On the second tier she passed between the temples of Athena and Zeus, monolithic structures that were almost as tall as the lines of poplars that grew either side of the road. Both were fronted by towering, brightly painted statues of the gods, but in the portico of the temple to Athena – most of them sleeping beneath their woollen cloaks – were a dozen soldiers. They were there to ensure the safety of the Palladium housed within, a small wooden effigy, crudely carved, that was supposed to have fallen from heaven when the temple was being built. It was said that as long as the image remained in Troy then the city would never be destroyed.
There were more guards at the foot of the second ramp, leading up to the compound before Priam’s palace. They moved aside as the princess approached, bowing, but not so fully that their upturned eyes could not feast on the greatest beauty Troy had ever seen. She passed between them like a ghost, silent and white, and drifted out into the broad courtyard where the fine earth had been trampled and scored by countless feet, hooves and wheels. Ignoring the grand portico of the main entrance, from which more guards were eyeing her, she crossed to a plain, single door in the right-hand wall of the compound and entered. Torches lined the long corridor beyond, their sputtering light throwing strange shadows across the walls and floor as Helen continued between them, not stopping until she reached a narrow passage to her left. She followed this to a low door, where she paused to listen.
After a moment, she opened the door and entered a small, square garden. It lay in darkness except for in the far corner, where a wide, open doorway spilled orange light on to a stone veranda. Voices were coming from within, speaking quickly and in competition with each other. Helen threw her hood back from her head to hear them better, then moved quietly across the lawn to a clump of bushes at the foot of the veranda.
‘And after they’d driven you from Lyrnessus and Adramyttium?’ said a hard, gravelly voice.
Helen peered between the waxy leaves to see Hector standing by the open doorway. He was an imposing figure whose black tunic and cloak reflected the mood written on his bearded face.
‘We retreated from Adramyttium in good order,’ answered a voice Helen recognized as Sarpedon’s, though she could not see the Lycian king from where she knelt in the damp grass. ‘Apheidas here fought a magnificent rearguard and we were able to reach Thebe with most of the army intact.’
Andromache appeared suddenly at Hector’s side and slipped her arms round her husband’s waist. She was a tall, handsome woman with an air of calm confidence about her, but as she clung to Hector and stared back into the hidden half of the room, Helen could see the fear written on her friend’s face.
‘Thebe, did you say?’ she asked.
‘Yes, my lady,’ Sarpedon confirmed. ‘Your father’s city has strong walls in good repair, and the Cilician militia are well trained and numerous. We had much more chance of defending Thebe than the other towns. Besides, most of the refugees from Lyrnessus and Adramyttium had already fled there.’
Hector placed a comforting arm around his wife’s shoulders. ‘What happened after you’d reached the city?’
‘I had hoped the Greeks would be delayed by their plundering, but I was wrong. The next day we looked out from the walls to see them marching across the plain with their banners trailing out in the wind; our own men were still exhausted from the previous battles, but theirs seemed fresh and keen to renew the fight.’
‘But you were behind defended walls,’ Hector countered. ‘There were two thousand of you.’
‘And there were ten thousand of them!’
‘They overran us with ease,’ added the voice of Aeneas, sounding bitter and angry. ‘We needed more men—’
‘We don’t have any more men!’ Hector snapped, silencing the Dardanian prince.
‘Then Thebe has fallen,’ Andromache said slowly, unwinding her arms from round Hector’s waist and falling to her knees. ‘What about my father, Sarpedon? And my brothers?’
There was a silence in which Helen could imagine Sarpedon’s face hardening to the news it was his misfortune to bring.
‘King Eëtion was a brave man,’ he began at last. ‘As were his sons. Their ferocity in defending their city would have put Ares himself to shame. For a while, even though the Greeks had scaled the walls and broken down the gates, I thought we would be able to drive them back out again. And then Achilles came.’
‘Achilles?’
‘Yes, my lady,’ said Apheidas from further inside the room. ‘He killed your father and your brothers, and the heart of the city’s resistance died with them. After they fell, defeat was swift.’
Helen buried her face in her hands, unable to watch any more. For a moment there was silence, an oppressed, threatening silence like the flatness in the air before a storm. Then she heard the flap of naked feet on stone and looked up to see Andromache standing on the top step of the veranda, her tear-filled eyes staring down at Helen with a mixture of grief and surprise. A moment later a great shout of fury erupted from the room behind her.
‘ACHILLES!’ Hector bellowed, his voice rolling out into the night air. ‘Achilles, you godless butcher! As the immortals are my witnesses, I swear upon my son’s life I’ll kill you with my own hands before this year is out!’
The door slammed shut, muffling Hector’s rage. Andromache burst into more tears and ran across the lawn. Helen ran after her, catching her as she slipped on the damp grass and pulling her into her arms.
‘Andromache! Andromache, I’m sorry! All this is my fault – your father, your brothers – none of them would have died if it hadn’t have been for me!’
She pressed her face against Andromache’s warm neck and felt the wetness of her own tears crushed against her hot cheeks. Then Andromache’s hands were on her arms, pushing her gently away as she looked into her eyes.
‘Don’t be foolish, Helen,’ she sobbed. ‘I don’t blame you! You didn’t ask for this war. No one did; it was the will of the gods.’
‘But your father and your brothers . . .’
‘My father was an old man,’ Andromache insisted. ‘I’m surprised he still had the strength to lift a sword, let alone use one – the gods would have claimed him soon anyway. And as for my brothers, I haven’t seen them in years. And there’s still Podes . . .’
Helen shook her head and turned away, unable to face her friend’s excuses for her.
‘Helen, you have to stop blaming yourself for this war,’ Andromache insisted. ‘If it helps, my tears aren’t for my father and brothers, but for Hector and our son.’
Helen looked at her friend in surprise.
‘You heard his anger,’ Andromache continued. ‘He hates sitting behind these walls while the Greeks destroy Ilium and all that he loves. But Priam and the elders have always advised this policy of waiting – waiting for the Greeks to give up and go home, or for the gods to deliver Troy from their grip. What else can we do? We don’t have enough men to drive the Greeks back into the sea. But that doesn’t make it any easier for Hector.’
‘You think he’ll do something rash?’ Helen asked.
Andromache nodded. ‘I’m afraid he’ll seek Achilles out in combat. And when he does—’
‘But Achilles is doomed to die,’ Helen cut her short. ‘His own mother predicted he’d be killed before the walls of Troy. And who in the whole of Ilium would stand a better chance than Hector?’
Andromache rose to her feet and pulled Hel
en up with her. ‘No one, of course. But if Hector faces Achilles, I fear it will mean his death. And then who will Troy have to protect her?’
Chapter Seven
REPLACEMENTS
‘Are you sure – absolutely sure?’ Odysseus asked, gripping the side of the galley and leaning as far forward as he could, as if to do so would help him see the distant ships more clearly.
Eperitus shielded his eyes against the noon sun, his body rolling naturally with the movement of the sea. The sail flapped noisily overhead and gulls were gliding beside the ship, their feathers brilliant white as they rode the undulating air currents. Astynome, looking pale and uncomfortable, sat curled up beside him with her back against the hull.
‘Yes, I’m certain they’re ours,’ he said. ‘And it looks like they’ve only just arrived – the prows have been driven into the sand and there are lines of men unloading sacks and clay jars.’
‘Did you say jars?’ asked Antiphus, who was manning the twin rudders. His left hand was against his forehead, blocking the sun as he strained to see the shore. ‘That can only mean one thing: they’ve brought wine with them! The gods be praised – I haven’t had Ithacan wine in years.’
‘It could just be oil,’ Eperitus suggested with a playful grin.
‘And if it’s Ithacan wine, then it’s the property of the king, for his use only,’ Odysseus added.
‘Not unless you want a mutiny on your hands,’ Antiphus replied.
Adramyttium and Thebe had been razed to the ground and Achilles was busy organizing a garrison to hold Lyrnessus – a task that would take a week or more to complete – so the ten ships of the Ithacan fleet had been sent back to carry news of their victories to Agamemnon and the Council of Kings. It was a fine spring day with hardly a cloud in the sky and they had just slipped around the seaward flank of Tenedos, catching their first sight of the Greek camp in a crescent bay further up the mainland coast. The vast sprawl of patched and weather-stained canvas, interspersed with ramshackle huts of wood or stone, spread thickly upwards from the edge of the ranging beach on to the deforested slopes above. Twisting grey columns rose from the countless fires that burned day and night, carrying the smell of woodsmoke, roast meat and freshly baked bread across the sea to the hungry Ithacan crews as they drew closer. The long, arcing beach that years ago had been scattered with small fishing vessels – used for catching the shellfish and oysters found in the bay – was now crammed with double rows of warships, their black hulls dragged up on to the white sand to lie bow-cheek to bow-cheek. These were the thousand galleys that had brought the Greek armies to Ilium ten years before in the hope of a swift victory, but which had lain there like stranded whales ever since. Only four gaps existed in the wall of ships: where the Locrians and Argives were camped on the northern sweep of the beach; at the southernmost point where the Myrmidons had their camp; and in the centre where the Ithacan ships were normally found. It was here that Eperitus had spotted the other two galleys of Odysseus’s fleet, back already from their recruiting mission to Ithaca.
By now, the Ithacan fleet had been spotted from the camp and men were abandoning their chores and gathering along the beach, anxious to hear news from the expedition. They looked like wild savages with their long hair and bearded, sun-tanned faces, contrasting markedly with the groups of men who had formed in two separate knots around the newly arrived ships. These were the recruits Odysseus had sent for from Ithaca, to replace those who had fallen in the past few years of the war. Many were cleans-haven and short-haired, with their new armour and bright cloaks marking them out from the veteran warriors who lined the rest of the beach.
‘Whom do you see?’ Odysseus asked, moving to Eperitus’s side.
‘Arceisius and Eurybates that I can recognize,’ Eperitus answered, squinting against the morning sun and scanning the faces of the newcomers. ‘The two score men who went with them. And a whole load of new faces, most of them pale with fear and homesickness.’
‘Then I pity them. It might be a long time before they see Ithaca again.’
Odysseus felt his oversized hands trembling at the thought of home and quickly grabbed the bow rail as soon as he noticed Eperitus’s eyes upon him.
‘You’re concerned about the news they might have brought with them?’
Odysseus nodded. ‘We’ve heard nothing since we sent Antiphus and Polites back for reinforcements five years ago. It’s my kingdom, Eperitus, and while I’m stuck here there are thousands of people at home who should be relying on me to protect them. Anything could be happening there in my absence.’
‘Everything’ll be fine,’ Eperitus reassured him. ‘Mentor and Halitherses will keep the kingdom in order, and you can rely on Penelope to pick up whatever they miss. Remember what the oracle said: a daughter of Lacedaemon will keep the thieves from your house.’
‘I haven’t forgotten,’ Odysseus said. ‘But I wouldn’t be much of a king, would I, if I didn’t worry? I’d be even less of a husband and father. And that’s what haunts me most of all. I miss my family every day, but I can barely remember Penelope’s face any more; and I can’t even begin to guess what Telemachus looks like. Ten years old and he’s never known his own father.’
‘Penelope will tell him all about you,’ Eperitus said. ‘Didn’t Clytaemnestra make sure Iphigenia knew everything I’d ever done, even though she didn’t meet me until she was nine years old? You can count on Penelope to do the same with Telemachus.’
Odysseus stared out across the white-capped waves. ‘But it’s not good enough, Eperitus. This war has me caught between two choices: be an absent husband and father, or dishonour my loved ones by breaking my oath to Menelaus. The first keeps me from the family and home I love, but the second would bring down a curse from the gods, on me and untold generations of my family.’
The identity of the two ships on the beach had become clear to the rest of the crew by now and their chatter was growing louder and more animated as they approached the shore.
‘Silence!’ the king ordered. ‘Keep your minds on your work.’
Astynome stirred at the sound of his barked command and looked groggily up at Eperitus. Odysseus had noticed a bond growing between the two of them in the week since the capture of Lyrnessus, something that was closer than the normal relationship between slave and master. She worked as hard as any of the other captives, but not out of a sense of subservience; in return, he treated her like an equal, giving her the freedom to come and go as she pleased, despite the fact that she could have run away at any time. And for the first time since the death of Iphigenia Odysseus had noticed a lightness in Eperitus’s spirit, the sort of lightness Odysseus had not felt himself since he had last seen Penelope – and one he would not feel again until she was back in his arms.
He slammed his fist down on the wooden rail.
‘Damn this war, Eperitus, and damn my own stupidity. For all my supposedly clever schemes for capturing Troy I was too blind to see why the Trojans have defeated every one of them. Why didn’t I realize there was a traitor?’ He lowered his voice as he looked into Eperitus’s eyes. ‘And it can only be someone in the Council of Kings. Someone at the very top has been selling our plans to Hector, and until your father’s slip at Lyrnessus, the Trojans have been far too clever to make it obvious.’
‘What do you intend to do?’ Eperitus asked.
‘Catch him, of course, and catch him soon. The quicker we stop the Trojans finding out all our plans, the quicker we can bring an end to the war.’
Eperitus glanced down at Astynome, who had closed her eyes again and lay back against the wall of the ship, then across at the benches where the crew were now quietly anticipating the approach of the shoreline and the imminent news from home.
‘But you don’t know who this traitor is,’ he hissed.
Odysseus smiled darkly. ‘Yes, I do. I’ve thought about it and there’s only one man I can think of. It’s Palamedes.’
Eperitus’s eyes widened briefly before contracti
ng back into an unconvinced frown.
‘Palamedes?’ he whispered. ‘A week ago you weren’t even aware there was a traitor; now you’re convinced it’s Palamedes. How?’
‘I have an instinct it’s him.’
‘An instinct, Odysseus? But he’s one of Agamemnon’s inner circle, one of his closest advisers. This isn’t just because he humiliated you last winter, is it, bringing in a ship-load of grain when you hadn’t been able to find more than a few bags of mildewed corn in Thrace?’
Odysseus shook his head, slightly irritated at the accusation. Or was it that Eperitus’s guess was closer to the mark than he wanted to admit? After all, he had never forgiven Palamedes for exposing his attempt to feign madness when Agamemnon and Menelaus had called on him to honour his oath. Nor had he forgotten how Palamedes had frustrated his efforts at negotiating a peace before the war began. If it had not been for the weasel-faced Nauplian, he would have spent the last decade of his life at home on Ithaca with his family, ruling a peaceful and prosperous kingdom. But if his suspicions proved correct – as he was sure they would – and Palamedes had treacherously deprived the Greeks of victory, then his past anger would be as nothing compared to how he would feel then.
