‘He does,’ said Priam, ‘should need arise. Do you anticipate such need?’
Menelaus considered fora moment before answering. ‘Telamon’s quarrels are not of immediate concern to me. At a time of pestilence, my thoughts lie only with the welfare of my family and country.’
‘But if Agamemnon were to go to war,’ Deiphobus taunted, ‘would you let your wife keep you in her bed?’
‘The King of Sparta is our guest,’ Paris intervened. ‘He deserves our courtesy. I am sure he would be as ready as I am to come to a brother’s aid.’
‘As I am to my sisters also,’ said Priam. ‘We will all fight for our own if need be.’ He studied the Spartan king with narrowed eyes. ‘Lord Menelaus, ours has long been a peaceful kingdom, but be in no doubt about our resolve. When you return to Argos, tell your brother that you have found Troy to be a strong and powerful city, one which prefers a reasoned solution to its conflicts. But tell him also that we will not hesitate to use her might should reason fail.’
Menelaus nodded. ‘Then let us trust that with Apollo’s guidance, reason will prevail. Such is my own earnest wish.’
The High King permitted himself a smile. ‘I see that our son Paris has found good cause to make you his friend. It was brave to come here as you have, unarmed, but it was also wise. May Apollo the Healer take you under his protection and find your offerings acceptable.’
A banquet was thrown for the Spartan king that night, but he ate sparely and drank only water in order to remain cleansed for the forthcoming act of sacrifice. The most sober man at the feast, he replied with good humour to the occasional taunt and the many remarks about the enviable beauty of his wife.
‘Can it be true what the minstrels say,’ asked Aeneas, ‘that she was hatched out of a swan’s egg?’
‘As true as what the minstrels say of your father,’ Menelaus answered. ‘That he was blinded by Aphrodite for boasting that he had lain with her!’
‘Then you do not believe that I am Aphrodite’s son?’
‘As surely as I believe my wife to be Zeus’s daughter.’
‘Ah, but how sure is that?’
‘As sure as I am that Helen’s beauty -- like your own manly form -- has that about it which is certainly immortal.’
‘Well answered, Sparta,’ Hector put in, ‘but as you see, I too have a desirable wife, and there are many beautiful women in this city. I dare wager that Asia has much to teach Argos in the arts of love. Can we not tempt you to try the skill of one of our Trojan beauties tonight?’ He gestured to some of the young women sitting by the harper. They stood up, smiling, to make a show of themselves.
‘An enticing offer, friend Hector,’ Menelaus answered, ‘but I trust you will understand that I mean no disrespect when I say that it is not only my condition as a supplicant that bids me decline.’
‘And a man who lies nightly with Helen,’ Paris supplied for his embarrassed friend, ‘can want for no other in his bed.’ He glanced at Menelaus, took a swig of spiced wine from his cup, and said, ‘I would dearly love to look upon such beauty.’
‘Then one day you must come to Sparta and I will entertain you there as royally as you have received me here. I know that my wife would wish to thank you in particular, Paris, for taking me so readily under your protection. Helen was fearful that I might find a colder welcome here in Troy.’
At that moment Cassandra rose from where she had been listening in rapt silence to the men’s banter. She stood swaying for a moment with one hand held to her temple, then hissed across the table, ‘Not cold, Atreides Menelaus - not cold but the heat of smoking flames awaits the Argive host in Troy. I have seen them writhe like serpents from a mouth that suckled on a bear. I have watched them lick and spread and burst untrammelled through the windows and the doors.’ Andromache and her serving- women were already rising to escort Cassandra away, but the struggling girl was still shouting as they dragged her from the hall. ‘Keep a close watch on your hearth, King of Sparta, or a serpent will steal fire from it that will set the world ablaze.’
When he saw Menelaus involuntarily making the sign to ward off the evil eye, Hector hastened to reassure him. ‘You must forgive my sister. Since Apollo rejected her as his priestess she has been troubled in her mind. I beg you to think nothing of what she has said. It is only such craziness as she is often wont to utter.’
Menelaus had seen from the girl’s upturned eyes and the harrowed darkness of her young features that all was not well with her. So though he had been startled by the outburst, he was ready to dismiss it. ‘Please,’ he said, ‘my own family has known madness enough in its time. There is no need to apologize.’
But the conviviality of the evening had been dispelled and could not easily be recovered. After a time Menelaus yawned and got to his feet. ‘You must forgive me, lords, but the hour grows late. Tomorrow I must perform my sacred duties, and right now I am much in need of sleep.’
‘Come,’ said Paris, ‘I will accompany you from the hall. Tomorrow I will show you the beauty of our land.’ He clapped a hand to his guest’s back. ‘And -- who knows? -- perhaps one day soon you will show me the beauty of yours.’
Yet Paris did not lie easily in his bed that night.
Ever since Aphrodite had promised to make Helen his wife, he had made a daily offering to the goddess. Each day, as the smoke rose and the doves flew about her statue, his offering had been accompanied by a fervent prayer that she remember her pledge and show him the way by which the path of his life might cross with that of the most beautiful woman in the world. At first sight, therefore, he had been certain that Menelaus must have come to Troy through the agency of Aphrodite. But the more he had come to know of the Spartan king the more he grew to like the man, and the less sure he became.
When Paris had first conceived the idea of carrying off Helen in a pirate raid, Menelaus had been no more than a name to him, and the name, moreover, of a likely enemy of Troy. The idea of stealing such a man’s wife presented no difficulties. But he and Menelaus were no longer strangers, and Paris was finding it impossible not to respect and admire the noble-hearted man who had come so unexpectedly as a supplicant to Troy.
Already, on that first day, he and Aeneas had welcomed Menelaus more warmly and with less overt suspicion than had many others in Priam’s court. By the end of the following day, after they had ridden out to the lands around Mount Ida with him, the three men were bonded in firm friendship.
Menelaus listened as Paris told him of the early years in which he had been raised as a herdsman in those parts, and warmly commended the courage with which, as a mere boy, he had fought off the gang of Argive cattle-lifters. In turn, the Spartan king spoke about the dark time of his own boyhood as a younger brother in the violent turmoil of the house of Atreus. So by the time Paris had escorted Menelaus to the mountain pastures of his youth and helped him to select the best bulls for the sacrifice, he was wondering how, in all conscience, he could ever permit himself to betray the trust of a man with such an open and generous nature? Yet without such betrayal he could never possess the woman whose face obsessed his heart.
There were many reasons, therefore, why he decided not to accompany Menelaus on the last stage of his journey to Apollo’s shrine at Sminthe. Not the least of them were his qualms at the prospect of encountering Oenone. On many occasions since his arrival in Troy, Paris had intended to send her a message and each time he had failed to do so. With each failure it became more difficult even to think about her, and whenever he did so the memory of her face was instantly displaced by the image of Helen. The truth was that Paris had shuffled off his previous life much as a snake sloughs its skin and the thought of the people he had wronged in this way left him uneasy with guilt. Above all this was true of Oenone. Suspecting that her love had proved more enduring than his own, he told himself it would be wiser to avoid her company rather than risk opening a wound that must surely by now have begun to heal. So with the excuse that he wished to spend some time with his fo
ster-father Agelaus and the friends of his youth, he left Aeneas to act as guide to the shrine. Not long afterwards, having found himself no longer at ease among the herdsmen, he returned to wait for Menelaus and Aeneas in the palace of Anchises at Lyrnessus under Mount Ida.
Paris dined alone with the Dardanian king that night, but after the first exchange of courtesies, the silence between them was so prolonged that he began to wonder whether Anchises was disdainful of his company. After all, as this day had reminded him, he had once been no more than a herdsman on the blind king’s land. Priam might have taken him warmly to his heart and required all Troy to do the same, but here in Dardania it seemed that Paris felt comfortable neither in the royal palace nor in the hovels of the herdsmen. Having trifled with his food, he was contemplating the various occasions he had given himself for shame, when Anchises turned abruptly from drying his hands after the meal and astonished him by saying, ‘Come closer, boy. Let these hands have sight of your face.’
Apprehensively, Paris did as he was bidden. He sat staring into the dark sockets of a head that might have been carved from olive-wood as Anchises’s fingers travelled across the contours of his face, pressing the eyelids, probing the lines of his mouth. Never in his life had he felt so intimately perceived. He had to fight the impulse to pull away, for it felt as if that powerful and sensitive touch must uncover every secret of his heart.
Eventually Anchises lowered his hands. ‘I see it is true what they say. The gods have gifted you with great beauty, boy.’ After a pensive moment he added, ‘There is a fate that comes with such a gift.’
‘Each man must meet the fate that he is given,’ Paris answered, sensing that more was to come.
The older man nodded. ‘They tell me that you devote yourself to Aphrodite over all the other gods.’
‘A man must also choose.’
Again there was a long silence. Anchises fumbled with his right hand for the gold-mounted staff that he had left leaning against the wall at his back. Thinking that he meant to get up, Paris moved to help him but the old king gestured him away. Having found his staff, he sat with both hands over its pommel, and the jut of his chin resting on his hands. His face was turned towards the heat of the fire.
‘In my youth,’ he said quietly, ‘I too abandoned myself to Aphrodite.’
Paris waited. For several moments Anchises seemed lost in thought, as though that distant past was more vivid to him than the darkness of this docile present. Then he turned his fierce blind gaze towards the place where Paris sat in tense anticipation. ‘As you see,’ he said, ‘I found her a stern mistress.’ He uttered a small, derisory sigh and turned that blighted face back towards the hearth before he added, almost as an afterthought, ‘I would not wish to have you blinded by her too.’
Uncertain how to respond, Paris said, ‘I believe she means well by me.’
‘Perhaps.’ Anchises scraped the bronze ferrule of his staff across the stones of the hearth. ‘But there is more than one way to be blind.’
‘Then I shall try to keep my eyes open.’
Paris had uttered the remark as lightly as he dared, but Anchises did not smile. Tapping his stick just once against the stone, he said, ‘Are you listening to me, boy?’
Paris had jumped and nodded before he remembered that he could not be seen. ‘I am,’ he said softly.
‘Then hear what I would not hear when I was young as you are, and just as sure of my own destiny.’ Again Anchises tapped his stick once, sharply, on the stone hearth. ‘Serve Aphrodite if it is your fate to do so. Serve her well. But remember she is not alone among the gods. Nothing in extreme, do you hear? That is the wisdom of Apollo. Nothing too much -- not even in reverence for the goddess who has chosen you.’
The fire hissed on its stones. Somewhere outside the hall, the chamberlain was berating a slave in angry whispers. ‘Do you hear me?’ Anchises demanded again. And Paris, who had been reflecting that this old man must also have been arrogantly handsome once, said, ‘I hear you, uncle.’
‘Do you?’ The blind king muttered without turning his head. ‘Do you indeed?’
Nothing further was said. After a time, without explanation or apology, the old man got to his feet, called for his body-servant, and made his way to bed.
Paris sat up alone over his wine for a long time, brooding, drinking too much. His mood darkened. More gravely than at any time since he had come down from Mount Ida, he was troubled by doubts about the destiny which Aphrodite had promised him.
On the following night, Menelaus returned to Anchises’s palace with Aeneas, having performed his acts of sacrifice at the tombs of Lycus and Chimaerus. He was exhausted but also glowing with exaltation, for he had been given clear signs that his offerings were found acceptable in the sight of the god. Aeneas insisted that they must banquet in celebration, and the three friends laughed often as they ate well and drank heavily together. Then Anchises, who had remained silent throughout most of the meal, tapped his staff and commanded his minstrel to sing the Lay of Troy.
With a quick, apologetic glance at his guest, Aeneas deferentially suggested that it had been a hard day and the lay might prove a little long and solemn for the occasion. But Anchises was insistent, and Menelaus politely averred that he would like to learn more of the land’s ancestral history. Fortunately, the old minstrel’s voice was still strong, and his touch on the harp proud and skilful.
The song told how the country south of the Hellespont had first been settled under the aegis of Apollo by Teucer, who had come to Phrygia from Athens. Then Dardanus had come there out of Arcadia and built a town on the lower slopes of Mount Ida. It was his grandson Tros who had given his name to the land, and his son, Ilus, who brought the Palladium -- the ancient image of Pallas Athena -- to the hill of Ate, where the citadel of Ilium was founded. Around that sacred precinct had grown the noble city of Troy itself. The song climaxed with an account of how Earth-shaker Poseidon had punished the impiety of Laomedon by destroying the city, which had then been sacked by Heracles and Telamon. The minstrel concluded his lay with a paean of praise for the way the High King Priam and his royal cousin Anchises, had restored the glory of the land and added to its riches.
‘I tried to warn Laomedon of his folly,’ Anchises sighed when the song had ended, ‘but he would not listen. We Dardanians are a peaceful people. Though we will fight in a just cause, we prefer to hunt and breed good bulls and tend our herds.’ He shook his head. ‘I have smelled the dead in a burning city once. I have no wish to do so again.’
Menelaus raised his goblet. ‘Then let us hope you never have to, my friend.’
‘But that intransigent fool Telamon still lives,’ Anchises said grimly, ‘and he is no friend to Troy.’ He turned his head in the direction from which Menelaus’s voice had come. ‘Nor, I think, is your brother.’
There was an uneasy moment of silence, which Paris was about to break when Anchises raised his hand and spoke again. ‘Hear me, Menelaus. When Antenor and I were on Salamis, I listened carefully to you and your brother. Of the two sons of Atreus, I am convinced that the mind of Menelaus is more amenable to reason than that of Agamemnon. One might wish that it was you, not he, who sits on the high throne at Mycenae.’
‘My brother knows that I am content in Sparta,’ Menelaus warily replied.
Anchises nodded. ‘But he would do well to listen to your sober counsel. And all the more so now that you know us and have seen our strength. Let us think about this together, friend. My cousin Priam has a great love for his sister. After all, he owes his very life to her. Also his heart is hasty, and where Hesione’s fate is concerned, he is ready to let it overrule his head. Does it not seem to you, as it does to me, that if Priam and Agamemnon are left to their own devices, they will drag us into a war that neither you nor I, nor any reasonable man desires? Might it not be wise to temper their hot spirits with our own cooler reflections?’
Aware that the others were listening keenly for his response, Menelaus said quietly, �
�What do you have in mind?’
Anchises sat in silence by the fire for a time before answering. ‘My nephew Paris and my son Aeneas have proposed to make a voyage to Argos soon. Could they not build on the friendship that we have made here tonight? If you will speak privily to Agamemnon -- as I will to Priam -- then might he not be persuaded to receive them as ambassadors of peace and mutual prosperity rather than harbingers of war? Surely it would be in all our interests for him to blunt Telamon’s horns rather than letting him rage far beyond his paddock?’
Now it was Menelaus who took time to consider his answer. He remembered how deeply Helen had dreaded the thought of war, and how sorely Sparta stood in need of a time of peace to recover from the ravages of plague. He reflected on how generously he had been received in the Trojan lands, and how fond he had grown, in so brief a time, of his new friends, Paris and Aeneas. He was filled with admiration for everything Priam had achieved in Troy, and with respect for the blind Dardanian king’s appraisal of the situation. So when he searched his heart he could find no appetite for warfare -- only the desire to rule over a peaceable kingdom with his beloved wife beside him.
‘I think that you and I are of the same mind,’ he said at last. ‘I will speak with Agamemnon on my return and tell him what kindness and wisdom I have met with here. As for my two noble companions--’ he smiled at Paris and Aeneas ‘--they have become dear friends and will receive the warmest of welcomes in Sparta at least. We shall see what transpires when I present them as ambassadors before the High King in Mycenae.’
Like a sudden alteration in the weather, the tension in the room dispersed.
‘Then let it be a time for new beginnings,’ said Anchises. ‘Let us hope that youth and vigour can succeed where Antenor and I have failed.’
Aeneas lifted his cup to pledge the hope. After the others joined him, his father retired, and though the three of them were already drunk, Aeneas insisted that ten years was long enough for wine to stand and called for more. Soon they were drunker, and ready to swear undying friendship.
The War At Troy Page 13
