The Oracles of Troy (The Adventures of Odysseus)

by Iliffe, Glyn

  Grunts of approval met the apology, but Philoctetes had been reminded of the wrongs that were done to him and stared sullenly about at the circle of faces, bathed in the orange glow of the fire.

  ‘A gracious confession of your guilt, and one which I will accept,’ he grunted. ‘Though only because my lord Heracles personally ordered me to put aside my anger and come to Troy. It’s for his glory and mine that I am here, so let us get to the crux: why am I here, exactly? These arrows never miss and they kill every living thing they pierce, but they cannot knock down walls or shatter gates from their hinges. So what do you want from them?’

  ‘This has nothing to do with what Agamemnon wants,’ spoke a voice from the mouth of the tent’s entrance. ‘Indeed, the King of Men knows only a portion of what the gods have shown to me. And that is why he has summoned me here now – to speak the rest of the prophecy.’

  A stooped figure, cloaked and hooded, moved in a shuffling hop to stand between the hearth and Agamemnon’s golden throne. One pale hand dangled limply from the opening in his cloak, beneath which could be seen a white dash of his priest’s robes. He raised his other hand to the lip of his hood and slipped it back, revealing a bald head and skull-like face. His dark eyes swept across the Council of Kings and came to rest on Philoctetes. One outcast facing another.

  ‘I am Calchas,’ he announced, ‘one-time priest of Apollo in the city of Troy, and now a worthless wretch forgotten by most and valued by none.’

  ‘Then we have much in common, Calchas,’ Philoctetes replied. ‘But if you are the reason I was brought here, speak and let us know what the gods command.’

  Calchas nodded, then paused and bowed his head, as if summoning a difficult memory.

  ‘The night Great Ajax took his life, I was asleep beyond the boundaries of the camp. It was there that Apollo visited me, telling me that Troy can only fall if certain conditions are met. What they are I don’t know, for the god only showed the first of them to me: that you, Philoctetes, should be fetched from Lemnos to kill the one enduring stalwart of Troy’s defences. Of all the sons that once served King Priam, only one remains of any note. His arrows have slain many great heroes and with a bow in his hand he has no match, which is why you and the weapons of Heracles are the only way we can rid ourselves of him. Philoctetes, if Troy is to fall you must first kill Paris.’

  ‘No!’ Menelaus bellowed, leaping from his chair and seizing Calchas by the front of his cloak. ‘Paris is mine! He stole my wife and brought this miserable war upon us. If anyone’s going to kill him, it’s going to be me.’

  Calchas shrank back in fear, but Agamemnon was quick to come to his rescue.

  ‘Leave him, Menelaus,’ he commanded. ‘If the gods have said Paris will be killed by Philoctetes then that’s what must happen.’

  ‘Damn the gods and damn all prophecies! Paris is going to perish at my hands, not by some shepherd prince because of the words of a drunken priest. Admit it, Calchas! You’d been drinking again and this supposed prophecy was nothing more than a wine-soaked dream.’

  ‘I said leave him!’ Agamemnon boomed, rising from his throne and pointing at his brother. ‘You had your chance weeks ago when you faced him on the battlefield, and you squandered it. Now the gods have taken it out of your hands.’

  Calchas tore himself from Menelaus’s grip and almost fell back into the fire.

  ‘It’s true,’ he croaked. ‘The gods are tired of waiting. Paris must die now, and his death will cause the Trojans to lose heart.’

  ‘What?’ scoffed a short warrior with a single, angry eyebrow that sat low over his fierce-looking eyes. A large brown snake hung from his shoulders, hissing and flicking out its pink tongue at the watching Greeks. ‘The Trojans lose heart over Paris? Did they lose heart when Hector died? And he was ten times the man Paris is.’

  Voices were raised in agreement, but Calchas was not cowed by them. He had seen the will of the gods and he knew he was right.

  ‘What Little Ajax does not appreciate,’ he said, looking round at the Council, ‘is that with Paris dead many in Troy will demand Helen be returned to Menelaus. Others will insist she remains, and both sides will squabble over who will have her. There will be division within the walls of Troy and the Trojan people will lose their resolve to continue. If Philoctetes can kill Paris then the reason for the war – his love for Helen – will have been taken away.’

  Agamemnon stepped down from the dais on which his throne sat and dragged Menelaus back in the direction of his own chair.

  ‘The gods have spoken. Paris’s death will sow dissent among our enemies and perhaps open the gates of their city from within. Philoctetes, tomorrow morning you will ride with Odysseus and Eperitus to Troy where you will challenge Paris to a duel, offering the bow of Heracles as his prize if he can defeat you. Are you ready to honour Heracles’s command and cover yourself in glory?’

  ‘Or a shroud,’ Philoctetes replied. ‘Whichever the immortals deem most fitting.’

  ‘Hector, don’t go. We need you here!’

  Helen opened her eyes. The first light of dawn was stealing in through the eastern windows and casting its rosy glow over the muralled walls of the bedroom. The painted trees and flowers and the animals that gambolled through them never seemed so lifeless as they did at this time of the morning, when the flat, hazy light robbed them of their colour and motion.

  ‘Hector, no. If you die, Troy will fall. I can’t take on your mantle alone.’

  Paris was talking in his sleep. The same old slurred anxieties that had haunted his dreams since the death of his brother, pleading – she guessed – for Hector not to go out and face Achilles. Pleading not to be left the crushing responsibility of the hopes and expectations of the whole of Ilium. Though he could feign courage and calm conviction before the people as he walked the streets in his fine armour, and though he could even fake confidence to Helen in their waking time together, his dreams betrayed his uncertainty, his fear. Had Hector been the same, she wondered? Had Andromache lain beside him at night and listened to his worry and self-doubt?

  She reached out a hand and brushed the black locks of sweat-damp hair from his forehead, tracing the long pink line of the old scar that ran from above his eyebrow diagonally across his nose and cheek to end almost at his jaw. It was not a handsome face, but it had strength and endurance; and beneath the closed eyelids was a passion that showed itself as much in love as it did in war. Much more so, she thought with a smile as her long fingers drifted to the streaks of grey above his ears and began stroking him.

  ‘Shush now, my love. I’m here. Your Helen’s here.’

  He turned to face her, eyes still shut firmly in sleep, and laid a rough hand on the curve of her waist. His flesh was hot, causing her to flinch. Then she heard voices echoing along the narrow corridor outside their room. Frowning, she sat up and looked at the door, the furs slipping down to expose her chest.

  There was a soft knock.

  ‘Mistress?’

  The maid’s voice was low but urgent.

  ‘What is it?’

  The door was pushed open and Helenus strode in, followed by the apologetic maid. The prince looked alarmed and ready to speak, but the sight of Helen’s nakedness stopped the words before they left his mouth. Surprised by his unexpected entrance, Helen pulled the furs over her breasts and glared her anger. Paris woke beside her.

  ‘What is it?’ he mumbled.

  Helenus blinked twice then looked at his brother.

  ‘Paris, there are three men at the gates. Greeks.’

  ‘Then kill the bastards!’

  ‘But they’ve come asking to speak with you. One of them is demanding … well, he’s demanding an archery duel.’

  Paris rubbed the sleep from his eyes and sat up.

  ‘What do you mean a duel?’ he asked. ‘Is it … is it Menelaus?’

  ‘No. It’s Odysseus and his captain.’

  ‘Odysseus?’ Paris repeated, frowning this time. ‘Why in the names of al
l the gods would Odysseus want to challenge me to personal combat?’

  ‘Not Odysseus,’ Helenus said. His eyes kept flickering towards Helen, who was holding the furs firmly over her nudity. ‘It’s the third man, a stick of a figure who looks like he hasn’t eaten for a year. He has a bow that must have been made by the gods – far too grand a weapon for a wretch like him.’

  Paris was intrigued now. He swung his legs out of the bed and waved his younger brother back towards the door.

  ‘Tell them I’m coming,’ he snapped.

  Helenus bowed, and, with a last lingering look at Helen, left. Helen laid a hand on her husband’s shoulder and he turned to look into the irresistible eyes that had won so many victories over him in their ten years of marriage.

  ‘Don’t go,’ she said. ‘Call Helenus back and tell him to send Odysseus and his companions away.’

  ‘I can’t. I’m a prince of Troy, Priam’s eldest remaining son. I should at least hear what they have to say.’

  ‘You know what they have to say,’ Helen replied, her dark eyebrows furrowing. She swept aside a lock of black hair that had fallen across her face. ‘They want to kill you, Paris. Don’t give them the chance.’

  Paris looked away. His tunic and sandals lay where he had left them the previous evening, but before he could reach for them Helen threw aside the furs and took hold of his wrist. He turned to her as she raised herself on her knees before him, still retaining her grip on his hand but making sure he could see the full glory of her naked body. And just as she had known it would, the sight of her white skin and the orbs of her breasts captivated him at once. Helen knew there were many in Troy who had accused her husband of losing his manliness for her sake, who, despite his increasingly selfless – even reckless – feats on the battlefield, grumbled to each other that he was not the commander he had once been, in his years spent conquering Troy’s enemies on the northern borders, before she had entered his life and brought a new war. What they meant, of course, was that he was not Hector. Since his older brother’s death, Paris had felt ever more acutely the weight of expectation that had been placed on his shoulders – by his father, by his younger brothers, by the army and its allies, and by every other man, woman and child in Ilium. And with that expectation came a growing resentment towards her, whom many thought of as a barrier preventing him from devoting himself to the cause of his nation. And they were right. She would do anything in her considerable power to stop him from throwing away his life for Troy. She no longer cared whether the city was destroyed a thousand times over and every living being in the whole of Ilium put to the sword, as long as he lived and they could be together.

  As he looked at the face that had pierced his heart a lifetime ago, and the flawless body that he had come to know with such intimacy, she could sense his resolve wavering. That he wanted nothing more than to climb back beneath the furs with her and enjoy the soft warmth of her body enveloping his was written in every feature of his face, but she knew he was not hers again yet. She stroked the back of her hand across his stomach and down into his pubic hair, letting her palm turn inwards so it brushed across him and came to rest on his inner thigh. He responded by reaching down to cup her breast and run his thumb over her nipple.

  ‘Stay here with me,’ she said in a half-whisper, dropping back invitingly onto the rumpled furs. ‘The sun’s barely in the sky and our bed is still warm. Let Odysseus and his archer friend go back to their fellow Greeks, while you and I make love.’

  He knelt across her as she spoke and the dawn light gave his muscular torso a coppery tinge. Then something in his expression changed and he pulled away, almost angrily. And she knew she had lost him.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Can’t what? Paris!’

  ‘I can’t let them go back. Not without at least speaking to them first. Hector would have gone.’

  ‘You’re not Hector!’ Helen snapped.

  ‘No, I’m not. But Hector’s dead because of me –’

  ‘Because of me, you mean.’

  ‘Because I fell in love with you and brought you back here,’ Paris countered, though gently. ‘Thousands are dead because of my decision. And that doesn’t mean I regret taking you from Sparta, Helen. I will never regret that, whatever may happen. It does mean I have a responsibility to bear, though – to my father, to the people of Ilium, and above all to you. When Achilles slew Hector, his burden fell on me: to protect this city and its honour. If I fail to meet even the smallest challenge, then the people won’t blame me so much as they’ll blame you. And I won’t have that.’

  He snatched up his tunic and pulled it over his head, then knelt and put on his sandals. Helen, seeing that her naked body could no longer hold him, picked up the dress that lay where she had discarded it the night before. It had taken only an instant to throw off in her eagerness to make love to her husband, but long, agonising moments to put back on as Paris ignored her pleas and threw open the door of the bedroom. She hurried after him barefoot, not caring that the sides of her chiton were loose and revealed her ribcage and thighs as she ran down the corridors and out of the palace.

  ‘Wait Paris,’ she insisted, catching up with him.

  ‘Don’t try to dissuade me, Helen. I’m determined to speak with these men.’

  ‘Then speak to them if you must, but do you have to accept the challenge? A duel between skilled archers is little more than a game of chance. Will you put your life so freely into the hands of the gods?’

  He stopped and turned to her. They were standing in the middle of the wide courtyard that fronted the palace, where scores of slaves and soldiers were already going about their morning chores. Not one failed to cast a glance at Helen, whose beauty was radiant and enthralling even without the pampering of her maids. She barely noticed them, used as she was to the stares of men and women alike.

  ‘Our lives hang by the will of the gods every day,’ Paris replied. ‘But I promise you I won’t accept this challenge blindly. Hector knew his importance to the survival of Troy and never risked himself needlessly, unless it was when he walked out to face Achilles alone. I won’t make the same mistake. And yet I will speak with Odysseus. It’s my duty.’

  Chapter Nine

  DEATH IN THE MORNING

  Then be all the more careful,’ Helen said. ‘To exchange words with that man is as perilous as any duel.’

  Paris smiled and kissed her forehead, then carried on walking. Helen followed a few paces behind, down the ramps that led to the walls of the citadel, through the arched gateway and out into the streets of the city. Before long they were mounting the steps to the battlements that overlooked the Scaean Gate. Helenus was waiting for them, along with a number of guards who turned to stare at Helen in her half-dressed state. A glance from Paris forced them to look away again.

  ‘There they are,’ Helenus said, pointing down to where three men stood in the shadow of the sacred oak tree outside the gates. The plains down to the River Scamander and the slopes beyond the ford were empty: they were completely alone. ‘Odysseus, Eperitus and a man who calls himself Philoctetes. Who he is I don’t know – I’ve never seen him on the battlefield before – but he’s the one who dares to challenge you.’

  Helen stared at the thin figure with the drawn face. Though he was unimpressive in himself, the weapons he carried inspired awe and fear: a bow of gigantic size – as tall as its owner – and an ornately decorated leather quiver stuffed with black-feathered arrows. Any one of those bronze-tipped barbs could bring death to the man she loved, and with a growing sense of dread she reached for Paris’s hand. Before her fingers could entwine themselves between his, though, he pulled away and leaned over the parapet.

  ‘I am Paris, son of Priam,’ he shouted in Greek to the small party below. ‘I know you, Odysseus, Laertes’s famed son, and I know the face of your captain from the thick of the battles our armies have fought. But you I don’t know. State your name and lineage, if indeed you
are human at all – for you look more to me like a wraith conjured up from Hades.’

  Helenus translated for the men on the walls and sneers of laughter rippled through their ranks as they forgot Helen’s beauty and pressed closer against the battlements, eager to watch the spectacle unfold. Philoctetes was untroubled by their mockery and hobbled forward on his crutch.

  ‘I am Philoctetes, son of Poeas, and these are the weapons of Heracles, which he bequeathed to me. If I appear unfamiliar and somewhat malnourished to you, it’s because my fellow countrymen stranded me on the island of Lemnos shortly before the war began, where I lived on a diet of seagull and rainwater until Odysseus brought me back to the army just two days ago.’

  ‘I’ve heard of you,’ Paris nodded, ‘though your suffering is news. Tell me, why would a man who had been left to starve by his comrades want to return and fight for them?’

  ‘For glory, and to honour the name of Heracles,’ Philoctetes answered. ‘And because Heracles himself ordered me to kill you, which I must do if the gates of Troy are ever to fall to the Greeks.’

  Helen heard the words and stepped forward to stand beside her husband. Unseen by any of the others – except for Helenus, whose eyes had not left Helen since her arrival – Paris slipped his arm about his wife’s waist and smiled mockingly at the Greek archer.

  ‘But I have no intention of fighting you, Philoctetes. Why should I? Who are you but a half-starved cripple whose only fame comes from an accident of place and time? That you were present when Heracles wanted to take his own life is neither here nor there. That he gave you his bow and arrows in exchange for lighting his funeral pyre does you little credit. And who have you killed of any renown? Go back to your bed and sleep off your drunken bravado; I’m going back to mine to enjoy the company of my wife.’