by Stephen Fry
‘This bull, like all the animals on Ida, like you yourself, young lad,’ replied the officer with lofty disdain, ‘is the property of his majesty King Priam. It has been selected to be first prize in the games.’
Paris ran to tell Agelaus of the fate of their favourite bull but he couldn’t find him. How dare King Priam take it? Yes, it was technically the property of the royal house, but how could a cattle herdsman do his job properly without a breeding bull? It annoyed Paris to think of some arrogant athlete winning this noble beast, an animal for which a town-bred Trojan could have no possible use. Doubtless, after the games had ended, the great beautiful bull would be sacrificed. A needless waste of valuable stock.
It was infuriating. Paris bet he was faster and stronger than any pampered city youth. He pictured himself running, jumping and throwing against the best that Troy could offer.
A voice suddenly whispered inside his head.
Why not?
Why shouldn’t he go down, enter these games and win his own bull back? The competition was open to all, surely? But years ago, when he was still a boy, Agelaus had made Paris swear an oath never to go to Troy. Paris had innocently asked what the city was like and whether they might visit one day. The ferocity of his father’s response had astonished him.
‘Never, boy, never!’
‘But why not?’
‘Troy is bad luck for you. I … heard it said by a priestess. At the temple of Hermes where I found you as a baby. “Never let him go through the gates of Troy,” she told me. “There’s nothing for him there but ill luck.”’
‘What sort of ill luck?’
‘Never you mind what sort. The gods have their reasons. Not for us to know. Swear to me that you’ll never go there, Paris? Never enter the city. Swear it to me.’
And Paris had sworn.
But, the voice inside Paris said, the games were held outside Troy. On the plain of Ilium between the River Scamander and the city walls. He could go down, compete, win the bull and return with it – all without breaking his promise to Agelaus.
Down the hillside Paris skipped, following the soldiers and the bull. He caught glimpses of glittering bronze and gleaming stonework through the trees as he descended, until finally all the turrets, towers, banners, battlements, ramparts, walls and great gates of Troy came into view. Close behind the soldiers and the bull, Paris crossed over a wooden bridge that spanned the Scamander and took in the magnificent sight.
Troy was at the height of her glory. The riches that came from the trade with the east showed not just in the mass, solidity and smoothness of the city’s masonry, but in the shining armour of the soldiery, the richly dyed clothes of the citizenry and the healthy, well-nourished complexions of the children. Even the dogs looked prosperous and contented.
Everything was in preparation for the games. Alongside the running track, a full stadion in length,fn65 areas for discus, javelin and wrestling had been marked out. Groups of people were streaming out of the smaller side gates of the city. Tradesmen and entertainers awaited them. Musicians played. Dancers spun about clashing finger-cymbals and making whirling patterns in the air with brightly coloured ribbons. Food sellers had set up stalls and were shouting the names and prices of their produce. Dogs ran up and down, barking with excitement at the welcome outburst of colour, aroma, noise and spectacle.
Paris approached an important-looking individual who was standing at the entrance to the running track and asked how he might put his name forward to enter the games. The official indicated a line of young men who were queuing up in front of a low wooden table. Paris joined them and after a short while he was issued with a token and pointed to the athletes’ enclosure, where he stripped down with the others and began to warm up.fn66
A whip-crack and a shout. The crowd pressing up against the enclosure parted as a pair of chariots swept through, driven by two smooth, well-groomed and athletic young men.
‘Prince Hector and his brother Deiphobus,’ whispered the competitor next to Paris. ‘The finest athletes in all the Troad.’
Paris looked the princes up and down. Hector, heir to the throne, was tall and undeniably attractive and well made. He nodded and smiled as he stepped out of his chariot and handed the reins to a slave, laying a hand on the man’s shoulder and appearing to thank him. With an almost shy wave, he acknowledged the cheers of the crowd and joined Paris and the other athletes. His brother Deiphobus jumped down from his chariot, but let the reins drop to the ground, and passed through the press of people, making no contact and meeting no eyes. He looked fit and well muscled, but there was something arrogant and contemptuous in his bearing that Paris took against from the first.
The crowd turned at the sound of a fanfare. Paris saw a line of heralds on the very top of the city walls. Below them a great gate opened.
‘The Scaean Gate!’ whispered the athlete at Paris’s side. ‘It can only be the king and queen themselves.’
Paris expected a great chariot or carriage to sweep out, accompanied by heralds and outriders. At the very least there would be a procession carrying the royal couple on a litter or divan, like those favoured by rulers in the east. He did not expect to see a middle-aged couple step out, arm in arm. More like an ordinary man and wife out for a morning walk, Paris thought, than a great ruler with his consort. A loud cheer went up, which the couple acknowledged with nods and warm smiles.
‘Is that really King Priam?’ Paris asked the athlete next to him.
By way of answer the athlete fell to his knees, as did all the other competitors, the princes Hector and Deiphobus included. Paris knelt too and watched as Priam and Hecuba reached the dais set out for them, commanding a view over the field.
King Priam raised his arms to signal that everyone should stand. ‘Eighteen years ago,’ he called out, ‘a prince was born to us.’ His voice was strong and clear. ‘The child never had the chance to breathe the air, but he is not forgotten. Queen Hecuba and I think about him every day. Today all Troy thinks of him. Today his memory is honoured before the gods.’ He turned to the competitors. ‘Be strong, be fair, be proud, be Trojan.’
The athletes all around Paris beat their chests and cried out in chorus five times, ‘Strong! Fair! Proud! Trojan!’ hitting the last word with greater and greater emphasis each time. He realized this must be a custom and joined in, feeling a shiver of excitement and a thrill of belonging as he thumped his ribcage and yelled out the words.
Trojan! Was there a finer thing to be?
A ram and a ewe were sacrificed. A priest released into the air eighteen doves, one for each of the years that had passed, Paris was told, since the death of the young prince.
Paris threw himself into the games with unbounded enthusiasm and energy. He was in the finest flush of youth, his body honed from years of chasing and rounding up calves, piglets, kids and lambs, seasoned by the mountain air and fed on the best mutton stews, goat’s milk and wild-thyme honey. He triumphed in each event as it came, much to the amusement of the crowd, who instantly took to this unknown, but wildly good-looking and boyishly eager, competitor. The only two in the field who came close to threatening his lead were the two royal princes. During the course of the tournament, Paris was told that one or other of the two had been crowned victor at these games for each of the past seven years.
Hector didn’t seem to mind being bested by the young stranger, but his brother Deiphobus grew more and more sullen and annoyed as the afternoon wore on. The cheers that rose up from the spectators every time Paris beat him were especially galling. It was all the more unfortunate, therefore, that when lots were cast for the wrestling, the final event of the afternoon, Deiphobus should find himself drawn against this presumptuous interloper.
‘I’ll bloody teach the peasant not to frisk about like he owns the place,’ he growled to Hector. ‘The cocky runt won’t know what’s hit him.’
‘Go easy on him,’ warned Hector. ‘Show some grace, eh? The people are on his side, and whatever the outcome
he will be the overall victor.’
The style of fighting for the event was called pankration, or ‘all the strengths’ – it was said that its no-holds-barred fusion of boxing and wrestling was invented by Theseus when he defeated the wrestler king Cercyon of Eleusis.fn67 Deiphobus was confident that his innocent opponent would be unprepared for the savage kicking, nose- and ear-biting, eye-gouging and scrotum-twisting that were all permissible.fn68 But Deiphobus himself was unprepared for the way Paris skipped around him, always out of reach. Daring to smile too. The more Deiphobus roared and lunged, the quicker Paris seemed to leap backwards. The spectators howled with laughter.
‘Stay still, damn you!’ shouted Deiphobus. ‘Stand and fight!’
‘All right,’ said Paris, nipping in and sweeping a foot under Deiphobus. ‘If that’s what you want …’
One moment Deiphobus had been standing up, the next he was flat on his back with a country nobody kneeling on him, pinning his shoulders to the ground.
‘Had enough, have you?’ said Paris, laughing down, one hand raised up to the crowd in salute. Young girls pushed forward and screamed their approval.
This was too much. Deiphobus scrambled to his feet with a yell of wounded pride, calling out for his servant to throw him a sword.
‘I’ll teach you a lesson you’ll never forget!’ he snarled, catching the hilt.
But Paris was too quick for him. He took to his heels and ran towards the city walls, still laughing. He knew he could outrun Deiphobus over any distance. He had already proved it in three different foot races.
‘After him!’ cried the enraged prince.
‘Oh, leave it,’ said Hector. ‘The boy won fair and square.’
‘He mouthed blasphemies into my ear,’ said Deiphobus. ‘He said foul things about our mother.’
This was a lie, but it was enough to energize Hector, who called out, ‘Stop that man!’
Still laughing, Paris ran on, not knowing where he was going, but filled with the pleasures that victory and exertion bring, laughing and loving life. He could hear the clamour of the chase behind him, but he did not doubt that he could dodge, dive and duck his way out of trouble. Without thinking he darted through the great open gateway and into the city itself. He slowed to marvel at the maze of lanes and alleyways all around him. So this was Troy. Courtyards, shops, fountains, squares, streets and people. So many people. It was dazzling and bewildering. He turned round and around, feeling like Theseus in the Cretan labyrinth. He could hear the hue and cry behind him growing louder. He chose a straight and narrow street and ran hard along it until he arrived at stone steps leading up to a pair of gilded gates. Too late he realized that the gates were barred shut and that he had reached a dead end. With the noise of his pursuers growing behind him, he rattled the gates and shouted.
‘Help! If this is some temple, I beg sanctuary in the name of all the gods! Help, help!’
The gates opened and a beautiful young priestess emerged from the shadows and descended, holding out a hand.
‘Come …’ she said.
Paris reached up, but the moment his hand touched hers, she drew back with a gasp, her eyes widening in horror.
‘No!’ she said.
‘Please, I beg!’ cried Paris, looking over his shoulder. Deiphobus and Hector, swords drawn, were at the head of a veritable river of supporters, spectators and excitable dogs and children.
‘No!’ repeated the priestess. ‘No! No! No!’ She shrank back into the shadows, slamming the gate behind her.
Paris banged his fists on the great wooden panels of the portal, but Deiphobus was on him, teeth bared and roaring with fury.
‘Hold him up, Hector. Let’s see how much his impudent head laughs when it flies from his shoulders.’
Hector, the taller of the two, lifted Paris bodily and held him. ‘You really shouldn’t have upset Deiphobus,’ he said. ‘If you apologize humbly, I’ll make sure you aren’t parted with more than an ear for your troubles.’
Deiphobus had raised his sword.
A voice rang out, loud and sharp. ‘Stop! You can’t kill your own brother!’
Deiphobus and Hector turned. Paris turned too and saw his father Agelaus pushing himself through the crowd.
‘Set him down, my lord Hector! Set your brother down!’
One side of the crowd parted to let Agelaus through. Another side parted to let King Priam and Queen Hecuba through. Agelaus saw them and dropped to his knees.
‘I couldn’t do it, your majesties! I couldn’t kill that child. And I’m glad I didn’t. Look at him. You should be proud of him.’
The story tumbled from Agelaus. The crowd fell silent.
Hecuba was the first to embrace the stunned Paris. Priam clasped him close and called him ‘son’. Hector punched him affectionately on the arm and called him ‘brother’. Deiphobus punched him – markedly harder – on the other arm and called him ‘brother’ too. The crowd cheered and cheered as the royal party turned and made their way to the palace.
Behind them, the golden gates at the top of the temple steps opened and the priestess stepped out, wailing and waving her arms as if possessed by some demon.
‘Take him away, away from the city!’ she cried. ‘He is death. He will bring destruction to us all.’
If anyone heard her, they paid no attention.
The priestess’s name was Cassandra, and she had chosen a holy calling over the life of a princess. The most beautiful and gifted of the daughters of Priam and Hecuba, she had devoted herself to this temple of Apollo in Troy. It was her ill luck to have caught the eye of the god himself, who – captivated by her beauty – gave her the gift of prophecy. More a bribe than a gift. He moved in to take her into his arms.
‘No!’ Cassandra said at once. ‘I give myself to no one, god or mortal. I do not consent. No, no …!’
‘But I gave you as great a gift as any mortal can have,’ said Apollo, outraged.
‘That’s as may be. But I never asked for it and certainly never agreed to give you my body in return. No. I refuse you. No.’
Apollo could not take back the gift – it was an adamantine law that no immortal could undo what they or another immortal had donefn69 – so, in his fury, he spat into Cassandra’s mouth just as it was rounding for a repetition of the word ‘No’. The spit was a curse. It meant that Cassandra’s prophecies would always go unheeded. No matter how accurately she foretold the future, no one would ever believe her. It was her fate to be ignored.
What the brief touch of her brother Paris’s hand had told her, we cannot know. What she saw now in her mind’s eye, we can only guess. Perhaps it was the same image of flames that had come to Hecuba in her dream eighteen years earlier. We leave Cassandra on the steps of the temple, wringing her hands and wailing with despair.
THE GODS LOOK DOWN
The impulse that had sent Paris down the hill, following the prize bull – did that come from him or from a god? A voice inside his head breathed, Why not? Why not go down and enter those games and win back that bull? Why not? Was it Paris’s own voice, his own ambition and youthful impulse, or was it divine inspiration?fn70
Aphrodite had promised him that, if he gave her the golden apple, she would give him Helen. Paris’s acceptance into the royal palace at Troy was a delightful excitement for the young man, a change in his life he could never have dared to hope for. But it was a development that seemed more to fulfil Hera’s promise of power and principalities than Aphrodite’s promise of love. Being a prince in a palace was charming beyond words, but it brought him no closer to that vision of a face, that promised ‘Helen’.
Or did it?
The gods have their own way of doing things.
Yes, life as a prince was certainly charming. Slaves, riches and gorgeous clothing, food and drink of a quality he had never tasted before. Trojan citizens fell to their knees when he passed. It was – at first – more exciting and delicious than he could ever have imagined. But it seemed there was a price to be
paid for all this luxury, obedience and status. It seemed princes were expected to know all kinds of things.
The arts of war, for one thing. Paris was a born athlete, as all Troy had witnessed. But now he was expected to translate his natural athleticism into the harsher skills of soldiering. Unlike his brothers Hector and Deiphobus, he did not have the muscular strength and military discipline required of a warrior, but for the moment he got by with his gifts of speed, balance and coordination. Besides, what call was there for martial prowess? Was there ever a more peaceful city than Troy?
The arts of peace Paris found entirely tedious. Protocol, history, commerce, taxation, diplomacy, law … Lessons in these subjects kept him indoors and bored him to distraction.
One afternoon Paris was lying back on the cushions in his father’s rooms. Priam’s voice had been droning on and on, telling the endlessly complex stories of the great royal dynasties of the Greek world. Paris had mastered the art of setting his face into an expression that appeared keen and interested while his mind wandered elsewhere.
‘Your aunt Hesione, I have already told you of,’ Priam was saying. ‘My dear sister. I owe her my very life. She bought me from Heracles, who was on the point of cutting my throat, as I have told you. How I would love to see her again. But she was taken off when I was boy, as I also mentioned, by Telamon of Salamis. And there she lives with him. They have a son, Teucer. A Trojan name at least, it pleases me to say. Now, moving across the water to the Peloponnese itself. The Argolid is controlled by the great Mycenaean king Agamemnon, of course. His wife is Queen Clytemnestra. And they have four children …’
Paris risked a secret glance out of the window. He could hear men somewhere practising swordplay. Music drifted up too, the sound of girls singing. He thought of his wife Oenone and son Corythus and a small stab of guilt assailed him. In all decency he should have insisted that they join him here in the palace, but he thought of them as belonging to his old life, along with Agelaus. The old herdsman had quite properly insisted on staying on Mount Ida.
