The Gates Of Troy (11 page)

Menelaus sat on his raised throne and eyed the Trojan prince with stern formality.

‘Well, Paris, son of Priam, I’m told you want to see me as a matter of urgency. What is it you wish to discuss?’

A broad column of light plunged like a waterfall from a vent in the high ceiling of the great hall, illuminating the Spartan king as he waited for a response. Paris stood stiffly before him, with Apheidas and Aeneas on either side. The low flames of the hearth crackled behind them and they felt its warmth in the smalls of their backs, coaxing the sweat from their armpits and increasing their discomfort.

Paris cleared his throat and stepped forward into the golden, dust-filled light.

‘I come with an offer of alliance from the king of Troy,’ he began. ‘My father is a great man, but his greatness lies in his desire for peace and friendship with his neighbours. With this wish at heart, he has sent me to speak with you and the other significant kings of Greece.’

‘Priam rules over an empire of vassal cities that pay him homage and provide him with ships and armies to serve his will,’ Menelaus interrupted. ‘From all reports, the gods have already blessed your father with wealth and power far beyond the needs of any man. What could he possibly gain from an alliance with Sparta, or any city in Greece?’

‘Peace, most importantly,’ Paris answered. ‘And the freedom to trade, the life blood of all truly civilized peoples.’

‘But trade thrives, even though the Trojans have been demanding tribute from Greek merchants for some years now. Does your offer of alliance include the removal of this unjust taxation on our goods?’

‘I will raise the matter with my father, if everything goes well.’

‘You should grant this as an immediate concession if you expect any kind of profit from our meeting.’

‘There will be no immediate concessions,’ Paris countered. ‘Priam wants cordial relations between Trojans and Greeks, to our
mutual
benefit.’

Menelaus leaned back in his chair and stroked his beard, eyeing Paris shrewdly. ‘To our mutual benefit, but at a cost to Greece no doubt. And what does Priam want in exchange for the friendship of Troy?’

‘There is something,’ Paris nodded. ‘My father’s desire for peace and trade is genuine, but the plain truth is he’s getting old, and old men are sentimental. He wants his family around him: he wants Hesione back.’

Menelaus looked at him through narrowed eyes.

‘Telamon married Hesione thirty years ago,’ he said. ‘She was his by right of conquest, after he and Heracles sacked Troy. Do you refute this?’

‘That is what the Greeks believe, but we Trojans say she was raped and kidnapped by Telamon.’

Menelaus raised a quizzical eyebrow. ‘Shame and defeat often bring denial. But whatever the truth about Hesione, she has been Telamon’s wife for many years now and has given him a son, Teucer the archer. And if I remember correctly, a Trojan delegation was sent to Salamis some time ago and rejected by Telamon himself.’

Aeneas stepped forward.

‘Anchises, my father, was amongst them,’ he said, angrily. ‘The Greeks treated him like dirt and he and the others barely escaped with their lives!’

Apheidas placed a hand on the young warrior’s shoulder and pulled him gently away from the Spartan king. Ignoring the others, Menelaus continued to fix his attention on Paris.

‘I don’t know what happened in Salamis and I don’t know Telamon well enough to speak for his character, but as a husband I don’t think I would have taken kindly to an attempt to rob me of my wife. Hesione’s home is Greece, and no offer of alliance is going to change the fact.’

‘Her home is Troy,’ Paris responded sharply. ‘Though Priam hasn’t set eyes on his sister for thirty years, he still loves her and wants her back. All I request is that you send a message to Agamemnon, asking him to invite Telamon to meet with us at Mycenae. After the experience of the previous delegation we would rather discuss these matters on neutral ground, and I am sure Telamon will not be able to refuse a direct request from the sons of Atreus. In return for your help, we will lift the taxation on Greek trade in the Aegean. My father is also prepared to compensate Telamon generously for the return of his sister.’

‘Priam seems to forget that his sister is now a wife and a mother!’ Menelaus snapped. ‘Do you Trojans care nothing for marriage? Is it your desire to rob a man of his wife?’

The accusation rang back from the walls of the great hall and at last Paris knew that Menelaus suspected him of coveting Helen. The cordiality of the evening feasts had gone and as he stared at the older man, the legitimate husband of the woman who had stolen his heart, he felt a rush of hatred. He wanted to spring forward and close his fingers about Menelaus’s throat, but as he looked at the flush of grey in his hair and beard and the heavy lines about his eyes and forehead, he realized it was the fear of losing Helen that had aged him prematurely. Suddenly his anger turned to shame. Menelaus was not a man to be despised, but pitied, and yet for the sake of a woman’s glance Paris was going to win his trust and then betray him. His scorn turned upon himself, and yet he knew there was nothing else he could do. What were honour and morality compared to his desire for Helen?

‘Nevertheless,’ the king continued, ‘I am prepared to grant your wish and send a message to my brother, but I require something of you in return.’

‘Name it, my lord?’

Menelaus narrowed his eyes at the Trojan prince. ‘I do not know you, Paris. You are a stranger from a foreign land and your ways are unknown to me. Though you speak of friendship and alliances, how do I know you don’t harbour evil or mischief in your heart? In a few days I will leave for Crete, but before I go I want an assurance that you will act honourably in my absence.’

‘There’s only one way to do that, my lord,’ said Apheidas, standing beside Paris. ‘You know the answer, too: a solemn oath of friendship.’

‘Do Trojans respect the gods?’ Menelaus tested him.

Apheidas did not respond. Instead, he gave Paris a subtle nudge in the ribs and stepped back.

‘The gods are highly revered in Troy,’ the prince replied. ‘As you will see if you ever come to our homeland. Though we are foreigners in your eyes, an oath of friendship is as binding on a Trojan as it is on any Greek. If we give you our word, you can trust us to keep it.’

‘So be it. While you are under my roof, let it be as a friend.’

Menelaus offered his hand, which Paris gripped firmly.

‘Eteoneus,’ the Spartan king shouted, ‘bring me my best dagger.’

The herald, who had been waiting in the shadows of the great hall, snapped his fingers at a slave, who disappeared through a side door. A short while later he returned and, crossing the hall, placed a sheathed dagger in Menelaus’s palm.

‘I, Menelaus, son of Atreus, call on Zeus the protector of strangers to witness my promise of friendship to you,’ he said, placing the weapon firmly in Paris’s free hand. ‘This dagger is a symbol of my oath, guaranteeing you my protection and help while you are in my kingdom, and ensuring that I will never be your enemy. Let this promise stand for myself, my children and their children until seven generations have passed, as custom demands.’

Paris scanned the ornately detailed gift without releasing Menelaus’s hand – to do so before exchanging oaths would break the pledge under Trojan practice. Although the Spartan’s promise sounded strange to his ears, its integrity was assured by the witness of Zeus. And yet Paris was unable to return the oath without a gift of his own. He looked at Apheidas, who in turn nodded to Eteoneus.

The herald reached behind himself and pulled a cloth bundle from his belt, which he handed to Apheidas. The Trojan, who had asked Eteoneus to retrieve the gift from the armoury, opened the swaddling to reveal a second dagger. Like the Spartan weapon, it had a black leather scabbard that was decorated with ornately worked gold filigree; but, where Menelaus’s gift had a wooden handle with gold inlay and a gold pommel, the handle of the dagger that Paris now gave to the Spartan king was shaped from a single piece of ivory. It was almost twice as long as Menelaus’s palm was wide and in it was depicted a scene of an archer hunting a stag, the intricate carvings inlaid with jet to make them stand out boldly. The blade was nearly double the length of the Spartan dagger and remained hidden beneath the scabbard, but Paris saw in his mind’s eye the design it bore, of more huntsmen and their dogs described in gold, chasing in the wake of the archer and stag on the handle. It was a rich weapon indeed, designed to impress the wealth and skill of Troy on Menelaus’s mind.

‘With this dagger I swear to you, before Zeus and all the gods of Olympus, my friendship and loyalty.’ As he said the words, Paris released his hold of Menelaus’s hand, making his words meaningless. In doing so he knew he had crossed a threshold, from honour to dishonour, driven by the insanity of love. ‘I will never bear arms against you, or bring harm upon your household in any form. I will honour and protect you when you visit my homeland. We will be allies until death takes us, or the words of this oath are broken – which can never happen.’

Chapter Seven

T
HE
F
LIGHT FROM
S
PARTA

T
he light was failing fast as Paris walked through the quiet avenues and alleyways of Sparta, heading for the temple of Aphrodite. He felt both nervous and elated at the thought of being with Helen again, this time alone and without any fear of disturbance. For the first time since seeing her in the great hall, he would be able to discover what her true feelings for him were. His heart told him that her display of sexuality the day before had not been a mere act, but that, amazingly, she wanted him as much as he wanted her. And yet there was a heaviness in his step too. His deception of Menelaus had appalled him, bringing into clear focus the fact he was not only intending to betray his host, but he was also on the verge of betraying everything he had ever believed in and stood for. His honour would be lost forever, and even if Apheidas was right and the gods were behind the madness that had driven him to this point, he would still earn their contempt for stealing a man’s wife. Such was the way of the immortals. But despite the nagging voice of his conscience, he knew the only thing that could stop him now would be Helen’s refusal to leave Sparta, and the older part of him still hoped he had misjudged her.

The directions he had been given by the armourer led him to a narrow side street that reeked sharply of dung and urine. Halfway down was an open doorway, from which a wavering orange light spilled out across the opposite wall. A tall, white-robed woman watched him from beneath the shadow of her hood, but as he quickened his pace towards her she ducked beneath the low lintel and entered the temple.

He followed her in and pulled the double doors shut behind him. The temple of Aphrodite was not what he had expected – a modest chamber with an avenue of slim, wooden pillars leading to a crude altar. Two sputtering torches cast a fitful glow over the plastered walls, where dozens of murals depicted the lovemaking of gods and mortals from a forgotten era. Once they would have formed a rich decoration, but now they were faded, smoke-stained and peeling – simple shadows of their former glory. Rows of alcoves stared like empty eye sockets from between the decaying murals; they had been made to contain images of the gods, but now the only effigy that remained was on a raised platform behind the altar. It was as high as Paris’s waist, and was the crudest portrayal of a god he had ever seen – made of glazed clay, with huge breasts and a monstrous, leering face.

The contrast with the woman who knelt before it could not be stronger. Helen had shed her hooded robe to reveal a gauzy white chiton, clasped above her left shoulder by a silver brooch and bound around the waist by a thin purple sash. A narrow parting exposed the left flank of her body, from the slight furrows of her ribs down to the smooth, white flesh of her thigh. Her slender hands were laid flat on her knees and her feet were tucked beneath her buttocks, the dirt on the soles the only visible blemish.

Paris removed his sandals and walked across the cold flagstones to the altar. Taking some cakes from a bag that hung across his shoulder, he laid them down next to a similar offering that Helen must have placed there earlier. He then stepped back and knelt beside the Spartan queen, whose eyes were closed in silent prayer. Paris, though, had no thought for the gods. Instead he let his eyes rest on the perfection of Helen and imagined what it would be like to have her at his side for the rest of his life. The sight of her black hair tumbling across her forehead and cheeks, catching the red torchlight in its soft layers, filled him with an almost irresistible desire to reach out and run his fingers through its shining mass. But above all he wanted her long, curving eyelashes to part so that her eyes could meet his and read the strength of his love for her.

‘Do you like what you see, Paris of Troy?’ she said, her eyes still closed.

‘You know I do,’ he replied, gently.

She smiled faintly. ‘And how do I compare to the women of your homeland?’

‘The women of Ilium are beautiful, but next to you they would be like the stars that surround the moon. No mortal can match you, Helen. Even Aphrodite . . .’

‘Shush!’ she said, opening her eyes and placing a finger to his lips. ‘My father may be Zeus, but it won’t do to compare me to the goddess of love. She’s jealous and can be cruel when angered.’

Paris laughed lightly. ‘She might scare you, but I’m a warrior and a follower of Ares. In the world of men Aphrodite is among the least of the gods.’

‘Then has she never blessed you with the love of a woman?’ Helen asked, fixing him with her large, intelligent eyes.

The amusement drained from Paris’s face and he looked away, frowning at the cakes on the altar as he composed his thoughts.

‘As I said, I’m a warrior,’ he answered. ‘Though Aphrodite has visited me once. In a dream.’

‘A dream?’ Helen echoed. ‘Tell me about it.’