The Gates Of Troy (22 page)

The light was quickly fading and as the first star of the evening appeared, shining brightly above the horizon, Helen saw that she was no longer sitting next to an old crone dressed in rags, but a tall and beautiful woman whose naked skin shone in the twilight. Her loving eyes captured the light of the evening star and seemed to reflect it from a depth that was timeless. But before Helen could think to throw herself to the ground before Aphrodite, the goddess had faded into nothing.

As Paris lay alone in his tent, listening to the shushing of the waves in the bay, he knew he had been rash. In the heat of his passion for Helen he had risked the lives of himself and his men – many of whom had died as a result – and had brought the threat of war to Troy. What would Hector think of that? He had allowed Apheidas to persuade him of the merits of such an action, but in his heart he knew the only reason he had taken Helen was because he had fallen in love with her. Everything else was an excuse.

And yet, despite his longing to be with her, they had still not slept together. They had come close as they sailed from port to port and island to island, their lips meeting urgently in moments of passion and the closeness of their bodies filling them with a heart-stopping need for each other, but always she had backed away at the last moment. She excused herself by saying that she was not ready – that she was still mourning the children she would never see again – but with each new rejection Paris’s doubts grew. Had he misjudged her? Despite her assurances to the contrary, was she regretting her decision to leave Sparta? Had she simply confused sexual desire for love? He did not know the answers, and part of him was left longing for a return to his safe, familiar life of duty and discipline.

But after tonight his doubts had weakened, driven back by a renewed intoxication with Helen. They had spent the evening feasting on the beach and drinking wine until their heads swam, after which they had kissed with an intensity that had not yet left him. As he lay naked between layers of soft fleeces, looking up at the roof of the tent, his whole body was taut with the need of her. His mind was far from sleep and all he could think of was crossing the beach to where her tent was pitched, entering and taking her. On the northern borders, he had slept with his share of captured women before they were sent back to Troy as slaves. But he also knew that to take Helen before she was willing to give herself would damage the love she had spoken of as they had fled Sparta. And he wanted that love more than anything. He closed his eyes.

As he lay there, listening to the surf advancing and retreating endlessly over the sand, the flap at the front of his tent opened briefly and shut again. Paris leapt to his feet and reached for the sword that hung from the back of a nearby chair. In an instant he had tugged the blade free of its scabbard and was pointing it at arm’s length towards the throat of the intruder.

The metal gleamed threateningly in the moonlight that penetrated the thin walls of the tent. Helen looked at it for a moment, then wrapped her fingers around the blade and gently pushed it aside, feeling the tension of her soft skin against the sharpened edge. Her large eyes were filled with longing, and as she looked at Paris he knew she was ready for him. He felt his own passions responding, churning hotly within him like waters gathering against the walls of a dam. But he made the walls hold for a little longer, moving the point of his sword to rest against the thick wool of her cloak.

‘I acted foolishly,’ he told her, hating each word that he forced from his lips. ‘You love your children more than you can ever love me. Tomorrow I will return you to your home.’

‘All lovers are fools, Paris, and I am the greatest. But I have finished mourning for my children; my heart and my body are yours now. You are my only home from now on.’

Again she pushed away the blade and this time Paris let it drop from his fingers. Then she unfastened the brooch at her left shoulder and, with a slight shrug, the cloak fell about her ankles. She stepped back from it and planted her feet apart in the mess of skins that covered the tent floor, enjoying the softness of the fur between her toes. Confident of her own nakedness, she leaned her head back and ran her fingers through her hair, revelling in the certainty that Paris’s eyes were feeding rapaciously on her heavy breasts, the smooth, pale skin of her stomach and the vertical slit of her navel. She could almost feel his gaze flowing down her long legs and back up again to the triangle of black hair where his lust was concentrated.

Then she felt his arms fold about her, the firm muscles of his chest crushing her breasts as he ran his lips over her exposed neck. For a moment the strength of his passion stunned her, threatened to overwhelm her as he covered her ears, cheeks and lips with kisses. Then he lifted her easily in his arms and lay her down on the pile of furs, which were soft and yielding beneath the naked skin of her back and buttocks.

‘I’ll never give you up, Helen,’ he told her, staring into her irresistible eyes. ‘I love you!’

‘Do you love me enough to leave your soldier’s life behind and be a proper husband to me?’ Helen responded, closing her legs against the probing of his hand. ‘Will you reject Ares and follow Aphrodite?’

‘Ares has never let me down,’ Paris said, lowering his head to her breast and kissing her nipple. ‘Even if I agree to give up fighting, what can Aphrodite do for me?’

‘She can bless our marriage with eternal love. Isn’t that better than anything Ares can give you?’

‘Then, for your sake, I’ll fight no more and worship Aphrodite. I remember her clearly from my dream on Mount Ida; I’d never seen a more lovely woman in my life, either sleeping or waking. Not until I saw you that night in Sparta.’

‘You mustn’t say that,’ Helen half-protested, allowing Paris to slip his knee between her thighs. ‘It was Aphrodite who brought us together, and tomorrow you must build a shrine to her.’

‘I’ll make one at home in Troy,’ he said, kissing her ear lobe and neck. ‘A proper one, with dressed stone and . . .’

‘No. Make it here. To celebrate our becoming lovers.’

Paris smiled. ‘As you wish. And when we’re old and our children have found husbands and wives of their own, we’ll sail back here and remember the time Aphrodite gave you to me.’

In response she felt a rage of passion well up from the pit of her stomach. It was stronger than anything she had ever known before, a surging intensity that flooded into every part of her body and made her light-headed as she lay beneath him. Suddenly, for the first time in her life, she was giving up control; and as she surrendered the restraint of a lifetime she felt an overpowering sensation of freedom, of becoming the wild creature the gods had created her to be. She stared up at Paris, at the lurid scar that split his face, and was greedy for the press of his lips against her again. She threw her arms about his neck and kissed him fiercely, and as he entered her the bonds of her former life – Sparta, Menelaus, her children – dropped away like locks of shorn hair.

The Ithacan fleet and the lone ship from Mycenae had reached the Cape of Malea by sunset of the third day of their voyage. The thirteen vessels were drawn up in a large bay along the eastern coast of the cape, where the crews threw their stone anchors overboard and made camp on the beach. Here they baked bread using stores of grain from the ship, or went up into the hills to hunt wild goats, rabbits and birds. That evening they feasted, drank wine and told stories until they fell asleep on the soft sand, whilst their commanders gathered in Agamemnon’s tent and talked long into the night.

As Helen made love to Paris on Cyprus, her husband was pacing up and down and listening to the argument between Odysseus on one side and Agamemnon and Palamedes on the other. After a while he could no longer hold back his thoughts.

‘You’re suggesting, Odysseus, that we send a single ship to Troy to plead for the return of my wife?’

‘Not plead, Menelaus – negotiate. There’s a difference.’

‘I don’t care if there is a difference. We’re gathering the largest force of men and arms ever witnessed and you think we should
negotiate
for Helen like a pack of beggars? They kidnapped her along with my youngest son, don’t forget! I agree with my brother – the Trojans need to be taught a stern lesson, one that will show the rest of the world we Greeks aren’t to be toyed with. We should slaughter them to a man, reduce their city to rubble and bring Helen back to Sparta where she belongs.’

‘I agree with everything you and Agamemnon have done so far,’ Odysseus replied. ‘Calling in the oath; gathering the armies as quickly as possible; preparing for a quick strike. But an embassy to Troy could save hundreds of Greek lives – even thousands – as well as the possibility of a long and expensive war paid for from Mycenaean and Spartan coffers.’

‘We all appreciate your desire to return to your wife and son as quickly as possible, Odysseus,’ Agamemnon said. ‘I, also, have no desire to spend long months away from my lad, Orestes. He’ll eventually take my place on the throne and needs his father’s example to follow. Then there’s my daughter, Iphigenia; without my influence to check her feminine nature, I fear she will become rebellious and gain ideas above her station. But how can we consider our needs more urgent than those of my brother? Menelaus has had his beloved wife torn from him and taken to Troy! He wants nothing more than to return her to the loving safety of her own home, where her children weep constantly for the loss of their mother.
That
’s why the Greeks are gathering in Aulis as we speak, eager as hounds to be at Trojan throats. Of all those called only Achilles has not yet responded, though if he’s even half the warrior he is said to be then it won’t be long before he joins us. But these negotiations you suggest could take months and will dampen the ardour of the army. So why don’t you forget this noble but hopeless notion and turn your brilliant mind to thoughts of winning this war?’

Agamemnon folded his arms across his chest and stared at Odysseus, challenging him to respond. But the Ithacan did not meet his gaze, turning his eyes instead on the king of Sparta.

‘Menelaus, my friend, Agamemnon is right – our sympathies lie with you first and foremost. You’re the one who has had his family broken apart. It’s you who have suffered the loss of a matchless wife and a devoted son, so you should be the one to decide on the matter.’ He looked at Agamemnon, who was the most powerful of them and the one most opposed to a peaceful resolution. The Mycenaean king nodded and Odysseus continued. ‘But first, listen carefully to what I have to say on the matter. Teach the Trojans a lesson, you say; wipe them out and destroy their city. Who can say they deserve any less? But ask yourself this – do you want revenge or do you want your family restored? If it’s revenge, then let’s all head for Aulis and rouse the Greeks to war. And don’t tarry there – sail to Troy at once and launch our attack without delay, for this won’t be a quick war. The Trojans will be defending their homes, and that alone will give them twice the stomach for a fight than our men will have. They’re well trained and battle-hardened, and with their allies they can at least match us in numbers; they will have the safety of their walls to return to each evening and a sure supply of food and reserves, whereas we will sleep in tents or on our beached galleys, exposed to night attacks and relying on ships for our provisions. This won’t be a speedy raid, Menelaus, and Troy is not some minor city with a weak army and no defences. Even with names like Diomedes, Ajax and Achilles – if he comes – in our ranks, this war won’t be concluded until next year at the earliest, and not without the loss of much Greek blood. And all the time we must worry about attacks on our own kingdoms while we are absent.’

He paused and caught Menelaus’s eye, holding his gaze for a long moment as if the others in the tent were not there.

‘But if I were you,’ he continued, ‘I would forget revenge. If you want Helen back at all, then you need to act quickly – and with much more speed than the mechanics of war will allow.’

‘What is
that
supposed to mean?’ Menelaus asked, his eyes narrowing.