The Gates Of Troy (3 page)

The wooden gates closed with a boom behind them and the Trojans felt their hearts sink. They were trapped inside a foreign city, surrounded by hostile soldiers, with nothing but the diplomatic skills of their leader or the spears in their hands to get them out again. Paris looked back at the gates, but not with the sense of claustrophobic fear that his countrymen felt. Instead, he was taking note of Sparta’s defensive capabilities. The walls were in good repair and the guards were numerous, meaning the city could only be taken by surprise, stealth or a prolonged siege. But much of the defence of a city relied on the abilities of its king, and Paris wondered what sort of man Menelaus was. Was he soft and weak like Priam, or politically astute with the courage of a lion and the ferocity of a wild boar, like Hector? Was Menelaus a worthy king in his own right, or was he propped up by his more powerful brother? The coming feast, though ostensibly an act of welcome and friendship, would reveal much to both sides.

The sloping streets that led up to the palace were empty and every door shut, but Paris knew he and his men were being watched from the many darkened windows and alleys they passed. They must have looked strange to Greek eyes, he thought, and he wondered whether they were being regarded with fear, curiosity or loathing. A party of Greeks visiting Troy would have been treated with no less suspicion.

As he followed Eteoneus, he let his eyes roam across the simplistic, functional design of Menelaus’s city. Its buildings were strong and well made, but lacked the opulence of their Trojan counterparts. Every public structure in Paris’s home city was constructed to impress the wealth and importance of Troy on its citizens and visitors, and even the homes of the nobles and merchants boasted ornate architectural features and walls that were rich in murals. They were far superior to the plain and sturdy buildings of the Spartans, just as Troy surpassed Sparta in both size and beauty. But Paris’s simple taste and his harsh life on the northern borders gave him a grudging appreciation of the modest strength of Greek architecture. The slabs beneath his feet were firm and well fitted, whereas the ornate cobbles of Troy were forever tripping him up; similarly, the tall, well-laid Spartan walls were easy on his eyes in the moonlight, while the walls at home were too busy, a constant distraction. It would be a pity, he thought, if Sparta ever chose to defy the invading armies of Troy and its neat, powerful buildings were put to the torch.

Eventually the steep, circuitous road reached the top of the hill, where the gateway to Menelaus’s palace stood closed against them. Its high doors were covered in beaten silver that shone blue in the weak moonlight, framing the squad of six heavily armoured soldiers that stood guard before them. Paris suspected that he and his men were receiving a demonstration of Sparta’s military power, from the escort led by Eteoneus to the well-manned walls and the guard that protected the high portals of the palace.

The Spartan herald did not slow down at the sight of the closed gate, and as he approached the doors swung smoothly back into a vast and empty courtyard. He waved the Trojans inside with one hand and dismissed their Spartan escort with the other, before ordering the half-dozen palace guards to close the gates behind them. The Trojans swept their eyes around the courtyard: there were long rows of stables along the western flank, with barracks along the southern and the eastern walls; on the northern side was the three-storeyed bulk of the palace, gleaming in the moonlight before them. As they took in their plain but powerful surroundings, three men emerged from a small door beside the main entrance behind them and approached Eteoneus.

‘Are they familiar with the rules?’ the first of them asked, giving a disdainful nod towards the foreigners. He was a short, balding man with muscular arms and a large stomach encased in leather armour.

‘You’re the guard,’ Eteoneus replied. ‘Why don’t you enlighten them?’

‘Gladly,’ the man sneered, turning to face Paris. ‘No weapons in the palace. You give ’em to me and my lads now, or you turn about and find yourself an inn in the town. You hear?’

His accent, like the accents of all the Spartans they had met so far, was broad and difficult to understand, but the intention was clear.

‘No Greek’s getting my spear,’ Apheidas said firmly, talking to Paris in their own tongue. ‘Unless it’s in his gut.’

‘Shut up, Apheidas,’ Paris ordered. He turned to the rest of his men and looked at them sternly. ‘Hand over your weapons, all of you. We’re guests here, not invaders, so get on with it.’

As the Trojans parted with their weapons and shields, which the Spartans handled roughly and derided as inferior or ineffectual, they felt as if they were being stripped naked. All of them except Paris shifted uneasily and instinctively moved closer together, aware of the heavily armed soldiers watching them from beside the gates.

‘Come with me,’ Eteoneus said curtly, striding off towards the large square doors that opened into the palace.

The Trojans followed, looking about at the many darkened windows, where they sensed numerous eyes watching them.

‘I don’t like this, Paris,’ Apheidas whispered as they were ushered into the palace. A long corridor stretched ahead of them, inadequately lit with sputtering torches every dozen paces. ‘You’re being too trusting. Don’t forget the Greeks are treacherous.’

‘So you keep reminding me. But what choice do I have? I’ve been given a mission and I’m going to carry it out, come what may.’

He followed Eteoneus down the corridor and into the heart of the palace, his men pressing close behind. They passed several darkened rooms, both small and large judging by the echoes of their footsteps as they hurried by, and many staircases leading to the upper levels, or down to the cellars and storage rooms. It was not long before the corridor opened into a large antechamber with a high ceiling, where more torches fought uselessly against the shadows. Here the walls were decorated with images of the war between the centaurs and the lapiths, the clarity of the struggling figures blurred by the murk and the different hues of the paintwork lost in the orange firelight. A pair of large, ornately carved doors dominated the far wall of the antechamber, from behind which they could hear several voices talking loudly. There was music, too, and at the sound of the feast the Trojans remembered they had not eaten a proper meal since that morning.

‘This way,’ Eteoneus sniffed, and without giving the Trojans a moment to compose themselves walked up to the doors and beat the flat of his hand against the wood.

The voices on the other side fell silent. Paris turned briefly to his men and gave them a reassuring look, then the doors swung open to reveal two guards in full armour. They glanced at Eteoneus and the knot of foreigners behind him, before stepping back to reveal the great hall of Sparta’s palace. It was so long and wide that the heavily muralled walls were lost in deep shadow and the torches that hung from them struggled to force back the suffocating gloom. Four central pillars rose like mighty trees and disappeared into the darkness of the ceiling; between them a large, circular hearth burned fiercely with yellow flames, which for a moment were pulled towards the fresh air pouring in from the open doors. A gust of heat washed over the Trojans, drawing them instinctively into the large room, and as the last man entered the guards closed the doors behind them with a thud.

On either side of the hearth and the painted pillars were two parallel rows of heavy wooden tables. These were overflowing with food and drink – great haunches of roasted meats on broad wooden platters, baskets of barley cakes and different fruits, kraters of wine – which would have been a welcoming sight for the hungry Trojans, were it not for the hundred or so men seated at the tables and staring at them with harsh curiosity. Rows of male and female slaves stood behind them, their eyes glinting in the shadows as they, too, looked at the strangers from Troy. Then, as if aware of the hostility of the hall, a voice from the far side of the hearth called out to them.

‘Welcome, friends. Come closer and warm yourselves by the fire – spring may be here, but the nights haven’t forgotten the winter yet.’

Through the quivering heat haze above the hearth they saw another table on a raised dais. A man rose to his feet behind it and clapped his hands.

‘Bring a table and stools,’ he shouted to the slaves. ‘Bring meat and wine, too. Let’s make our guests welcome.’

As if released from a spell, the lines of seated men returned to their feasting, though their constant glances revealed the topic of their conversation. In a flurry of activity a dozen slaves brought a table and chairs from the shadows and placed them down before the Trojan warriors. Moments later, more slaves were crowding it with piles of food and kraters of wine, already mixed with water to dilute its strength. The newcomers could not stop themselves from glancing over their shoulders as platters of spit-roasted goats’ meat, mutton and pork – all glistening with fat – were set down and punctuated with baskets of bread, barley cakes and fruit. But they were forced to resist their hunger for a little longer, as their host stepped down from the dais and walked around the hearth towards them.

In the firelight they could see he was still a young man, a little over thirty years old, of medium height with large muscles in his chest and arms. He wore a simple, green woollen tunic that stopped halfway down his broad thighs, contrasting with the knee-length tunics worn by the Trojans. His hair was auburn, though thinning on top and heavily streaked with grey, and his beard was black and wiry. His face was crossed by a smile that was both kind and friendly, but his leathery skin was lined and careworn beyond his years.

‘Welcome again, friends,’ he greeted them. ‘I am Menelaus, son of Atreus and, by the grace of Zeus, king of Sparta. Forgive the simple hospitality of my hall tonight – if you’d sent news of your arrival earlier we’d have been able to show you some
real
Spartan warmth. But if you’re not in any hurry to leave we can give you a proper welcome tomorrow night, and for as many nights as you’re here.’

‘I am Paris, son of Priam, king of Troy,’ Paris replied, pulling himself to his full height and offering his hand.

Menelaus’s eyebrows arched slightly as he gripped Paris firmly by the wrist. ‘A Trojan prince, eh? Then this is no idle visit, and now I feel even more ashamed of this meagre excuse for a banquet.’

‘Don’t be,’ Paris replied, relaxing slightly as he sensed the genuine warmth in Menelaus’s welcome. ‘Simplicity suits me. The constant feasting at home is tiresome – I’d much rather be round a barrack-room fire on our northern border, drinking wine and swapping stories with my men.’

‘You’re a true soldier then,’ Menelaus grinned, finally releasing Paris’s hand. ‘We’ve had peace here for a decade, but sometimes I long for the old days. There’s nothing like living on marching rations for a week and fighting a battle at the end of it! All this heavy food and sitting on uncomfortable thrones isn’t good for a man,’ he added wryly, patting his rounded stomach.

Paris found himself warming to the Greek. Despite the purpose of his mission and the broad gulf between their different cultures, he felt Menelaus was a man he could relate to.

‘My father sent me to . . .’ he began, but Menelaus held up a hand and shook his head.

‘Unless your business here is urgent, let’s leave talk of it for another night, eh? You and your men are welcome to stay for as long as you like, so relax and fill your stomachs – I know you haven’t eaten anything hot since you set out from the harbour this morning. There will be a time for formal words, Paris, but it isn’t now.’

Paris nodded and smiled for the first time since passing through the gates of Sparta. Then, as he was about to excuse himself and return to his men, he looked through the flames and saw the figure of a woman standing on the other side of the hearth. Though the heat haze was fierce, the light of the fire revealed her clearly. Her eyes captured his with an expression as intense as the flames that seemed to imprison her and Paris knew in an instant that this was the renowned Helen, whose beauty surpassed any rumour or reputation. At the same time, he sensed Menelaus turn his head to look across the raging fire at his wife, just as she turned her face away and moved back towards the shadows. Heedless of Menelaus, Paris watched the tall, slim figure of Helen recede into the darkness, his mind reeling. The desires and emotions that had been tightly locked away in his soldier’s heart for many years were suddenly breaking free in a confusing rush, escaping through the cracks that a single look from Helen had prised open, coursing through his whole body and threatening the discipline and restraint that had given his life equilibrium for so long.

And as she reached the edge of the circle of light from the hearth, just as the shadows were swallowing her, she turned back and looked at him again, her eyes blazing briefly in the darkness before disappearing. Paris felt a heavy weight shifting within him, as something old died and something new was born.

Chapter Three

P
OLITES

T
he pale yellow light of morning filtered through the trees, waking the bright green ferns that carpeted the woodland floor and touching on the small white flowers that grew amid the roots of the pines. Birds were singing in the treetops, greeting the arrival of dawn, and there was a strong smell of new vegetation and damp earth in the air. Eperitus sat astride a donkey – his breastplate and sword concealed beneath his cloak – and scoured the trees discreetly for signs of movement. Heedless of any danger, his ride stumped its way along the wide path that cut through the wood, its head down and its tall ears twitching and flicking as a constant stream of flies irritated them. The bell about its neck clanged with every footfall, sending dull, monotonous chimes ringing through the trees.

A young man of around twenty years followed on foot. He had shoulder-length, brown hair that he was constantly brushing from his eyes, and boyish good looks that were partially hidden by a light growth of beard. His only armaments were the dagger in his belt and the long stick in his left hand, with which he would occasionally strike the bony hindquarters of the donkey.