by Iliffe, Glyn
‘Well,’ Paris said, frowning, ‘if the mission fails, you might just get your wish.’
He thought of Hector’s parting words before the voyage to Sparta. His older brother had always trusted in Paris’s ability as a warrior and posted him to the northern borders of their father’s kingdom, to fight the small wars that were constantly flaring up or to defend Troy’s vassal cities against raiders. But Paris’s recent victories and the peace treaties he had engineered had made the borders safer than they had been for years, leaving him free to serve Hector’s other machinations.
‘Spy them out,’ Hector had commanded in his strained, gravelly voice, his large bulk dominating the small antechamber as he had paced up and down with his hands behind his back. ‘Father’s sending you to negotiate for the return of his sister, but I’m telling you to keep your eyes open while you’re there: check the capabilities of their armies; see if their city walls are in good repair; find out whether their leaders are still at each other’s throats. We might as well get something worthwhile out of this.’
‘Then you don’t think Hesione is worthwhile?’ Paris had asked.
‘Hesione’s been gone decades, little brother – she’ll be one of them by now. If they want to give her back to us, fine. At least father’ll be pleased. But they won’t, and that’s even better. It’ll be a good justification for war.’
Paris had known for a long time that Hector’s mind was quietly set on war with Greece. Frictions between the two cultures had been growing for years, but not because of Hesione. The Trojans were an insular, authoritarian people, loyal to their king and concerned with the protection and controlled expansion of their borders. The Greeks, however, were outward-looking, competitive and greedy. Their merchants were ubiquitous, and even Hector’s decision to demand tribute from their ships crossing the Aegean Sea had not curtailed them. Instead, as Paris had known it would, it had only served to anger the Greeks and turn the eyes of their kings evermore eastward. Knowing that one side must eventually gain dominance, and determined it should not be Greece, Hector had already started marshalling his forces and calling on the allies of Troy. A giant fleet was being assembled that could take an army to Greece and crush its upstart kingdoms, and by this time next year the forces would be ready. Hector just needed an excuse to attack.
Paris looked across the dark plain towards the city on a hill to the north, where numerous lights burned and the high buildings within its walls glowed like bronze. As he watched, a trickle of smaller lights flowed out of the city gates and down the road towards the river.
‘Look,’ he said, pointing towards the distant procession. ‘What do you make of that?’
‘A welcoming committee?’ Aeneas suggested.
‘Doubtful,’ Apheidas snorted. ‘Someone must have warned them we were here.’
Paris’s rugged face was emotionless.
‘We’ve no choice but to sit and wait for them. If they turn out to be unfriendly, then it’s a quicker retreat to our ship from here than if we were to meet them halfway. But I don’t think it’ll come to that, unless the Greek sense of honour is worse than we expected.’
Nevertheless, he ordered his men to form a double line across the road and to have their shields and spears ready as they waited. Some of the soldiers discussed what would happen when the Spartans reached them, whilst others gnawed at their meagre provisions or stood in silence, watching the stars make their slow progress through the night sky and wondering what level of hospitality they would receive. The people they had met in the port where their ship was now docked had been suspicious and unfriendly, confirming the Trojans’ low opinion of Greeks. But they were yet to meet noblemen or warriors. It was from these classes, rather than fishermen and farmers, that they were likely to receive the proper welcome that xenia required. This was the age-old custom where strangers exchanged gifts and oaths of friendship. It ensured protection for visitors and led to networks of alliances that were enforced through a sense of honour. Without it, trade between nations and states would cease and be replaced by endless war; there would be no prosperity or peace, no progress or communication. And yet, despite Apheidas’s assurances that xenia was observed in Greece, in a crude fashion, the Trojans doubted the Greek sense of honour and did not trust their foreign ways.
Before long the Spartans were no longer specks of light, but were becoming visible as an armed force of at least three score men. Their bronze helmets and the points of their spears gleamed in the light of their torches as they came ever nearer along the road that ran parallel to the River Eurotas. The unnatural tramping of their sandalled feet seemed unstoppable, making some of the Trojans feel they would march straight over them. Then, when they were within bowshot, they came to a sudden, clanging halt.
At Paris’s signal the Trojans locked shields and lowered their spear-points. A man approached from the Spartan ranks and stopped a few paces in front of them. His armour, though mostly concealed by his dark blue cloak, was expensive and indicated his rank.
‘I am Eteoneus, herald of Menelaus, King of Sparta,’ he began, his accent thick and difficult for Paris to comprehend. ‘My lord has sent me to escort you safely to his palace, where a feast has been prepared in your honour. Rooms have also been set aside for you and your men – no doubt you’re tired after your voyage from Troy.’
So they knew they were Trojans, Paris thought. That could be guessed by their armaments and clothing, of course, but he also had the feeling that invisible eyes had been watching their every step from the harbour and reporting their progress to King Menelaus. He only hoped they had not observed his own careful observation of the geography and infrastructure of Sparta: as per Hector’s instructions, he had already considered the size of the harbour for accommodating an invasion fleet and the condition of the roads for passage of an army. He had noted the width and flatness of the plain between the mountain ranges on either side, as well as the breadth of the river and the number and quality of the crossing points. Even as the two groups of men faced each other, he was assessing the quality of their weaponry and armour. And it was dismayingly good.
‘I am Paris, son of King Priam of Troy,’ he announced, speaking in precise but broadly accented Greek. ‘My men and I will be pleased to accept Menelaus’s hospitality, if you’ll lead the way.’
Without another word, Eteoneus turned sharply and cleared a passage through the ranks of the escort, which waited for Paris to form his men into a column and pass through before closing up again and following in their wake. They marched in silence for some time, the Trojans feeling slightly menaced by the sound of the heavily armed Spartans behind them, but before long the escort began to flag. Despite the magnificence of their armaments, Paris was surprised to note they were already losing their order and formation. The unified tramping of feet that had announced their arrival earlier was now ragged and the footfalls had lost their force. Some men were falling behind the march, despite its slow pace, and most of the soldiers repeatedly switched their spears from one shoulder to the other, a clear sign they were struggling with the weight. This pleased Paris, who had been ordered by Hector to watch for the quality of the soldiers they might face in the event of war. From what he could see, the Greeks – who had developed a reputation for toughness during their long years of civil war – were now atrophying with the peace that had existed between them for the past ten years. The Trojan armies, on the other hand, were constantly rotated on their northern and eastern borders, keeping them fit and battle-ready. If the rest of the Greek soldiery was comparable to the men surrounding him, Paris was confident that any meeting between equal forces of Greeks and Trojans would result in a Trojan victory. Hector would be delighted at the news.
Before long they were passing a series of tall mounds on either side of the road, which Eteoneus informed them were the tombs of Sparta’s former kings. He named each one in turn as they passed the ancient, grass-covered mausoleums, recounting their glorious feats and often tragic ends. Then, as they
reached the final two mounds – facing each other across the highway – he gave a curt bow and whispered a prayer.
‘These are the graves of Tyndareus and Icarius,’ he explained. ‘Brothers and co-rulers of Sparta. Tyndareus was the father of our queen, Helen, though some say it was Zeus himself that sired her. If you’re fortunate enough to see her, you’ll realize why many think she has divine blood in her veins.’
‘Rumours of her beauty have reached Ilium,’ Paris said.
‘Hearsay,’ Aeneas sneered. ‘I doubt she can match the looks of even the simplest Trojan girl.’
There was a sudden, angry murmur from the ranks of Spartans, who quickly forgot their tiredness and gripped their weapons tighter. Eteoneus immediately raised his hand to silence the threats that were being uttered.
‘Peace,’ he commanded, smiling confidently. ‘Our young friend will soon realize his ignorance. When it comes to beauty, I think our queen can defend herself.’
The Spartan soldiers, who moments before had been ready to kill the young Trojan, now looked at him and laughed. Their laughter continued all the way through the ramshackle peasant buildings that surrounded Sparta, compounding Aeneas’s hatred of Greeks, until they reached the high city walls. Here, helmeted heads stared down at the party as Eteoneus led them over a humpbacked bridge beside an orchard and on to the arched gates of the city. The large wooden portals were already open in anticipation of their arrival. More warriors stood by the gate, gawping at the strange-looking foreigners with their long beards and their outlandish armour. Several spat in the dust at their feet, but a stern glance from Paris warned his men against the temptation to retaliate and they carried on marching, their eyes fixed firmly forward until the last man was inside the city walls.
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.
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br /> ‘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.