by Iliffe, Glyn
He turned to go, but the laughter of his soldiers as they pointed at Philoctetes could not hide the voice that now called out to him.
‘Why should you meet Philoctetes’s challenge?’ it said, with such calm reason that Paris was compelled to stop and listen. ‘Why indeed, for what man of honour would fight unless something was at stake? Something worth fighting for.’
Paris turned and looked down at the short, bulky figure of Odysseus. Despite his lack of elegance and physical beauty his voice was delightful on the ears, so much so that anyone addressed by it felt obliged to reply just so that they could hear it again. Paris had fallen into the trap and stepped up to the battlements, ignoring Helen’s attempts to pull him back.
‘What can you possibly offer that would tempt me away from the caresses of my wife?’ he asked, slipping his hand free of Helen’s fingers.
‘Look for yourself,’ Odysseus replied. ‘The bow and arrows of Heracles. They are yours if you can defeat Philoctetes. This is no trick, Paris. As you can see, we’re alone; no army will spring out from the stones or rise up from the river bed if you possess the courage to step out from behind your walls.’
‘No thank you, Odysseus,’ Helen answered. ‘Paris has a good enough bow already, as several score of your comrades would tell you if they were still alive. Now, go back to your camp and use your powers of persuasion to make Menelaus return to Sparta without me. Or don’t you want to see your beloved Penelope again?’
‘Indeed I do, my lady, but with Hector dead and his place only half-filled I doubt I will have long to wait. What do you say, Paris?’
‘I say damn you, Odysseus,’ Paris returned, angrily. ‘Is that the best your famous voice can do?’
‘And is this the best you can do?’ Odysseus replied, matching his anger. ‘To let a woman fight your battles while you cringe in the shadow of your dead brother? Don’t you even have the guts to fight a cripple with a weapon that’s almost too big for him to wield? Hector wouldn’t have refused, not with the eyes of his countrymen upon him and his reputation at stake.’
Helen saw Paris look left and right at the soldiers on either side of him. They were not laughing now, but were staring at him with expectation. His honour had been insulted; worse still, Odysseus had compared him to Hector – the one test Helen knew he dared not fail. He looked at her, into her eyes, and she sensed the struggle within him, the choice between duty and love.
‘If you came to challenge my brother, Odysseus, you’re too late,’ he replied. ‘Go home and take your scarecrow with you. I’ll not fight him.’
‘Then retreat to your palace and fight your battles in bed; let Helen be the only Greek you bring down, piercing her with the one weapon you’ve still got the courage to wield.’ There was a ripple of laughter from the men on the battlements. ‘But leave your bow. Give it to someone worthy of calling himself a Trojan, someone brave enough to stand in your place. Perhaps Helenus, there? Or did the greatness of Troy die when Achilles slew your brother and dragged his body behind his chariot –’
‘Enough!’ Paris shouted, gripping the parapet. He turned to his brother. ‘Helenus, send for my armour and my bow. No man accuses me of cowardice; I’m going to kill Philoctetes, and then I’m going to put an arrow through Odysseus’s black heart, too.’
‘Wait!’ Helen ordered, staring at Helenus. She turned to Paris. ‘You’re a fool if you let Odysseus provoke you into this nonsense. Why don’t you stop thinking of Troy and filling Hector’s place, and think of me instead – of us! I love you, Paris. Did you drag me halfway across the world and fight a war for ten years just to gamble everything we’ve built for this? For an accusation of cowardice, when you know you’re the bravest man in Troy. In Aphrodite’s name, won’t you think about what you’re doing?’
Paris looked into her blue eyes for a moment, then turned to his brother.
‘You decide, Helenus. If I fight this man, will I win or lose?’
Helenus frowned. ‘I don’t understand –’
‘You have the gift of prophecy, don’t you? You foresaw Penthesilea’s death, and the fall of Achilles. The priests talk of you with awe; they say Apollo has blessed you greatly. So tell me, will I be victorious or not? If you say yes, I will fight; if no then I will remain here with Helen and let the wind blow this straw man back to the Greek camp.’
Helenus looked at his sister-in-law and she saw his eyes fall briefly to her breasts, doubtless savouring the impression of her nipples beneath the thin white cloth. She could sense his strong desire for her in that moment, a desire she knew he had felt ever since he was a boy, before he could have understood the nature of his feelings for her. And it was then she noticed something darker than lust enter his expression, a realisation of the power that had just been given to him. With a nod to Paris, he closed his eyes and bowed his head in concentration. He stayed like that for a while, with all eyes upon him, then clapped his hand to his forehead and grimaced. Stifling a cry, he fell forward into Paris’s arms.
‘What did you see?’ Paris urged, gently shaking Helenus’s shoulder. ‘Did you see me shoot Philoctetes? Is that it?’
‘No,’ Helenus groaned, looking groggily up at his brother. ‘But I did see you holding the bow of Heracles above your head, with the straw man lying at your feet.’
‘Then I will be victorious!’ Paris smiled, triumphantly. ‘Guard! Go fetch my bow and arrows.’
‘And your armour, my lord?’
‘Just my weapons.’
Helen watched the soldier run down the stone steps and up the main road towards the citadel of Pergamos. She did not trust Helenus or his vision and it was with a quickening heart that she turned to Paris. The light of the morning sun was resting fully on the city now, drawing the people out of their houses and casting long shadows behind the soldiers on the battlements. Paris was looking at her, but as their eyes met his gaze wavered guiltily for a moment before he could force himself to resist her accusative stare. Then his rugged face with its familiar scar broke into a smile.
‘Don’t worry,’ he reassured her. ‘Helenus has foreseen my victory. This will be over in moments.’
‘Helenus is just a boy whose ambitions outstrip his abilities,’ she countered. ‘But you are a warrior, and the last hope of Troy rests on your shoulders. You don’t have to fight this man, Paris.’
‘I do, and the reason I have to fight him is precisely because the hopes of Troy rest on me. There are enough witnesses here to let the whole army know I backed down from an open challenge, even after Helenus predicted my victory. I would lose my authority, and in an army authority is everything.’
He placed his arms about Helen and drew her into an embrace. The muscles of his chest and stomach were firm beneath his tunic and yielded little to her touch, making her feel like a child.
‘What about us?’ she asked. ‘This whole war has been about us, our love for each other. Thousands dead and maimed, thousands more widowed and orphaned. If you die it will all have been for nothing.’
Paris gave a half-laugh and stroked her hair as she lay her head on his chest.
‘The war was never about us, Helen. It was about power and greed and honour and hate. We’re just symbols for all the rest of them to hide behind. We’re unimportant, really.’
‘But you’re everything to me, Paris. If you die, I don’t want to live. I love you.’
She looked up at him but was distracted by a noise on the steps. The guard had returned and now stood awkwardly a short distance away, Paris’s bow and quiver of arrows held in his hands. Paris loosened his hold on Helen and stepped back from her.
‘I love you, too,’ he said.
Then he took the weapons from the soldier and descended the steps to the gate.
‘There’s your new home,’ Halitherses said. ‘At least for the foreseeable future.’
The old man sat on his tired horse and looked down at the city of Sparta, a flash of white halfway across the wide plains of the Eurotas valley. Telemachu
s was beside him, sitting astride his pony with his hand held across his forehead to shield his eyes from the sun.
‘It’s big.’
‘Of course it’s big. Do you think a powerful king like Menelaus would rule over a little backwater like Ithaca?’
Telemachus turned his green eyes on his ageing guardian.
‘Ithaca may be a backwater, but it’s home and one day I’ll be its king.’
‘Let’s hope so, lad. Let’s hope so.’
Halitherses smiled down at the young boy. He had his mother’s good looks and would inherit her height too, in time. His facial expressions and way of speaking, though, were reminiscent of Odysseus. It seemed strange to the old soldier that Telemachus’s mannerisms should be so like those of the father he had never known, and yet it was also a comfort in dark times. To have a physical reminder of the absent king kept Halitherses hopeful that Odysseus would one day return.
He looked back at the valley stretched out below them. From the heights of the pass that had led them through the Taygetus Mountains they could see the River Eurotas sparkling in the distance as it wound its way from the great city southward to the coast. A thick heat haze shimmered over the farmlands on either side, but the distorted air could not hide the fact the crops were scanty and meagre, a patchwork of swaying stalks that held no comparison to the oceans of corn and barley Halitherses had witnessed here twenty years before. The little farmsteads that dotted the plain were ramshackle and in some cases deserted, while the city itself had lost its golden lustre, if not its size. It was typical of all he had observed on the journey from Ithaca. The whole Peloponnese had grown dull and shabby without the governance and protection of its kings, like a once-beautiful house that had fallen into disrepair. Its inhabitants had become suspicious and unfriendly, while here and there migrants had begun to drift down from the lands north of Greece, resented but not resisted as they built their homes and communities in a country that was not their own. Everything was in decline, and Halitherses doubted even the return of the armies from Troy could reverse the decay that had set in.
‘Come on then, lad,’ the old man said, touching his heels to the flanks of his mount. ‘There’s still a long way to go, and I want to get there before nightfall. The gods have kept us safe so far, but I don’t want to spend another night in the open if it can be avoided.’
‘Halitherses?’
Halitherses turned to see Telemachus had not moved.
‘What is it, lad?’
‘Is my mother safe?’
‘Of course she is,’ the old man answered, trying to disguise his hesitation. ‘Her enemies are becoming more powerful, and they want your father’s throne – I’ve never kept that a secret from you – but they know they can’t get it without Penelope. She’s the key and they need her alive, or I wouldn’t have left Ithaca. And she’s more than clever enough to handle Eupeithes until your father returns.’
Telemachus frowned and looked down at the ears of his pony, twitching randomly in the faint mountain breeze.
‘What if my father never returns?’
Halitherses turned back and laid his large, sun-browned hand on the boy’s head.
‘Don’t worry about that, lad. Ithaca’s like a lodestone to Odysseus. He’ll come home again one day. I promise you.’
‘I wish I had your confidence in him,’ Telemachus said, then kicked back his heels and sent his mount trotting in the direction of Sparta.
Halitherses watched him thoughtfully, then, with a click of his tongue, urged his horse forward to catch up with his young charge.
Odysseus saw Helen appear at the battlements, her perfect face stricken with concern. A moment later he heard the squeal of wooden hinges as the Scaean Gate swung open. The movement raised a thin haze of dust, through which the figure of a man could be seen striding towards them.
‘He’s fallen for it,’ Odysseus said.
Philoctetes shifted nervously and Eperitus placed a hand on his bony shoulder.
‘Don’t be concerned,’ he reassured him. ‘You have Heracles’s bow and arrows that never miss. This is why the gods gave them to you. It’s time to fulfil your destiny.’
Philoctetes nodded but did not speak. Still in the shadow of the walls, Paris was removing the arrows from his quiver and pushing them point-down into the soil by his feet. When a dozen had been planted he tossed the heavy quiver to one side and stood with his legs apart. Helen sobbed quietly on the walls above, while all along the parapet a crowd of soldiers and townsfolk were gathering to watch the duel.
Philoctetes began pulling the arrows from his own quiver and setting them in the ground to his left. After the sixth he handed the leather tube to Odysseus, who replaced the lid and slipped it over his shoulder. There was a tension in the air that reminded him of the nervousness he felt before every battle, but was made oddly more acute by the knowledge he would not be fighting and could, therefore, do nothing to influence the outcome. The thought made him suddenly uncomfortable. The conclusion of the war had been compressed into a single action, to be decided between just two men. If Philoctetes failed, then the siege would drag on and it would be more long years before Odysseus saw Ithaca and his family again; if he succeeded in killing Paris, another barrier would be removed and the prospect of going home would come a little closer. But at that moment, there was little else Odysseus could do to sway his own destiny.
He slipped the thin, grubby scarf from about his neck and looked at Philoctetes.
‘Are you ready?’
The archer, tight-lipped and slightly pale, nodded. Odysseus glanced at Eperitus, who moved out wide to his right. When he was well beyond the range of even the wildest shot, the king turned and walked out to the midpoint between the two opponents. He glanced at Paris, who took a deep breath, exhaled and gave a curt nod. Odysseus stepped back a few paces then held up his hand and let the scarf dangle from his fingertips.
‘No arrows to be fitted before my signal,’ he declared. ‘When the scarf touches the ground – and not before – you will fit your arrows, aim and fire. After the first missile, you can continue shooting until either you or your opponent is dead or mortally wounded. There will be no other bloodshed, whatever the outcome,’ he added in the Trojan tongue, staring up at the walls where several archers had appeared.
Paris waved them back and they melted into the crowd. His eyes moved to Helen, lingered on her tear-stained beauty for a heartbeat, then returned to Philoctetes. Despite the cool morning breeze, beads of sweat stood out on both men’s foreheads. Their eyes squinted, reluctant to blink as the moment approached. Then Odysseus raised his hand a fraction and, suddenly, the scarf was falling.
It fluttered down onto the grass and the two men reached for their arrows. Philoctetes’s fingertips grasped clumsily at one of the flights and knocked the missile to the ground. He went for a second, but Paris had already seized his first and was fitting it to his bow. He fumbled slightly, causing the crowd to gasp as he almost dropped the arrow; then he was pulling the string back to his cheek and taking aim. Philoctetes plucked up an arrow, just as Paris’s missile whipped across his jaw and drew a red line through the flesh. He blinked with shock and Odysseus felt his heart thundering within his chest, wondering whether Philoctetes would falter and panic. Then the archer’s instincts took over. He fitted the arrow and pulled back the string.
‘Aim for the body,’ Eperitus shouted, forgetting that the arrows of Heracles were magical and could not miss.
Philoctetes’s hand rested against his bloody cheek. He closed his left eye and looked down the shaft at Paris, who was already fitting his second arrow. Philoctetes snatched half a breath, steadied his aim and fired.
The point hit Paris between the second and third fingers of his left hand, the bronze tip driving through the tendons and bones until it emerged spitting blood and flesh from the back of his wrist. Paris’s bow dropped to the floor as he lifted his hand above his head and cried out in pain. The crowd on the battlements shout
ed out in horror, but by this time Philoctetes’s second arrow was racing towards its target. It entered Paris’s right eye and the force of the impact spun him around so that his screams echoed back at him from the walls that he had fought so hard to defend. A third arrow then tore into his ankle, as if in cruel mockery of the shot with which Paris had claimed the life of Achilles a few weeks before. It knocked his leg from beneath him and brought him crashing to the ground, where he gnawed at the dust in his agony. Philoctetes had already fitted a fourth arrow to the giant bow and, when Paris began to claw at the earth in an effort to pull himself towards the Scaean Gate, raised the weapon to his cheek once more and took aim. But before he could release the string, Odysseus appeared beside him and pushed his arm down so that the arrow thumped into the ground at his feet.
‘Enough!’ the king exclaimed. ‘Damn it, Philoctetes, you could have killed her.’
They looked over to the shadow of the gates, where the radiant white figure of Helen had run out to be with her dying husband. She knelt beside him, cradling his head in her lap and hiding his disfigured face behind a veil of her black hair. Her shoulders shook and they could only imagine the tears she was shedding over her lover, from whose eye one of Philoctetes’s arrows still protruded.
‘Enough then,’ Philoctetes agreed as Eperitus joined them. ‘Let him die in peace with his wife. I’ve done what the gods demanded of me. Let’s return to the camp.’
BOOK
TWO
Chapter Ten