The Oracles of Troy (The Adventures of Odysseus)

by Iliffe, Glyn

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  INSIDE THE PALACE

  Aeneas’s eyes flickered open. He lifted his head slowly from the table, where it had been laying in the crook of his arm, and squinted out at the dark, still market square. Sleeping bodies lay here and there amid the wreckage of overturned benches, empty wineskins and broken kraters. Nothing moved and the only noise was the sound of mingled snores drifting up into the night air. And yet something had woken him; some deeper instinct was warning him that things were not as they should be. Having long ago learned to listen to his intuitions, he forced himself to sit up and feel for his sword. There were many who had left their weapons behind, refusing to bring them to a celebration marking the end of the siege, but his hung reassuringly at his side.

  He lifted his legs over the bench and got up. Steadying himself against the table, he fought the thumping of the wine inside his head and took a second look around. Everything was quiet, calm, peaceful, as if the war had happened a generation ago and they had merely been commemorating it. Then his gaze fell on the wooden horse, standing tall and menacing in the centre of the square. Here, Aeneas sensed, was the source of his disquiet. It stood up to its hocks in garlands, which the womenfolk had plucked from the meadows around the Scamander. Offerings of food, too, had been piled all around it in honour of Athena and the other gods who had brought victory so unexpectedly to Troy. The horse had not moved; it had not changed; and in the darkness he almost missed the small detail that was to save his life. But something lifted his eyes to the Greek characters inscribed in its flank, and it was then he noticed some of the letters were missing. No, not missing – they had been blacked out. Aeneas blinked and took a few paces towards the giant effigy. And then he saw that the letters were not blacked out, but that a piece of the horse’s side had been removed, revealing a dark interior from which a ladder of knotted rope was dangling.

  Aeneas felt his flesh go cold. His eyes widened and his fingers closed tightly around the hilt of his sword. Now he understood and the truth filled him with sudden, overwhelming terror. The horse had contained men – who and how many, he could not guess – and those men would soon be opening the city gates for the rest of the Greek army, which would have sailed into the bay under cover of darkness. In an instant the whole plan was clear before him. Zeus had weighed the Greeks and Trojans in his scales and they had come down in favour of the Greeks.

  The sound of raised voices drifted up from the Scaean Gate. He turned to face them, feeling his heart race in his chest. Then he heard a scream and knew there was nothing he could do now to save Troy from its fate. In the brief space of time that followed, he sifted the options that were open to him and understood what he had to do. He looked down at the figures lying around him and kicked one of them awake. The soldier stirred, reluctantly, then grabbed at the foot that was beating against his ribs.

  ‘What do you think you’re –?’

  ‘Shut up, man. The Greeks have returned: they’re in the city now. Wake as many warriors as you can and find whatever weapons are to hand. Do you understand?’

  The man frowned, rubbing his eyes and cheeks, then gave a nod.

  ‘Where are you going?’ he called after Aeneas as he ran towards Pergamos.

  Aeneas ignored him. He had thought of heading to the palace and warning Priam and Deiphobus, but the Greeks were certain to have sent men to take the citadel gates and guard them. And that left him only one choice, the choice that his heart would have chosen anyway. His father, his wife and his infant son were staying in the home of Antenor, the elder, and his wife Theano, the priestess of Athena. Troy was lost, but Aeneas could still save his family.

  Odysseus and Eperitus ran through the archway and into Pergamos.

  ‘Menelaus, wait!’

  ‘Go back,’ the Spartan answered. ‘My mind’s made up.’

  He had reached the foot of the broad ramp that led up to the next tier of the citadel, but despite his words seemed reluctant to go any further. His sword hung idly from his hand and he was staring up at the poplars that lined the road ahead as if they were giant sentinels, threatening to attack if he placed even one foot on the neatly laid cobbles.

  ‘Ours’ too. We’ve decided to come with you.’

  Menelaus turned to face the Ithacan king.

  ‘I don’t need your help, Odysseus.’

  ‘Yes you do. I know where Helen’s quarters are and unless I show you the way you’ll waste valuable time searching the palace to find her. Right now, Agamemnon and the rest of the army are streaming in through the Scaean Gate. Soon the sounds of battle are going to carry up here and alert the royal guard that something’s wrong. And unless you find her straight away, Deiphobus is going to put Helen in his chariot and take her away to safety.’

  As he finished speaking, a distant shout of alarm rose into the air and was cut short. Menelaus threw an anxious glance up the ramp, then turned to Odysseus.

  ‘Very well, come with me, but don’t try to get in the way when I find my wife, or I swear by all the gods you’ll regret it.’

  Odysseus turned to Eperitus, placing his hands on his upper arms.

  ‘And now our paths must diverge, old friend. The night will be dangerous and bloody and I wish we could face it together, but the gods have set us different tasks to complete. My way lies with Menelaus, but you have to find Astynome and keep her safe. And if you can, you must face your father.’

  ‘My place is to guard you.’

  ‘I can look after myself well enough, and unless you’d rather I relieve you as captain of my guard then you’d better start obeying my orders. But I promise you this, Eperitus: somewhere beyond the fire and smoke, when Troy’s in ruin and her streets are piled high with the dead, we’ll meet again. Now, go and save the woman you love.’

  The two men embraced, then Eperitus turned and ran into one of the side streets, where he was instantly absorbed by the dense shadows.

  ‘Come on then,’ Menelaus snarled, impatiently.

  A breath of wind brought with it the faint clatter of bronze from the lower city, accompanied by the dull murmuring of angry voices contending with each other. Driven by a renewed urgency, Odysseus and Menelaus sprinted up the ramp to the second tier of Pergamos. An awe-inspiring press of two and three-storeyed mansions loomed out of the darkness on every side, but there was no time to admire the great buildings that had stood for so long and were now doomed for destruction. They ran on towards the second ramp, where the temple of Zeus lay to their right and the equally impressive temple of Athena to their left. Odysseus felt a pang of regret and doubt as he recalled his recent encounter there with the goddess.

  ‘Who’s that?’ demanded a voice ahead of them.

  Odysseus had almost forgotten the guards who kept a constant vigil at the foot of the ramp that led up to the palace courtyard. Fortunately, Menelaus was not so slow.

  ‘The Greeks have entered the city!’ he answered without halting. ‘We need to warn the king.’

  Four soldiers appeared from the shadows, fully armed and alert. They looked at each other in confusion, too shocked by the news to consider that the men running towards them might be enemies. By the time they saw Menelaus and Odysseus raising their swords, it was too late. Menelaus plunged his weapon into his first victim’s chest, the sharpened point forcing its way through his scaled armour and finding his heart. Odysseus’s sword skimmed over the second man’s shoulder and sliced through his throat, toppling him backwards as he clasped both hands about the fatal wound. The remaining warriors fumbled for their spears, but were not quick enough. One fell headless to the cobblestones, while the other folded over the point of Odysseus’s blade. It took a matter of moments for the attackers to ensure the guards were dead before continuing up the ramp to the third tier.

  The wide courtyard before them was empty, but Odysseus placed an arresting hand on Menelaus’s chest while he scoured the shadows beneath the palace walls for more guards. Behind them, the clamour of destruction from t
he lower city was growing and here and there the low clouds were beginning to glow orange as one house after another was put to the torch.

  ‘There’s not much time,’ Menelaus said, staring back over his shoulder. ‘We need to find my wife now.’

  ‘There’s a servants’ entrance over on the left,’ Odysseus replied, pointing away from the high muralled walls of the main palace to an unadorned, single-storeyed wing set back from the rest of the building. ‘I can find my way to her quarters once we’re inside.’

  He ran across the broad courtyard, kicking up spumes of the soft earth as he went. Menelaus followed close on his heels and together they reached the shadow of the building just as the main doors of the palace swung open and a handful of armed men came running out. They stopped sharply and began speaking in hurried voices, pointing to the orange clouds above the lower city.

  ‘That’s Deiphobus,’ Menelaus hissed, gripping his sword and taking a step toward the courtyard.

  Odysseus pulled him back.

  ‘There’ll be time to deal with him later, but while he’s distracted we should find Helen and take her to safety.’

  Hugging the shadows, they reached the servant’s entrance and pushed it open. Torches flickered in the passageway beyond, but there was no-one to be seen. Knowing time was slipping away from them, Odysseus led a weaving path through the narrow corridors of the building, passing open doorways that gave fleeting hints at their contents: a pungent whiff of root vegetables and herbs; the reek of fish; a heady scent of wine; the sweet aroma of bread. They entered a broader passage that angled to the right and soon led them to the foot of a flight of stairs. Odysseus took the steps three at a time, not caring who or what might be waiting above, and ran on through more deserted corridors where there were fewer torches and the smells coming from the open doors were of human bodies, accompanied by the sounds of snoring. They reached a door guarded by a sleeping sentinel, whose throat Menelaus paused to slice open with his sword before running on in Odysseus’s wake.

  Then they came to a turn in the passage that was bathed with the glow of newly lit torches. Odysseus crouched low and signalled for Menelaus to do the same.

  ‘Is her bedroom near?’ Menelaus whispered.

  ‘Just around this corner. But listen, someone’s speaking; if Helen’s there, she’s not alone.’

  At that moment, a door opened and the muffled voices became clear.

  ‘I don’t know if it’s the whole Greek army, but we can’t take any risks. We heard the fighting and saw the flames from the courtyard, so I’m going to take you somewhere safe before it’s too late.’

  ‘Deiphobus!’ Menelaus hissed.

  Before Odysseus could stop him, the Spartan king had pulled the shield from his back and was running around the corner. Odysseus swore and followed as quickly as he could, almost colliding with Menelaus as he turned into the broad, well-lit corridor. Just a few paces away, standing before the open door to Helen’s bedroom, were Deiphobus, two of Helen’s maids and two members of the royal guard. Their faces wore looks of astonishment as they gaped at the two gore-spattered Greeks. For a heartbeat Menelaus and Odysseus stared back at them in silence, hesitating at the unexpected sight of the armed warriors. Into this moment of anxious stillness stepped Helen, dressed in a gauzy white chiton with her black hair tied up behind her head, as if she had not yet been to bed. She carried a black cloak over her arm, which slipped to the floor as she set eyes upon her first husband.

  ‘Menelaus,’ she said, barely breathing his name.

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  HELEN AND MENELAUS

  Get back!’ Deiphobus ordered, snapping to his senses and pushing Helen into the bedroom. ‘You two, do your duty!’

  The guardsmen lowered the points of their spears and advanced side by side down the corridor. Behind them, the maids screamed and ran after Deiphobus, only to have the door slammed shut in their faces. They turned and fled, just as Menelaus knocked aside one of the spear points with his shield and stepped inside the guard of its owner, sinking his sword into the man’s unprotected groin. He cried out in agony and lurched sideways into the second Trojan, who tried to push him away with his elbow. Seeing his chance, Odysseus rushed forward and lunged at him. He stepped back to avoid the point of Odysseus’s sword, but caught his heel on his dying comrade and fell in a heap. Odysseus finished him quickly.

  ‘Come on!’ Menelaus called, leaping over their fallen enemies.

  He kicked open the door and crashed into the bedroom. Odysseus followed, his heart pounding hard against his chest. In the centre of the room was a large bed. White curtains billowed inward from a window behind it, ushering in the savoury whiff of smoke and the pink glow of fire from the lower city. On the other side of the bed was Deiphobus with Helen held firmly in his arms. Two more of Helen’s maids stood in an open doorway at the back of the wide chamber – which Odysseus knew led to Helen’s bathroom – their beautiful faces blighted by terror. But these details were of little concern compared to the four other guardsmen whom Deiphobus had brought with him to escort his wife to safety, and who were standing ready with their spears gripped tightly in both hands and their shields on their arms.

  Menelaus stared at Helen, his face an angry mask that hid emotions Odysseus could only guess at. Helen looked back at him, almost too afraid to hold his gaze but also conscious that to look away would be an admission of guilt before her avenging husband. She must have known that Menelaus’s sudden appearance inside the palace meant a Greek victory, and that whatever happened now her life was balanced on the edge of his blade. Belatedly, she began to struggle against Deiphobus’s grip, sending looks of helpless longing toward her first husband and trying to ignore the knowing presence of Odysseus.

  Deiphobus nodded at his guards. Cautiously they edged forward, searching with experienced eyes for a gap that would invite the points of their spears into a killing thrust. But Menelaus and Odysseus were too battle-hardened to make foolish mistakes and braced themselves for their own chance to strike and kill. Odysseus risked opening his shield a little and was rewarded with a premature lunge from one of his opponents. He stepped aside so that the spear passed between his body and his shield, then hacked down with his blade to hew off the Trojan’s left hand. The man’s weapon fell with a clatter and he stepped back, holding the stump of his wrist into his armpit. His companion knocked him to one side with his shoulder and ran shouting at Odysseus, who stepped away and lashed out with the rim of his shield, forcing the man to duck and turn with his back to the door.

  Menelaus quickly tired of his enemies’ probing jabs and with a bellow of rage leapt at them. One spear point caught fast in his shield, almost pushing him into the path of the second weapon, which glanced off his ribcage but failed to penetrate the armour. In his fury, the Spartan slashed at the face of his first foe and felled him, before turning on his heel and sweeping the other man’s head from his shoulders. Seeing this, Odysseus’s remaining opponent tossed his spear aside and fled through the open doorway.

  The Greeks now turned back to face Deiphobus and Helen. The remaining soldier, still clutching his maimed limb, staggered across the beautifully adorned bedroom, splashing the animal pelts that lined the floor with large drops of blood. He lurched towards the window in his confusion and fell unconscious at Helen’s feet. Deiphobus released his wife – who knelt down beside the fallen soldier – and stepped forward, drawing his sword as he advanced.

  ‘Stay back, Odysseus,’ Menelaus warned. ‘This one dies by my hand and mine alone.’

  ‘You’ll not find me as easy as the others,’ Deiphobus responded in Greek.

  Menelaus’s lips curled back in a snarl, tinged with joy at the prospect of killing Helen’s latest husband. Then, as Deiphobus prepared to fight, Helen stood up and closed behind him. The Trojan prince stiffened and thrust out his chest, his face suddenly strained. A line of blood appeared at the corner of his mouth, then with a choke burst out over his chin.

  Ody
sseus had seen Helen draw the sword from the fallen guard’s belt, but only guessed her intentions at the last moment, springing forward with his palm held out in an arresting motion. His warrior’s sensibilities, so brutalised after ten years of war, told him it was not right for one so beautiful, so outwardly pure as Helen to sink to the level of murder. But he was too late. As Deiphobus slipped to the floor and rolled onto his back – as if to snatch a final glance at her face – the bloody weapon in her hand and the red stains on her white dress were evidence of her deed. Why though? Odysseus wondered. Out of revenge for a forced marriage? Or as a token of repentance before her returning husband, in the hope of saving her own life?

  Menelaus looked down at the lifeless form of Deiphobus, then at the woman who had killed him, the woman for whose sake so many men had died. Their eyes met and for a long moment there was no rage or bitterness in Menelaus’s gaze, only fascination as he reacquainted himself with the face he had once loved so well, and for which he had crossed the Aegean with the greatest fleet the world had ever seen. Helen looked back at the father of her children, a man who, as her husband, had only ever treated her with kindness and respect; a man she had never hated, and yet whom she had never loved. And to Odysseus’s shrewd mind the old familiarity between the two was still there, as if – for a brief space – the infidelity, war and years apart from each other had never happened. Then, as the Ithacan had expected, the recognition of those dividing forces stole into their gaze, reawakening their more immediate emotions and pulling them back to the present. For Helen, it was a flicker of guilt, followed by a more dominant fear – fear of the man she had betrayed, and who was no longer separated from her by the walls, armies and princes of Troy. For Menelaus, seeing her shame and her fear brought his righteous anger rushing back. Tears rolled in rapid, heavy drops down his cheeks: tears he had never shed for the thousands who had suffered for the sake of his love, but which came forth now as he remembered the pain she had inflicted on him. And it was a pain that demanded retribution.