by Stephen Fry
The fever burned and burned and he cried out for Helen in his appalling agony. Helen would not come. Then he called to be taken to Mount Ida.
‘Oenone … my wife … only she can cure me. Take me to her.’
Oenone saw him writhing on the litter, but her heart had hardened against him.
‘You betrayed me and you killed our son,’ she said. ‘You are not worthy to live and I will not lift a finger to save you.’
Paris was taken back down to Troy. After three more days of screaming and delirium, his unhappy soul finally left his tortured body.
The Greeks celebrated and few Trojans grieved. Priam and Hecuba led the mourning. Paris’s two oldest remaining brothers Deiphobus and Helenus dutifully laid small amounts of treasure on his pyre. Cassandra wailed. Helen kept to her rooms in the palace. Old Agelaus the herdsman came to say farewell to the baby he had left for dead on Mount Ida’s summit, the infant he had named and raised as his own, the happy boy who had been loved by all the people of the mountain, the honest, smiling young Paris so contented with life on the green slopes and a blessed marriage to the lovely Oenone. That sweet and silver Paris had long been replaced by something hard and spoiled, tarnished and mean. Aphrodite, Helen, status, treasure and show had turned his head and soured his heart. And now this pathetic end. If that she-bear had eaten the baby it found on the mountaintop instead of nursing it, how different the world would now have been.
But even as the flames leapt up around Paris’s corpse, Oenone pushed through the small knot of mourners and threw herself onto the pyre to be burned with him. Shallow, foolish and vain as Paris was, she had loved him with all her soul.
His death meant, of course, that Helen could by rights be released now and sent back to Sparta with all the treasure that had accompanied her, so bringing about an end to the war. But Deiphobus and Helenus had fallen completely under the spell of her beauty and would not think of letting her go. It was decided that Helen should marry one of them. She, naturally, had no say in the matter. Deiphobus used his seniority to win her and Helenus, stung and affronted, slunk from Troy and made his way to Mount Ida to nurse his wounded pride.
Odysseus, at the head of an Achaean raiding party on the hunt for sheep and cattle, found Helenus and brought him to Agamemnon’s camp. His bitterness against Deiphobus made him only too eager to tell the Greeks everything he knew.
‘If you really want to break Trojans’ hearts,’ he said, ‘you should find your way into the city – there’s a secret entrance I can describe to you. One or two men might be able to pass through it unchallenged, so long as they look harmless. They should go to the temple of Athena and steal the wooden idol we call the Palladium. The Luck of Troy. It fell from heaven at the feet of my great-great-grandfather. While it remains within the city walls Troy cannot fall.’
Agamemnon looked across at Odysseus, who shrugged his shoulders with mock resignation. ‘Come on, Diomedes,’ he said. ‘It seems we’re needed again.’
THE LUCK OF TROY
That very night, cloaked and hooded in filthy rags, Odysseus and Diomedes made their way across the plain and towards the rear of the city. As instructed by Helenus, they found the secret door and – after hiding their swords in the tangle of weeds and long grass at the base of the outer wall – slipped through and made their way along the dark alleyways. Their beggars’ disguises ensured that they were not bothered, save on one occasion by stones thrown at them by a group of children.
‘You stink!’
Odysseus had insisted they smear horse dung on themselves ‘for that authentic perfume of beggar’.
Helenus’s careful directions flew out of Diomedes’ head as soon as they entered the mazy network of lanes and dank passages. He hoped that Odysseus was not so baffled.
‘Where are we?’
‘We should be more or less behind the palace.’
‘Should? More or less?’
‘As long as the moon is above and to our right, we –’
‘Tss! There’s someone coming!’
Diomedes pulled Odysseus into a doorway as the figure of a woman approached. As she came closer she passed through a shaft of moonlight for just one fleeting second. It was enough. Odysseus stepped out. The woman stopped and stared.
‘Odysseus? By all the gods, Odysseus?’
‘A fine evening, Helen.’
Diomedes emerged and stared at Helen, open-mouthed with astonishment. She stared back, equally amazed.
‘Diomedes too? Is this it? The moment?’ She looked about her. ‘Is the whole Achaean army in the city? Is my husband here? Is Menelaus here?’
Odysseus put a finger to his lips and pulled her into the shadows. A group of drunken soldiers passed close by, singing loudly.
‘Just us,’ Odysseus whispered. ‘We’re here to steal the Palladium.’
‘Only we’re lost,’ added Diomedes.
‘Will you be Ariadne to my Theseus,’ said Odysseus, ‘and teach me how to negotiate this labyrinth?’
Helen’s sense of humour got the better of her and she broke into a peal of laughter. ‘The Palladium? Is this what Agamemnon’s mighty war has come to?’
‘It’s not a joke,’ said Diomedes. ‘Helenus told us that without the Palladium Troy will be doomed to fall.’
‘Well, that’s certainly what they believe,’ Helen said. ‘I’ll help you. This way.’
She led them around corners, across courtyards and over rickety wooden bridges until they came to a great square, on one side of which a grand sweep of marble steps led up to a coloured frontage of painted columns.
‘The temple of Athena,’ whispered Helen. ‘The Palladium is inside.’
Odysseus and Diomedes entered the temple and Helen stood guard outside. There was silence all around. No one passed by. The sight of two such close friends from her old life had come as an extraordinary shock to her. So sudden, so entirely unexpected. It was like a dream. But a dream that had awoken her from a reality that was far more illusory. Any last hold that Aphrodite had ever had upon her was gone. Deiphobus revolted her and Troy meant nothing. She felt no ill will towards Priam and Hecuba, but she knew now with absolute certainty that all she wanted was to sail home with Menelaus to Sparta. If he would have her.
Odysseus and Diomedes emerged from the temple. Diomedes had taken off his cloak and used it to wrap up the Palladium.
‘It’s so small,’ he said, tucking the package under his arm, ‘and so crudely carved.’
‘I know,’ said Helen. ‘Like all sacred and truly precious objects it is very plain. Only profane things are beautiful.’
Odysseus looked at Helen. The bitter self-reproach in that last remark had not escaped him.
‘The Atreides will be mightily pleased to hear how you helped us in this,’ he said.
‘Is Menelaus angry with me?’
‘Of course not. Be content. This will all soon be over.’
‘Tell him how unhappy I am. I am unhappy with Deiphobus, who is a pig, but I was unhappy with Paris too. Tell him that.’
Odysseus squeezed her hand. ‘He knows. Now, how in Hades do we get back to that secret door?’
‘But I’m coming with you!’ said Helen. ‘Wait while I fetch my son Nicostratus. We’ll come with you all the way to the Greek camp and that will be an end of everything!’
Odysseus and Diomedes looked at each other. Could it be as simple as that? They pictured the faces of Agamemnon and Menelaus when they arrived at the stockade escorting the prize of all prizes. Just then a voice rang out.
‘Princess Helen!’
They turned. A group of palace guards was approaching. Their captain hurried forward and bowed.
‘Prince Deiphobus has sent us in search of you, madam. Who are these men? Have they dared accost you?’
‘Athena looks kindly on those who look kindly on beggars,’ said Helen. ‘Now begone – off to where you came from,’ she said to Odysseus and Diomedes, raising her hand and pointing in the direction of one of the
five lanes that led out of the temple square.
Odysseus and Diomedes bent low and backed away from her, mumbling thanks.
‘And find a horse trough to wash in,’ she called after them. ‘You stink like Greeks.’
They ran and ran to the end of the lane. Odysseus looked up and around, found his bearings, and soon they were out of the secret door and scrabbling in the grass and weeds for their swords.
As they made their way back to the Greek encampment, the dark magic of the Palladium – or perhaps the dark magic of Odysseus’s devious ambition – took hold. A few steps behind Diomedes, he considered how much better it would be for him if he were to arrive at Agamemnon’s tent alone. He pictured himself dropping the Palladium casually onto the King of Men’s campaign table. ‘Yes, they came chasing out of the city after us. They got Diomedes in the back and ran off with the Palladium. I pursued, killed them and retrieved the thing. No, no, it’s nothing. Just wish I’d been able to save poor Diomedes. He was a good man and a dear friend.’
All in all, a flawless plan.
Odysseus breathed in, swallowed and advanced on Diomedes, sword raised. From the corner of his eye Diomedes saw the blade glitter in the moonlight. He turned in time to avoid the vicious downstroke.
The spell broke at once and Odysseus fell to his knees.
‘I thought you were my friend,’ said Diomedes.
‘It’s that thing!’ said Odysseus, pointing at the bundle under Diomedes’ arm. ‘It’s cursed.’
Diomedes grunted his agreement, but was careful to drive Odysseus forward with the tip of his own sword for the rest of their walk back to the Greek lines.fn64 Odysseus was, of course, smart enough to be the first to speak when they arrived. Out tumbled the story of his attempted attack on Diomedes. He told the tale in bewildered tones of wonder and horror as an example of the terrible power of the Palladium. It was decided at once that, rather than keep such an ill-omened object, they should take it to the shrine of Athena that stood in the foothills of Mount Ida, where a guard could be mounted to prevent the Trojans from reclaiming it.
‘It is enough that the damned thing has left the city,’ said Agamemnon, turning towards Calchas. ‘For now our victory is assured. Is that not the case, Calchas?’
Calchas raised his shoulders with a sweet smile. ‘So it is written, my lord. So it is written.’
‘Sometimes,’ said Odysseus, who knew he still had work to do to regain the trust of everyone around him, ‘sometimes what the gods write man must rewrite.’
‘Meaning?’ said Agamemnon.
‘Meaning, I’ve had an idea,’ said Odysseus. ‘And though I say so myself, it’s rather a good one. So good that I suspect Athena herself must have put it in my mind.’
Beware of Greeks …
DAWN
Every morning when Eos, sister to Helios the sun and Selene the moon, throws wide the pearl gates of her eastern palace, she prays that this new morning will light on a day of victory for Troy. Her husband, Priam’s brother Tithonus, had been a prince of the city. It was on the very sands on which the black ships of the Achaean invasion force have lain beached for ten years that she and that dazzling mortal beauty walked during the first days of their love. Their son Memnon had died bravely in battle fighting for the Trojan cause, cut down by cruel Achilles not far from the same shoreline. Eos hates the Greeks and wishes that she could withhold from them the beautifying flushes of coral and peach it is her fate to cast over the vile and the virtuous alike.
Every morning the blear-eyed guards on the ramparts of Troy are relieved by a fresh shift. Every morning the incoming captain asks the outgoing if anything worth reporting on has been observed overnight.
Every morning the answer has been the same.
Until this morning.
This morning, this morning of all mornings, is different.
Eos’s work is not yet done and the world is still in darkness when the relief sentries reach the top of the city walls. They are surprised to see the whole night-contingent crowded onto the edge of the battlements, staring out across the plain.
‘What is it? What can you see?’
‘Nothing!’ comes the reply.
‘Nothing?’
‘I mean nothing. Nothing.’
‘It’s still dark.’
‘We saw fires earlier. Huge fires, but they’ve gone out.’
The light is starting to leak into the sky and faint outlines are becoming visible. The act of staring and trying to make sense out of the slowly emerging shapes hurts the eyes. But every minute brings a little more definition.
‘Why can’t I see the silhouettes of the ships?’
‘What’s the hulking big shape?’
‘Wasn’t there before.’
Far to the east, dawn’s gates are fully open and faint streaks now flush across the sky above the city. Slowly, so slowly that it seems the senses are being fooled, an astounding truth is revealed.
The captain of the night guard rushes to the great bronze bell and swings the wooden beam to raise the alarm.
The Trojan citizenry are as well trained as the soldiery. At the sound of the great bell, the people begin to assemble at their agreed muster points. There is no screaming, no bucking and screaming like panicked horses, no freezing into immobility. Hector, who long ago laid down the procedures and drilled the people, would have been proud to see how orderly and unhurried they are at this moment, the first ringing of the bell.
Deiphobus and Cassandra are the first of the royal house to reach the ramparts. Priam himself arrives a little later, dishevelled and out of breath. The guard troops are still staring out and have to be jerked into attention by the marshals and heralds attending the royal party.
‘What is it?’ asks Priam. ‘An attack? Fire? Ladders?’
‘Come look, father!’ yells Deiphobus.
Priam is helped up to the highest point.
Below him the plain of Ilium stretches out. Ten years of war have pocked, pitted and torn up huge sections of the once fertile land. Priam raises his eyes. There is the River Scamander sparkling in the morning sun and beyond …
Priam blinks in disbelief and looks again.
There is nothing.
The Greek stockade has been taken down.
The whole encampment, huts, tents, palisades and all, burned.
He sees the strange hulking outline of something, but cannot make it out.
But the enemy ships have gone, every last one.
Priam is so used to the sight of them fringing the beach that their absence looks like a wound, a terrible scar. The shoreline is naked and exposed without them.
Priam stares and stares, struck dumb with astonishment and something else. Is it fear? He realizes what he is feeling is a small suspicion of a splinter of a shred of hope. Dare he hope? The very thought of hope fills him with fear. He has seen and suffered too much to trust hope.
He swings round towards Deiphobus.
‘They have … Where are they …?’
Deiphobus grins broadly and even dares clap the king on the shoulder. ‘They have gone home, father! The Greeks have gone home!’ He starts to dance around the dazed old man.
Priam pushes his son away and looks out across the plain again. He turns to his adviser and friend, Antenor.
‘What is that – there, that shape looming over the rubble by the shore? My old eyes can’t make it out. What can it be?’
Cassandra comes forward and tugs at her father’s robes, crying out, ‘It is death! Death!’
Antenor calls to the captain of the guard. ‘Send some men out to the Achaean encampment. Tell them to search thoroughly and report back.’
Priam speaks to the press of people who have gathered up on the battlements to share the sight.
‘It is very chilly up here,’ he says. ‘I think it would be a good idea if we all made our way down and had some breakfast while we await further news, yes?’
During breakfast Priam is outwardly calm. He tells Hecuba
that he cannot quite believe he is awake.
‘Is it possible? After all these years? That they would just leave?’
‘It is what we have prayed for, my love,’ says Hecuba. ‘Perhaps the gods have finally listened.’
‘Why now?’
‘Why not now? The gods know what this war has done to Troy. To us. You are a good man, Priam. Evil men have lived happier lives and never been forced to bury so many of their sons. Such injustice is an affront to everything. It has taken the gods a long time to set the scales down in our favour, but it is no less than we deserve.’
Just then a clamour in the passageway outside tells of the scouting party’s return. Their captain bursts in.
‘Majesty, they have gone! They truly have gone. Not a Greek left behind. Well, no sire, that is not quite true. There is … We came across …’
‘Get your breath back, young man,’ says Priam, ‘and tell us what you found at the Achaean camp.’
‘The Achaean camp is not a camp. Not any more. It is dug up, burnt, abandoned. We did find one man there. We left a guard on him because, as well as this one man, we found –’ The captain breaks off unable to suppress a great grin. ‘Sire, you will never guess what we found!’
‘Don’t play games with your king. Out with it, man!’ snaps Deiphobus. ‘Tell us in plain language what you found.’
‘In plain language, highness,’ says the captain, too euphoric to be brought up short by Deiphobus’s harsh tone, ‘we found … a horse.’
‘Well, I’m sure there’s nothing so very strange in that,’ says Hecuba.
‘But no!’ says the captain, unable to stop smiling. ‘This is a horse like you’ve never seen before. A horse’ – he points up at the ceiling – ‘a horse as high as this roof. A horse made of wood!’