Part 2 (1/2)

'Thanks,' Arceisius replied uncertainly, looking down at the man he had slain. There was a shadow of distaste in his expression a hint of doubt but as he sensed his captain's eyes upon him he looked up and forced a smile to his lips. 'Thanks, sir.'

None of the bandits remained standing and at a quick count Eperitus could see that all the Ithacans had survived, which did not surprise him given the fact they had enjoyed the advantage of spears and s.h.i.+elds against the swords of the Thessalians. Odysseus stood in the middle of the carnage, the gore running in rivulets down the shaft of his spear. He ignored the pleas of the wounded men around him; they had been given their chance to surrender and now the only mercy they would be shown was a dagger across the throat to quicken their pa.s.sing.

'You were late,' Eperitus called to him. 'That giant nearly killed me.'

Odysseus smiled c.o.c.kily. 'I was exactly on time. The fact you're still alive proves it.'

At that moment, Eurylochus came striding across the path to the point where the short bandit's body lay. He seized hold of his arrow, tugged it free from the dead man's chest and proceeded to wipe it clean on the corner of his cloak, but as he slid it back into the leather quiver that hung at his waist, Eperitus grabbed him by the chest and spun him around.

'What do you want?' Eurylochus asked indignantly.

'This!'

Eperitus drew back his fist and slammed it into Eurylochus's smug, round face. Blood exploded from his nostrils as the force of the blow sent him staggering backwards. He caught his heel on the corpse of the short bandit and fell in a heap, one hand clutching at his broken nose.

'What in Hades did you do that for?' he screamed in a thick voice, trying to stem the blood flow. The other Ithacans, who had been pilfering from the bodies of the Thessalians, stopped what they were doing and looked over.

'Because you deserved it, you oaf,' Eperitus answered angrily. 'What did you think you were doing when you fired that arrow? These men were about to give up, and if you'd held your d.a.m.ned nerve they'd still be alive now.'

There was a murmur of agreement from the others.

'Odysseus!' Eurylochus whined, stretching a pleading hand towards the king. 'You saw what he did. I demand you . . .'

'Just shut up, Eurylochus,' Antiphus hissed.

Odysseus held up a hand and an immediate silence fell. 'Step back, Eperitus,' he said. 'You've made your feelings known now let him be. As for you, cousin, you can count yourself fortunate no Ithacans died here. If they had I'd have held you responsible. Now, get back to the camp and tell Eurybates we'll be returning as soon as we've buried these men.'

Eurylochus struggled to his feet, still holding his nose.

'You'll pay for this, Eperitus,' he said, spitting blood on the ground at his feet, before turning on his heel and stumbling down the path.

'I know what you're going to say,' Odysseus said, holding his hands up to Eperitus. The authority he had shown a moment before was gone and they were just friends again. 'You warned me he'd put us in danger. I know.'

Eperitus shook his head in mock disapproval, then broke into a smile. 'Well, at least we're unharmed.'

As he spoke, one of the corpses sat up. The Ithacans stepped back in shock and stared at the ma.s.sive, naked figure of Polites, rubbing the large bruise on his forehead and looking about in confusion. As soon as his eyes fell on Eperitus, though, his expression changed to sudden fury and he struggled to his knees. In a quick movement, Antiphus slipped the bow from his shoulder and fitted an arrow, aiming it straight at the broad chest of the Thessalian.

'Don't shoot!' Odysseus ordered, stepping between them and holding up his hands. He turned to Polites and met his angry stare. 'Look about you. The battle's over and your comrades are dead. I offered them their lives, but the stubborn fools chose to fight.'

Polites stared at the bodies of the other bandits, then at the armed men standing all around him. His puzzlement was clear, but eventually he understood what had happened. He stared up at Odysseus, his eyes dark and bitter.

'Perhaps you intend to kill me too,' he said in his deep, slow voice.

'I shall neither kill you nor banish you,' the king announced. 'You were a soldier once, but now you've fallen on hard times and have turned to less honourable means to feed yourself. Am I right?'

Polites lowered his proud eyes to the ground. 'Yes,' he answered, simply.

'Then I will give you a chance to restore your dignity and take up your former profession again. We could do with another experienced warrior especially one of your size and power. If you'll take an oath of fealty, you can join my guard under Eperitus's captaincy.'

Odysseus indicated the man who, a short while before, Polites had tried to kill with his bare hands. Polites looked at Eperitus, who met his stare and nodded amicably. After all, he thought, Odysseus was right: what captain would not want a warrior of Polites's ma.s.sive build and brute strength under his command?

'That would be an honour,' Polites said.

Then the king stepped forward and offered him his hand. After a moment's pause, the Thessalian took it.

Chapter Four.

APHEIDAS'S REVENGE 'Shush now,' Paris said gently, stroking the broad neck of the excited mare. She pressed her nostrils against his shoulder and blew warm, horse-smelling breath over his skin. 'Be still. You'll get your breakfast and exercise soon enough.'

He withdrew from the affectionate rubbing of the animal's lips and gestured for the youngest of the three grooms, who were watching him with fascination, to join him.

'Even in Troy it's said Spartans are the best horse-breeders in Greece,' he announced, making the boy grin with pride. 'But this girl's special, even by your country's standards. What's her name, lad?'

'Lipse, my lord. After the wind G.o.ddess.'

'A good name,' Paris nodded. 'But if you want her to live up to it, you need to feed her better. Put more corn in her food and give her plenty of treats my own horse likes grapes. Most importantly, you need to exercise her on the plains, not here in the palace courtyard. She needs her freedom, even if it's only for a short while every day. Give her that and you'll soon see the sort of horse she can really become.'

He gave the groom's shoulder a squeeze, before leaning over and offering the palm of his hand to the pure-black mare. She nudged it gently with her soft nose.

'Sir?' said one of the other grooms tentatively. 'Sir, how do you make the animals love you so much?'

'Make them?' Paris replied, arching his eyebrows slightly and shaking his head. 'No man can make a creature love him he must earn its love through kindness and trust.'

'But you've only been here a few moments, sir, and already the horses act as if they've known you all their lives.'

Paris lowered himself onto his haunches and beckoned the boys to come closer. 'I can see there's no fooling you three,' he conceded, looking into their eyes as they sat before him. 'Well, I'll tell you my secret, but you're not to share it with anyone, do you understand?'

They nodded eagerly, and with a conspiratorial glance over his shoulder, Paris began the strange tale of his childhood. On the day he was born, he told them, a prophecy decreed that he would bring about the ruin of Troy. Though loath to kill his own child, King Priam was eventually persuaded to give the task to his chief herdsman. But Agelaus did not have the heart to run the baby through or drown him, so he abandoned him to his fate on the foothills of Mount Ida. When, five days later, he found the baby still alive and being suckled by a she-bear, Agelaus decided to bring him up as his own. Whether it was something in the beast's milk, or simply a gift of the G.o.ds, Paris grew up with the ability to gain the trust of any creature. The sheep in his flocks loved him dearly and followed him everywhere, and no wolf, lion or other wild beast would ever attack them so long as Paris was nearby. This same skill gave him the ability to train fighting bulls, for which he became famous throughout Ilium. When Priam himself ordered Paris to bring his best bull to sacrifice at Troy, the boy's n.o.bility was impossible to disguise and Agelaus was forced to confess that Paris was the king's son. Having been wracked by guilt ever since ordering the infant's death, Priam ignored the old prophecy and welcomed Paris back into his family. He was made a prince, second only to Hector, the king's eldest son.

'But I've never lost the power to win the love of wild creatures,' Paris concluded, standing and smiling at the enthralled grooms. 'Be they horses, wolves, or even the birds of the air. I must go now, but I promise you I'll come again. And don't forget what I said about Lipse.'

He turned and walked further along the lines of restless horses. Every animal in Menelaus's stable was alert to his presence, each one pressing up against the wooden bars of the pens as he walked by. The rich odour of straw and dung filled his senses and reminded him of Troy, but his ever-present longing for his homeland was tempered by an unexpected reluctance to leave Sparta. It was now the third day since his arrival, and though he had no love for the austere city and its hostile people, their queen had cast a spell over him that had thrown his thoughts and emotions into turmoil. One flash of Helen's blue eyes had filled him with a madness that had cut into his very soul, disturbing his once peaceful conscience and threatening to rob him of his self-control. He had lain awake all night after the feast during which he had eaten very little thinking of Helen, seeing her face in the corners of his mind and recalling the look she had given him as she had left the great hall, a look that seemed filled with a longing to match his own. Was it possible that such a G.o.dlike woman could set her heart upon a hardened warrior like himself? The thought chased away all prospect of sleep and he had risen before dawn to roam the palace corridors in the hope of encountering her.

But he saw neither Helen nor Menelaus for the whole of that day, and to his disappointment only the king was present at the feast that evening. Menelaus apologized for his lack of hospitality during the day, as he was busy preparing for a visit to his grandfather in Crete; but he a.s.sured the Trojans he would be able to discuss the purpose of their mission within a few days. Until then he cordially offered them the freedom of his palace, although at this point the king's gaze rested briefly on Paris, as if he knew the malady that had struck his guest and the thoughts that were in his mind. Indeed, Paris did not see Helen the following day or night either, and the worry he might never set eyes on her again deprived him of yet more sleep and drove away all but the most rudimentary appet.i.te. Before arriving in Sparta his life had been simple: he was a Trojan warrior, honour-bound to serve his king and country without question, earning glory where possible or death if required. Helen, though, had purged him of these trivialities and left him with nothing but a yearning to be with her a hunger that could only be satisfied by stealing her from Menelaus and making her his own.

It was a shameful thought for a man of honour, but one which he could not free himself from despite all the arguments against it. The consequences of such an act were unguessable. Certainly his mission would fail and Hesione would never be returned to Troy. And even if he succeeded in taking Helen with him, Menelaus would surely do everything in his power to bring her back. These were the least of Paris's concerns, though. His n.o.ble blood and tough upbringing had given him the courage to take whatever he wanted, but to kidnap Helen from under her husband's nose meant going against his sense of duty to his father and his country. Ironically, such an act would also make him worse than Telamon, who when he took Hesione from Troy had at least been able to claim her as a spoil of war. But the greatest obstacle would be Helen herself. When he had looked into her eyes he had seen a trapped animal, longing to be free of its gilded cage. He could sense her pain, the pain of a free spirit slowly being crushed to death, and he had wanted to be the one to release her from that. But unless she wanted him in return then he could not force her to leave not without the fear that he had removed her from one cage, only to earn her contempt by placing her into another.

This internal struggle between conscience and desire had dominated his thoughts when he should have been thinking of his mission. After the third night of feasting, when Helen was absent and her husband had again avoided all talk of the Trojans' purpose in Greece, he fought against his growing tiredness and rose early again to wander the palace corridors in contemplation of the Spartan queen. But as the dawn brought a day of difficult decisions and far-ranging choices, he found his old self returning in strength. The honour-bound soldier, the loyal Trojan and the dutiful son fought back with renewed vigour against the obsession with Helen. She could never be his, he told himself: she was married, and a foreigner whose background and customs were not his own, while he had a responsibility to his mission, his father and to his country that would not be denied. Even if Helen was willing to leave Sparta with him, her wild beauty would change his ordered life beyond recognition. The honour and pride that were the pillars of his existence would be pulled down for the sake of a woman he had only seen once, and as he thought of what it would mean to follow his heart and surrender everything for her he felt suddenly afraid. In a moment everything became clear: he must leave for Mycenae tonight, or risk stepping into an abyss, changing everything for ever.

He pa.s.sed from the stables out into the broad palace courtyard. The quiet, moonlit s.p.a.ce of the first night he had arrived was now filled with activity. A dozen slaves with wooden rakes were smoothing out the hoof-prints and wheel ruts of the previous day, only to see the neatly furrowed dirt trampled again by scores of servants hurrying about their early morning duties. Sleepy soldiers stumbled from their barracks, adjusting their armour as they went yawning to their posts, while over by the gates a group of light hors.e.m.e.n were discussing the morning's patrol, their mounts snorting and stamping with impatience. The sky above was flushed pink with the first light of dawn, and from the roofs and treetops of Sparta an army of birds were greeting the morning in song.

Paris did not share their enthusiasm. Feeling frustrated and moody, he lowered his head and walked across the newly levelled soil to the palace. Inside, the cool, gloomy interior was thick with bustling slaves, few of whom had time to take notice of the foreign prince. Weaving his way between them, he came to a flight of stairs and leapt up them two at a time, hoping to find somewhere to be alone with his troubled thoughts. Fortunately, the upper level was deserted except for a young slave girl sweeping the corridor. She stared at Paris with indignation making him suspect he had entered the women's quarters but he ignored her and continued up the narrow, white-walled pa.s.sageway. Unlike the lower level, which was an organized collection of large, functional rooms feeding off from a central hallway, the floor above was a maze of corridors and small rooms where he soon became lost.

His dark looks as he moved through the upper level of the palace caused several slaves to avoid his eye or move aside. When he stopped one of them and demanded to know where the Trojans had been billeted, the old man could do little more than point and give hurried directions in a shaking voice. Paris strode on. He intended to discuss his plans with Apheidas and Aeneas, see his men fed, and then demand an audience with Menelaus regarding Hesione. The fact the Spartan king had witnessed the look that had pa.s.sed between Paris and Helen on that first night would almost guarantee his agreement he would want the foreigners away from Sparta and his wife as quickly as possible.

It was as these thoughts raced through his mind that Paris heard a sudden burst of laughter coming from one of the windows ahead of him. Despite his grim mood, he stopped at the window and looked out onto a small, rectangular garden below. It was enclosed by a high wall and bordered by spring flowers, whose rich scents reached as high as the upper window. In the middle of the garden was a circular pond covered with lily pads, through which Paris could see the flitting shapes of large, golden fish. Around the pond was a lawn where four children three boys and a little girl were chasing each other and laughing merrily. But Paris's gaze was immediately drawn to the slim, black-haired woman seated on a stone bench beside the pond. She was dressed in a dark blue robe that covered her shoulders against the morning chill, but fell open slightly to reveal the white chiton beneath.