enthralling even without the pampering of her maids. She barely noticed them, used as she was to the stares of men and women alike.
‘Our lives hang by the will of the gods every day,’ Paris replied. ‘But I promise you I won’t accept this challenge blindly. Hector knew his importance to the survival of Troy and never risked himself needlessly, unless it was when he walked out to face Achilles alone. I won’t make the same mistake. And yet I will speak with Odysseus. It’s my duty.’
Chapter Nine
D EATH IN THE M ORNING
T hen be all the more careful,’ Helen said. ‘To exchange words with that man is as perilous as any duel.’
Paris smiled and kissed her forehead, then carried on walking. Helen followed a few paces behind, down the ramps that led to the walls of the citadel, through the arched gateway and out into the streets of the city. Before long they were mounting the steps to the battlements that overlooked the Scaean Gate. Helenus was waiting for them, along with a number of guards who turned to stare at Helen in her half-dressed state. A glance from Paris forced them to look away again.
‘There they are,’ Helenus said, pointing down to where three men stood in the shadow of the sacred oak tree outside the gates. The plains down to the River Scamander and the slopes beyond the ford were empty: they were completely alone. ‘Odysseus, Eperitus and a man who calls himself Philoctetes. Who he is I don’t know – I’ve never seen him on the battlefield before – but he’s the one who dares to challenge you.’
Helen stared at the thin figure with the drawn face. Though he was unimpressive in himself, the weapons he carried inspired awe and fear: a bow of gigantic size – as tall as its owner – and an ornately decorated leather quiver stuffed with black-feathered arrows. Any one of those bronze-tipped barbs could bring death to the man she loved, and with a growing sense of dread she reached for Paris’s hand. Before her fingers could entwine themselves between his, though, he pulled away and leaned over the parapet.
‘I am Paris, son of Priam,’ he shouted in Greek to the small party below. ‘I know you, Odysseus, Laertes’s famed son, and I know the face of your captain from the thick of the battles our armies have fought. But you I don’t know. State your name and lineage, if indeed you are human at all – for you look more to me like a wraith conjured up from Hades.’
Helenus translated for the men on the walls and sneers of laughter rippled through their ranks as they forgot Helen’s beauty and pressed closer against the battlements, eager to watch the spectacle unfold. Philoctetes was untroubled by their mockery and hobbled forward on his crutch.
‘I am Philoctetes, son of Poeas, and these are the weapons of Heracles, which he bequeathed to me. If I appear unfamiliar and somewhat malnourished to you, it’s because my fellow countrymen stranded me on the island of Lemnos shortly before the war began, where I lived on a diet of seagull and rainwater until Odysseus brought me back to the army just two days ago.’
‘I’ve heard of you,’ Paris nodded, ‘though your suffering is news. Tell me, why would a man who had been left to starve by his comrades want to return and fight for them?’
‘For glory, and to honour the name of Heracles,’ Philoctetes answered. ‘And because Heracles himself ordered me to kill you, which I must do if the gates of Troy are ever to fall to the Greeks.’
Helen heard the words and stepped forward to stand beside her husband. Unseen by any of the others – except for Helenus, whose eyes had not left Helen since her arrival – Paris slipped his arm about his wife’s waist and smiled mockingly at the Greek archer.
‘But I have no intention of fighting you , Philoctetes. Why should I? Who are you but a half-starved cripple whose only fame comes from an accident of place and time? That you were present when Heracles wanted to take his own
‘Our lives hang by the will of the gods every day,’ Paris replied. ‘But I promise you I won’t accept this challenge blindly. Hector knew his importance to the survival of Troy and never risked himself needlessly, unless it was when he walked out to face Achilles alone. I won’t make the same mistake. And yet I will speak with Odysseus. It’s my duty.’
Chapter Nine
D EATH IN THE M ORNING
T hen be all the more careful,’ Helen said. ‘To exchange words with that man is as perilous as any duel.’
Paris smiled and kissed her forehead, then carried on walking. Helen followed a few paces behind, down the ramps that led to the walls of the citadel, through the arched gateway and out into the streets of the city. Before long they were mounting the steps to the battlements that overlooked the Scaean Gate. Helenus was waiting for them, along with a number of guards who turned to stare at Helen in her half-dressed state. A glance from Paris forced them to look away again.
‘There they are,’ Helenus said, pointing down to where three men stood in the shadow of the sacred oak tree outside the gates. The plains down to the River Scamander and the slopes beyond the ford were empty: they were completely alone. ‘Odysseus, Eperitus and a man who calls himself Philoctetes. Who he is I don’t know – I’ve never seen him on the battlefield before – but he’s the one who dares to challenge you.’
Helen stared at the thin figure with the drawn face. Though he was unimpressive in himself, the weapons he carried inspired awe and fear: a bow of gigantic size – as tall as its owner – and an ornately decorated leather quiver stuffed with black-feathered arrows. Any one of those bronze-tipped barbs could bring death to the man she loved, and with a growing sense of dread she reached for Paris’s hand. Before her fingers could entwine themselves between his, though, he pulled away and leaned over the parapet.
‘I am Paris, son of Priam,’ he shouted in Greek to the small party below. ‘I know you, Odysseus, Laertes’s famed son, and I know the face of your captain from the thick of the battles our armies have fought. But you I don’t know. State your name and lineage, if indeed you are human at all – for you look more to me like a wraith conjured up from Hades.’
Helenus translated for the men on the walls and sneers of laughter rippled through their ranks as they forgot Helen’s beauty and pressed closer against the battlements, eager to watch the spectacle unfold. Philoctetes was untroubled by their mockery and hobbled forward on his crutch.
‘I am Philoctetes, son of Poeas, and these are the weapons of Heracles, which he bequeathed to me. If I appear unfamiliar and somewhat malnourished to you, it’s because my fellow countrymen stranded me on the island of Lemnos shortly before the war began, where I lived on a diet of seagull and rainwater until Odysseus brought me back to the army just two days ago.’
‘I’ve heard of you,’ Paris nodded, ‘though your suffering is news. Tell me, why would a man who had been left to starve by his comrades want to return and fight for them?’
‘For glory, and to honour the name of Heracles,’ Philoctetes answered. ‘And because Heracles himself ordered me to kill you, which I must do if the gates of Troy are ever to fall to the Greeks.’
Helen heard the words and stepped forward to stand beside her husband. Unseen by any of the others – except for Helenus, whose eyes had not left Helen since her arrival – Paris slipped his arm about his wife’s waist and smiled mockingly at the Greek archer.
‘But I have no intention of fighting you , Philoctetes. Why should I? Who are you but a half-starved cripple whose only fame comes from an accident of place and time? That you were present when Heracles wanted to take his own
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