The Oracles of Troy (The Adventures of Odysseus) by Glyn Iliffe Page A

life is neither here nor there. That he gave you his bow and arrows in exchange for lighting his funeral pyre does you little credit. And who have you killed of any renown? Go back to your bed and sleep off your drunken bravado; I’m going back to mine to enjoy the company of my wife.’
    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