The Armour of Achilles (7 page)

H
elen, formerly the queen of Sparta, now a princess of Troy, looked out from the lofty battlements of her adopted city. The sun had long since sunk beneath the far horizon of the Aegean Sea, leaving the broad plain before the walls and the hoof-shaped bay beyond it in darkness. The stars were abroad in the moonless sky and for a while Helen gazed up at them, taking simple pleasure from naming the constellations in her mind – both the Trojan names that she was first taught by Paris on the island of Tenedos before their marriage, and the Greek equivalents that she still recalled with a slight pang of homesickness. Out on the black waters of the bay a single light shone. It was most likely a lamp on a small fishing boat, the only vessels that dared to exist in the once crowded harbour. From time to time a merchant would risk the journey, bringing much needed luxuries to Troy at greatly inflated prices, but since the Greeks had taken to sending a galley or two to capture these ships they were now very few in number. And there were no longer any warships in the bay. The whole Trojan fleet had been burned at anchor ten years ago, and the handful that had been constructed since – either in the harbour or at one of the allied cities further up the coast – had all suffered the same fate. In effect, the Greeks had destroyed Troy’s power at sea and forced her to rely on supplies brought overland, via the long and arduous routes from the south and east.

Helen turned her eyes to the south-west, where by day she would have been able to see the humped shape of Tenedos, its wooded slopes blue in the distance. The island had been consumed by the night, though a handful of lights still flickered in the darkness. A little closer, in a wide bay further up the mainland coast, a hazy orange glow marked the fires of the Greek camp. They had been ensconced there since shortly after the start of the war, out of sight and far enough away to be safe from sudden attack or harassments from Troy, and yet close enough to bring battle to the city’s walls when they had a mind for violence. Mostly, though, they remained hidden away in their vast, makeshift camp with their hundreds of ships drawn up along the golden sand behind them. Whole weeks might pass without sight of the enemy, other than the occasional cavalry patrol along the banks of the Scamander, or neutral encounters at the temple of Thymbrean Apollo on the hills to the south, where both Trojans and Greeks would go to offer sacrifices and prayers. Sometimes, Helen would walk along the battlements of Pergamos, the high citadel of Troy, and look out at the sea shimmering in the morning light, watching the fishermen casting their nets, or the herds of wild horses running on the plains below, and she could almost forget that Menelaus and Agamemnon – her first husband and his power-hungry brother – were camped with an army of eighty thousand men a short chariot ride away. But they were there. They were always there.

She turned and leaned her back against the parapet, feeling the cold roughness of the stone through the wool of her long dress. Her husband was beside her, resting his elbows on the crenellated walls and looking out at the darkness. She reached across and stroked the backs of her fingers over his left bicep and down to the thick black hair of his forearm. He caught her hand and held it, then turned and smiled at her. Paris could never be described as a handsome man: he had pockmarked cheeks and an old scar that ran from his right temple, across the bridge of his flat nose and into his beard; his features were stern and battle-hardened, and carried an unquestionable authority. By contrast, Helen had beauty beyond the measure of mortal words. Her white skin was carefully preserved from the effects of the sun, and her long black hair framed a face that commanded adoration. Her striking blue eyes, so different from the common brown of all Trojan women, hid a fire that had the power to consume a man’s heart, and her body was the desire of men and the envy of women. Rumoured to be a daughter of Zeus, father of the gods, she had once been the queen of Sparta but had chosen to abscond with a Trojan prince – a man who could never hope to be king so long as his brother, Hector, lived and commanded the hearts of the people. But she did not care. Power was not her fancy; it was freedom she longed for, which for a while Paris had given to her. And though the armies of Greece had quickly imprisoned her again, she still loved him with all her soul and prayed for the day when Menelaus and Agamemnon would leave the shores of Ilium in peace.

‘What’s wrong?’ he asked.

‘Other than the fact young Trojan men will soon be dying in their hundreds again for my sake? Or that I’m the most hated woman in Ilium because of the misery I’ve brought to its shores? Or even that I ran away from Sparta seeking freedom and love, only to find myself locked up inside the walls of Troy for ten years, unable even to leave the gates for fear I’ll be snatched up by a Greek patrol?’

Paris reached across and took her other hand.

‘But you have love,’ he said, squeezing her soft palms with his rough fingers. ‘And soon the war will come to a head. My father is seeking new alliances with distant countries and, before long, strange and fearsome armies will come to our aid. The Greeks will be thrown back into the sea and we’ll be free again. As for being the most hated woman in Ilium, how can you say such a thing? The people worship you like a living goddess! Why do you think, in ten full years of war, they haven’t sent you back to Menelaus?’

‘Because your father won’t let them,’ Helen snapped, wilfully. ‘It’s Priam they worship, not me. All I’ve brought them is war and devastation.’

‘Nonsense. If anyone is to blame for this war, it’s me – and I don’t give a damn whether the people love me or hate me, just so long as they love you. Which they do.’

Paris pulled her gently to his side, where she could feel the warmth of his body contrasting the chill of the evening breeze blowing in from the sea.

‘Look at these men,’ he said in a low voice, pointing to the dozen guards stationed at intervals along the western ramparts. Each one was gazing out at the plain below, while straining to hear the conversation between Paris and Helen. ‘Do you know that each night the citadel guards throw dice over who will get the early watch on this part of the wall? Just so they can be here when you appear every evening after your meal, to be able to glance at your beauty. Did you also know that—’

A shout rang through the night air, cutting him short. He turned and looked at the tower guarding the entrance to the citadel, where an armed guard was pointing beyond the lower city to the plains in the south-east. Another soldier was leaning over the battlements and calling down to the guard hut just inside the gateway. Moments later dozens of soldiers were spilling out of its doors, hurriedly pulling on shields and helmets or looping scabbards over their shoulders.

‘What is it?’ Helen asked.

Paris held up his hand for silence as he strained to hear the shouts of the guard on the tower.

‘Someone’s coming,’ he said. ‘Horsemen, at speed, though I didn’t hear how many.’

‘Is it an attack?’

‘No, not at night and on horseback. Which can only mean—’

He set off at a run along the broad battlements. Helen followed, walking as quickly as her long, restrictive dress would allow. She joined her husband beside the tower, where he was leaning over the walls and peering down at the darkened streets below. A dozen horsemen were winding their weary way up from the east-facing Dardanian Gate, through the lower city to the entrance to Pergamos.

‘Isn’t that Aeneas?’ Helen enquired, leaning alongside her husband and straining to identify the faces of the men as they were met by the light of the torches fixed on the front of the tower. ‘And Apheidas, too.’

‘And Sarpedon,’ Paris added. ‘But why have they abandoned the southern cities?’

‘Abandoned?’ Helen asked in consternation. ‘What do you mean?’

Paris turned to her, his face pale and concerned in the darkness. ‘They were sent to defend Lyrnessus, Adramyttium and Thebe. We’d heard the Greeks planned to attack after we’d whittled down the garrisons, but—’

‘You mean the fighting has already restarted?’ Helen interrupted anxiously.

‘Yes,’ Paris replied. The sound of horses’ hooves on stone echoed from the gateway below. ‘And I must go and find out why they’ve returned so soon.’

He took Helen by the hand and led her down from the walls to where the horsemen were dismounting amidst a crowd of guards. As the horses were led away to be watered and fed – the sweat on their flanks showed they had been ridden hard to reach Troy – Helen could see that the newcomers were exhausted and filthy. To her alarm several of the men appeared to have lost weapons or parts of their armour, and three or four carried light wounds to their heads or limbs. As she appeared among them, white and excruciatingly beautiful in the darkness, every eye fell on her. She sensed the accusation in their tired gazes, the same silent condemnation that she had seen after so many battles in the past. Then Paris stepped forward and gripped Sarpedon by the shoulders.

‘What’s happened, man? Why have you come back?’

Sarpedon looked around at the faces of the citadel guards and shook his head. ‘Not here, Paris. Where’s Hector?’

‘In his palace, with Andromache,’ Helen announced, defying the looks on the faces of the men.

‘Then we must go there now,’ Sarpedon said. ‘We have news that concerns them both. If you’ll excuse us, my lady?’

The Lycian king bowed low, then with Paris at his side started up the sloping road to the royal palace, on the third level of the citadel. Aeneas, his youthful face almost unrecognizable beneath the dust and dried blood, gave Helen the glimmer of a smile before joining them. Apheidas gave her a curt nod before turning on his heel and following the others. His usual confident smile was strangely absent and of all the horsemen who had ridden in through the gate he looked the most preoccupied.

Helen began to follow, but her husband held up his hand and shook his head.

‘No, Helen. We must discuss this matter with Hector alone.’

‘And Andromache?’ Helen protested, feeling like a disobedient child.

‘Do not envy your friend, Helen,’ Sarpedon returned, his words thickly accented but clearly enunciated. ‘The news we have for her is not good. But I would be indebted to you if you could see that our escort are fed and rested.’

Helen watched the four men disappear up the cobbled street that ran between the magnificent buildings of Pergamos and felt a pang of dread tear through her insides. Thebe had been Andromache’s home before her marriage to Hector. Helen had never been there, but she almost felt she knew the city from Andromache’s homesick descriptions: a walled town in a green valley, beneath the wooded slopes of Mount Placus. Her father, King Eëtion, still lived there with seven of Andromache’s eight brothers; the eighth – Podes – was Hector’s closest friend and fought in the Trojan army. Of all the women in Troy, none had treated Helen with as much love and kindness as Andromache had, so if anything had happened to her family then Helen had to know. After all, the murderous Greeks were only in Ilium because of her own foolish iniquity. Every foul deed they committed was her fault, whatever Paris might say.

She turned to the captain of the guard and gave orders for the remaining horsemen to be fed and given beds. After the lines of soldiers had trudged off to the guard hut, she threw her hood over her head and disappeared into a passage between two high-sided buildings. The stars were bright in the narrow channel of sky overhead, forcing her to seek the shadowy obscurity of a nearby doorway. She listened intently for a moment, then clutched her hands together and bowed her head.

‘Mistress Aphrodite,
why
did you curse me with such beauty?’ she whispered bitterly. ‘What has it ever earned me but trouble? And what’s the use of fine looks if men still ignore me and exclude me from their councils?’

‘A woman’s body is a cage, sister,’ said a voice, ‘from which there can only ever be one escape.’

A figure emerged from the doorway opposite, draped in a black cloak that gave it the quality of deep shadow. A pointed white chin and pale lips were visible under the hood and for a shocked moment Helen thought it was Clytaemnestra. But her sister was back in Mycenae, of course, where Agamemnon had left her to brood over the murder of her daughter. Then white hands rose up to tip the hood back and reveal a beautiful but melancholy face, framed with thick black hair. Dark, unhappy eyes stared briefly at Helen, then glanced away to the street beyond the narrow passageway.

Helen sighed with a mixture of relief and irritation. It was Cassandra, her sister-in-law – a tiresome and gloomy girl who flitted about at the edges of palace life. She had a fondness for black clothing, just like Clytaemnestra, but there the comparison ended. For Cassandra had never been a widow, and where Clytaemnestra was stern and hard, Cassandra was detached and miserable. Helen was not aware that she had any friends at all in the palace, despite her alluring beauty and the fact she was a daughter of King Priam. Indeed, even her own father seemed to stiffen and go cold whenever she was near.

‘What are you doing here, Cassandra? I thought you were with Pleisthenes.’

‘Your son and his friends hate me.’ She shrugged. ‘So I came here to watch the men come back from Thebe.’

‘How could you know about—?’

‘I had a vision of them. I saw Mount Placus and Thebe below it, burning. There were soldiers everywhere, killing and putting houses to the torch. I saw Andromache’s father, too.’