The Oracles of Troy (The Adventures of Odysseus)

The guard’s mouth fell open in confusion for a brief moment, then snapping shut he pointed at the three Mysians and ordered them to seize hold of the beggar.

‘Take him to the guard house. We’ll soon teach him to hold his tongue before a lady.’

He turned to Helen, hoping for some recognition or approval. She was too shocked to even notice him, and with her hand on her chest was trying to steady her breathing. Below them, the Mysians were struggling to contain the beggar’s surprising strength.

‘You can teach me whatever you like,’ Odysseus shouted out, this time risking Greek. ‘But the lady might want to hear my news, first. Of Aethiolas, Maraphius and Hermione.’

One of the Mysians drew his sword and raised the pommel above Odysseus’s head, but before he could strike a command rang out from the walls.

‘Leave him alone!’

The three men released the beggar at once and stepped back as if burned. Odysseus looked up to see Helen leaning stiffly on the parapet, her eyes staring fiercely at him. He met her gaze and held it, knowing the mention of her children – whom she had last seen twenty years ago in Sparta – could not have failed to gain her attention. Then he saw the faintest twinge of recognition cross her features and lowered his face to the ground. He turned away, as if eager to make his escape.

‘Stay where you are!’ she called.

The Mysians blocked his path and he looked back over his shoulder to see Helen giving instructions to the guard on the walls. The man frowned in consternation, then turned and ran to the nearest steps. Helen followed him, pausing briefly to throw one last glance at the mysterious beggar before disappearing from sight.

The score of onlookers now surrounded Odysseus, a few of them angry but most of them intrigued as they stared at the bedraggled creature who had somehow won Helen’s interest, where their own presences had never so much as received a look. Then they moved aside as orders were barked out and the guard from the walls appeared, accompanied by two others.

‘What was that you said to her?’ the guard snapped. ‘Greek, was it? A spy, are you?’

‘Just a traveller, nothing more.’

‘Whatever you are, and whatever you said, you’ve gained her attention. She wants to see you at once.’

He signalled to his companions, who reluctantly seized the stinking beggar by his elbows and pulled him along between them. They passed through the gate and the cool, echoing archway into Pergamos, where Helen was waiting at the foot of the ramp that led to the upper tiers of the citadel. Despite his foul stench as the guards brought Odysseus before her, she remained where she was and regarded him with suspicious eyes.

‘Who are you?’ she asked, in Greek so that the others would not understand their conversation.

Odysseus caught the smell of wine on her breath, though there were no other signs to tell him she had been drinking.

‘A sailor, my lady, fallen on hard times.’

‘A beggar, cursed by the gods it seems. How do you know the names of my children? Did Pleisthenes tell you?’

‘I’ve never met your youngest son, though I know you brought him with you when Paris abducted you.’

‘He did not abduct me. I came here willingly.’

‘Though not without sacrifice, leaving behind your daughter and other sons whom Menelaus had taken with him to Crete.’

Helen’s eyes narrowed again, subtly changing the emphasis of her beauty.

‘Not many would know that. Perhaps there’s more to you than rags and a terrible smell. Perhaps you’re a god in disguise – such things happen, or so my old nursemaid used to say. At the very least you’re a Greek.’

‘I’m no god, my lady, but I am a Greek – once an Athenian merchant from Piraeus. And for a meal and a sup of wine I can tell you about the children you left behind. They still long for their mother, or so I’ve heard.’

Odysseus saw the look of longing enter her expression and was glad that he would not need to lie to her. Menelaus sent ships back to Sparta every two years for replacements, and when they returned the first thing he would ask about was news of Aethiolas, Maraphius and Hermione, news which he would then share with the other kings to show his pride in his children – and assuage some of his guilt for not being present as they grew up. Something of that same guilt was in Helen’s eyes as she looked at Odysseus now.

‘Then they’re still alive,’ she said, as if to herself. Suddenly, Odysseus was aware of her eyes on his again, though this time there was a new intensity to them as they searched his face. ‘Thank you, friend. I agree to your offer – a meal and wine in exchange for everything you know about my children – especially Hermione. But not before the filth has been washed from your body and you’re clothed in a fresh tunic and cloak.

‘Guards,’ she said, talking to them in their own tongue as she turned to go, ‘take this man to the palace and tell my maids to bathe him.’

‘That’s not necessary, my lady,’ Odysseus protested, reluctant to give up his disguise. ‘Food and wine will do for me.’