The Oracles of Troy (The Adventures of Odysseus)

A group of soldiers ran towards them, intent on taking Helen and her maids for themselves. Menelaus did not bother to order them back, killing the first with a swift stroke and sinking his sword into the stomach of the second. This only made the others angrier and Odysseus and Menelaus were forced to kill or wound four more before the rest retreated.

‘By all the gods, this is chaos!’ Menelaus exclaimed. ‘It’s worse than a pitched battle.’

‘What did you expect?’ Odysseus shouted over the clamour. ‘Come on: we need to find some of our own Ithacans or Spartans if we’re going to get Helen and your son to safety. Let’s head to the gates.’

They found their way down to the lower tier of Pergamos, where to their relief the gates were protected by a disciplined company of Myrmidons. Their commander was Peisandros, who stepped out as they approached and held up his hand.

‘No prisoners or loot beyond this gate, Agamemnon’s orders. Take them into the barrack room for fair distribution later.’

‘You can tell my brother that Helen of Sparta is no man’s prisoner,’ Menelaus answered. ‘Neither are my son or any of these maids.’

Peisandros stared wide-eyed at the blood-caked faces of the two kings, then with a shout of joy seized each man’s hand in turn and shook it.

‘My lords! We feared you were dead. There’ve been all sorts of rumours –’

‘Rumours haunt every battle,’ Odysseus chided him with a smile. ‘I’ve been killed at least a dozen times during this war. And a veteran like you should know better than to listen to such nonsense.’

‘True enough,’ Peisandros agreed, his gaze wandering to Helen. ‘So you’ve found her. And no less beautiful than the last time I saw her, all those years ago in Sparta.’

‘More beautiful,’ Menelaus corrected him. ‘Now, go and pick twenty of your best men to escort us back to the ships.’

‘Yes, my lord,’ Peisandros replied, shooting a last glance at Helen before striding off to carry out his orders.

‘Now you’ve found yourselves a guard, Menelaus, I’m going back into the citadel,’ Odysseus said.

‘Are you mad?’ Helen asked, a look of genuine concern on her face.

Odysseus shook his head.

‘Eperitus is somewhere up there. I won’t abandon him to be mistaken for a Trojan by a pack of victory-drunk Greeks.’

Menelaus took his hand in both of his.

‘Thank you, Odysseus. I doubt things would have turned out as they have without your help.’

Helen released her hold of Pleisthenes and stepped forward.

‘Menelaus is too frugal in his praise,’ she said, embracing the Ithacan king closely. ‘We owe you everything.’

‘Can I send a few of Peisandros’s men with you?’ Menelaus offered.

‘No need – it’ll be less dangerous without Helen and her maids. But there is one thing you can do for me.’

‘Name it.’

‘You remember Antenor, the Trojan elder who was our host when we came to the city before the siege started?’

‘Of course.’

‘His house is close to the citadel walls, a little to the right beyond the gates – you’ll remember it when you see it. If he and his family are still alive, take them down to the ships with you. He was a good man and doesn’t deserve to be slaughtered with the rest.’

‘Few do, if you ask me,’ Menelaus replied, ‘but I’ll do as you wish. May Athena go with you, Odysseus.’

Odysseus nodded, though the Spartan’s words were a painful reminder that the goddess had abandoned him. He turned and ran back into the anarchy of the citadel. The mayhem had, if anything, increased. Bodies were everywhere, many stripped of clothing, others left like bundles of rumpled linen, barely recognisable as human beings. Odysseus had seen more battles than he could remember, but witnessing the slaughter of armed soldiers was poor preparation for the sight of old men, women and children lying murdered in the streets. He came across a dead woman, naked but for a single sandal, her outstretched hand still clutching the arm of a trampled infant. Many others lay where they had been stabbed, with lifeless eyes staring up at the blood-coloured clouds above. There were some, though, whose bodies had been hewn horribly by several blades. The scene sickened him and he thought of his beloved Penelope and little Telemachus – only ten years old – and how they might look dead on the streets of Ithaca. Vulnerable Ithaca. The fact he had left his home and family unprotected for so long suddenly tore at him, filling him with surprising panic.

A scream interrupted his thoughts and a half-naked girl ran from a nearby doorway. Her sun-darkened skin marked her out as a slave, but beneath the dishevelled hair and the bleeding lip Odysseus could see she was beautiful. Five men ran out of the house after her, the first still clutching a piece of the girl’s dress in his fist. He also carried the marks of her fingernails on his red jowls.

‘Come back here, you whore!’ he shouted, dashing after her as she ran to the foot of the ramp that led up to the middle tier of the citadel. ‘We haven’t finished with you yet.’