The Oracles of Troy (The Adventures of Odysseus)

A stooped figure, cloaked and hooded, moved in a shuffling hop to stand between the hearth and Agamemnon’s golden throne. One pale hand dangled limply from the opening in his cloak, beneath which could be seen a white dash of his priest’s robes. He raised his other hand to the lip of his hood and slipped it back, revealing a bald head and skull-like face. His dark eyes swept across the Council of Kings and came to rest on Philoctetes. One outcast facing another.

‘I am Calchas,’ he announced, ‘one-time priest of Apollo in the city of Troy, and now a worthless wretch forgotten by most and valued by none.’

‘Then we have much in common, Calchas,’ Philoctetes replied. ‘But if you are the reason I was brought here, speak and let us know what the gods command.’

Calchas nodded, then paused and bowed his head, as if summoning a difficult memory.

‘The night Great Ajax took his life, I was asleep beyond the boundaries of the camp. It was there that Apollo visited me, telling me that Troy can only fall if certain conditions are met. What they are I don’t know, for the god only showed the first of them to me: that you, Philoctetes, should be fetched from Lemnos to kill the one enduring stalwart of Troy’s defences. Of all the sons that once served King Priam, only one remains of any note. His arrows have slain many great heroes and with a bow in his hand he has no match, which is why you and the weapons of Heracles are the only way we can rid ourselves of him. Philoctetes, if Troy is to fall you must first kill Paris.’

‘No!’ Menelaus bellowed, leaping from his chair and seizing Calchas by the front of his cloak. ‘Paris is mine! He stole my wife and brought this miserable war upon us. If anyone’s going to kill him, it’s going to be me.’

Calchas shrank back in fear, but Agamemnon was quick to come to his rescue.

‘Leave him, Menelaus,’ he commanded. ‘If the gods have said Paris will be killed by Philoctetes then that’s what must happen.’

‘Damn the gods and damn all prophecies! Paris is going to perish at my hands, not by some shepherd prince because of the words of a drunken priest. Admit it, Calchas! You’d been drinking again and this supposed prophecy was nothing more than a wine-soaked dream.’

‘I said leave him!’ Agamemnon boomed, rising from his throne and pointing at his brother. ‘You had your chance weeks ago when you faced him on the battlefield, and you squandered it. Now the gods have taken it out of your hands.’

Calchas tore himself from Menelaus’s grip and almost fell back into the fire.

‘It’s true,’ he croaked. ‘The gods are tired of waiting. Paris must die now, and his death will cause the Trojans to lose heart.’

‘What?’ scoffed a short warrior with a single, angry eyebrow that sat low over his fierce-looking eyes. A large brown snake hung from his shoulders, hissing and flicking out its pink tongue at the watching Greeks. ‘The Trojans lose heart over Paris? Did they lose heart when Hector died? And he was ten times the man Paris is.’

Voices were raised in agreement, but Calchas was not cowed by them. He had seen the will of the gods and he knew he was right.

‘What Little Ajax does not appreciate,’ he said, looking round at the Council, ‘is that with Paris dead many in Troy will demand Helen be returned to Menelaus. Others will insist she remains, and both sides will squabble over who will have her. There will be division within the walls of Troy and the Trojan people will lose their resolve to continue. If Philoctetes can kill Paris then the reason for the war – his love for Helen – will have been taken away.’

Agamemnon stepped down from the dais on which his throne sat and dragged Menelaus back in the direction of his own chair.

‘The gods have spoken. Paris’s death will sow dissent among our enemies and perhaps open the gates of their city from within. Philoctetes, tomorrow morning you will ride with Odysseus and Eperitus to Troy where you will challenge Paris to a duel, offering the bow of Heracles as his prize if he can defeat you. Are you ready to honour Heracles’s command and cover yourself in glory?’

‘Or a shroud,’ Philoctetes replied. ‘Whichever the immortals deem most fitting.’

‘Hector, don’t go. We need you here!’

Helen opened her eyes. The first light of dawn was stealing in through the eastern windows and casting its rosy glow over the muralled walls of the bedroom. The painted trees and flowers and the animals that gambolled through them never seemed so lifeless as they did at this time of the morning, when the flat, hazy light robbed them of their colour and motion.

‘Hector, no. If you die, Troy will fall. I can’t take on your mantle alone.’