The Oracles of Troy (The Adventures of Odysseus)

Paris was talking in his sleep. The same old slurred anxieties that had haunted his dreams since the death of his brother, pleading – she guessed – for Hector not to go out and face Achilles. Pleading not to be left the crushing responsibility of the hopes and expectations of the whole of Ilium. Though he could feign courage and calm conviction before the people as he walked the streets in his fine armour, and though he could even fake confidence to Helen in their waking time together, his dreams betrayed his uncertainty, his fear. Had Hector been the same, she wondered? Had Andromache lain beside him at night and listened to his worry and self-doubt?

She reached out a hand and brushed the black locks of sweat-damp hair from his forehead, tracing the long pink line of the old scar that ran from above his eyebrow diagonally across his nose and cheek to end almost at his jaw. It was not a handsome face, but it had strength and endurance; and beneath the closed eyelids was a passion that showed itself as much in love as it did in war. Much more so, she thought with a smile as her long fingers drifted to the streaks of grey above his ears and began stroking him.

‘Shush now, my love. I’m here. Your Helen’s here.’

He turned to face her, eyes still shut firmly in sleep, and laid a rough hand on the curve of her waist. His flesh was hot, causing her to flinch. Then she heard voices echoing along the narrow corridor outside their room. Frowning, she sat up and looked at the door, the furs slipping down to expose her chest.

There was a soft knock.

‘Mistress?’

The maid’s voice was low but urgent.

‘What is it?’

The door was pushed open and Helenus strode in, followed by the apologetic maid. The prince looked alarmed and ready to speak, but the sight of Helen’s nakedness stopped the words before they left his mouth. Surprised by his unexpected entrance, Helen pulled the furs over her breasts and glared her anger. Paris woke beside her.

‘What is it?’ he mumbled.

Helenus blinked twice then looked at his brother.

‘Paris, there are three men at the gates. Greeks.’

‘Then kill the bastards!’

‘But they’ve come asking to speak with you. One of them is demanding … well, he’s demanding an archery duel.’

Paris rubbed the sleep from his eyes and sat up.

‘What do you mean a duel?’ he asked. ‘Is it … is it Menelaus?’

‘No. It’s Odysseus and his captain.’

‘Odysseus?’ Paris repeated, frowning this time. ‘Why in the names of all the gods would Odysseus want to challenge me to personal combat?’

‘Not Odysseus,’ Helenus said. His eyes kept flickering towards Helen, who was holding the furs firmly over her nudity. ‘It’s the third man, a stick of a figure who looks like he hasn’t eaten for a year. He has a bow that must have been made by the gods – far too grand a weapon for a wretch like him.’

Paris was intrigued now. He swung his legs out of the bed and waved his younger brother back towards the door.

‘Tell them I’m coming,’ he snapped.

Helenus bowed, and, with a last lingering look at Helen, left. Helen laid a hand on her husband’s shoulder and he turned to look into the irresistible eyes that had won so many victories over him in their ten years of marriage.

‘Don’t go,’ she said. ‘Call Helenus back and tell him to send Odysseus and his companions away.’

‘I can’t. I’m a prince of Troy, Priam’s eldest remaining son. I should at least hear what they have to say.’

‘You know what they have to say,’ Helen replied, her dark eyebrows furrowing. She swept aside a lock of black hair that had fallen across her face. ‘They want to kill you, Paris. Don’t give them the chance.’