The Oracles of Troy (The Adventures of Odysseus)

Paris looked away. His tunic and sandals lay where he had left them the previous evening, but before he could reach for them Helen threw aside the furs and took hold of his wrist. He turned to her as she raised herself on her knees before him, still retaining her grip on his hand but making sure he could see the full glory of her naked body. And just as she had known it would, the sight of her white skin and the orbs of her breasts captivated him at once. Helen knew there were many in Troy who had accused her husband of losing his manliness for her sake, who, despite his increasingly selfless – even reckless – feats on the battlefield, grumbled to each other that he was not the commander he had once been, in his years spent conquering Troy’s enemies on the northern borders, before she had entered his life and brought a new war. What they meant, of course, was that he was not Hector. Since his older brother’s death, Paris had felt ever more acutely the weight of expectation that had been placed on his shoulders – by his father, by his younger brothers, by the army and its allies, and by every other man, woman and child in Ilium. And with that expectation came a growing resentment towards her, whom many thought of as a barrier preventing him from devoting himself to the cause of his nation. And they were right. She would do anything in her considerable power to stop him from throwing away his life for Troy. She no longer cared whether the city was destroyed a thousand times over and every living being in the whole of Ilium put to the sword, as long as he lived and they could be together.

As he looked at the face that had pierced his heart a lifetime ago, and the flawless body that he had come to know with such intimacy, she could sense his resolve wavering. That he wanted nothing more than to climb back beneath the furs with her and enjoy the soft warmth of her body enveloping his was written in every feature of his face, but she knew he was not hers again yet. She stroked the back of her hand across his stomach and down into his pubic hair, letting her palm turn inwards so it brushed across him and came to rest on his inner thigh. He responded by reaching down to cup her breast and run his thumb over her nipple.

‘Stay here with me,’ she said in a half-whisper, dropping back invitingly onto the rumpled furs. ‘The sun’s barely in the sky and our bed is still warm. Let Odysseus and his archer friend go back to their fellow Greeks, while you and I make love.’

He knelt across her as she spoke and the dawn light gave his muscular torso a coppery tinge. Then something in his expression changed and he pulled away, almost angrily. And she knew she had lost him.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘I can’t.’

‘Can’t what? Paris!’

‘I can’t let them go back. Not without at least speaking to them first. Hector would have gone.’

‘You’re not Hector!’ Helen snapped.

‘No, I’m not. But Hector’s dead because of me –’

‘Because of me, you mean.’

‘Because I fell in love with you and brought you back here,’ Paris countered, though gently. ‘Thousands are dead because of my decision. And that doesn’t mean I regret taking you from Sparta, Helen. I will never regret that, whatever may happen. It does mean I have a responsibility to bear, though – to my father, to the people of Ilium, and above all to you. When Achilles slew Hector, his burden fell on me: to protect this city and its honour. If I fail to meet even the smallest challenge, then the people won’t blame me so much as they’ll blame you. And I won’t have that.’

He snatched up his tunic and pulled it over his head, then knelt and put on his sandals. Helen, seeing that her naked body could no longer hold him, picked up the dress that lay where she had discarded it the night before. It had taken only an instant to throw off in her eagerness to make love to her husband, but long, agonising moments to put back on as Paris ignored her pleas and threw open the door of the bedroom. She hurried after him barefoot, not caring that the sides of her chiton were loose and revealed her ribcage and thighs as she ran down the corridors and out of the palace.

‘Wait Paris,’ she insisted, catching up with him.

‘Don’t try to dissuade me, Helen. I’m determined to speak with these men.’

‘Then speak to them if you must, but do you have to accept the challenge? A duel between skilled archers is little more than a game of chance. Will you put your life so freely into the hands of the gods?’

He stopped and turned to her. They were standing in the middle of the wide courtyard that fronted the palace, where scores of slaves and soldiers were already going about their morning chores. Not one failed to cast a glance at Helen, whose beauty was radiant and enthralling even without the pampering of her maids. She barely noticed them, used as she was to the stares of men and women alike.