The Oracles of Troy (The Adventures of Odysseus)

The large courtyard below was filled with armed men. On three sides, dressed in double-ranks, were Priam’s elite guard – Troy’s fiercest warriors, who wore the richest armour and carried the best weapons. On the far side were the men of Mysia: a sea of soldiers with dusty armaments, all of them young and strong with faces that were keen for war, not beleaguered and desperate for peace like the Trojans and their other allies. Behind them, on the ramp that led up from the lower tier of the citadel and stretching back into the streets beyond, were the ranks of their comrades – spearmen, archers, chariots and cavalry. They numbered in the thousands, an army that could indeed turn the tide of the war against the exhausted Greeks.

In the space at the centre of the courtyard were a handful of men. The figure of Priam stood tallest, his purple robe resplendent in the sunshine and his black wig and face powder belying the age that had so rapidly caught up with him since the death of Hector. On one side of the king were his herald, Idaeus, and Antenor, the elder; while on the other were Deiphobus and Apheidas, the highest-ranking commanders in his army. Before them all was a tall, powerfully built warrior with a broad black beard and long hair that flowed from beneath his plumed helmet. A sword was slung from a scabbard under his arm and a shield hung from his back.

Helen sensed Cassandra’s presence over her shoulder.

‘That’s Eurypylus,’ she said with certainty. ‘And is he not as ugly as I told you?’

Helen stared down at his broken nose and crooked teeth, and at the cruel, selfish eyes that squinted against the bright sunshine. As she watched, Eurypylus took the hand his grandfather offered him, though with deliberate hesitation and without warmth.

‘Looks are not everything,’ she said. ‘No-one thought Paris handsome, not with that scar; but he was the noblest man in Troy – except perhaps Hector – and for a while he offered me freedom from everything that had tied me down. That’s why I fell in love with him, and love him still.’

‘Look at his eyes, Helen. How could Priam give his own daughter to a man with such evil eyes?’

‘Priam gives the women of his household to whomever he pleases,’ Helen answered, her gaze wandering to Deiphobus, whose once cheerful face was now stern and detached. ‘It’s the lot of a princess to be married to men not of her own choosing. Paris helped me escape from Menelaus, but now I’m married to Deiphobus against my will. And if the Greeks ever conquer these walls, I will be Menelaus’s again.’

‘Eurypylus will never have me.’

Helen was not listening. Her eyes were on Deiphobus and she wanted a cup of wine.

‘Marriage is inescapable,’ she muttered, half to herself.

‘In time, another man will take me against my will. But I will not marry Astyoche’s son.’

Helen caught Cassandra’s last words and turned to her.

‘There are worse husbands than Eurypylus. Deiphobus forced me to marry him while I was still in mourning for his brother. But if you’re planning to run away –’

Cassandra shook her head. ‘There’s no need, Sister. Eurypylus will be killed by Achilles before he can marry me. I have seen it.’

‘Achilles is dead.’

‘He will return.’

Helen looked pityingly at Cassandra’s sad, pretty face.

‘Well, whatever may or may not happen to Eurypylus, your mother still wants you to be ready to meet him at this evening’s feast. I’ll find your maid and send her to clear up the rest of this mess.’

She left Cassandra looking out at her husband-to-be and found her slave waiting outside the door. As the girl rushed off to attend to her mistress, Helen felt the darkness of her grief for Paris stealing up on her again. She lowered her head into her hands and succumbed to the sinking sense of loss once more. Then, with tears in her eyes, she went to find her own room, where she would bury her face in the single tunic of his that she had kept and cry until the mood passed. And then she would drink the wine she had hidden there and ease some of her pain.

The voyage to the island of Scyros, skirting the coastline of southern Greece, had been quiet and smooth. Water, provisions and shelter had been easy to find in the many harbours and coves along the way, though the few people who dared speak to them were at best suspicious, at worst hostile. But for the men of Ithaca and Argos it was a joy to be back in Greece again, to see her mountains and islands and every evening to sleep on her beaches. The survivors had quickly forgotten the horrors of Pelops’s tomb and put behind them their grief for the comrades who had been slain there; now their minds were on the end of the war and an imminent return to their families and homes. For a while, as they sailed beneath a Greek sun and ate Greek food, their spirits were bubbling with optimism, as if the defeat of Troy was now a mere formality.