He closed his eyes, kissed the bloodstained blade of his dagger, then ran around the corner towards the Spartan guards. The passageway was dimly lit, but at its end he could see six helmeted men with tall spears and swords thrust into their belts. Each was protected by leather body armour and a broad, oval shield. For a moment they did not notice Paris running towards them, his cloak billowing; only when the remaining Trojans turned the corner behind him did they wake to the fact they were being attacked.
They formed a hasty line, locking their shields together and lowering their spears towards their assailants, but it was too late. Paris leapt over the bronze-tipped shafts and crashed shoulder-first into a pair of shields, sending two of the Spartans sprawling backwards onto the stair behind. By good fortune or the blessing of Ares, he landed on one of the ox-hide shields and pinned its owner against the stone steps. He instinctively sank the point of his dagger into the man’s exposed throat, killing him instantly.
The ringing clash of weaponry behind him signalled the arrival of his comrades. There was a brief cry of pain, followed by the grunts and shouts of men struggling against each other. Then the other man Paris had knocked down sprang to his feet and drew his sword from his belt. Not waiting to retrieve his shield from the steps, he rushed straight at the Trojan prince with the blade above his head and a vicious snarl contorting his features. Paris responded quickly, launching himself shoulder-first at the man’s midriff and driving him hard against the opposite wall. The sword flew from his opponent’s hand and clattered noisily down the stone steps to where the others were locked in a fierce battle. Ignoring the fists now raining down on his exposed back, Paris tightened his grip on the man’s waist and pushed him to the steps. The Spartan cried out in pain as Paris fell on top of him, but in the confusion his hands found Paris’s throat and his thumbs began to push into his windpipe. His grip was strong and painful for a moment, but quickly slackened and fell away as Paris pushed the point of his dagger into the man’s heart.
The struggle between the four remaining guards and the Trojans led by Apheidas was quickly over. Paris was pulled to his feet by Exadios, whose eyes were wide with exhilaration.
‘I can hardly believe it,’ he grinned. ‘They just seemed to collapse before us, and them fully armed as well.’
‘It was Apheidas,’ Aeneas added, stepping over one of the bodies. ‘He was like a Titan, cutting them down like nettles.’
‘Don’t talk nonsense,’ Apheidas said from behind them as he stooped to strip the weapons from one of his victims. ‘We’d have been spit like pigs if Paris hadn’t broken their line while they were still forming. Are you hurt, my lord?’
‘I’m fine,’ Paris replied, pleased that Apheidas’s animosity appeared to have been forgotten. ‘What about the men?’
‘Mestor’s dead,’ Apheidas said, handing a sword to one of the unarmed Trojans. ‘Got two spears through the belly.’
‘And Dolon’s lost half his leg,’ Exadios added.
Paris’s eyes fell on the young warrior, who was propped up against a wall. His face was screwed up with pain, though he somehow managed to stop himself from crying out. He had pulled one knee up to his chest, whilst his other leg was stretched out before him to reveal a bloody stump just below the knee. Two of his comrades were at his side, but stood up and moved back as Paris walked over.
‘We’ve seen a few battles together, Dolon,’ he said, kneeling down and placing his hand on the man’s shoulder. ‘Fighting on the northern borders.’
The wounded soldier smiled and nodded. ‘Yes, my lord. The best days of my life.’
‘But we’ll never get you out of Sparta with us.’
Dolon’s smile stiffened and faded.
‘No. Not with this leg. And yet I don’t want to be left to the mercy of these cursed Spartans,’ he added, spitting on the floor and wincing with pain. He picked up a dagger from beside him and presented the hilt to Paris. ‘If you understand me, my lord.’
Paris nodded and took the dagger. Placing it against the wounded soldier’s chest, he waited for him to look away then pushed the blade into his heart. Dolon’s eyes opened wide for a moment, then his head lolled onto his chest. Pulling the weapon free again, Paris stood and tossed it across the flagstones, feeling sick. He had lost two of his best men already and suddenly he realized that the price of his love for Helen would not just be the loss of his honour and possibly his life, but the lives of all those around him. There would be more bloodshed and more death, and as he looked at the bodies sprawled across the steps he knew it would not end in the corridors of Menelaus’s palace.
The others, who had stopped to watch their comrade’s demise, now looked expectantly at the prince.
‘We shall mourn Dolon and Mestor when we return to Troy,’ he told them. ‘Until then every thought must be on our mission. Strip the dead of their arms and share what weapons we have evenly. Apheidas and Aeneas, come with me. Exadios, guard the stairs until we return – nobody’s to come up or down.’
With the realization that nothing now stood between him and Helen, Paris took the steps three at a time to the next floor, where he found himself in a large antechamber surrounded on all sides by open doors. Several half-dressed women stood in the doorways with alarmed looks on their faces. Two more were sitting on straw mattresses in front of the only door that remained closed, brushing the sleep from their eyes and staring at the Trojans in confusion.
‘What do you want?’ one of the slaves asked. ‘You Trojans aren’t allowed up here.’
‘Where’s Helen?’ Paris demanded.
The same slave – a woman of over fifty years – crossed the antechamber and stood before the closed door. ‘When Menelaus hears of this outrage you’ll wish you’d never lived.’
‘We’ll be halfway to Troy by the time your precious king gets back,’ Apheidas laughed, striding towards the old woman with his sword poised in his hand. ‘And your mistress will be coming with us.’
‘I wouldn’t be so sure of that,’ she smiled.
The circle of slaves let out a loud scream as Apheidas struck the woman across the face with the back of his hand, sending her sprawling to the floor. In the same moment the door behind her opened to reveal Helen. Though just woken from sleep, her natural beauty was undiminished and Apheidas felt his anger fade before her. Her frightened slaves fell silent, unwilling to abandon their mistress and yet too afraid to throw themselves between her and the tall Trojan. Helen looked down at the nurse who had suckled her as a child – still groaning from the blow to her head – then at Apheidas and Paris.
‘My maidservant said you would come tomorrow night,’ she said, sternly.
‘I lied to her,’ Paris replied. ‘I couldn’t risk anyone guessing our plans. If you didn’t go to bed, or if you kept the children up, dressed for a journey, then someone would get suspicious. It would only take one servant loyal to Menelaus to inform the captain of the guard and everything we hoped for would be lost.’
‘Besides,’ Helen added sardonically, ‘you didn’t trust me not to change my mind. Well, I’m not going to, despite your doubts about me and the violence of your men. Neaera, go and wake the children and dress them in warm clothes. I’m leaving Sparta with Paris, and the children are coming with me.’
There were gasps of disbelief from the women, some of whom began to weep. One, a young girl in a brown woollen chiton, shuffled across the antechamber – carefully keeping her distance as she passed Apheidas – and disappeared down a passageway to the right of Paris and Aeneas.
‘Go and tell the men to be ready,’ Paris said, stepping forward and placing a hand on Apheidas’s shoulder. ‘As soon as the children are dressed we’ll be leaving.’
‘And have you thought about getting us all through the main gate yet?’ Apheidas asked, staring hard at the prince.