So they knew they were Trojans, Paris thought. That could be guessed by their armaments and clothing, of course, but he also had the feeling that invisible eyes had been watching their every step from the harbour and reporting their progress to King Menelaus. He only hoped they had not observed his own careful observation of the geography and infrastructure of Sparta: as per Hector’s instructions, he had already considered the size of the harbour for accommodating an invasion fleet and the condition of the roads for passage of an army. He had noted the width and flatness of the plain between the mountain ranges on either side, as well as the breadth of the river and the number and quality of the crossing points. Even as the two groups of men faced each other, he was assessing the quality of their weaponry and armour. And it was dismayingly good.
‘I am Paris, son of King Priam of Troy,’ he announced, speaking in precise but broadly accented Greek. ‘My men and I will be pleased to accept Menelaus’s hospitality, if you’ll lead the way.’
Without another word, Eteoneus turned sharply and cleared a passage through the ranks of the escort, which waited for Paris to form his men into a column and pass through before closing up again and following in their wake. They marched in silence for some time, the Trojans feeling slightly menaced by the sound of the heavily armed Spartans behind them, but before long the escort began to flag. Despite the magnificence of their armaments, Paris was surprised to note they were already losing their order and formation. The unified tramping of feet that had announced their arrival earlier was now ragged and the footfalls had lost their force. Some men were falling behind the march, despite its slow pace, and most of the soldiers repeatedly switched their spears from one shoulder to the other, a clear sign they were struggling with the weight. This pleased Paris, who had been ordered by Hector to watch for the quality of the soldiers they might face in the event of war. From what he could see, the Greeks – who had developed a reputation for toughness during their long years of civil war – were now atrophying with the peace that had existed between them for the past ten years. The Trojan armies, on the other hand, were constantly rotated on their northern and eastern borders, keeping them fit and battle-ready. If the rest of the Greek soldiery was comparable to the men surrounding him, Paris was confident that any meeting between equal forces of Greeks and Trojans would result in a Trojan victory. Hector would be delighted at the news.
Before long they were passing a series of tall mounds on either side of the road, which Eteoneus informed them were the tombs of Sparta’s former kings. He named each one in turn as they passed the ancient, grass-covered mausoleums, recounting their glorious feats and often tragic ends. Then, as they reached the final two mounds – facing each other across the highway – he gave a curt bow and whispered a prayer.
‘These are the graves of Tyndareus and Icarius,’ he explained. ‘Brothers and co-rulers of Sparta. Tyndareus was the father of our queen, Helen, though some say it was Zeus himself that sired her. If you’re fortunate enough to see her, you’ll realize why many think she has divine blood in her veins.’
‘Rumours of her beauty have reached Ilium,’ Paris said.
‘Hearsay,’ Aeneas sneered. ‘I doubt she can match the looks of even the simplest Trojan girl.’
There was a sudden, angry murmur from the ranks of Spartans, who quickly forgot their tiredness and gripped their weapons tighter. Eteoneus immediately raised his hand to silence the threats that were being uttered.
‘Peace,’ he commanded, smiling confidently. ‘Our young friend will soon realize his ignorance. When it comes to beauty, I think our queen can defend herself.’
The Spartan soldiers, who moments before had been ready to kill the young Trojan, now looked at him and laughed. Their laughter continued all the way through the ramshackle peasant buildings that surrounded Sparta, compounding Aeneas’s hatred of Greeks, until they reached the high city walls. Here, helmeted heads stared down at the party as Eteoneus led them over a humpbacked bridge beside an orchard and on to the arched gates of the city. The large wooden portals were already open in anticipation of their arrival. More warriors stood by the gate, gawping at the strange-looking foreigners with their long beards and their outlandish armour. Several spat in the dust at their feet, but a stern glance from Paris warned his men against the temptation to retaliate and they carried on marching, their eyes fixed firmly forward until the last man was inside the city walls.
The wooden gates closed with a boom behind them and the Trojans felt their hearts sink. They were trapped inside a foreign city, surrounded by hostile soldiers, with nothing but the diplomatic skills of their leader or the spears in their hands to get them out again. Paris looked back at the gates, but not with the sense of claustrophobic fear that his countrymen felt. Instead, he was taking note of Sparta’s defensive capabilities. The walls were in good repair and the guards were numerous, meaning the city could only be taken by surprise, stealth or a prolonged siege. But much of the defence of a city relied on the abilities of its king, and Paris wondered what sort of man Menelaus was. Was he soft and weak like Priam, or politically astute with the courage of a lion and the ferocity of a wild boar, like Hector? Was Menelaus a worthy king in his own right, or was he propped up by his more powerful brother? The coming feast, though ostensibly an act of welcome and friendship, would reveal much to both sides.
The sloping streets that led up to the palace were empty and every door shut, but Paris knew he and his men were being watched from the many darkened windows and alleys they passed. They must have looked strange to Greek eyes, he thought, and he wondered whether they were being regarded with fear, curiosity or loathing. A party of Greeks visiting Troy would have been treated with no less suspicion.
As he followed Eteoneus, he let his eyes roam across the simplistic, functional design of Menelaus’s city. Its buildings were strong and well made, but lacked the opulence of their Trojan counterparts. Every public structure in Paris’s home city was constructed to impress the wealth and importance of Troy on its citizens and visitors, and even the homes of the nobles and merchants boasted ornate architectural features and walls that were rich in murals. They were far superior to the plain and sturdy buildings of the Spartans, just as Troy surpassed Sparta in both size and beauty. But Paris’s simple taste and his harsh life on the northern borders gave him a grudging appreciation of the modest strength of Greek architecture. The slabs beneath his feet were firm and well fitted, whereas the ornate cobbles of Troy were forever tripping him up; similarly, the tall, well-laid Spartan walls were easy on his eyes in the moonlight, while the walls at home were too busy, a constant distraction. It would be a pity, he thought, if Sparta ever chose to defy the invading armies of Troy and its neat, powerful buildings were put to the torch.
Eventually the steep, circuitous road reached the top of the hill, where the gateway to Menelaus’s palace stood closed against them. Its high doors were covered in beaten silver that shone blue in the weak moonlight, framing the squad of six heavily armoured soldiers that stood guard before them. Paris suspected that he and his men were receiving a demonstration of Sparta’s military power, from the escort led by Eteoneus to the well-manned walls and the guard that protected the high portals of the palace.
The Spartan herald did not slow down at the sight of the closed gate, and as he approached the doors swung smoothly back into a vast and empty courtyard. He waved the Trojans inside with one hand and dismissed their Spartan escort with the other, before ordering the half-dozen palace guards to close the gates behind them. The Trojans swept their eyes around the courtyard: there were long rows of stables along the western flank, with barracks along the southern and the eastern walls; on the northern side was the three-storeyed bulk of the palace, gleaming in the moonlight before them. As they took in their plain but powerful surroundings, three men emerged from a small door beside the main entrance behind them and approached Eteoneus.