Paris found himself warming to the Greek. Despite the purpose of his mission and the broad gulf between their different cultures, he felt Menelaus was a man he could relate to.
‘My father sent me to . . .’ he began, but Menelaus held up a hand and shook his head.
‘Unless your business here is urgent, let’s leave talk of it for another night, eh? You and your men are welcome to stay for as long as you like, so relax and fill your stomachs – I know you haven’t eaten anything hot since you set out from the harbour this morning. There will be a time for formal words, Paris, but it isn’t now.’
Paris nodded and smiled for the first time since passing through the gates of Sparta. Then, as he was about to excuse himself and return to his men, he looked through the flames and saw the figure of a woman standing on the other side of the hearth. Though the heat haze was fierce, the light of the fire revealed her clearly. Her eyes captured his with an expression as intense as the flames that seemed to imprison her and Paris knew in an instant that this was the renowned Helen, whose beauty surpassed any rumour or reputation. At the same time, he sensed Menelaus turn his head to look across the raging fire at his wife, just as she turned her face away and moved back towards the shadows. Heedless of Menelaus, Paris watched the tall, slim figure of Helen recede into the darkness, his mind reeling. The desires and emotions that had been tightly locked away in his soldier’s heart for many years were suddenly breaking free in a confusing rush, escaping through the cracks that a single look from Helen had prised open, coursing through his whole body and threatening the discipline and restraint that had given his life equilibrium for so long.
And as she reached the edge of the circle of light from the hearth, just as the shadows were swallowing her, she turned back and looked at him again, her eyes blazing briefly in the darkness before disappearing. Paris felt a heavy weight shifting within him, as something old died and something new was born.
Chapter Three
POLITES
The pale yellow light of morning filtered through the trees, waking the bright green ferns that carpeted the woodland floor and touching on the small white flowers that grew amid the roots of the pines. Birds were singing in the treetops, greeting the arrival of dawn, and there was a strong smell of new vegetation and damp earth in the air. Eperitus sat astride a donkey – his breastplate and sword concealed beneath his cloak – and scoured the trees discreetly for signs of movement. Heedless of any danger, his ride stumped its way along the wide path that cut through the wood, its head down and its tall ears twitching and flicking as a constant stream of flies irritated them. The bell about its neck clanged with every footfall, sending dull, monotonous chimes ringing through the trees.
A young man of around twenty years followed on foot. He had shoulder-length, brown hair that he was constantly brushing from his eyes, and boyish good looks that were partially hidden by a light growth of beard. His only armaments were the dagger in his belt and the long stick in his left hand, with which he would occasionally strike the bony hindquarters of the donkey.
‘I wish you’d stop doing that, Arceisius,’ Eperitus snapped as the stick smacked down again just behind him. ‘The animal’s moving along just fine as it is; there’s no need to keep hitting the poor thing.’
‘Sorry, sir,’ Arceisius replied, his already ruddy complexion reddening slightly. ‘It’s just habit.’
‘And a touch of nerves?’ Eperitus suggested. He took a deep breath to calm his own anxiety before offering his squire a reassuring smile. ‘Don’t worry. Odysseus won’t let us down. He never has yet.’
He turned back to look at the path stretching out ahead of them. Not much further along the trees thickened and the trail narrowed – a good place for concealment, but lacking the width and space required for an ambush – then shortly afterwards it swept around a spur of the hill and disappeared from sight. According to the locals, the bandits had already struck twice at the point just beyond the spur, and that was where Eperitus expected them to be waiting now. His unnaturally sharp eyesight had already spied figures moving furtively through the trees on the upper slopes – drawn by the sound of the bell about the donkey’s neck – and from there they must have noticed the large leather bags hanging from the animal’s flanks. An unprotected merchant and his young assistant would be too tempting a target to ignore.
They passed through the narrow stretch of path without incident, but as the trees thinned again and the trail turned around the spur of the hill, Eperitus noticed straight away that the birds were no longer singing and an unusual stillness had descended about them. At the same time, his keen senses picked out glimpses of sun-tanned skin amongst the clumps of foliage sprouting in unnatural places, the barely visible outlines of helmets nudging above the tops of boulders, and the thick, controlled breathing of several nervous men behind the trees and rocks. Eperitus absorbed all these things in a moment, telling him that at least twenty bandits were concealed on the slope above him. The trap was about to be sprung and suddenly, even though no enemies had yet revealed themselves, he felt his old battle instinct take hold of him, pouring new energy into his limbs and tensing his body like a bowstring.
Then a man stepped out from behind a large boulder a few paces ahead of them. ‘Stop where you are,’ he ordered in a nasal voice, holding up his hands, ‘and get down from the donkey.’
Eperitus leaned forward and looked at the short, unimpressive bandit before him, but made no move to dismount. The man’s comrades were emerging from their hiding places to his left – some of them armed with bows and aiming their arrows directly at him and Arceisius – and it was obvious that the slightest wrong movement would bring swift death. Nonetheless, he had to fight the instinct to throw aside his cloak and draw his sword. Everything, he knew, depended on him holding his nerve.
‘I can’t do that, I’m afraid,’ he replied in a calm voice. ‘I’m on an important mission for the king, and time is of the essence.’
The bandit’s eyes narrowed for a moment, then he placed his hands on his hips and leaned back, raising his eyebrows quizzically.
‘A mission for the king?’ he said with mock awe. ‘Really? Well, I’m sorry to inconvenience his lordship, but we have need of the royal donkey and all the possessions of his servants.’
His comment was followed by a ripple of laughter from the men on the slope above.
‘Normally I’d be glad to help the starving and impoverished,’ Eperitus responded, throwing a casual glance back across the file of Thessalians, ‘but I’m already on an errand of mercy. You see, the king’s been told that his subjects on Samos are being beaten and robbed by a band of outlaws, and he’s sent me to find them.’
‘Well, it seems to me, my friend, that you have found them.’
Eperitus smiled. ‘I don’t think so. You see, the men I’m looking for were reported to be fearsome cut-throats – brutal, heavily armed men of violence, worthy of my skills as a bandit-hunter. Perhaps you can tell me where they are?’
‘By Ares’s sword, you’ve got a nerve,’ the man hissed, clenching his fists and scowling. ‘We’re the only damned cut-throats you’ll find on this pathetic rock, and if you’ve come looking for us then you’d better state your purpose – or else get off that cursed animal and start stripping, before you find an arrow in your throat.’
Eperitus remained where he was. He could sense Arceisius’s nervous fidgeting at his side and placed a calming hand on his squire’s shoulder.