“The chief minister of the Egyptian king has built a lovely trap for you and all the Achaian lords who come to this land,” I insisted. “And Helen is the bait.”
“More lies,” said Menalaos. But I could see that I had caught the interest of the other nobles.
I released my grip on him and threw my dagger onto the sand at his feet.
“Let the gods show us which of us is right,” I said. “Pick your best warrior and have him face me. If he kills me, then the gods will have shown that I am lying. If I best him, it will be a sign from the gods that you should listen to what I have to say.”
Murderous anger still flamed in Menalaos’s eyes, but the nobles crowded around eagerly.
“Why not?”
“Let the gods decide!”
“You have nothing to lose, my lord.”
Seething, Menalaos shouted, “Nothing to lose? Don’t you understand that this traitor, this abductor — he’s merely trying to gain a swift clean death instead of the agony he deserves?”
“My lord Menalaos!” I shouted back. “On the plain of Ilios I begged you to intercede on behalf of the storyteller Poletes from the anger of your brother. You refused, and now the old man is blind. I’m not begging you now. I demand what you owe me: a fair fight. Not some young champion who rushes foolishly to his death. I want to fight you, mighty warrior. We can settle our differences with spears and swords.”
I had him. He took an inadvertent step back away from me, remembering that I had fought so well at Troy. But there was no way he could back out of facing me; he had told them all that he wanted to kill me. Now he had to do it for himself, or be thought a coward by his followers.
The entire camp formed a rough circle for the two of us while Menalaos’s servants armed him. This would be a battle on foot, not with chariots. One of the guards brought me my sword; I slung the baldric over my shoulder and felt its comforting weight against my hip. Three nobles gravely offered me my choice from several spears. I picked the one that was shorter but heavier than the others.
Menalaos came forward out of a cluster of servants and nobles, armored from helmet to feet in bronze, carrying a huge figure-eight shield. In his right hand he bore a single long spear, but I noticed that his servants had placed several others on the ground a few paces behind him.
I had neither shield nor armor. I did not want them. My hope was to best Menalaos without killing him, to show him and the other Achaians that the gods were so much with me that no man could oppose me successfully. To accomplish that, I had to avoid getting myself spitted on Menalaos’s spear, of course.
I could feel the excitement bubbling from the Achaians circled around us. Nothing like a good fight before breakfast to stimulate the digestion.
An old man in a ragged tunic came out of the crowd and stepped between us. His beard was long and dirty-gray.
“In the name of ever-living Zeus and all the mighty gods of high Olympos,” he said, in a loud announcer’s voice, “I pray that this combat will be pleasing to the gods, and that they send victory to he who deserves it.”
He scuttled away and Menalaos swung his heavy shield in front of his body. With his helmet’s cheek plates strapped shut, all I could see of him was his angry, burning eyes.
I stepped lightly to my right, circling away from his spear arm, hefting my own spear in my right hand.
Menalaos pulled his arm back and flung his spear at me. Without an instant’s hesitation, he dashed back to pick up another.
My senses quickened as they always do in battle, and the world around me seemed to slow down into the languid motions of a dream. I watched the spear coming toward me, took a step to the side, and let it thud harmlessly into the sand by my feet. The Achaians “oohed.”
By this time Menalaos had grasped another spear. He pivoted and hurled this one at me, also. Again I avoided it. With his third spear, though, Menalaos came charging at me, screaming a shrill war cry.
I parried his spear with my own and swung the butt of it into his massive shield with a heavy thunk, hard enough to knock him staggering. He tottered to my left, regained his balance, and came at me again. Instead of parrying, this time I ducked under his point and rammed my own spear between his legs. Menalaos went sprawling and I was on top of him at once, my legs pinning his arms to the ground, my sword across his throat, between the chin flaps of his helmet and the collar of his cuirass.
He stared at me. His eyes no longer glared hate; they were wide with fear and amazement.
Sitting on the bronze armor of his chest, I raised my sword high over my head and proclaimed in my loudest voice: “The gods have spoken! No man could defeat one who is inspired by the will of all-powerful Zeus!”
I got to my feet and pulled Menalaos to his. The Achaians swarmed around us, accepting the judgment of the duel.
“Only a god could have fought like that!”
“No mortal could face a god and win.”
Although they crowded around Menalaos and assured him that no hero in memory had ever fought against a god and lived to tell the tale, they kept an arm’s length from me, and looked at me with undisguised awe.
Finally the old priest came up close and stared nearsightedly into my face. “Are you a god, come to instruct us in human form?”
I took a deep breath and made myself shudder. “No, old man. I could feel the god within my sinews when we fought, but now he has left, and I am only a mortal once more.”
Menalaos, bareheaded now, looked at me askance. But being defeated by a god was not shameful, and he allowed his men to tell him that he had done something very brave and wonderful. Yet it was clear that he held no love for me.
He invited me into his tent, where he watched me silently as servants unstrapped his armor and women slaves brought us figs, dates, and thick spiced honey. I sat on a handsomely carved ebony stooclass="underline" of Egyptian design and workmanship, I noticed. It had not come from this fishing village, either.
Menalaos sat on a rope-web chair, the platter of fruit and honey between us. Once the servants had left us alone, I asked him, “Do you truly want your wife back?”
Some of the anger returned to his eyes. “Why else do you think I’m here?”
“To kill me and serve a fat hippopotamus who calls himself Nekoptah.”
He was startled at the chief minister’s name.
“Let me tell you what I know,” I said. “Nekoptah has promised you Helen and a share of Egypt’s wealth if you kill me. Correct?”
Grudgingly, “Correct.”
“But think a moment. Why would the king’s chief minister need an Achaian lord to get rid of one man, a barbarian, a wanderer who stumbled into Egypt in company of a royal refugee?”
Despite himself, Menalaos smiled. “You are no ordinary wanderer, Orion. You are not so easy to kill.”
“Did it ever occur to you that Helen is being used as bait, to lure you to your death — you, and all the other Achaian lords who come to Egypt with you?”
“A trap?”
“I didn’t come alone. An Egyptian army is waiting barely a day’s ride from here. Waiting until they can snare all of you in their net.”
“But I was told…”
“You were told to send word back to your brother and the other lords that they would be welcomed here, if you did as the king’s chief minister asked,” I said for him.
“My brother is dead.”
I felt a flash of surprise. Agamemnon dead!
“He was murdered by his wife and her lover. His prisoner Cassandra, also. Now his son seeks vengeance, against his own mother! All of Argos is in turmoil. If I return there…” His voice choked off and he slumped forward, burying his face in his hands.