There was a soft knock.
‘Mistress?’
The maid’s voice was low but urgent.
‘What is it?’
The door was pushed open and Helenus strode in, followed by the apologetic maid. The prince looked alarmed and ready to speak, but the sight of Helen’s nakedness stopped the words before they left his mouth. Surprised by his unexpected entrance, Helen pulled the furs over her breasts and glared her anger. Paris woke beside her.
‘What is it?’ he mumbled.
Helenus blinked twice then looked at his brother.
‘Paris, there are three men at the gates. Greeks.’
‘Then kill the bastards!’
‘But they’ve come asking to speak with you. One of them is demanding … well, he’s demanding an archery duel.’
Paris rubbed the sleep from his eyes and sat up.
‘What do you mean a duel?’ he asked. ‘Is it … is it Menelaus?’
‘No. It’s Odysseus and his captain.’
‘Odysseus?’ Paris repeated, frowning this time. ‘Why in the names of all the gods would Odysseus want to challenge me to personal combat?’
‘Not Odysseus,’ Helenus said. His eyes kept flickering towards Helen, who was holding the furs firmly over her nudity. ‘It’s the third man, a stick of a figure who looks like he hasn’t eaten for a year. He has a bow that must have been made by the gods – far too grand a weapon for a wretch like him.’
Paris was intrigued now. He swung his legs out of the bed and waved his younger brother back towards the door.
‘Tell them I’m coming,’ he snapped.
Helenus bowed, and, with a last lingering look at Helen, left. Helen laid a hand on her husband’s shoulder and he turned to look into the irresistible eyes that had won so many victories over him in their ten years of marriage.
‘Don’t go,’ she said. ‘Call Helenus back and tell him to send Odysseus and his companions away.’
‘I can’t. I’m a prince of Troy, Priam’s eldest remaining son. I should at least hear what they have to say.’
‘You know what they have to say,’ Helen replied, her dark eyebrows furrowing. She swept aside a lock of black hair that had fallen across her face. ‘They want to kill you, Paris. Don’t give them the chance.’
Paris looked away. His tunic and sandals lay where he had left them the previous evening, but before he could reach for them Helen threw aside the furs and took hold of his wrist. He turned to her as she raised herself on her knees before him, still retaining her grip on his hand but making sure he could see the full glory of her naked body. And just as she had known it would, the sight of her white skin and the orbs of her breasts captivated him at once. Helen knew there were many in Troy who had accused her husband of losing his manliness for her sake, who, despite his increasingly selfless – even reckless – feats on the battlefield, grumbled to each other that he was not the commander he had once been, in his years spent conquering Troy’s enemies on the northern borders, before she had entered his life and brought a new war. What they meant, of course, was that he was not Hector. Since his older brother’s death, Paris had felt ever more acutely the weight of expectation that had been placed on his shoulders – by his father, by his younger brothers, by the army and its allies, and by every other man, woman and child in Ilium. And with that expectation came a growing resentment towards her, whom many thought of as a barrier preventing him from devoting himself to the cause of his nation. And they were right. She would do anything in her considerable power to stop him from throwing away his life for Troy. She no longer cared whether the city was destroyed a thousand times over and every living being in the whole of Ilium put to the sword, as long as he lived and they could be together.
As he looked at the face that had pierced his heart a lifetime ago, and the flawless body that he had come to know with such intimacy, she could sense his resolve wavering. That he wanted nothing more than to climb back beneath the furs with her and enjoy the soft warmth of her body enveloping his was written in every feature of his face, but she knew he was not hers again yet. She stroked the back of her hand across his stomach and down into his pubic hair, letting her palm turn inwards so it brushed across him and came to rest on his inner thigh. He responded by reaching down to cup her breast and run his thumb over her nipple.
‘Stay here with me,’ she said in a half-whisper, dropping back invitingly onto the rumpled furs. ‘The sun’s barely in the sky and our bed is still warm. Let Odysseus and his archer friend go back to their fellow Greeks, while you and I make love.’
He knelt across her as she spoke and the dawn light gave his muscular torso a coppery tinge. Then something in his expression changed and he pulled away, almost angrily. And she knew she had lost him.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘I can’t.’
‘Can’t what? Paris!’
‘I can’t let them go back. Not without at least speaking to them first. Hector would have gone.’
‘You’re not Hector!’ Helen snapped.
‘No, I’m not. But Hector’s dead because of me –’
‘Because of me, you mean.’
‘Because I fell in love with you and brought you back here,’ Paris countered, though gently. ‘Thousands are dead because of my decision. And that doesn’t mean I regret taking you from Sparta, Helen. I will never regret that, whatever may happen. It does mean I have a responsibility to bear, though – to my father, to the people of Ilium, and above all to you. When Achilles slew Hector, his burden fell on me: to protect this city and its honour. If I fail to meet even the smallest challenge, then the people won’t blame me so much as they’ll blame you. And I won’t have that.’
He snatched up his tunic and pulled it over his head, then knelt and put on his sandals. Helen, seeing that her naked body could no longer hold him, picked up the dress that lay where she had discarded it the night before. It had taken only an instant to throw off in her eagerness to make love to her husband, but long, agonising moments to put back on as Paris ignored her pleas and threw open the door of the bedroom. She hurried after him barefoot, not caring that the sides of her chiton were loose and revealed her ribcage and thighs as she ran down the corridors and out of the palace.
‘Wait Paris,’ she insisted, catching up with him.
‘Don’t try to dissuade me, Helen. I’m determined to speak with these men.’
‘Then speak to them if you must, but do you have to accept the challenge? A duel between skilled archers is little more than a game of chance. Will you put your life so freely into the hands of the gods?’
He stopped and turned to her. They were standing in the middle of the wide courtyard that fronted the palace, where scores of slaves and soldiers were already going about their morning chores. Not one failed to cast a glance at Helen, whose beauty was radiant and enthralling even without the pampering of her maids. She barely noticed them, used as she was to the stares of men and women alike.
‘Our lives hang by the will of the gods every day,’ Paris replied. ‘But I promise you I won’t accept this challenge blindly. Hector knew his importance to the survival of Troy and never risked himself needlessly, unless it was when he walked out to face Achilles alone. I won’t make the same mistake. And yet I will speak with Odysseus. It’s my duty.’
Chapter Nine
DEATH IN THE MORNING
Then be all the more careful,’ Helen said. ‘To exchange words with that man is as perilous as any duel.’
Paris smiled and kissed her forehead, then carried on walking. Helen followed a few paces behind, down the ramps that led to the walls of the citadel, through the arched gateway and out into the streets of the city. Before long they were mounting the steps to the battlements that overlooked the Scaean Gate. Helenus was waiting for them, along with a number of guards who turned to stare at Helen in her half-dressed state. A glance from Paris forced them to look away again.