For the Most Beautiful (33 page)

Then he rubs his tired eyes. He's finding it hard to concentrate on the Trojans. Family problems, as ever, are getting in the way of work. Today Zeus is dealing with a wayward son, who fancies his chances a little too much with the ladies. He saw him again, last night, trying it on with another mortal girl.

Zeus sighs as he remembers how upset Apollo was when he got back to Mount Ida, then is distracted as the image of the girl's radiant golden hair and perfect figure rises unbidden in his mind. He catches himself and shakes his head, trying to get rid of the thought.

A shower of rain falls over the island of Tenedos.

The worst of it all, he thinks, is that if Apollo keeps going like this he will turn out exactly like his father.

‘Zeus, darling?'

Zeus doesn't turn. It's Hera, and she's probably just here to tell him off again for letting the Trojans have even the slightest hint of a victory. He frowns more deeply and buries his chin stubbornly in his fist.

‘Zeus?'

Her tone is oddly sweet, honey-like. He sighs. He can't pretend to ignore her for ever. He turns around.

His jaw drops.

She smiles at him. ‘Is something wrong, husband?'

Zeus tries to glance down at the Greek camp, which is now burning profusely, but his attention is drawn to his wife, like a hound on the scent, and his eyes swivel back to her. ‘No – I mean – no,' he splutters. ‘Absolutely not.' He waves a hand at her, gulping and mouthing soundlessly. ‘You – you look – beautiful.'

It's true. Hera's skin is shining, like the sun, her eyes are sparkling, and there are no fewer than three glistening teardrop diamonds shimmering in her ears. To Zeus, she is nothing less than a vision of perfection. And a hint of a perfume that smells like all the flowers of the world hangs around her hair.

She sallies over to him, swinging her hips, which are somehow curvier and more inviting than they were yesterday.

Zeus is still gaping at her as she sits on the throne next to him and starts to stroke his hair and beard. ‘How are you, husband?'

He goggles at her and doesn't say anything.

She laughs, a tinkling laugh, like a bell, that sets the diamonds at her ears sparkling and sends a rainbow dancing down from the top of Mount Ida into the sea. She caresses his neck and starts to kiss it, softly.

‘Hera,' he croons, smiling, ‘what's come over you?'

She starts to kiss his lips, his hair, more passionately now. ‘Aren't I allowed to want to lie with my husband from time to time?' she asks, kissing him deeply and climbing on to his lap. As one, they roll from the throne on to the grass, and purple hyacinths, crocuses and lotus-flowers spring up beneath them, sending fragrance into the air as they are crushed beneath the bodies of the gods.

Zeus is kissing her fiercely, holding her head in his hands, his eyes growing dark with desire.

‘Oh – just a moment,' he says, stopping mid-kiss and letting go of her hair. He whirls his hand around them, and a golden cloud, the colour of the setting sun, wraps itself about the two lovers. He leans back in to kiss her again. ‘Just so the others don't see.'

An hour later, Zeus is asleep. His snores shake Mount Ida and cause several flocks of birds to rise indignantly from the forests into the air, flapping their wings and squawking.

Hera is sitting beside her husband, smiling with satisfaction as she looks down at the mass of god beside her, deep in sleep. It'll be another few hours until he wakes, and that should be enough. She stands, stretches, and looks down through the gap in the clouds towards the Greek camp.

It's time to get Achilles back in the game.

We were standing there on the walls, Cassandra and I, talking in low voices to each other as we leant over the parapet, looking towards the Greek camp. Our soldiers were pouring through a gap in the camp fortifications and slowly, relentlessly, pushing the Greek forces back through the huts towards the sea.

The Greeks were trapped. Our victory was within sight.

Then Cassandra gasped. She stared at me. ‘I – I don't believe it,' she said, her voice hushed. ‘It can't be. Krisayis …' Cassandra gazed at me, her eyes round with fear ‘… it's – it's
Achilles
.'

‘
What?
'

She pointed out to the plain. ‘It's Achilles,' she repeated, her voice trembling.

I stared down towards the camp. I blinked. Achilles was running out on to the plain from the Greek camp. His bronze breastplate was so bright in the afternoon sun that it shone out like a star, a dazzling golden white. He was racing over the sand, spear held high in the air, and behind him the Greek troops were gathering, rushing together from all corners of the camp, swarming in his wake. It was as if they had been inspired with courage, like the breath of life, shouting Achilles' name in a rhythmic beat as they punched, stabbed and sliced at our troops with a sudden terrible energy.

Our men had clearly been taken by surprise as they were falling over each other in their haste to escape, running and stumbling away from the fortifications of the camp, barely able to fight as they were pushed back over the plain by the wave of Greeks falling on them, like a glittering bronze storm.

The echo of their shout,
A-chil-les, A-chil-les
, washed over the walls and rang in my ears.

‘But – but Achilles swore to leave the war!' I gasped, horrified. ‘I saw him, Cassandra, when I was in the Greek camp – he swore by the gods he wouldn't come back when King Agamemnon took his girl instead of me! Why would he fight now?'

She shook her head, eyes wide and scared. ‘I don't know,' she said fearfully. ‘This is the first time he's ever fought around the city, against Troy itself. I mean – we've heard terrible stories of what happened when he sacked the towns of the Troad, and …' She trailed off.

‘… they were razed to the ground,' I finished in a whisper. ‘All the men were killed and the women captured. I saw them.'

She nodded. ‘And my brother is somewhere down there,' she said. ‘What will happen to Hector?'

My heart filled with dread.
He doesn't know how to kill Achilles.

A crowd was gathering on the battlements now. More and more of the Trojan nobles were bursting out of the tower staircase, pointing over the plain and repeating the ominous name of Achilles to each other; awestruck, terrified, hardly able to believe that what their eyes were showing them was true – that Achilles, godlike Achilles, had joined the war on Troy at last.

Achilles was running towards the city, his armour shining brighter and brighter, his outline clearer.

Our army was stampeding back towards the gates, running for their lives amid the cloud of dust that was rising under their feet, horses whinnying and falling under the confused mass of infantry.

‘Where is my son?'

Queen Hecuba had appeared on the walls, followed closely by King Priam and her other sons.

King Priam seated himself in the canopied throne across the crowded tower, but the queen ran over to the battlements and leant over the edge, scanning the breaking wave of the Trojan retreat. I turned quickly away so she would not see me, but she had eyes only for her son. ‘Have you seen him?' she asked Cassandra, her voice thick with emotion. ‘Is my Hector alive?'

‘I don't know, my lady Mother,' Cassandra said. ‘I saw him a while ago, fighting around the Greek camp – but I don't know where he is now.'

‘If Achilles—' Queen Hecuba broke off, clearly unable to finish the thought.

Achilles was two hundred paces from the city walls now.

Our army was pinned against the fortifications, a trail of corpses scattered in their wake across the plain, the Greeks still clashing their spears against their shields and shouting Achilles' name in a deafening roar.

The gates were closed, and our men could not risk opening them for fear that the Greeks would break into the city.

There was nowhere for the Trojans to go.

And then – inexplicably – silence fell over the two armies.

It was hard at first to see what was happening. The Trojans seemed to be melting to one side, the Greeks drawing back on to the plain.

‘What is happening?' I whispered to Cassandra. ‘What are the Greeks doing?'

‘I don't know,' she said, her eyes wide, staring down over the walls.

And then Achilles moved into the space that had been cleared by the armies, and I knew what was happening.

There was going to be a duel.

But Achilles cannot die
.

‘Hector!' Queen Hecuba gasped, as a tall, broad-chested Trojan with a gold-plumed helmet stepped out of the Trojan ranks and faced the figure of Achilles. ‘Oh, my boy, my boy!' She started to rock back and forth, arms clasped to her chest, moaning. ‘Why could you not stay at home, like your other brothers, and let our men fight for you?'

A voice cut across her: ‘Have I missed it? Have I missed the battle?'

The gorgeous slim figure of Prince Paris stepped delicately out of the tower door, holding Helen by the hand. Once again, despite all the tension and fear for Prince Hector below the walls, I felt that peculiar sensation of desire and fascination as I watched Helen walk towards the battlements, her long hair swinging behind her, like liquid silver, her grey-blue eyes like smoky pools of mercury, trailing behind her that musky scent of roses and jasmine.

‘Missed the war, I should say,' Prince Aeneas said loudly, from beside King Priam's throne. ‘Our thanks for leaving your boudoir to come and see your brother die, though. Very gracious of you.'

Paris went white. ‘Is – is Hector down there?' he asked faintly.

Helen leant over the walls, and when she spoke her voice was low, rich and musical. ‘Yes, he is, and he's with – but—' She turned to Paris, her lovely forehead creased. ‘I don't believe it. It looks like –
Achilles
.'

All the remaining colour drained from Paris' cheeks.

The warriors were circling each other, like wild beasts. They were testing each other, one darting forwards and making a light jab with his spear, then retreating. Strangely, it looked as if Hector was the stronger as he lunged powerfully back and forth, but Achilles was fast on his feet and dodged out of the way, dancing around him light as an acrobat.

‘You need to attack before he wears you out, my son,' I heard King Priam mutter, under his breath.

I looked around in spite of myself. The king was leaning on the arm of his throne, fists clenched so hard that his knuckles were white. ‘Throw it –
now
!'

As if he had heard his father's voice, Hector leant back, his whole body arching, like a bent bow, weighing the spear lightly up and down in his hand. He took a few running steps, then shot the spear away from his body. It arrowed out of his hand in a perfectly straight line, the deadly point hissing through the air as it went.

In a heartbeat, Achilles crouched low to the ground, shield held close over his head.

The spearhead glanced off the bronze boss and whistled over him.

Hector had missed.

King Priam covered his face with his hands and groaned.

Queen Hecuba was still rocking back and forth, muttering silent prayers to the gods, her eyes turned up to the sky and tears pouring down her cheeks.

I looked back down to the plain, my fists clenched at my sides, my nails digging into my palms.

Hector had darted forwards and, while Achilles got back to his feet, had seized his spear from where it was buried, tip down, in the sand.