‘Father, send Deiphobos, please! If Paris goes, I know in my bones that Troy will weep tears of blood!’

Tears of blood or no, King Priam’s mind was made up. He gave the task to me.

After the others had gone I lingered with him.

‘Paris, I am delighted,’ he said, stroking my hair.

‘Then I am rewarded, Father.’ Suddenly I laughed. ‘If I cannot bring back my Aunt Hesione, perhaps I can bring back a Greek princess in her stead.’

Chuckling, he rocked back and forth in his chair; my little joke sat well with him. ‘Greece abounds in princesses, my son. I admit it would twist the Greek tail perfectly if we made it an eye for an eye.’

I kissed his hand. His implacable hatred of Greece and all things Greek was a byword in Troy; I had made him happy. What matter if the pleasantry was empty, provided it made him chuckle?

Since it seemed the mild winter was going to end early, I went down to Sigios several days later to discuss the marshalling of a fleet with the captains and merchants who would comprise it. I wanted twenty big ships with full crews and empty holds; as the state was paying the bill, I knew I would have a host of eager applicants. Though I had not understood at the time what daimon prompted me to volunteer, I now found myself excited at the prospect of this adventure. Soon I would see places far away, places a Trojan did not hope ever to see. Greek places.

After the conference was over I strolled outside the harbour master’s cottage to breathe in the sea-tanged, sharply cold air and watch the activities of that busy beach, the ships drawn up on the shingle during winter now swarming with teams of men whose duty was to inspect their pitched sides and ensure that they were seaworthy. A huge scarlet vessel was manoeuvring close to shore, the eyes upon its prow trying to stare me down, the figurehead tipping the curving cowl of its stern obviously my own special Goddess, Aphrodite. What shipwright had seen her in which dream, to have delineated her so marvellously?

Finally the master of the vessel found enough space to beach its heavy sides in the pebbles; down went the rope ladders. At which moment I noticed that the ship bore a royal standard in its bow, scarlet-encrusted and fringed with solid gold – it carried a foreign king! I walked forward slowly, twitching my cloak into elegant folds.

The royal person descended carefully. A Greek. That was evident in the way he dressed, the unconscious superiority which even the least Greek possessed when he encountered the rest of the world. But as the royal person drew closer I lost my initial awe. Such an ordinary-looking man! Not particularly tall, not particularly handsome, and red-haired. Yes, he was definitely a Greek. Half of them seemed to have red hair. His leather kilt was dyed purple and embossed with gold, the fringe hemming it was gold, his wide belt was gold studded with gems, his purple blouse was cut away to reveal a meagre chest, and around his neck he wore a great collar of gold and jewels. A very rich man.

When he saw me he altered his course.

‘Welcome to the shores of Troy, royal sir,’ I said formally. ‘I am Paris, son of King Priam.’

He took my proffered arm and wrapped his fingers about it. ‘Thank you, Highness. I am Menelaos, King of Lakedaimon and brother to Agamemnon, High King of Mykenai.’

My eyes widened. ‘Would you ride to the city in my car, King Menelaos?’ I asked.

My father was conducting his daily audiences and business. I whispered to the herald, who sprang to attention and flung the double doors open.

‘King Menelaos of Lakedaimon!’ he roared.

We went in together to face a crowd stilled to immobility. Hektor was standing at the back with his hand extended and his mouth open on an unuttered word, Antenor was half turned towards us, and my father was sitting bolt upright on his throne, his hand wrapped so tightly about his staff that the whole of it shook. If my companion got the idea that a Greek was not welcome here, he betrayed no sign of it; after I grew to know him better, I decided that he probably had not noticed. His glance around the room and its furnishings was unimpressed, which set me to wondering what Greek palaces were like.

My father came down from the dais, hand extended. ‘We are honoured, King Menelaos,’ he said. Pointing to a big couch strewn with cushions, Father took the visitor’s arm. ‘Would you care to sit down? Paris, join us, but first ask Hektor to join us too. And see refreshments are brought.’

The Court was very quiet, eyes speculative, but the talk at the couch was inaudible two paces away.

The politenesses completed, my father spoke. ‘What brings you to Troy, King Menelaos?’

‘A matter of vital importance to my people of Lakedaimon, King Priam. I know that what I seek is not in Trojan lands, but Troy seemed the best place to start my enquiries.’

‘Ask.’

Menelaos leaned forward, turned side on so that he could look at my father’s expressionless face. ‘Sire, my kingdom is lashed by plague. When my own priests could not divine the cause of it, I sent to the Pythoness at Delphi. She told me that I must go in person to seek the bones of the sons of Prometheus and fetch them to Amyklai – my capital. They must be reinterred in Amyklai. Then the plague will cease.’

Ah! His mission had nothing to do with Aunt Hesione, or the scarcity of tin and copper, or trade embargoes in the Hellespont. His was a more mundane mission by far. Very common. Contending with plague called for extraordinary measures; there was always some King or other wandering the seas and shores looking for some object the Oracles said he must bring home. Sometimes I wondered if the whole purpose behind such an oracle was to ship the King off elsewhere until natural attrition brought disease to its inevitable end. A way of protecting the King from retribution; if he stayed at home he was likely to die of the same plague or find himself ritually lynched.

Of course King Menelaos had to be accommodated. Who knew whether next year it might be King Priam sent by the Oracle to ask help of King Menelaos? The Royal Kindred, no matter what their differences or nationalities, stuck together in certain situations. So while King Menelaos was made free of the city, my father’s scouts went out to locate the bones of the sons of Prometheus, and learned that they resided in Dardania. King Anchises of Dardania protested bitterly, but that came to nothing. Whether he liked it or not, the designated relics would leave him.

I got the job of looking after Menelaos until he could journey in state to Lyrnessos and claim the bones. Which led to my offering him a customary courtesy: his choice of any woman he fancied provided she was not royal.

He laughed, shook his head emphatically. ‘I need no other woman than my wife, Helen,’ he said.

My ears pricked. ‘Really?’

Face glowing, he looked besotted. ‘I am married to the most beautiful woman in the world,’ he said solemnly.

Though I looked polite, I managed to let my incredulity show. ‘Really?’

‘Yes, really, Paris. Helen has no peer.’

‘Is she more beautiful than my brother Hektor’s wife?’

‘The Princess Andromache is dim Selene compared to the splendour of Helios,’ he said.

‘Tell me more.’

He sighed, flapped his arms. ‘How can one describe Aphrodite? How can one paint visual perfection in mere words? Go down to my ship, Paris, and look at the figurehead. That is Helen.’

My eyes closed, remembering. But all I could envision was a pair of eyes as green as an Egyptian cat’s.

I had to meet this paragon! Not that I believed him. The figurehead was bound to be superior to the model for it. No statue of Aphrodite I had ever seen could rival the figurehead’s face (though, truth to tell, sculptors were a poor lot who would persist in endowing statues with fatuous smiles, stiff features and even stiffer bodies).