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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
    P OLITES
    T he 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