I reached out to the palace gate and suddenly became entranced with how small my hand looked in comparison to the giant circle of bronze attached to the two doors that served as the knocker. After I had considered that the ring was so wide it would probably even be too big to circle my hips, I decided that I did not have the strength in me to strike the door with it. How should I announce my arrival, I wondered? I settled for a few weak raps with my fist as simply attempting to push the gate open seemed too discourteous.
Surprisingly, a guard's keen ear actually heard me from the other side of the secure wooden monstrosity. A little hatch on the right hand door (positioned much higher than even the very top of my head) opened inwards and his face, all ruddy yet strangely immobile, appeared there.
The guard peered under heavy lids as he gave me a good look up and down, scrutinising me with narrowed eyes. He seemed to know the purpose of my visit however, without me needing to announce myself.
"You are late". He barked at me before slamming the hatch.
He was, sadly, right about that. The pinkish orange hue that washed the sky at dawn was beginning to fade and a cloudless blue was appearing like crystal water slowly filling a bowl in its place. Drunk on near-exhaustion, I do not know how I actually made it to the palace gates at all for I had hardly slept a wink that previous night. Everything felt unreal, as if I were wedged between that strange ghostly world between wake and dream. Any stresses that would have normally raised an alarmed jolt through my heart (such as the guard's point about my tardiness) were no longer present within me, negated by the woolly dull sensation that resided in the front of my head and each heavy limb. Perhaps that was for the best.
Even though it seemed to me that I had risen from my bed in the middle of the night, I had awoken later than planned that morning and there had been so much preparation to take care of to ensure I was of suitable appearance for the palace. Whether it would impress the Prince was another matter - I had my doubts, partly because I felt so uncomfortable. Mother had decided that the only gown elegant enough for my expectant audience was the one she had worn for her wedding to my father and it was, I think, the only keep-sake she had held on to – stored for years in a secure wooden trunk under her bed. It had been so long since it had met the light, I was very concerned that it might fall apart at the most inopportune moment but It was very beautiful: cream in colour and understated in design, apart from hundreds of tiny pearls that had been sewn onto the sinuous fabric, dotted all over like the stars in the night sky. Sadly, these embellishments made the gown rather weighty to wear and it clung to my curves in a way that made me rather insecure. I must have been a little bigger than my mother had been at my age and I cursed myself for overindulging in sugary grapes, dense bread and cloying sun-dried figs. Mother assured me that it showed my figure off to perfection and she had performed a wonderful job at customising the dress so it was more befitting a formal occasion rather than a wedding – she had added a deep blue girdle sash around my waist and had removed the veil in favour of decorating my rebellious hair (still not behaving itself quite as it should) with the tiny blooms of a blue hyacinth plant (a flower dedicated to Apollo, Troy's patron god therefore my mother believed it would be the perfect tribute). Despite the finery, I did consider that the gown may be a little old-fashioned and I had no jewels to decorate my wrists, neck or ears. I chose not to comment on this to mother as she had been dizzy with excitement all morning and it had been such a lovely thing to witness. She had needed something to take her mind of things.
Now at the gate, I considered that my appearance was why the guard had peered at me so rudely. Ultimately, I was a child playing dress-up in her mother's clothes. How could I ever expect to be taken seriously?
I stood there as the moments of silence and inactivity trundled on, considering whether I should turn back and return home. To do so would have been somewhat of a relief for me but I knew that mother would be so disappointed in me, I had to see this through, I thought despondently. I had no choice now.
The gate shuddered noisily as an unseen bold was drawn across and one of the doors slowly creaked open. The guard stood there, his podgy hand lazily holding onto the shaft of a spear which seemed to be wilting like under-watered plant as he held it at such an odd angle. He would have looked resplendent, intimidating even in his military regalia if he hadn't have been so rotund. His domed helmet appeared to push the fat from his cheeks downwards into an extra chin and his bronze breastplate, decorated with the now familiar concentric circle insignia, was firmly moulded and contoured to muscles that did not exist. He was no longer scrutinising me, his head was turned towards the shadow to his right, behind the partially opened gate.
"Lysander! ... Lysander you little runt! Another girl for you to take to the Governess!" the guard called rudely in that general direction.
Very quickly, a skinny looking boy appeared before me – well I say boy but he was perhaps only three or four years younger than me. He in that uncomfortable place between boy and man, tall but the bulk of his body was yet to catch up with his growth spurt. His large eyes were bright and child-like yet his chin was beginning to square and his top lip was smattered with a few wispy hairs. The tunic that practically hung from one bony shoulder was embroidered with the palace insignia and although and he seemed to puff his scrawny chest out proudly to display it.
The boy silently motioned with his hand for me to follow him and rapidly turned on his heels, passing at such speed through the stone entrance arch of the gate that I did not even observe my immediate alien surroundings and I had real trouble catching up with him as the gown made it impossible to do anything but wiggle. I was already beginning to look unkempt, my stubborn hair was beginning to loosen from the pins and tendrils were falling around my face, the last thing I needed was to look flushed and sweaty when – and if – I finally reached my intended destination.
"Slow down!" I called to the boy desperately.
He obediently did just that but still kept a few paces ahead of me. I felt like a cow being led to pasture.
"Am I very late?" I called again, a little breathless.
He stopped in his tracks and stood there for a moment, his shoulders slumping a little as if considering something. He finally turned his head back to look at me. As I caught up to where he stood waiting, he leaned in to me a little, glanced around to see if anybody was watching and whispered:
"I am not supposed to talk to you ... any of you." He added as an afterthought so I wouldn't think his previous muteness was a personal slur.
There was mischievousness in those big eyes that made me instantly warm to him. Still intoxicated with fatigue, I mirrored him and leaned closer as if it were all a game, like children sharing secrets.
"I won't tell if you don't." I whispered back, trying not to smile too much.
A broad grin of relief spread across the boy's face, slowly at first then all at once brilliant.
"I was hoping you would say that!" He laughed.
He began to walk again but now his pace was in time with mine and we were side by side. I was not confident enough to look about myself for fear that the enormity of being a guest at the palace may suddenly shock me half to death, I kept my eyes on our respective feet, working at a pacey yet comfortable speed. Mine were tiny, encased in too-tight slippers that essentially covered up the rough skin on my soles, an embarrassing result of my sandal-less habit. The boy had remarkably big feet I remember, with long toes and their joints like knotty branches.
A grey blur caught my attention and I looked up to see a huge grey heron take off from an unknown perch, his large wings fully outstretched as he caught the breeze to wheel over the palace roof which loomed soberly to my right. We were walking on a neat path that took us across the foreground and between us and the palace lay a beautiful garden. We horizontally travelled across the beginning of an avenue lined by trellis, all supporting many wisteria plants that were artfully trained to form an arch sheltering the way. The sunlight dappled underneath the climbing purple star-like flowers, looking so cool and inviting. Beyond the trellises was a raised, flat courtyard from which I caught a fleeting glimpse of many huge marble statues lining the perimeter.
The boy noticed my amazed stares and laughed. I had almost forgotten he was there for a moment.
"Those are statues of the past kings of Troy ... and through the courtyard – do you see those pillars and steps?" He pointed and I strained my eyes to see beyond the veil of morning dew rising in a mist from the flagstones of the courtyard. I could just make them out so I nodded.
"That is the main entrance to the palace; it leads straight into the throne room." He explained. I wondered if the king was there, I imagined he was and the austere vision in my head made me balk. The boy sensed this and tried to make me more at ease.
"I am sorry I laughed at you before" He continued "I forget how impressive this place appears sometimes, I have been here so long that I hardly pay heed. Besides, I usually see this ..."
Almost as soon as he finished his sentence we turned sharply off the neat path and behind a group of impenetrable hedges, twice as tall as me. The grass that grew there was patchy and not clipped anywhere as neatly as the entrance gardens. We followed a track of compacted, dry earth up to a group of shabby looking murky-bricked buildings. Great plumes of smoke were rising from the stubby chimneys in the ramshackle roofs. Before we had reached them, I could see and hear the chaotic activity that was taking place all around.
As we passed through the narrow alleyway between the group of buildings, women dressed in drab tunics and headscarves lined the track, sitting on rudimentary benches skilfully plucking dead chickens, the white feathers forming great clouds all around. Further up, a stout looking man with a great beard was hacking away at something on a large wooden block with a sharp cleaver, blood spattered all over his apron and sweat beading on his brow. I peered into the doorway of one of the buildings, drawn to it due to the sheer stifling heat it emanated. Inside I could see great clay ovens belching charcoal fumes, a blur of people studiously stirring huge receptacles with giant spoons as the terror-filled squeals of a pig ended abruptly with a large thumping sound. I clenched my eyes shut for a moment; even though I did not see the slaughter I felt its sound pass through my gut like a spear. Suddenly I felt a little queasy. I had not eaten that morning (for fear of bursting out of my dress and yes, perhaps also out of anxiety). Even though the cooking smells that enveloped me as we passed through what was evidently the palace kitchens must have smelt good to most people, to me it just heightened the sickness in my stomach.
The boy had a talent for sensing when things were awry it seemed. He nudged me softly with his elbow and flashed me another cheerful smile: "The royal family love their food. And the gods know there are enough mouths to feed. Priam himself has sired fifty sons and many daughters!"
I stared at him through a lowered brow, mistrusting his gossip. The King's prolific reproductive talents were well rumoured although I did not believe it for a second. The boy seemed a little hurt by my underwhelmed reaction and I am sure I detected a little pout to his unusually rosy lips.
"It's true!" he exclaimed "I have seen them all with my own eyes!"
He seemed so earnest somehow that I began have faith in him, not that I was going to tell him that, of course. To offer a truce and to change the subject, I asked him if he was a servant and he mysteriously shrugged, not confirming or refuting the point in question.
"I am an errand boy" he eventually revealed, sounding a little deflated (his role was of course rather obvious to me but I did not reveal so in fear that I may offend him again). "But!" he brightened suddenly "Soon I will begin training for Troy's own army! One day I am going to be as tall and strong as Prince Hector and when that happens, the first thing I will do is kick that fat guard so hard on his huge arse that he is going to fall face first into a pile of horse dung!"
His observation about the guard was amusing and I should have laughed – had his comment about Hector not make fear begin to crackle through me like lightening.
"The Prince is a big man?" I enquired, my pride making me try to sound casually indifferent. It probably did not, seeing as my throat felt like it had been gripped in a vice.
You would have thought that with my father playing such a pivotal role in the army (and by the time of his demise being second in rank only to the Prince himself, after apparently mentoring him for many years) that I would have at least seen Hector with my own eyes. But I had not, save for the odd glimpse during some sort of parade through the town. Father was careful never to mix his personal life with his work at the palace and Mother had not really cared for the hustle and bustle of these popular public events (that usually marked a triumphant return from overseas or a lavish wedding), meaning we only viewed from afar. The Prince to me was a figure riding away in the distance, dark hair covering the back of a head and bronze armour reflecting hazy glints from the sun. There had been rumours that Hector occasionally liked to go incognito and mix with the commoners, especially in the deprived Lower Town area of the City and for which he had been credited in turning its poor fortunes around but again, I did not believe this gossip for a second. I was certainly a cynical young woman.
The boy had failed to realise just what gravity his offhand remark had on me, not that he could have known about the awful confrontation that had occurred the previous evening - including hearing rumours which seem to hasten the germination of the seedling of doubt about the Prince already planted in my mind. I was exceedingly nervous and wary around men in general and the Prince was so very unfamiliar to me. Sometimes now it bothers me that I could ever entertain such misconceptions of Hector, although I could not have known any better at the time I suppose. I did not want to know better. The boy's observation of the Prince filled me a distinct sense of foreboding. He continued unawares, making matters worse for me.
"Oh yes!" the boy exclaimed excitedly: "The Prince is tallest in all of Troy, thick with muscles and hands that could crush a man's skull!"
He held his palm upwards with fingers clawed to demonstrate a certain level of brutality. I hoped it was just juvenile posturing as remembered that exhaling (and breathing in general) was a prerequisite to living.
He laughed hard realising how over-dramatic he was being and this caused small birds to take flight from another set of hedges that most certainly shielded something else from refined eyes. The boy seemingly was keen to continue with his rather unofficial tour.
"Behind there are the stables and training arena ... for riding and fighting".
It made me sad to think that my father had spent a lot of his time there and it was a shame I could not see it, for I would have liked to. I wondered if his energy lingered where his body could not.
"You need to explore when you come to live here". The boy said suddenly.
I did not know whether to laugh, cry or slap him in the face at being so impertinently presumptuous. The shock – or conflict – must have registered on my face as he added sheepishly, with a mumble.
"You will live here."
Just as I was about to contest the boy's apparent clairvoyance, or rather lunacy, the path turned us around a cluster of young trees and immediately before us loomed the sharp, straight wall of one side of the palace. A small unassuming doorway, carved into the very side of the actual palace walls appeared to be our destination. I must have visibly gulped back some air whilst I eyed it suspiciously as the boy smiled reassuringly: "You are not late. The other girls were very eager and arrived very early anyway. You are perfectly on time, as it should be. That was a short-cut."
Thanking the boy for his help would have been the right thing to do because without it, my terrible timekeeping would have ensured that I would have never lived my life as I now know it. I am ashamed to say I did not even think of it at the time. The voice in my head was constantly yelling in a panicked loop: "you should not be here!" and I was afraid that if I opened my mouth I would voice these words and make a scene. I felt helpless – it had been mother's will that I accept the invitation and it was my duty to obey her, which were my late father's wishes. Now this was my only option to escape. I had to persevere.
It was up to me alone now to find out what lay beyond. I stood at that darkened doorway, probably feeling the same as Theseus standing at the entrance of the Cretan Labyrinth, wondering what exactly the monstrous Minotaur had in store for him.