the-song-books.yossr

Chapter Twenty-Eight
THAT NIGHT, PHOINIX COMES LIMPING UP THE SHORE with news of a duel. As
the armies rallied in the morning, Paris had strutted along the Trojan line,
golden armor flashing. He offered a challenge: single combat, winner takes
Helen. The Greeks bellowed their approval. Which of them did not want to
leave that dayy? To wager Helen on a single fight and settle it once and for
all? And Paris looked an easyy target, shining and slight, slim-hipped as an
unwed girl. But it was Menelaus, Phoinix said, who came forward, roaring
acceptance at the chance to regain his honor and his beautiful wife in one.
The duel begins with spears and moves quicklyy to swords. Paris is swifter
than Menelaus had anticipated, no fighter but fast on his feet. At last the
Trojan prince missteps, and Menelaus seizes him byy his long horsehair crest
and drags him down to the earth. Paris’ feet kick helplesslyy, his fingers
scrabble at the choking chin-strap. Then, suddenlyy, the helmet comes free in
Menelaus’ hand and Paris is gone. Where the Trojan prince sprawled there
is onlyy dustyy ground. The armies squint and whisper: Where is he?
Menelaus squints with them, and so does not see the arrow, loosed from a
ibex-horn bow along the Trojan line, flyying towards him. It punches
through his leather armor and buries itself in his stomach.
Blood pours down his legs and puddles at his feet. It is mostlyy a surface
wound, but the Greeks do not know that yyet. Theyy scream and rush the
Trojan ranks, enraged at the betrayyal. A bloodyy melee begins.
“But what happened to Paris?” I ask.
Phoinix shakes his head. “I do not know.”
THE TWO SIDES FOUGHT on through the afternoon until another trumpet blew.
It was Hector, offering a second truce, a second duel to make right the
dishonor of Paris’ disappearance and the shooting of the arrow. He
presented himself in his brother’s place, to anyy man who dared answer.
Menelaus, Phoinix sayys, would have stepped forward again, but
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