The Hunt for Helen and Paris

The Hunt for Helen and Paris is the third novel in a series of seven novels tracking the adventures of Petraeus from slave to king. Each novel has a different focus. The Hunt for Helen and Paris is a sea adventure. Petraeus is involved in a number of adventures and meets a number of very different people. One of the people he meets is Ba’al. Below is their first meeting. We heard the sound. The deep beat of a drum, a hollow forbidding sound that sank deep into our very bones. At first it wasn’t loud, but it grew louder as it moved towards us. The people moved to the side of the road and away from us, and we were left isolated. The drum must have been a signal to clear the road, and the people assumed the beater was coming for us. We formed a square, and I stood in front of my soldiers with Argus by my side, just to my rear and facing the square of soldiers so he could respond and give orders. Our formation was tight. The road cleared of people, they just melted away and a small group, led by the drummer, moving in step and swaying in time with the drum as they came towards us. Was it a ceremony? No, we were clearly the targets of this procession. There was now a silence; no chattering, no movement of goods, no creek of wheels or clip of hooves, no braying or barking, just a foreboding, unsettling silence except for the hollow beat of the drum. Apart from the group before us we were entirely alone. It was unsettling. I could feel my heart thumping. My men took a firm grip of their weapons and shields. The drummer stopped, and the group with him stopped some ten paces before me. The group was an ill-assorted bunch: cripples, malformed in body and features, distorted and twisted; I’d never seen a gathering like it before. And then from the midst of this mal-assembly, a man approached. I assumed it was a man. I couldn’t tell as he wore a voluminous black cloak that touched the ground, with a black cowl that hid his face and head, but he was tall, at least two heads taller than me. I’d never seen a man this tall, even taller than Ramasses, and he was large of body, or the cloak gave that appearance. In one hand he held a long, thick black staff with a twisted bulbous top that came to his shoulder. The hand that grasped the staff was large and black, with an impression of great strength. The nails of the fingers were long, pale and thick, giving the impression of claws. He brushed back his cowl so I could see his eyes, but the lower part of his face remained covered. His eyes were dark, and in them there seemed to be a flash of red. Here was a man who wanted to make an impression, much like my master made an impression with his exquisite armour. The impression this man wanted to make was one of fear. We stood perhaps eight paces apart, the drummer behind him. I smiled. “Good day to you, sir, a nice day for a stroll.” As I’d learned from my king, say or do something unexpected when you don’t know what to do in a confrontation. The great head nodded. “You must be Petraeus — or should I address you as Barca of Barca?” “I answer well to Petraeus. I assume you are Ba’al.” “You haven’t come here to seek me, so you must be here for Paris and the woman Helen.” “My mission must be obvious to all those who listen to the words whispered on the wind.” “Indeed, but your search is more like a clap of thunder. It is so loud that those you seek run before it, like chickens before a fox.” “Then I don’t expect you can tell me where these particular chickens have run.” He laughed a deep rumbling laugh. “Oh, I cannot tell you; it would spoil the fun. I will tell you this. Paris is lower than the shit an unobservant man gets on the sole of his sandal, and when he gets back to Troy, he will tell them a merry tale of lies. When Menelaus comes for the return of his unfaithful wife, he will be rejected and there will be a war, a wonderfully beautiful, destructive war.” “How do you know?” The cowl slipped from his pockmarked face. He grinned showing sharp pointed teeth. “Men are such predictable creatures. You just have to think of the most stupid thing a man will do to stay in power or to put right a wrong he thinks has unjustly been placed upon him and that’s what he’ll do. The more arrogant the man the more stupid will be his actions. What can be more stupid than war and yet men continually go to war.” “You think war beautiful?” “Oh yes. Think of the pain and suffering of the soldiers, of the grief of the families of the soldiers who die or are dismembered, young lives full of potential to enhance mankind snuffed out before it has a chance to flourish. Think of the famine, poverty and disease created by war. What can be more beautiful? Only the creators of war, who don’t place themselves in harm’s way, benefit. Ah, what lack of justice, what misery creation? What more can I possibly want?” “Is there nothing to be gained by war then?” “Some, a few, will become rich, but the destruction for the many will outweigh the gain of the few. Some men will learn and grow, but many more will be crippled and die, and at the end there will be division and hatred, a constant, abiding hatred. Hatred that extends over the years until men have forgotten why they hate, and yet they do as their fathers did before them. For the many, there is no joy in war.”