The Princess of Sparta: Heroes of the Trojan War (11 page)

Paris was, despite his cool demeanor. Mycenae was located along the frontier, their lands comprised of the edges of the known world, lands rumored to be home to creatures of legend—wild, like the men who settled there.

“Do you think they are barbarians like Father insists?” Paris mused. The men of the Hellas were mostly unknown to him. Who knew how they’d react to a royal delegation.

“If they are wild, perhaps you can learn some new secrets to share...?”

“Like I’d share it with you.” Paris chuckled. Hector had been trying to illicit details from his sojourn at the Cypriot bathhouses for the past half-hour. With a new wife to bed, Hector desperately wanted to impress.

But the question did bear some consideration. If the men of the Hellas lived up to their reputation, would the women be as wild? He wondered if they’d all be hairy femmes covered in untanned leathers as fearsome as the Amazons of legend.

“Watch yourself!” Hector laughed when Paris voiced his thoughts. “That’s precisely the sort of woman who could force you to swear your vows.”

Paris swirled his cup, watching the amber liquid froth while he considered Hector’s jest.
A barbarian wife?
, he laughed to himself. He was enough of an embarrassment to the royal family without adding that sort of nonsense.

“Don’t hold your breath.” Paris muttered. “I’m going into the lion’s den to yank its tail. And everyone knows it’s the lioness who has the longer claws.”

“More likely the cub’s den.” Hector snorted. He shared Priam’s low esteem for their western neighbors. “It’s a daft mission. You have a better chance of slaying the Minotaur than getting this Agamemnon to bend the knee. I swear Father is inventing reasons to send you from the city.”

The remark hit closer to Paris’ heart than he was sure his brother intended. Priam’s pledge to finally let him return to Troy was wholly unexpected, and Paris was unsure if he could accept it. His homecoming would cause more havoc than the king could afford.

He shrugged off those morbid thoughts and turned to Hector with a grin. “You think I can’t handle a minor king? Your skill with a sword might have no match, but diplomacy is
my weapon
. You’ll swallow those words when I return.”

It was not an unfounded boast. Paris had brought Tyre, Millawanda, and Cyprus into Priam’s fold, each realm eager to unite against their common enemy. How different could Mycenae be? They might not share Troy’s hatred for the Hatti, but they shared a common language. Other similarities must exist. Paris had only to discover what Agamemnon wanted, his secret desires, and exploit them.

But Hector could not be diverted. “Father could have let you stay a week, at least.” He grumbled a few choice curses into his empty cup.

“Oh, no. Wipe that sourpuss expression off your face.” Paris leapt to his feet. “I only get one night here and you are not going to ruin it.” He banged their empty flagons together to garner the attention of the crowd. “The next round is on your princes. DRINK UP!”

His words rippled through the crowd with welcome cheers. The minstrels picked up a lively tune and a busty serving girl quickly replaced their mugs, the ale foaming over the tops. When the libations were all handed out, a hundred smiths raised their drunken voices to toast to Hector and Paris’ good health.

“Watch out, little brother,” Hector warned playfully as he pulled Paris back to his seat, “or they’ll dub you the Prince of Hops.”

Paris took a long swig of the yeasty brew, and wiped the foam from his chin with his sleeve. “I’ve been called worse.”

It was a poor choice of words. He knew it the instant he saw Hector’s face. “Forget about it.”

“I will not.” Hector slammed his cup down on their table. “Not until I see Aesacus hung from a gibbet. And that foul monkey, too.”

Paris sighed and put down his drink. No amount of spirits was going to save him from this conversation. Hector thought he could deal with any threat with the strength of his arms. But this foe could not be bested with an army, let alone by the passion of one prince.

“You can’t save me, Hector.” Paris turned to him. “Father can make as many promises as he likes, but it won’t save me either. Killing Aesacus will not convince his followers that his prophecy is untrue. You know I am not welcome here.”

“How do you know—“

“
Because I do.
” He spoke more firmly than he intended. “I’ve spent six weeks in Troy in the past two years.
Six weeks
. And every visit felt too long by half. You fighting everyone only makes it worse. I... I just want a moment of peace. Let me enjoy your company without having to dwell on all the other mess. Please.”

Paris watched the fight drain from Hector’s muscles. “I... will.” His brother sighed, wilting into his chair. “Forgive me, Paris. It’s just that I miss you.”

“I miss you, too.”

It was a surprising moment of candor between them. Paris treasured his brother. The years had steadily pulled their lives in different directions, but not their affection. The summers of their youth playing on the steps of Mt. Ida could not be erased by time and politics.

“I’ll only be gone a few weeks this time. We’ll talk about Aesacus when I get back, all right?”

Hector reached out and grabbed Paris’ hands. “Promise me you won’t do anything stupid.” There was a strange urgency in Hector’s words.

Paris almost fell from his chair. He looked into his brother’s earnest face, stunned by Hector’s serious pallor. It was tinged with a prophetic aura, like their sister Cassandra’s when plagued by her dire visions. Why would he question Paris’ return now? On a mission far simpler than any in recent memory?

“I promise.” He clasped Hector’s hands tight and made his vow. “I won’t risk my life needlessly. If the Gods are fair, I will make it back to Troy.”

As the night wore on, Paris buried himself in his drink, trying to drown out that ominous feeling. The Gods had never been fair, and to Paris least of all. He knew better than to expect their favor.

Mycenae, the frontier of civilization... what dangers could it hold in store for a prince of Troy?

Chapter 8

In Mycenae

THE BRIGHT afternoon sun stabbed Helen’s eyes as she exited Mycenae’s royal granary. She dusted her hands on the leather apron Philon had pressed on her for the inspection. The planting season was almost over, and their stores were running low. A concern Philon, as Harvest Master, voiced to her in secret.

“They drained the reserves when the last merchant vessel came through, Your Grace. Won’t naught be left if another trader comes before the summer rains.”

Helen sighed, stretching out the knot growing in the small of her back. The time she spent at the Mycenaean court had done little to acclimatize her to Agamemnon’s capricious rule. Her Spartan sensibilities were constantly challenged. Tyndareus would never demand so much of his people while giving so little in return.

Her heart filled with sorrow at the thought of her father. It had been ten years since she last had spoken with her beloved king, just after they finalized her betrothal. Tyndareus had been explicit—no son of Atreus would rule in Sparta. And since Menelaus was a second son with no land to rule as his own, Helen had cursed herself to a life of irrelevance, a lesser member of an already crowded royal household. If she had known that laying her wedding wreath at Mycenae’s door she would be choosing her sister over her father, would she have chosen the same?

One glance at Philon’s worried face pulled her from her dark musings. She did not have the luxury of living in hindsight. Helen would not wallow in self-pity while these good people needed her. Lending an ear to the citizen’s concerns seemed to lessen her own, and in little time the Mycenaean people wormed their way into her vacated heart. She could do little to change her own situation, but she
could
help them.

Clytemnestra might think mingling with the common folk was beneath her, but Helen didn’t. The time away from the palace was a respite from the pressures of court. And the warm regard of commoners like Philon was a welcome change from the chilly affections of her husband.

“And the planting?” Helen pressed. “Can’t we expand? Plow farther afield?” She pulled the apron from her waist, careful not to snag her embroidered chiton. The craftsmanship on the garment was lovely, despite the low neckline. It did wonders to show off her youthful curves. The dress was from Agamemnon, a gift to his sister-by-law. Helen knew better than to refuse the Great King’s gifts, but wearing the garment made her feel half-naked.

Philon shifted nervously, seemingly embarrassed by her question. A poor planting would mean a poor harvest, and a poor harvest would cost him his job. “We’re having troubles, Your Grace. A massive bull has claimed the borders along the western fields. He’s a monster ten span long with horns to match a Minotaur. My plow herds say he is Poseidon incarnate. They won’t go near him.”

She sighed. This news would not bode well in the Master’s Council. Only yesterday, Nestra threatened to cancel the
Mounichia
Festival if more supplies could not be found. The queen detested the religious superstitions of the common folk. And if they cost the crown a prized festival...? Helen frowned, not wanting to envision how her sister would respond.

“A hungry child is a far greater danger than that of a wild bull.” She chastised Philon lightly. “I will ask the king to dispatch his huntsmen. But see that you increase the crop accordingly. No excuses.”

“Thank you, Princess.” The harvest master effused, ducking his head in deference.

A ghost of a smile graced her lips. She tried her best to make amends for Agamemnon’s careless rule, but an increased harvest couldn’t answer all the problems plaguing the growing nation. A larger bounty would only inspire the power-hungry king to continue his expanded trade. And while his royal arsenal grew, the people sacrificed one meal at a time. At least with Helen’s visits, the common folk felt their needs were being addressed. She was their conduit to the throne.

She headed up to the palace along a steep inclining ramp. The granary was located at the base of the rising acropolis, surrounded by the enormous defense walls that separated palatial land from the communal. The Grand Walkway, as the ramp had come to be known, was the widest road of Mycenae. Small indents carved from the ruts of chariot wheels were the only blemish on the otherwise smooth limestone surface.

Helen continued westward, following the ramp ever higher. It was a long hike, but finally, at a natural curve in the bedrock, the inner wall gave way to a massive staircase that revealed a palace that out-marveled any in Greece. Despite all the hardships Agamemnon pressed on his people, Mycenae had grown under his rule. The capital was twice the size from when Helen first arrived.

Her smile turned bittersweet remembering those first few days on the foreign soil—of her first glimpse of the towering fortress and how it had filled her with wonder. Her heart had swelled with hope and dreams of love on meeting her husband-to-be. What a lovelorn fool she had been.

It hadn’t taken long for Clytemnestra’s dark warnings to prove true. The men of Mycenae dreamed of battle and swords not of love. Too soon she realized the absence of Menelaus from her courtship was not a matter of duty, but a lack of care. Her husband sought nothing in this life more than spiting his older brother, an unfortunate familial grudge that manifested in all manner of petty acts—acts that Helen now found herself an unfortunate pawn.

From the courtyard, she climbed another staircase to the megaron above. Nestra was hiding behind the pillars of the portico, spying on the king and his audience. She waved Helen over, her nervous manner warning Helen to keep quiet.

“I am not some lackey you can command. I am king in my own right!” Menelaus’ baritone voice pierced the air about them.

Helen stiffened, knowing now why Nestra hid. Her husband was in a temper again. She peaked her head around the pillar and watched the drama unfold.

Fire and fury, those were the elements that graced her mighty lord. Fire of hair, of tongue, of temper. And fury for any man stupid enough to provoke him—a pastime Agamemnon loved to indulge.

“You are no king yet,
Brother.
” The High King sneered. “Tyndareus is not dead. Only when his flesh feeds the worms will Sparta be yours.”

“A favor I have you to thank for.” Menelaus spat. “It’s you he despises, not me!”

Agamemnon leapt to his feet, grabbing his jeweled scepter like a club. “You
should
thank me. You should bow down and kiss my feet! Had I not pressed your suit, you would not even be married and next in line to rule. A throne afforded you by contract, not divine right as I hold here.
So you will obey me.
”

Helen sighed. Direct demands meant this confrontation would not end well. Nestra was shaking like a leaf. If their husbands did not settle their differences, the wives would bear the burden of their displeasure. Nestra bore too many scars from Agamemnon’s fearsome temper.