The Princess of Sparta: Heroes of the Trojan War (31 page)

“Do you like the song?” The queen smirked, enjoying his discomfort.

Paris cleared his throat, and commanded his faculties to order. “It seems a bit bawdry. Is this really appropriate material for the court?”

“
For the Ancients indulged in these simple debaucheries.

And then, who are we, to ignore their pleas?

Come and be with me...”

“It’s more appropriate than you realize. Do you know that men have been lusting after my sister since she was born? Our father had to fight a war to keep a greedy king from her. And she was only eight.” The queen flung the information as if it were mere trifles.

“Why are you telling me this?” he stiffened.

Clytemnestra cast him an insolent smirk, her hawkish eyes boring right through him, eyes so eerily similar to Helen’s. “I wanted to give you fair warning, lest you think you’re special. Her beauty is a curse. Don’t get caught in its spell.”

The music died off, and the crowd erupted into applause. Paris took his eyes off Clytemnestra for a second, but it was enough for the queen to quietly melt away into the crowd. He turned back to Helen, her face aglow with the praise and affection she was receiving from her people.

Was she really cursed, the same as he?

Paris pressed through the throng, trying to get to her side, but it was for naught. A richly dressed herald entered the hall and announced that the banquet was ready. Paris lost Helen in the crowd as everyone marched to the dining hall.

Helen took a seat beside her sister at the head table, eager for a chance to rest. She was more tired than she cared to admit, the day having taken so many twists and turns. She lifted her rhyton, a golden stag-shaped horn used only for special occasions, and quenched her dry throat. The spiced wine tasted marvelous. And it was only the beginning of the treats to come. The kitchen staff loved to over-perform for festival days.

“You were amazing, Aunt Helen.” Iphigenia gushed. The princess fidgeted nervously with her gossamer gown. She had stopped wearing the simple tunic all children wore only this past autumn and the finery was still foreign to her. “How did you learn to dance so quick?”

Helen held her rhyton out for the cupbearer to fill, and gave her niece a sultry wink. “I didn’t. I was just too scared to fall over and make a fool of myself. My feet did the rest.” The girl giggled, a sweet tinkling sound that snuffed out the second she caught her mother’s austere glare.

Clytemnestra wasn’t pleased. Helen buried herself in her cup, hoping to avoid drawing her sister’s ire. Unfortunately, she had a better chance of growing wings and flying to Olympus.

“You should pace yourself.” Nestra snipped as Helen took another sip of her wine. “Wine loosens your virtue. You wouldn’t want to do anything you might regret.”

Helen turned to her sister, stunned. She had some conceit questioning Helen’s drinking habits. Nestra often had wine with her morning meal. “It was your husband who requested that song. You should question his virtue, not mine.”

Nestra eyed her daughter darkly. The girl gave a small yelp and disappeared down the table. “I’m not an idiot.” She hissed at Helen once they were moderately alone. “You hunger for that prince.”

“I do not!” Helen gasped, her heart hammering against her chest.

“You can’t lie to me, Sister. I know you better than you know yourself. You want him. Admit it.”

She was trapped. There was no escaping Clytemnestra when she was on the prowl for information. A lifetime of giving in to her older sister compelled Helen to tell the truth. But even still, she couldn’t betray Paris.

“It’s... nothing. An infatuation. Nothing will come of it.” She shrunk into her chair.

“You’re right, nothing will come of it.” Nestra glowered over her. “Whatever ‘it’ is, you’re going to end it. Now.” Clytemnestra was furious. Helen had seldom seen her in such a state.

A spike of anger wedged itself into Helen’s heart. Agamemnon forced her to his will. Menelaus beat her to it. But Nestra? She was her sister, the one source of friendship she had in this love-forsaken land. Clytemnestra was supposed to be understanding.

“
No.
” Helen slammed her rhyton down on the table. “I will not.”

Nestra grabbed her wrist and squeezed. “You
will
end it, or I will end it for you.”

“How?” Helen shook off her sister’s grip. “Are you going to run to Menelaus? Tell him I’ve had impure thoughts? Do you want to see me dead? Or perhaps Agamemnon? He’d probably cheer and try to further my education.”

Nestra went pale, that last barb hitting too close to unpleasantness they swore to never speak about. Helen sighed, instantly regretting the hurt her words caused her twin. She dropped her head in her hands. “I’m sorry,” she moaned, “but don’t ask this of me. Please, leave me this small happiness.”

“Do you love him?” Nestra’s body, her very voice, frosted over with the question.

“I...” Helen couldn’t answer. This was no mere infatuation like she pretended. The more time she spent with Paris, the stronger her sense of familiarity grew.
She
knew Paris
. In a way that went beyond words or experience. The comfort and ease in their company was uncanny. And he felt the same for her, she was sure of it.

“He doesn’t deserve you,” her sister growled. “None of them do. I’ll prove it to you if I have to.”

Nestra could not understand the irony of her words. You did not earn love. Helen had done nothing so terrible as to ‘earn’ Menelaus’ love. Love was a gift, a blessing from the Goddess. Deserve had nothing to do with it. She cast her sister a pitiful look, “There is nothing you can say that will make me change my mind.”

That was the line in the sand. Nestra tossed her hand away and stood up, her back rigid. She waited until the conversation paused at the other end of the table, the section where their husbands dined with their Trojan guest.

Panic gripped Helen. “What are you doing?”

All she received in return was Nestra’s wicked grin.

Paris followed Agamemnon to the head table. The kitchen staff rushed around them in the dining hall carrying large platters of freshly baked bread, fruits, and cheeses. Any empty cup was immediately filled. The king seemed in a jovial mood, but after his morning in the armory, Paris new better than to relax. Agamemnon was baiting him, and Paris’ lack of response was only encouraging the king to try harder. Sooner or later, Agamemnon would expose his hand.

The men and women sat at separate portions of the table. Paris took his seat beside the king and Menelaus sat opposite him. Other royal officials and nobles filled in the remaining seats, proximity to the king determined by some internal ranking. Paris found himself surrounded by sycophants and madmen, his Trojan delegation placed at a separate table within sight but not privy to their conversations.

But Paris was boxed in by more than courtly seating arrangements. The queen’s words haunted him. He wasn’t a jealous man, and he had no claim to Helen’s affections, but the thought of another man touching her against her will filled him with rage. And if it were many men, like the queen implied, his rage burned white.

The princess entered at the back of the hall, her cheeks flushed from her earlier performance. Everywhere Helen walked she was greeted with warmth; she was so well loved by her people. Paris could scarcely believe she was real—a compassionate, thoughtful Royal. A born leader who did not seek power for herself—someone who would refuse a crown out of love and duty. Centuries came and went without the birth of such a person.

But more than her potential as a queen, she was by far the most beautiful woman who graced this earth. Paris had travelled enough to make that claim with confidence. A hundred eyes followed her path to the head table, her charm undeniable. It was a power she seemed wholly unaware of, but one her king was more than happy to wield on her behalf.

“
Lest you think you’re special...”
the queen had warned. “
Her beauty is a curse.”

Clytemnestra’s words were the poison he had been hearing his entire life. Cursed and discarded as the least amongst his noble siblings. Unwanted at home, and a stranger abroad, he had no place where he belonged. And until he met Helen, he was content with the lie he told himself, that he neither wanted nor sought that comfort.

But basking in the shine of her radiant smile? One word of her admiration could buoy his spirits against a thousand Hecubas. If she loved him, he needed no others.

Lest you think you’re special...

It was eating at him. He tried to focus on the conversation of the table, but it was hard. His eyes would stray, searching for her. For anyone watching closely, he was sure his behavior was obvious.

“—a half dozen liege men have arrived.”

Paris turned his attention back to the head table, missing the last few words of Menelaus’ report.

“What say you, Trojan? You man enough to face me on the list tomorrow?” The Mycenaean prince seemed eager for that opportunity.

Paris turned to Agamemnon with a stern frown of disapproval for his host. Agamemnon truly was a Mad King if he expected an ambassador to participate in war games.

“Chariots.” Agamemnon added, his smug smile showcasing his delight in Paris’ discomfort. “It’s quite safe, assuming you can handle a horse.”

A derisive laugh rippled through Menelaus and his men. “Or do you need a woman to drive it for you?” the Greek prince added.

“I’m sure I can manage.” Paris joined their laugh, refusing to let Menelaus mock him. “After boars and bulls, I expect a bit of horseplay will be fun.”

Menelaus’ cocky grin faded at the mention of the boar. The prince was in for another surprise if he took the field against Paris in a chariot. Dancing wasn’t the only skill he picked up from his sojourn in Phrygia.

“I hear you visited our strongholds this morning.” Rhopalus, a grizzled advisor who introduced himself as the Master of Arms, spoke. “Did you like what you saw?”

Paris painstakingly adopted an aloof expression. “An impressive structure. I’m sure you spared no expense in its construction.”

“For certain.” Agamemnon plucked a cluster of grapes from the table, pulling each morsel off with his teeth one by one. “It will house Mycenae’s greatest treasure when I depart this world. It is only fitting it holds my treasure now while I still breathe.”

Paris almost laughed. It was not enough to intimidate him, Agamemnon wanted to hear Troy whimper before his might. But cowering a diplomat was far easier than cowering the crown, and in Paris’ case, he represented both.

“A wise decision, Your Grace. And the stockpile as well. It is best to be prepared for any contingency.” Paris tore a chunk off a nearby loaf of bread and busied himself chewing while the officials considered just what he meant.

“If you learn nothing else of me, Trojan, you will know I am
always
prepared.” Agamemnon leaned back, a smug certitude in his bearing.

“I’m always relieved to know our allies are well defended.” Paris continued with his air of indifference. “Do you know the Assyrians conduct military campaigns every summer? They send their army out in force, expanding their territory year by year. Tukulti-Ninurta claims it keeps his warriors sharp, lest they let their muscles go as soft as their bellies do in winter. He got as far west as Aleppo last year, and was only turned back by the king’s prudent preparations.” He picked up the sharp table knife and used it to pick seeds from his teeth.

“Has this Assyrian horde ever struck at Troy?” Agamemnon’s eyes lit up as Paris spoke. Did he imagine himself in the field against such a worthy foe? Or did he envy the Assyrian rule by conquest? It was impossible to tell.

“Once.” Paris paused, keenly aware every ear hung on his words. “The Assyrians tried to cross over the Taurus Mountain range. Priam and his allies sent them packing back to the river lands. That was before I was born. They haven’t rode north since.” He planted the knife point first in the table. “Outlanders don’t fare well in Anatolia. They say our rivers run red from the blood of our enemies.”