Praise for Aria Cunningham's
The princess of sparta
_________________________________________________
"Masterfully written and pulling from one of the most memorable myths to come out of ancient Greece, Princess of Sparta reminds readers that even in the throes of a violent world people can be weakened by love, and will go to great lengths, even risking death, for the ones they love."
- SAN FRANCISCO BOOK REVIEW
"Aria Cunningham presents the coming-of-age of a character often portrayed as a mere pawn in the wars of men and expertly re-interprets the "Herstory" behind Helen's legendary tale. Sprinkled with tunic-tearing passion, Cunningham paints this popular story with an exquisite brush and reinvents one of the greatest love stories ever told."
-BTS BOOK REVIEW
"The Princess of Sparta is the perfect blend of history, romance, and action giving this book a broader reach with readers. The characters come alive in this forlorn world of long ago as they share their joy, pain, and struggles. Once you pick this book up, there's no turning back or putting it down!"
-PORTLAND BOOK REVIEW
"As a reader, I was left wanting to read the next book in Aria Cunningham's series, so that I can see how she will flesh out this next part of their lives. Legend has taught us how this will end, but the Heroes of the Trojan War series promises to bring it to life for me."
-HISTORICAL NOVEL SOCIETY
"The characters had depth and compassion. I will be honest in saying I started the read without much knowledge in regards to who Helen was, other than the woman who started a war. Now I feel like I have a greater appreciation for her and her struggle."
-WOLF MAJICK REVIEWS
"I quickly found my ideas of Helen the bratty beauty fall away, and be replaced with a more female empowered version. What Cunningham quickly reminded me of, is that there are many sides to one story, and I might just prefer this romantic one the best!"
-BOOKS HUG BACK
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 2014 Aria Cunningham
Cover design by JR Burningham
ISBN: 099142011X
ISBN-13: 978-0-9914201-1-7
, a division of Mythmakers Entertainment | Los Angeles
www.mythmakersent.com
To JR, my Prince of Destiny.
Acknowledgments:
This novel could not have been possible without the encouragement and moral support of my friends and family.Writing seems a solitary endeavor until it is time to publish, and then it takes a village of diligent people to bring the tale to its audience.A special thank you to my Betas- to Autumn, my rock of sensible input, to Claire- who’s enthusiasm brightens the weary soul, to Dori, Renee, Amanda and Carol, and to everyone who donated to the publishing fund. And lastly, to my Alpha, JR. Your keen sense of story never ceases to amaze me.
May we always live extraordinary lives.
THE PRINCESS
of
SPARTA
Heroes of the Trojan War
by
Aria Cunningham
LOS ANGELES
Table of Contents
Cover
Praise
Copyright
Dedication
Title Page
The End of Empire
Map: The World of 1250 BC
Part 1, The Courtship
Chapter 1 - The Suitors
Chapter 2 - Courting Helen
Chapter 3 - Alliances of Blood
Chapter 4 - The Love that Binds
Chapter 5 - The Oath
Part 2, Ten Years Later
The Cursed Prince
Chapter 6 - A Prince of Troy
Chapter 7 - The Court of Smiths
Chapter 8 - In Mycenae
Chapter 9 - The Trojan Ambassador
Chapter 10 - A Game of Stones
Chapter 11 - The Familiar Stranger
Chapter 12 - A Conflict of Interests
Chapter 13 - Fields of Wheat
Chapter 14 - Feint and Parry
Chapter 15 - The Hunt
Chapter 16 - Eros' Arrows
Chapter 17 - The House of Atreus
Chapter 18 - Festival of Life and Death
Chapter 19 - Aphrodite's Price
Chapter 20 - Questionable Conduct
Chapter 21 - The Offer
Chapter 22 - The Honorable Thing
Chapter 23 - The Ruin of our House
Chapter 24 - Abduction
Epilogue
Author's Note
Author Bio
Coming Soon
The End of Empire
Prologue
OUT OF DARKNESS, there came light.
Mankind and all its glory was once nothing more than barbaric clans roaming the earth, hunter-gatherers whose power came from shaping stone.
From that primitive landscape came order. Both land and beast were tamed, weapons of bronze forged, populations grew, and eventually an Age of Empire emerged. Mighty kings built temples, pyramids and fortresses to honor the heavens, feats of human achievement that would go unmatched for eons to come.
But such greatness came at a terrible cost. For a thousand years, the drums of war thundered, and the land ran red with the blood of Egypt, Babylon, Assyria, Hatti and the Levant alike.
Each kingdom, emboldened by delusions of their greatness, was eager to claim the world for their own. Entrenched in oppressive regimes, these empires rotted from within. Corruption and political squabbles hindered their societies from advancement. And in their hubris, they failed to see the fearsome truth before them—
They would soon be destroyed.
In the West, a new power was rising. The Greeks of Mycenae lived along the northern Mediterranean at the very edge of the known world. A mere two hundred years young, their fledgling society was a child amongst the giants of the Old World. Fiercely independent and half wild themselves, they sought the two things that eluded them: power and influence.
While their legacy would give birth to classical art, philosophy and mathematics, these Greeks were brutal men, mercenaries who believed heroic deeds were always those of the sword. They had no inkling of the important role they would play in the advancement of mankind, for that was not a future they sought. And, if not for a singular event that changed the tide of human history, the Greeks, and therefore the Western world, might never have existed.
The time was 1250 BC. The world was moving from the Age of Bronze to that of Iron, and warfare was on the brink of a new revolution. As the Empires of Old struggled for domination, the fate of their people remained uncertain. The world needed but a spark to ignite a flame that would consume them all.
That spark would come from the West. Her name was Helen, Princess of Sparta.
But history would remember her as Helen of Troy.
Part 1
The Courtship
Chapter 1
The Suitors
THE LONELY cry of a golden eagle reverberated throughout the valley plateau of Lacedaemonia. The raptor circled on solar-warmed gusts of wind, its dusky brown wings spread wide while eyeing the open fields below for the telltale signs of breakfast. Though the sun had barely stirred from its nightly rest, the activity below was not the burrowing of voles or muskrats, but that of the hardworking citizens of Sparta setting out to complete the multitude of tasks required for the festivities ahead.
The eagle dove, wings folded alongside its tapered body as it chased thick sunbeams crawling down the slopes of Mt. Parnon. With breathtaking speed, it soared across the vast banks of the Eurotas River, cresting over the numerous masts of longships at dock, ships
so great in number the river seemed a forest of billowing sails.
Over the hard-packed earthen streets of the city, the eagle flew, swooping low over free workers carrying woven baskets teeming with fish and large clay amphora filled with wine. It wove between colorful banners lining the streets, past open shutters filled with fresh smoke from the morning cook fires, and up the steady rise of avenues towards the acropolis.
The home of King Tyndareus was more fortress than palace. Built of thick timbers of ash and oak and resting atop a natural rise of granite, the High Seat was rumored to be impenetrable. With Mt. Parnon to the east and the towering slopes of Mt. Taygetus to the west, Sparta was nestled between two natural barriers. The only land access to the province was along the northern mountain passes, a route so narrow no army of size could advance with speed. If an invader was truly desperate, they could approach by river, sailing the Eurotas from the south, an arduous journey fighting trade winds and current. But either passage was folly, as both routes were highly visible from Sparta’s defensive walls, a vantage spot where Tyndareus now stood.
The king seemed a man carved of stone, his protruding jawline firm, the dark scowl of his eyes unwavering. Such matters of defense were necessary in times of political upheaval where the claiming of a throne was determined by who best wielded a sword. A careless king was one who did not reign long, and Tyndareus had sat on his throne for more years than he cared to count. He had long disproved any man who thought Sparta easy prey.
Like most men of Sparta, Tyndareus was born a warrior. The king was well into his third score of years and, surprisingly there was no stoop to his frame, no lessening of his prowess. Life on the edges of civilization demanded a hardier stock of men in order to survive. If there had ever been a modicum of softness to his bloodline, it had long since been bred out.
He raised his arm high and the eagle slowed down to land on its master’s perch. The leather guard wrapped around Tyndareus’ forearm bore deep gouges from his pet’s sharp talons.
“Ho, Orion. Easy.” Tyndareus spoke in soothing tones. He clasped the small tether attached to Orion’s leg in his forefingers and stroked the bird’s plumage. The regal creature and the king seemed a reflection of one another. Along the raptor’s neck dark brown feathers were speckled with white, much like Tyndareus’ own coiled mane. Orion, too, stood proud, gazing over the landscape below, a king of his sky realm.
Tyndareus followed Orion’s gaze down to the crowded harbor. From Ithaka and Athens, Argos and Salamis, from all the far reaches of the Hellas, those ships had come. Not to lay siege to Sparta, for only a fool would try that, but at Tyndareus’ own calling. A throne would be claimed, but not by conquest. Helen, the child of his heart, the great joy of his silver years, had finally come of age, and every true-blooded Greek had come to court her.
Tyndareus sighed, pushing away a small twinge of remorse. He could no longer delay the inevitable. He could not keep Helen here forever, no matter how much he would rue losing his daughter. But if she must wed, she would wed well. That much Tyndareus could provide.
He could almost hear the rough planks of the dock groan under the weight of his guests’ boots. Mighty men, warrior kings and princes of their realms, filled the harbor and soon would fill his halls. A gathering of such magnificence had never taken place in Lacedaemonia. No king before him had commanded such respect.
And no daughter of Sparta had captured the hearts of so many suitors from afar.
He turned to the tall tower along the western wing of the palace. Gossamer curtains billowed out from the balcony of Helen’s apartments. He had tried to visit his daughter before the cocks crowed, wishing to see her one last time before his obligations as host superseded all other considerations, but she was gone before first light. He whispered a prayer to Artemis, fervently beseeching the Goddess to protect his child in the hunt of suitors soon to follow.
On the docks, the suitors greeted each other as brothers, a spirit of sportsmanship evident in strong embraces and well placed blows to arms. A spike of resentment festered in Tyndareus’ heart. Which one of them would steal his daughter away?
Orion screeched again, his mournful cry echoing in Tyndareus’ ears. “I know.” He stroked the bird again, his eyes never leaving the gathering men below. “Woe to any unworthy man who tries to make claim.” Tyndareus swore. “Woe to him.”
"Princess! Your suitors are arriving!” Astyanassa exclaimed.
Helen spun from her spot beneath the olive grove to look in the direction her handmaiden pointed. Shielding her eyes against the glare of the rising sun, she strained for a glimpse of the men who sought to be her husband. Though the harbor was half a league away, the Grecian longships were easily visible.
“So many—“ She tried to hide the fear that lodged itself into her heart, but it was difficult. Astyanassa had spent the last fortnight filling her head with stories about the men who had accepted her father’s invitation. Many of those tales described feats of valor that Herakles himself would be hard pressed to match. If her handmaiden’s stories were half true, then heroes of a Golden Era had come to seek her hand.
The sight of so many suitors ought to have filled Helen with pride. Sparta had never before played host to such a fine collection of kings and princes. But that knowledge did little to quiet the yammering of her heart. Before such an array of accomplished men, how would she compare? A sixteen-year-old innocent who had never left the rocky slopes of her beloved homeland? She was terrified she’d be an embarrassment to her father and to Sparta as a whole.
“You should be back at the Palace to greet our guests, not laboring in the fields like a slave.” Aethra, Helen’s elderly matron, chastised her again. “You’ll naught win a man looking like a nymph dragged through the heather.”
Aethra’s arguments fell on deaf ears, as they had in Helen’s apartments that morning when she announced her intentions to aid the harvest. It was duty, not fear of the wild men who came to take her from her home, that kept Helen far afield. At least, that’s what Helen convinced herself in the predawn darkness of her sleepless night.
The orchards around them were filled with palace workers as every hand available contributed to the early harvest. With so many visitors come to court, the realm was hard pressed to provide, but Grecian hospitality demanded they must.
Helen sighed. This extra burden was her fault, the festivities planned were in her honor. She could not ask her people to suffer the cost on her behalf without contributing her fair share. The woven basket on her arm was nearly filled with plump oranges and dark olives.
She studied her people. Everywhere Helen looked, her gaze was met with excited grins. It spoke of Sparta’s character that her citizens did not mind the extra work. They cared only for the success of Helen’s impending match and how much glory it would bring to Sparta.
She lifted her chin, forcing a show of bravado. She would not be caught quivering in her skirts on the eve of her engagement. Right or wrong, her suitors would have to wait on her. She ignored Aethra’s barb, and turned back to the harbor. “Can you see them?”
“Aye. Large hairy brutes, one and all.” Came Aethra’s droll reply. “You’ll have your pick of the litter, Princess.” Aethra’s stern manner was to be expected. As head of the royal personal staff, her world centered around pragmatic absolutes. But even Aethra was not immune to the courting fever that had taken over Sparta the past fortnight. There was pride sparkling in her dark aged eyes.
Technically Helen’s slave, Aethra was a model of civility, every inch the noble woman she once was. But, over the many years they spent together, she had become more than just a servant to Helen; Aethra was friend and mother.
Helen dropped her basket and grabbed her matron’s hands, spinning the older woman around in an impromptu dance. “Golden Aphrodite, Goddess Divine. Find me a Love who’s Sweet and Kind.” She trilled away in a melodious tone. Her spinning was a tad over vigorous and they both dropped to the ground in a cloud of dust.
Helen collapsed into giggles, her golden tresses fanning out around her in the undergrowth. Small twigs and pebbles poked into her back through the thin fabric of her pleated chiton. She didn’t mind the discomfort. The ground was as rough and unyielding as its people, but it was home.
And now I must leave it.
The stray thought creased her brow as she stared up into the pale pink sky, a pang of sorrow washing over her. Soon she’d be mistress of a new land, surrounded by strangers. Would her new people be like Spartans? Strong but honest? Fierce yet fair? She brushed away a traitorous tear that managed to escape her eye.
“Do you think he will love me?” Helen barely dared to speak the question, much less face its answer. Leaving everything and everyone she knew would be bearable if her husband’s love matched theirs. In time, she could learn to love him as well, and her new home. But it would never replace what she felt for Sparta.
Astyanassa laid down beside her, the young maid taking Helen’s hand into hers. The handmaiden was four years Helen’s junior, but spoke with a confidence a Spartan soldier would envy. “Of course he will love you, Princess. You are the beauty of our Age. They will all love you.”
Helen sighed. She had been hearing that sweet nonsense her whole life. She was not so vain that she actually believed it. A wife must be many things, and pretty was the least of them.
The Princess of Sparta: Heroes of the Trojan War Page 1