The Princess of Sparta: Heroes of the Trojan War

by Aria Cunningham

  “Don’t fret, old friend.” Paris laughed, slapping him on the back. “We’ll land in one piece. Your reputation is well deserved.”

  “As is yours.” Glaucus eyed the short staff tightly secured at Paris’ belt. Twin serpents encircled a rod capped with winged tips. Only diplomats of the highest order were given the kerykeion. It afforded the bearer protection in hostile lands, assuming of course, that the visiting realm was civilized enough to honor it.

  Wearing the kerykeion reminded Paris of the unpleasantness he was walking into. Priam was trusting him to quell this rebellious king. Failure was not an option. “I hope you know what you signed on for.” Paris sighed, feeling the weight of that scepter as heavily as the duty that lay ahead of him.

  The captain grinned, and ran his hand through his salt-crusted hair. “I’ve sailed rough waters with you before, Paris. I eagerly sail for the next. Better a life filled with adventure than a quiet death of old age.” With a curt bow, he turned to his crew, barking orders to trim the sail. Paris was left to his musing.

  A quiet death of old age... Paris had never considered that an option. The majority of his youth had been spent on ships like this one, his life carried in the winds never finding a port to call home. As he sent out another horn blast, his last conversation with Hector haunted his thoughts. If he returned to Troy as he promised, what happened next? He imagined taking a wife, settling down in Troy, and he and his brother watching their children grow up.

  But some force pulled at his veins, denying that future. He was meant for something different. For what, he could not say, and that unknown fate was playing havoc with his head. He found himself in an existential crisis, questioning everything he thought he wanted.

  As the zephyrs pushed him closer to his destination, one thing became clear: this would be his last journey in service to the realm. War was brewing in the east, and a clash of empires was on the horizon that could very well determine the fate of the world. If Paris wasn’t careful he’d end his life a pawn in that power tug-of-war, and he wasn’t ready to die before allowing himself to first live. He had this last task to complete for his father, and then he’d be free to live and love as he saw fit. The Gods owed him that much.

  Paris sent out a third blast on the horn, and then a fourth, the mist swallowing the booming notes whole, hiding what dangers lay beyond. A timid breath of air stirred the fog, raising the hairs on Paris’ arms. The clouds parted, and a golden ray of sunshine burned through the darkness, illuminating a rocky outcrop not a hundred feet off the bow.

  And on that cliff stood a Goddess.

  Paris could not breathe. Thought fled him. He was struck by a beauty that had no parallel on this earth. Long tresses of gold billowed around her like a veil of sunlight. She was dressed all in white, a bride enshrined in mist. He reached for her—

  And then the mist took her. She disappeared as suddenly as she appeared.

  “LAND HO!” the bosun hollered, finding the words Paris could not. The deck became a fury of men desperately redirecting the ship. In the madness none save Glaucus noticed Paris’ lax response.

  “Paris? Are you all right?” Glaucus rushed to the bow, shaking him roughly.

  Had he dreamt it? “Did you see? On the ridge?” He stuttered like a sun-sick sailor. “There was a woman....”

  Glaucus shook with a hefty laugh. “More apt you saw a siren. If it happens again, I’ll have to bind you to the mast.”

  Paris knew the captain did not believe him, but he didn’t care. The vision of that beauty held firmly in his mind. Was it an omen? A warning? He shook his befuddled head.

  The only thing he new for certain was to be wary. This quest had hidden dangers. If he was not careful, it might truly be his last.

  Chapter 9

  The Trojan Ambassador

  “HE’S A Prince of Troy.” Clytemnestra announced in the antechamber of Agamemnon’s megaron. The royal family and council waited for Mycenae’s nobility to gather in the adjacent hall. With the assembly almost filled, the Trojan delegation would soon be presented to the throne.

  Helen was too alarmed to speak. She had thought her mysterious visitor on the high seas to be a sailor or a merchant, or even a figment of her imagination. But a prince? All thought fled her mind as a new panic took root.

  Who is he and what is he doing here?

  “What is he doing here?” Clytemnestra grumbled, echoing Helen’s inner thoughts. “Since when have the Trojans ever sent anyone other than an oily merchant? I mistrust this, Husband.”

  But Agamemnon wore an expression of sick eagerness, looking anything but displeased. “It’s about time they graced us with a royal visit. Priam could not ignore Mycenae forever!”

  Helen shied away from the heat in his voice. Agamemnon was forever harping on about his standing amongst other rulers. His lust for power was almost as great as his lust for women. And a conquest in one usually led to the other.

  Her sudden movement must have caught his attention. His heated gaze lingered on her. She pulled her shawl over her bared shoulders, doing her best to cover up. Thankfully, Nestra stepped in-between them, dominating Agamemnon’s view.

  “You have his attention now.” Nestra shot back at the king. “The question is whether or not that is good for Mycenae.” She refused to move away and slowly Agamemnon’s eager grin turned sour.

  “I will make it good.” Agamemnon growled, then turned to his lawagetas counselors, the military leaders that followed his every step. “All of you! Keep your eyes open. My wife is worried I let a wolf into the house.” He addressed them with a mocking smile.

  They laughed crudely, none more so than Rhopalus, a bear of a commander with a wicked scar running down his face from scalp to jaw. “A wolf will always be bested by a lion. Have no fear, Your Grace,” he scoffed.

  The others echoed Rhopalus’ derisive comments, claiming Nestra’s fears as paranoia while continuing to fawn over the king with praises of his growing import. Helen scorned them all. They told Agamemnon precisely what he wanted to hear. They should not mock her sister for having the stones they lacked.

  Nestra, also disgusted, turned to her, and upon seeing a similar look on Helen’s face, let loose a merry laugh. “Do not be bothered by fools, Sister. They are nothing but toadies and yes-men. A gadfly could demand greater attention than this lot. Their fondest dream is to have an ounce of Spartan courage.”

  Helen took a deep breath and soothed her ruffled feelings, amazed as always by Clytemnestra’s courage. Her sister never feared to speak her mind, even after all the “lessons” Agamemnon bestowed upon her. In some ways it encouraged Nestra. The greater the king’s reaction, the more likely her opinion would prove true. And thus did the queen’s reputation grow: strict, insightful, and one to be feared. Agamemnon had trained his pupil well.

  Both women had apparently been forgotten as the council continued with their mindless chatter. Nestra led Helen away to an unoccupied corner of the chamber. “You look lovely, Helen. Why the special efforts?” Nestra kissed her lightly on her cheeks.

  Helen smoothed the folds of her lavender chiton, searching for a reasonable answer. But nothing about this afternoon had been reasonable. She had begged the Gods for a sign, and they had granted her one in the form of a man. When she learned he was flesh and blood, and not some phantom of her imagination, she knew—inexplicably knew—she had to make her finest impression. As Aethra dressed her in the elegant gown— a classical cut chiton pinned on her left shoulder with an eagle-headed fibula—she felt like a soldier preparing for battle, her beauty the only armor she possessed against the Gods and worldly powers that threatened to engulf her.

  But she couldn’t tell her sister that. Visions and omens? Nestra would mock her behavior as superstitious peasant nonsense.

  “It’s so rare we get royal visitors.” Helen blushed. “I didn’t want to embarrass you or your court.”

  “I will never be embarrassed by you.” Nestra swore fervently. But her eyes turned i
nward as she smoothed the folds of her own dress, a regal but faded garment of woadish blue. The birthing malaise had struck Nestra hard, and she had great difficulty dressing at all most days. Orestes fought hard to enter this world. After two daughters, Agamemnon finally had the heir he always wanted, but Clytemnestra was drained to a point of ruin.

  “I... I wanted to thank you for what you did earlier, distracting Menelaus.” Nestra stammered, her queenly composure gone. “It couldn’t have been easy—“ her words died off as she struggled to broach the delicate topic.

  “It was nothing.” Helen brushed off her sister’s concern. Nestra frowned, perhaps sensing the lie for what it was, but she let the matter lay. The twins were no strangers to quietly enduring what could not be changed.

  “Why do you think he’s come?” Helen pivoted back to their royal visitor. She didn’t want to waste another second on their stubborn husbands.

  “Why do any of them come?” came Nestra’s terse reply. “To honor themselves and increase their status amongst other men.” She seemed preoccupied, lost in her earlier dark thoughts.

  Helen frowned. “I suppose you’re right.” Certainly every other ambassador had proven himself shallow, filled with hubris and love of their own position. Most were so exotic in appearance that they frightened the serving girls. “Did you get a good look at their men?”

  Clytemnestra paused, eyeing her suspiciously. “Why so interested?”

  “This is a prince, not some fat merchant. Aren’t you even curious about where he came from?” Helen chided her twin. As girls they dreamed of meeting mysterious princes from foreign lands. Helen refused to let Nestra sulk through this encounter.

  “Something’s different,” Nestra muttered. She reached out and tucked a stray wisp of Helen’s hair behind her ear. “You seem like your old self.”

  “Isn’t that a good thing?” she smiled generously.

  It was impossible for her twin to stay sullen in the warmth of that smile. Nestra’s lips curled softly, infected by Helen’s gaiety. “Not good... wonderful.” she admitted and they shared a short laugh. For a moment the two women were almost identical.

  “We are ready to begin, Your Grace.” A herald announced from the inner chamber door.

  “Sound the horns.” Agamemnon ordered the herald out, and the rank and file began their march into the megaron.

  The king and royal household held back to enter last. Agamemnon gestured imperiously, waving them over to his side. He scrutinized Clytemnestra and Helen both, a slight sneer on his face as he regarded his wife. “Wipe that smile from your face, Wife. You’re a queen, not a doe-eyed maiden. I don’t want you walking in there like a prized idiot.”

  Nestra straightened herself, a dispassionate mask hiding the flush of anger behind her eyes. Helen took her place beside her sister and tried to mimic her regal stance. Together, they marched into the hall.

  Paris shifted anxiously in the dimly lit antechamber outside the Mycenaean megaron. A dozen Trojan men-at-arms stood in formation around him, an impressive honor guard resplendent in their ceremonial armor. They held thin spears ten feet long with tassels of gold tied around the head. Their helms were made of hammered bronze with an elegant crest of black horsehair. Leather pleats encircled their waist, each fold studded with copper pellets. Shin guards covered their legs from ankle to kneecap, and arm guards from wrist to elbow. It was an impressive sight, both ornamental and intimidating.

  In contrast, Paris chose simplicity for his own garments. He wore a plain ivory tunic cinched at the waist with a thin golden belt. His Phoenician cape flowed from his shoulders, the deep crimson color vibrant against his tunic’s pale canvas. His sandals were made of unembellished leather and he held a simple rounded helm in his left hand. Altogether, he projected a modest demeanor, a man who did not need to impress—just as Priam had instructed.

  “Make sure your men look disciplined but disinterested,” Paris instructed Glaucus again. “These visits are routine, these Mycenaeans pose no threat.” The captain nodded. This portion of their ruse had been Glaucus’ idea. It was not Paris alone who would convince Agamemnon of Trojan superiority, but a collective effort of their entire delegation. Fortunately, Glaucus’ men would walk over burning coals for their captain.

  They had been waiting in the entry hall for far longer than would seem necessary. It had been the same at the harbor. Either these Greeks were stalling for time to prepare for his arrival, or they intentionally meant to keep him waiting. Neither boded well for his mission. The longer they waited, the more repetitive his instructions became.

  “Dismissal, but not laxity.” Paris added.

  “My men are ready.” Glaucus grunted, his tone a firm but gentle reminder for Paris to do the same.

  Am I ready? He had never felt so agitated before greeting a new ruler. Every nerve in his body was taut. He kept looking over his shoulder expecting to find someone watching him. It was an unnerving feeling of being exposed in the wake of a battle.

  Whoever he expected to see was never there. Nevertheless, Paris studiously watched every shadow. The castle was more fortress than palace, and it boasted enough hidden alcoves to house an army of assassins.

  Or one mysterious beauty...

  Try as he might, he could not get that woman’s face out of his mind. He had an overwhelming urge to seek her out. If she was really flesh and blood, and not a siren like Glaucus insisted, he needed to find her. And that desire was distracting him to no end. His duty to his king could not afford such deviations.

  Paris straightened himself, determined to stay focused on the task at hand. A good ambassador was an observant one. He sorted through the information he had gleaned about the Mycenaean king from his short duration thus far. From the towering Lion Gates at the base of the acropolis, to the monumental walkway to the palace, Agamemnon had designed his keep to strike fear and awe into his guests. The thick cyclopean masonry, with stones twice the size of men, would have impressed Paris had he not seen its like before. And found here, so far on the frontier, it smarted of pretentiousness.

  The holding chamber he was waiting in was brightly painted in alternating squares of red, yellow and blue stucco, a delightful pattern that formed a series of zig-zags down the long hall. He counted each square twice, the familiar rhythm of counting numbers calming his agitated mind.

  Finally, a short horn blast echoed from within the hall. Paris’ soldiers formed ranks in front of him, and Glaucus gave him a curt nod before stepping forward to lead his troops.

  Paris took a deep breath, calming himself like the mountain-dwelling Amorites taught him. Agamemnon was what mattered now. He let his mind drain of all else, letting his racing thoughts trickle out of him with each measured exhalation.

  The double doors opened wide and light flooded out, momentarily blinding him. The megaron was packed. Highborns, from the look of their fine clothes, lined its walls, each noble craning their necks to get a better look at the Trojan men. A short herald stepped forward, bridging the gap between the entryway and the main hall.

  “THE DELEGATION OF TROY NOW APPROACHES!”

  Paris motioned to Glaucus that he was ready and the captain relayed the command. Glaucus used small almost unnoticeable hand signals, and the unit responded as one. They joined together in block formation, shielding Paris from view. Another wave from Glaucus brought forth two of their own heralds, each with a rounded trumpet in hand. They lifted the metal instruments to their lips and filled the air with a brazen blast.

  The crowd erupted in whispers, murmuring to themselves over the magical quality of the brassy note, a sound so crisp it seemed almost godly. When the final reverberation died off, the Trojan delegation marched forward, the heavy fall of their boots drumming a staccato beat on the stone floor.

  Directly before them, in the center of the room, stood a round ceremonial hearth twelve feet in diameter. It was bordered in decorated plaster with an extravagant design of flames and spirals. Surrounding it were four wooden col
umns sheathed in plates of bronze, resting atop carved base stones shaped to resemble lion paws. Upon reaching it his troops halted and, moving in unison with knees locked, they parted lengthwise, revealing Paris at the aft of the room.

  The Mycenaean herald stepped beside him and raised his baritone voice again. “Paris, Son of Priam, Son of Laomedon, Prince of Troy approaches the Throne.”

  Paris’ heralds resumed their trumpeting, trilling out a clarion song for his entry. He clenched the kerykeion in his right hand, letting the encrusted gemstones bite into the flesh of his palm. The impressive item was the one object of finery on him. He lifted it higher so it would be the first detail his host would see, then strode forward at a stately pace, allowing the throng to satisfy their curiosity of him.

  Behind the pressing throng, the walls of the megaron were decorated in a massive frieze, showing an epic battle of the Mycenaean people. Horse-drawn chariots raced across a stylized landscape where Mycenaean warriors dressed in short white kilts fought in hand-to-hand combat with strange enemies: barbarians coarse of feature with wild shaggy hair. A retelling of the taming of the wild lands, Paris surmised.

  As he passed his troops, the squad closed ranks behind him, pounding the butts of their spears in tempo with the renewed trumpeting. Once he reached the hearth, he took a sharp right turn, facing the throne for the first time since entering.

  Agamemnon sat atop a backless throne, its rectangular legs plated with ivory tusks carved to resemble the haunches of a lion. The man himself wore a pelt of the regal cat, its reddish-orange mane lining the cape and imbuing the large king with the creature’s fierce aura. Paris marched forward, keeping his eyes locked on the massive man before him. And Agamemnon studied Paris as Paris studied him. There was a distinctively smug twist to the king’s broad face.

  Paris heard his father’s voice whispering in his ear, “This Agamemnon thinks himself far grander than he be... Go, educate him otherwise.” Paris stiffened his back, pausing before the throne, and lowered himself into a respectful bow—a mark of respect but not of reverence.