The Princess of Sparta: Heroes of the Trojan War

by Aria Cunningham

  He inhaled deeply, letting his appetite bleed into his words. “I have to admit, you haven’t lived until you’ve seen the frontier. There is a vibrancy in the West unfound in the Old World.”

  Agamemnon brightened under the praise, as Paris knew he would. However, he mistook approval for his people as approval for his rule. His craftsmen were overworked beyond acceptable levels for even slaves, and if what Hyllos, Paris’ trade master, told him was true, then Agamemnon had brought his kingdom near to starvation in his quest for greatness.

  But greed could be persuasive, and Paris would not condemn the man. At least not openly. He ripped into a drum bone, taking his frustration out on the poor dead bird. It was amazing how many rulers shared the same frailties. Just once, he wished he would be surprised, that he would find a leader worthy of being followed. Thus far only Priam had earned that distinction.

  “Vibrancy, how aptly stated.” The king laughed, motioning his cupbearer over to fill Paris' rhyton. “You’ve had but a small taste of that vibrancy. Wait till you see the games we have in store. There is no sport yet devised that a Greek cannot master.” He winked, and took another large swill of his cup.

  Paris forced a grin, taking the opportunity to tap Glaucus’ foot with his own.

  “Forgive me, Your Grace,” The captain waited for the king to dispense with his drink before speaking, “I could not help but notice the new vessels in your shipyard. Is that Cypriot planks you’re using for the hull?”

  There were twelve ships under construction by Paris’ counting, the ribs of their substructure lying open to the elements like the carcass of sea bird. The shipwrights were easy enough to engage in conversation since they had no more wood to complete their projects. The dozen ships were one order of many. The king was building an armada.

  Agamemnon did not answer Glaucus. Perhaps he detested being addressed by a non-royal, or perhaps the question offended him. It was hard to tell. The king was unerringly cagey. Paris suspected every word he uttered was being weighed for double meaning.

  “Glaucus has the honor of being the captain of my guard as well as captain of his ship.” Paris added. “Sailing is a passion to him.”

  Agamemnon cast a shrewd eye over Glaucus like a Master of Coin weighing the measure of a man. “Yes, the wood is from Cyprus. The best vessels are made from Cypriot wood.” He answered in a condescending tone. “Mycenae has long been friends with Ibiranu of Cyprus.”

  And thus it began, the dropping of names and alliances. Unfortunately for Agamemnon, that was a game he would inevitably lose. Troy was far better established.

  “I’m sorry to inform you, Your Grace,” Paris adopted a mock expression of concern, “but Ibiranu might not be long on his throne. The boy-king of the Hatti threatens his borders.”

  He waited for the news to settle on Agamemnon, for him to acknowledge a blow to his dwindling circle of influence, but the large king merely shrugged. “That concerns me little.” He grunted, holding his cup out for another refill. “What should Mycenae care for the struggles in the Old World?”

  Paris stiffened. Was the man willfully this ignorant? “You shouldn’t.” He hastily lied to the king. “I only meant to warn you that your crafts may suffer. If the Hittite king takes over Cyprus, trade would cease with the region. He would keep the tribute for himself.”

  Agamemnon leaned forward, a shrewd narrowing to his eyes. “Your father opposes this boy-king?”

  “He has.” Paris adopted the same aloof manner as Agamemnon. “Many times. It has earned him the support of all the kingdoms fighting Tudhaliyas’ oppressive rule. Cyprus included.”

  “And I suppose that support has made him rich, no?”

  Paris tried not to show his scorn. The man was as clumsy as he was obvious. Had Priam enabled him to bribe Agamemnon, Paris was sure this audience was enough to satisfy both monarchs. As it was, Paris felt his cheeks blush with heat.

  “Yes, Agamemnon, Troy has many riches. I am happy we have so much to share with one another.”

  He was grateful when the staff brought out the cleansing dish of clotted cream and berries. He busied himself in the treat while the king called for more wine. The maneuvering was over for the evening as Agamemnon lost himself in the liquor. He pressed for examples of Troy’s riches, delighting in tales of gold and tribute.

  By the end of the evening Paris was exhausted. But the king was primed. Agamemnon was a man starved for influence and power, and Paris had laid out the table with the golden victuals Troy could produce.

  Temptation was the easy part of Priam’s plan. Next came something far trickier. For every meal, there was a price to pay. And this price was something a gluttonous king like Agamemnon would have a hard time swallowing.

  Paris returned to his apartments, eager to get some rest before facing the second stage of his father’s plan. If this dinner was any indication, he was going to have his work cut out for him.

  Chapter 13

  Fields of Wheat

  “HE COMMANDS 5,000 men, a sizable host for a principality this small.” Hyllos reported to Paris and Glaucus in his guest chambers the following morning. The trade master had not seen his bed, spending the dark hours before dawn in the common rooms of Mycenae’s inns plucking information from locals too deep in their cups to be circumspect. “I’ve asked several different free soldiers, and they all say the same. Each realm is independent. They cannot agree on a collective name for their people, let alone a cause to march to war. Any action made by Mycenae is an act alone.”

  Paris suspected as much. As great as Agamemnon thought his realm, it was a flea bite compared to the territory Priam commanded. This king might dream of greatness, but he had never actually seen it. Unfortunately that made Paris’ job more difficult. It was hard to prove something to a man that he had never seen and was disinclined to believe.

  Paris twirled the kerykeion in his hands. Holding the heavy scepter helped him to think, as though the authority the object bestowed buoyed his spirit as well. “Are you sure about the price fixing?” They had only one shot to get this right, and there was no room for mistake.

  “Absolutely,” Hyllos swore. “I checked with the harbor logs three times. Agamemnon is selling Trojan goods at market price, not at the rates he strong-armed from our merchants. The profit goes directly to the crown.”

  He cheats his own people.

  It made Paris sick. It was a wonder these Mycenaeans put up with their king’s antics. But their national pride was astounding. They might not love their ruler, but they loved their land. And whatever exceptionalism Agamemnon claimed trickled down to them.

  There was one royal who did deserve that loyalty. Helen was a treasure Paris had no right to expect on this wayward mission. She was unlike any woman he had ever met, drastically different than even the members of her own house. Her every word, her every action was dictated by honor. It seemed incredible to find such a person on the edge of the civilized world.

  An image of her graceful smile lulled him away from the drudgery of Priam’s plots and intrigue. Paris felt powerfully drawn to her in a way he could not explain, a dangerous folly considering who they both were.

  “Paris?” Glaucus shook his arm.

  It had happened again. Paris had tried, unsuccessfully, to keep the princess out of his mind the night before. He had been up late strategizing with Glaucus and would get halfway through a chain of thoughts only to have his words drift off. He cleared his throat, hoping the vigorous cough would clear his head as well.

  “What where you saying?”

  “I said, if the common folk knew the truth of their king’s policy, their fealty might break.” Glaucus added, a crinkle of concern around his eyes.

  Paris quickly nodded his agreement. “Tell the others to keep spreading their tales along with the ale. I want any man who crosses our path to be overwhelmed by Trojan generosity.” It was a simple plan, honey for the people, the stick for the ruler. With each new friend his troops made, Paris subtly under
mined the king’s harsh trade policy with Troy. It was harder to cheat a man you considered your friend. “Pricing should be mentioned only in passing. We don’t want these whispers being followed back to us.” And with that small push, the legs of Agamemnon’s seat of power would wobble.

  “Yes, My Prince.” Hyllos bowed sharply and collected his reports.

  “And what of you, Paris?” Glaucus pressed. “We need you with the king, not traipsing about the countryside.”

  There was a river of unspoken warnings behind that simple sentence. Paris tightened his grip on the kerykeion. Glaucus was a soldier, pure and simple. He met his adversaries head on. What Paris was tasked with was far more complicated.

  “I know what I’m doing, Glaucus.”

  The severe frown his captain returned very much put that in question. “Winning hearts and minds of the people? It’s honorable, but hardly necessary. We should be spending our time among the courtiers. Let them see what you, and Troy, are capable of. I could arrange a demonstration in the practice yard—“

  But his words were cut off as Hyllos flung open the apartment door and froze with a sharp yelp of surprise. Helen was on the other side, her hand half raised to knock.

  She lowered her arm, a demure blush gracing her cheeks as she nervously looked past his man. Her eyes widened softly when she found him, those jewel blue orbs more dazzling that the finest lapis lazuli. She was a vision.

  “Paris?” Glaucus prodded again.

  “It can wait, Captain. You both have your orders. See to it.” Paris dismissed them coolly, his focus solely for the princess.

  Was it possible for a person to grow more beautiful overnight? It seemed his nocturnal visions paled in comparison to the intoxicating presence of the woman before him. He wondered, not for the first time, did she think at all of him?

  “Helen.” He bowed low before her, forcing himself to not openly gape. “What wonders do you have in store today?”

  She graced him with one of her stunning smiles. “We saw much of the city yesterday, I thought we could begin with the royal holdings.”

  “That sounds delightful.” He tossed his cape over his shoulder and exited his apartments.

  With some prodding, Hyllos disappeared down the hall, the trade master equally enamored with Paris’ royal guest. Surprisingly, Glaucus stayed glued to his side.

  “I thought you were through with sightseeing?” Paris whispered to his captain.

  “I swore to protect you, My Prince.” Glaucus glowered, his baritone voice too low to reach Helen’s ears. “Even from yourself.”

  The armory, Nestra had commanded. Helen hated the cold dank space, the fortress that was more tomb than a storage room. But her queen had been insistent. Agamemnon meant to strike fear and awe into the prince, and there was no better way than visiting Mycenae’s stronghold.

  But as Helen walked out of the palace grounds into the brilliant morning sun, she didn’t have the heart. Paris’ enthusiasm to see her was infectious. She wanted nothing more than to spend the afternoon in his charismatic company. Agamemnon be damned.

  “Aren’t we going to get the horses?” Paris asked, turning towards the stables.

  Helen blushed, remembering the feel of his strong arms surrounding her as they rode the other day. It was unfair the innocent act reflected poorly on Paris. She didn’t want to give Agamemnon another opportunity to disparage their guest, no matter how much she enjoyed their ride.

  “I thought we would walk.” She suggested. “It’s such a lovely day. And some of the best views from the acropolis can only be reached on foot.” She turned to the southern precipice away from the bustling palace grounds.

  Aethra walked stately beside her holding aloft a small standard to provide shade. “My Lady? Shouldn’t we go—“ Aethra croaked in Helen’s ear as she tried to redirect them toward the Lion Gates. Aethra knew the queen’s commands—Helen had fretted her concerns to the cantankerous woman all night with little sympathy in return. Aethra was unforgiving about matters of duty. In her opinion, Helen’s task was clear. She must do as she was told.

  A spike of rebellion festered in Helen’s heart. She promised she would go to the armory, but she didn’t say when she’d go. “Let’s start with the temples. They aren’t far.” She pressed past her frowning matron.

  They travelled down a meandering staircase hewn from the bedrock of the palace summit. The staircase was steep, dropping quickly down the terraced hillside. Whenever the rock looked unstable, Paris would dart ahead and hold his arm out in support for her. She laughed on several occasions.

  “Do you think me so fragile?” she jested, refusing his arm and picking her own path. “I know this path better than the halls of the palace.” It wasn’t a boast. She could find her way in the dark to the southern summit if need be.

  Paris tucked his hands behind his back, a mock show of withdrawing his unneeded aid. “Ah, are you very religious, then?” His jaw clenched as he asked the question.

  It was an innocent question, but one that stumped her nonetheless. Her trust in the Gods led her to the biggest mistake of her life. She honored them, as all mortals must, but no longer trusted in their protection. A guarded respect was the best course when dealing with capricious immortals.

  “I’m no more religious than any other person.” She replied truthfully, watching the tension drain from Paris’ shoulders. She wondered why the answer seemed to ease him.

  “The Princess is favored of Aphrodite.” Aethra interjected with a sniff, her devout sensibilities offended. The mere hint of blasphemy and Helen’s maid would harangue her for hours.

  “I do not doubt it, Mistress.” Paris gave the woman a respectful nod.

  Aethra patted down her dress like a bird ruffling her feathers. Helen could tell the prince’s manners had yet to pass the matron’s strict standards.

  They turned south on the frontage road leading up to the temple plateau. The road was empty save for the few guards patrolling the perimeter wall. Helen delighted in the solitude. There was a peaceful quiet in this corner of the palatial grounds. It was a welcome change from the prying eyes of the court.

  Paris seemed to enjoy the privacy as well. He lacked the strained focus that dominated his behavior in the megaron and at supper. He looked truly at ease.

  “And what of you, Trojan? Do you have a patron God?” Helen asked pleasantly as a lone egret took flight from the brush beside her.

  It was Paris’ turn to flush. “None that I am aware of. But Troy is protected by Athena, and our Apollian temple has more prophets than any I’ve ever visited.”

  “You have the same Gods as us?” Helen brightened from the news. For some reason she thought Troy would be more foreign, the divides between their cultures as vast as the distance that separated them.

  “And the same language,” he added with a nod. “I can’t tell you how relieved I am to converse in my native tongue. Learning a new dialect can take years.”

  Years? She couldn’t fathom spending so much time away from her home and the people she loved. But some part of that prospect thrilled her. What adventures he must have had!

  “How many do you speak?” she asked eagerly.

  Paris shot Glaucus an inquisitive look. The captain had been with him on many of those trips. “Seven?”

  “That sounds about right.” Glaucus agreed.

  “Now you’re teasing me.” No one could possibly learn so many. But Paris looked insistent. “All right, name them.” She tucked her arms on her hips, refusing to walk another step.

  Her petulant glare was delightful. Paris considered dancing around an answer just to prolong that glare, but he recognized the stubborn glint in Helen’s eyes. Hector would stand just so when he would not be denied. She would get her way eventually. He decided to spare himself the struggle.

  “Phrygian, Assyrian, Babylonian, Egyptian, Hebrew, Amorite and Hittite. Oh, and Phoenician if you count their alphabet. It’s similar to the Amorite dialect with subtle variations.”


  “That would be eight.” Glaucus corrected him, earning another harrumph from the matron.

  Of course, Helen didn’t believe him. He wouldn’t believe him either, if he hadn’t lived those long journeys. Apparently she needed a demonstration. On impulse, he lifted her hand to his lips, breathing in deep her perfume of rose and lilac.

  The words came instantly to him, rolling off his tongue with a husky guttural accent. “ז. כֻּלָּךְ יָפָה רַעְיָתִי וּמוּם אֵין בָּךְ:”

  Both Glaucus and Aethra gasped, the latter for his impropriety, the former because the captain knew what he said.

  Why those words?

  But staring into Helen’s radiant smile, Paris knew why. Ever since he saw her on that rocky cliff, it was all he could think about.

  Helen was stunned, her hand forgotten in his. “What does it mean?” she asked, breathless.

  “It’s from a song, from the pastoral tribes in Canaan.” He swooped her hand onto his arm, covering his slip with a nervous cough as they trekked up the remainder of the hill. “It means, ‘You are flawless’.”

  “Oh.” Helen tried to still her beating heart. She had spent her entire childhood hearing nonsensical flattery of her beauty. She learned long ago to turn a deaf ear to that praise. But when Paris spoke, his words vibrated something deep inside her. For the first time in her life, a man complimented her, and she whole-heartedly believed him. She felt undeniably beautiful.

  Another snort from Aethra jolted her back to the earth. She yanked her hand away from Paris like a person touching burning coals. “...Thank you.” She cleared her clenched throat. “The temple... uh, is this way.” She spun and began a hurried walk to the plateau, her maid closing ranks behind her protectively.

  Glaucus grunted. Paris refused to look in his direction. He didn’t need a lecture. Besides, he had told her the truth. ‘Flawless’ was the gist of the lyric; the actual words were ‘You are all fair, my beloved, and there is no blemish in you.’

  Helen refused to meet Aethra’s disapproving glare as she walked and shielded her face with a veil of loose hair. She raced past a cluster of buildings grouped together along the perimeter wall without stopping, a sweet confusion building inside her. His lips on her hand... it was an act a thousand courtiers had done before, but when Paris touched her, time stood still. Every nerve in her body came to life and she wanted nothing more than to explore his touch with some of her own.