She was outside the main field at the edges of the tilled land when a root snagged her foot and she fell heavily to the ground. The fall knocked the air from her lungs. She lay on the ground gasping, too ashamed to pull herself to her feet.
Guilt riddled her. She was a married woman, and yet she knowingly, willingly, placed herself in this situation. Her wicked mind tried to make an excuse. It was an accident. It wouldn’t happen again. Not if she was careful. But her mind was a liar. Her traitor heart knew better. She asked Aphrodite for this man, and the fickle Goddess didn’t care what misery Eros’ arrow wrought.
Paris continued to call her name. He was making a terrible racket searching for her. Helen knew she should call to him, let him know she was all right, but she was too scared. Instead, she lay in the turf, crying softly to herself.
A deep grunt jolted Helen from her misery. That sound was too near to be Paris, too brute to be human. She raised her head and found herself staring into the malevolent glare of a massive bull.
You stupid reckless girl.
Philon had warned her the beast was about, and she ran right into its territory. Helen had never seen such a baleful creature. Enormous horns, each five feet long, protruded from its skull. The bull snorted. Its eyes gleamed red as it kicked dirt behind it with thick hooves the size of mallets. The monstrosity bellowed angrily and charged at her.
Helen screamed.
Suddenly, Paris was there. He leapt over her fallen body and dropped to the ground in a roll right into the path of the charging beast. The bull reared, falling sideways into a patch of wheat.
Paris leapt to his feet, pulling his cape up high in front of him. He had no sword, no weapon at all, but still stood protectively between her and the animal with nothing but that deep red fabric. Helen knew she should move, run for help, but her muscles wouldn’t work. She clung to the ground, helpless.
The bull strained to get back up, rolling over and taking out a bushel of wheat in the process. Now back on its hooves, it shied away from the prince’s cape, balking at the bright foreign object.
Paris pressed his advantage, using his cape to wave the animal back. “Tut, Tut, Tut.” he shouted, flapping the material with each cry.
The bull was clearly confused, unsure of what to make of the strange man who barred its path. It pivoted, trying to find a way around Paris, a way back at her.
But Paris refused to give ground. When the bull shifted, he grabbed its horns, yanking its head back to him. “NO.” he shouted. “Not her. Me.”
It bellowed again, kicking up sod as the prince held it in place.
Tears flooded down Helen’s face. Any moment that bull was going to swipe its head and impale Paris on those vicious horns. He was going to die, and it was all her fault.
“No,” she gasped, her arm reaching for Paris, certain she was about to watch his end.
But then Paris did something unexpected. He lowered his cape and held his hands out in front of him in a nonthreatening manner. He started making soft noises, cooing like a baby calf. His imitation was superb. The bull stopped moving, its eyes darting to and fro in confusion.
Then Paris spoke in a tongue she did not recognize, different than the poetry he quoted before. The words had a melodic soothing tone. Slowly, the beast began to calm and Paris stepped in closer, his hands within inches of the bull’s wide snout.
“Tut, Tut, Tut.” He soothed the creature, gently stroking its muzzle.
Helen stared in shock. That wild beast would have needed a dozen hunters to bring it down. Yet Paris had tamed the monster with nothing but his hands and voice. He patted the bull again, gently pushing it towards the perimeter.
“Go,” he said forcibly, slapping the bull’s hide. It reared and took off in a gallop.
Precious air rushed back into her lungs. She gulped it in, staring at her savior with tear-streaked eyes.
“Helen?” Paris rushed to her side, sinking to his knees. “Are you hurt? Are you all right?” Fear constricted his face as he held her trembling arms.
She couldn’t stop crying, those last terrifying moments still held her heart in a vice grip. She clung to his arms in disbelief. He was alright. He was unhurt. Why couldn’t she stop crying?
“I’m so sorry.” The words tumbled out of him. “I was weak, I didn’t mean to. Please, don’t run from me.” He was wrought with fear, desperate for her forgiveness. Was this the same man who just stared down a mighty taurus?
She didn’t think. She was beyond coherent thought. She rose to her knees and pulled him into her arms, kissing him passionately. Paris melted into that embrace, his eager lips pressing fiercely into hers. In a sweeping move he lifted her off the ground, pressing her tightly to him.
She could feel every curve of his body. Her hands roamed his taut back, they wove into his thick hair. His heart hammered against hers. She kissed him hungrily, a woman starved for love’s embrace. She couldn’t control herself, she didn’t want to.
Paris pressed his lips against her throat, his mind ablaze. Hearing Helen cry out in fear had struck a dagger into his heart. He had never been more afraid in his entire life than in that single moment when he though she was harmed. What followed next was a blur. Instinct took over, guiding him with the bull. It held sway over him still as he kissed her, filling him with a desperate need.
She overpowered his senses: the floral scent of her, the silken touch of her skin—so soft and yielding. He was mad with desire. He shifted his hold, his right hand moving down her back and sliding under her dress.
Helen leaned into him with a moan, her legs parting ever-so-slightly. Paris nearly lost himself as the heat from her mound rolled over his palm. He knew this was wrong—she was forbidden fruit, the nectar of another man’s flower—but he couldn’t control himself. Having come so near to death, a primal instinct took over.
He renewed his kisses down her neck, his lips circling her breast, pushing aside the loose fabric of her chiton and exposing a taut pink nipple. She arched her back, pressing her breast into his eager mouth as his hand probed farther down, stroking her.
All of Helen’s nerves were on fire, his touch igniting her. She wanted him, she wanted all of him. She pressed herself against him harder and felt his erection dig into her thigh.
The second she touched his phallus, reality doused over her like a powerful tonic. She gasped, releasing Paris and backing off with a slight tremor.
“I... I can’t,” she cried, her wide eyes reflecting all the fears consuming her. “I’m married. And you’re a guest in our house. This is wrong.”
Paris’ chest heaved in ragged gasps as he panted for control. “I know,” he groaned, sharing her awful remorse. He reached out to wipe away her tears. When he touched her, his tender expression changed to utter longing. “But the Gods know I want to. I’ve never wanted anything more in my entire life.”
She pulled his hand away from her face, squeezing it in a tight grip. “We can’t do this. Think about our families. We can’t dishonor them. This can’t happen again.”
Paris dropped to his knees, clinging to her hands. “Tell me what to do. Should I go to the king and ask for a different guide?”
“NO!” Panic gripped her. “Agamemnon would suspect, he’d want to know why.”
“Then I’ll lie. I’ll tell him I’ve seen enough.”
Helen groaned. If Paris went back to the king less than pleased with his visit and not eager to see more, the blame would fall on her shoulders. And Agamemnon’s anger made Menelaus seem tame by comparison. The fear set into her bones, and she shivered uncontrollably.
“Helen?” Paris cupped her face, forcing her to look at him. “Tell me what you want.”
Tears spilled down her cheeks. “Don’t say anything to him,” she begged. “Please.”
Concern constricted his face. He gently wiped her tears away, and then knelt before her. “On my father’s honor. I’ll do whatever you ask.”
Chapter 14
Feint and Parry
THE REMAINDER of the day had proven quite difficult for Paris. After the incident with the bull, he insisted on ending their tour for the day. Helen was still in the throes of shock from her near death encounter. Adding in their... indiscretions, and the poor princess was as fragile as spun glass.
Aethra vanished the girl into her apartments as soon as they returned to the palace, and Paris was left to entertain himself until supper. He tried to check in with Hyllos, but was too distracted to absorb the details of his trade master’s negotiations.
Paris was furious with himself. His feelings for Helen had grown to the point where they could not be denied. But to actually act upon them? To let those desires take flight and damage Helen’s honor? He felt like a vile Sidonian spice merchant, famished for his next taste. He had to restrain himself. The danger to both their necks was too great for him to fail.
After a not-so-subtle suggestion from Glaucus, Paris retreated to the training yard for a little exercise. He hoped the strenuous activity would quell his boiling emotions. The yard was sparsely occupied, only two of the six roped off arenas were in use where a handful of recruits trained with their arms master. Agamemnon had the majority of his regiment in the field far from the prying eyes at the palace. Paris was sure it was no coincidence. The rural king was as cagey as a badger defending its den.
“Again!” Paris shouted to the squad of Trojan soldiers circling around him. He lifted his bronze sword high, ready to parry their attack. The blade was tapered from haft to point in the shape of a flat leaf and was over a foot in length—a long weapon compared to the stabbing blades the Greeks favored. Unlike a spear, the sword forced a warrior to battle in close proximity to his enemy, and up close Paris’ dexterity evened the odds against any muscular adversary.
Paris held his sword “on-guard”, the curved metal “horns” along the haft parallel to his eye line. He had been sparring with his men for over an hour now, and signs of strain were beginning to show on their sweat soaked faces. They were stripped down to their waists, but the heat of their exertions was still oppressive.
Brygos came first, his feint was easy to parry, the bulky man broadcast his movements by the way he twisted his body before the strike. Paris deflected his sword and spun to meet Dexios’ blade on its downward strike. The two men strained against each other, swords locked, until Paris was able to push the young man back. They were too similar in build, their sword reach near identical. Paris danced a few steps back, giving himself some breathing room. But that lent space for his mind to wander again.
Stupid, lecherous fool, he cursed himself. Of all the idiotic things he could have done, he had to fall for a princess who would one day be a queen herself. As the royal emissary to an emerging and potentially hostile kingdom, he couldn’t afford this mistake. Priam’s alliance would be destroyed, and Paris’ hopes of returning home, gone. This... infatuation would cost him everything.
Ariston spun and delivered a flash attack from Paris’ left flank. He barely managed to whip his sword around in time to parry the thrust. “Hades Ghost!” Paris cursed. He had let his concentration slip, a dangerous misstep when sparring with Trojan soldiers.
“Don’t go soft on him, Ariston!” Glaucus taunted from the sidelines. “He can take it.”
Paris grimaced, wishing the captain had the nerve to enter the practice ring himself. He tried to center himself, to find that perfect balance of physical conditioning with mindset, but the second he closed his eyes, his mind filled with images of her.
She danced beneath the apple blossoms, the pink flowers showering down on her like blushing kisses. She waved invitingly to him, beckoning him forward, her smile radiating brighter than the sun. Her deep soulful eyes captivated him, commanding him to love her. He was powerless in her presence. There was no creature like her in the heavens or on earth.
“Paris!” Glaucus’ shout pulled him from his revere.
Ariston’s blade was falling toward his neck with alarming speed. Paris raised his sword, taking the brunt of its force along the haft. Glaucus’ timely warning had helped, but Paris was still at a disadvantage. Ariston reversed his swing, conducting a barrage of counter strikes that sent Paris across the yard defending himself. Backed into a corner, he was forced onto one knee. The final blow fell on his shoulder, the practice blade stopping short of true damage. Paris would carry a bruise for the next few days, but in real combat it was a killing blow.
“Forgive me, My Prince.” Ariston apologized, dropping his sword and offering Paris his hand. “Are you wounded?”
“Only my pride.” Paris grumbled, accepting the soldier’s help.
“TROJANS. AMASS!” Glaucus snatched Ariston’s sword from his grasp. The other soldiers snapped into formation, watching the captain attentively with a touch of hero-worship. “That’s enough exercise for one day. Regroup with the others. And tell Iamus I better not see him in his cups tonight.” When the soldiers were gone his gruff manner evaporated. He pulled Paris aside, away from the watching Mycenae Arms Masters and recruits.
“What are you doing, Paris?” he asked in a guarded whisper.
“I... I don’t know.” Paris covered awkwardly. “It’s just some ill humor affecting my concentration. I’m sure it will pass.”
Glaucus was no fool. He had found Paris and Helen in the aftermath of the bull attack. He knew what was happening between them even though he was gentleman enough not to voice it.
“We have work to do. You need to stay focused.”
Paris nodded, grateful for his captain’s concern. He knew he was playing with a fire that could burn them all. The prudent thing would be to distance himself from Helen and stick to the task he was bid. But in Paris’ many travels, he had learned to trust his instincts, and every fiber of his being told him the princess was important.
As if his stray thought drew her near, he looked up to the second level walkway and spotted the princess. Her hair was damp from the bath and she wore a new chiton. Her eyes were on him as she walked hurriedly down the hall.
“Have you ever been tempted, Glaucus?” he asked as Helen disappeared into the south corridor. “Is there anything that would make you question all the decisions you’ve made in your life and wish you chose another path?”
Glaucus turned to where Paris looked and shook his head. “If temptation came to me with a face as fair, and if she looked at me with similar longing? Aye. I might fall under her spell.” He seemed embarrassed to admit it. He collected the discarded swords, muttering to himself about the vagaries of the Gods, a few choice curses spotting his colorful language.
Paris sighed. He trusted Glaucus like a brother, but the captain didn’t have the same responsibilities that Paris bore. Paris had to be stronger than the temptations the world threw at him. Duty demanded it.
She begged him to not act on these feelings. She begged him, even though he saw the selfsame desire in Helen’s eyes. He hoped by all his honor, and those that he loved, he had the willpower to do as she asked.
A group of courtiers trailed after the princess, tittering amongst themselves like chicks in a flock. One look down at him and they erupted into loud whispers. Paris took the towel Glaucus offered and mopped the sweat from his exertions, pulling his tunic on before he was half-dry. News of his encounter with the bull had spread like wild fire. Thus far, he’d been spared retelling that climatic encounter. But that reprieve wouldn’t last for long. He shuddered to think what supper would be like.
A small page ran into the courtyard. The lad was no taller than Paris’ hip, and he placed the boy at around eight years of age. “Your Grace!” the page hustled to the alcove Glaucus and Paris had taken over. “My master wishes a word with you.”
“Your Master?” Paris didn’t have time to finish his question before the hulking form of Prince Menelaus stalked into the courtyard. He was trailed by a band of equally burly men, hunters by the look of their spears and leather armor.
Paris forced his face to blankness. Menelaus was
an intimidating sight. He had the stature of Agamemnon, a giant amongst men. His copper tinged hair was unkempt, lending the prince an aura of fire. His thick beard would make a bear envious, and the scowl on his face was set on Paris.
He can’t possibly know...
Glaucus stepped protectively behind him, helping Paris to relax a notch. This was not a man he wanted to face unarmed.
“Your Highness.” He gave Menelaus a sharp nod of his head. They were technically equals after all.
The Mycenaean grimaced uncomfortably. “I hear you saved my woman.” He grunted, disbelief written all over him. “I owe you a debt.”
Paris was taken aback. Of all the things he expected this man to say to him, thank you was at the bottom of the list. “Think nothing of it. I did nothing any other man wouldn’t have done.”
Menelaus snorted. “Doubtful. I’ve been tracking that bull. Half the villagers have lost their stones at its mere mention.” There was a ripple of agreement in his men.
“Then I was fortunate,” Paris added. “The bull was not used to human confrontation. I had the element of surprise working in my favor.” He hated debasing himself, especially to this man, but if Menelaus was anything like his brother, he wouldn’t stomach a powerful rival at arms.
But Paris’ modesty only made Menelaus more cross. “Stop that nanny nonsense. You bested the beast. Take the compliment as it’s given.”
It was no wonder Agamemnon kept his brother away from court affairs. He was as blunt as a rusty blade. Paris had to shut his jaw.
A raven-haired hunter cleared his throat. Menelaus cast the man an irritated glare, but then corrected himself. “What I meant to say is, it was impressive, taking on a bull with your bare hands. I’d like to see what you are capable of with a spear in your hand.”
Paris blinked, “I beg your pardon?”
The Princess of Sparta: Heroes of the Trojan War Page 16