The Princess of Sparta: Heroes of the Trojan War

by Aria Cunningham

  Wrapping her furs around her tightly, Helen took a seat on a hay bale and waited for the others to gather. A maid scurried between the courtiers offering steaming cups of hot tea. Helen took a cup, holding the warm crockery with both hands. The bitter brew helped to clear the fog from her weary mind.

  The past twelve hours had been the most difficult of her life. She couldn’t lie to herself any longer. She had fallen in love with Paris, as impossible and unlikely as that was. She barely knew the Trojan, but five minutes in his presence and she knew she belonged with him. And when he kissed her... she was transported somewhere between this world and the next.

  But she had made her vows to Menelaus, before Gods and Men. She was bound to Mycenae. She had made an awful, terrible mistake in that choice, and now the Gods were tormenting her. They dangled happiness before her eyes, showing her what she could never have.

  Nestra entered the yard looking every inch the queen. Her hair was wrapped up into a severe bun with a delicate golden diadem woven through it. The thick cloak around her shoulders was cut from a wolf’s hide, its grey black fur nestled tightly against her neck. She spotted Helen readily and took a seat beside her.

  “Helen,” Nestra kissed her on both cheeks, “will you ride with me today?” She seemed overtly pleased with herself, like a cat left alone with the cream.

  Helen eyed her suspiciously. “Have you been in the spirits?” Nestra’s chipper attitude was beyond what Helen would expect for irritating a few courtiers.

  Nestra was not offended, if anything, her grin grew an inch. “Can’t I be pleased without you thinking I’m soaked in spirits?” she pouted in play. “A day outside the palace walls, the Mounichia festival and feast tomorrow... there are ample reasons to be excited.”

  Helen sighed, releasing the tension in her shoulders. She was jumping at shadows while her sister smiled gaily. It was as though she and Nestra had switched bodies. She massaged her aching temples. Ever since Paris arrived she had lost her usual patience, sensitive to any slight. It was exhausting.

  But Nestra’s gay smile twisted maliciously as the Trojan hunters entered the yard. A spike of alarm rushed through Helen’s cold blood. Her sister was up to something. “Are you—“

  But she lost the words as Paris led his horse into the yard. The courtiers’ loud conversations died off into hushed whispers as he passed. Tales of his heroic rescue had only grown overnight, and every noble, both man and woman alike, was fascinated by her mysterious prince.

  He did not openly look in her direction, but she was sure Paris was aware she was near. It was in his bearing, the turn of his shoulders and shift of his stance that kept her in his peripheral line of sight.

  Helen’s heart leapt up into her throat, fluttering as madly as a hummingbird’s wings. Even half a court away his presence magnetized her. Wearing tan leathers suitable for riding and defense, and standing amongst his elite soldiers, Paris looked so much like a man from Sparta. Her heart ached with that sweet pain.

  “He is handsome, isn’t he?” A girlish giggle pulled Helen back to herself. Iphigenia stood beside them. The princess, a blossoming girl of eleven, was a perfect mixture of Nestra and Agamemnon. Her flowing hair was a mousy shade of brown with honeyed highlights. Her round eyes were brown as well. She was surrounded by a coterie of friends, all between the ages of eight and thirteen, every one of them sighing like sops over the prince.

  “What makes you think him so special?” Nestra snapped at her daughter. “What battle has he won? What city has he ruled?”

  Iphigenia blushed. Helen felt sorry for the poor girl. She was a sweet thing and normally would back down to her imperial mother, but she was surrounded by her peers and at the tender age where the opinions of others mattered as much as proper manners.

  “He saved Aunt Helen.” A small voice called out from behind the princess.While Iphigenia was a mixture of the king and queen, Nestra’s youngest daughter was the spitting image of her father.Electra’s raven-colored hair was pulled back into a tight braid, and she planted her arms on her hips, glaring at her mother with eight-year-old superiority.

  Iphigenia, pulling courage from her sister, stuck her delicate chin out and responded to their regal mother, a slight wobble the only indicator that her conviction wavered. “He faced a mighty taurus with nothing but his bare hands. That makes him brave!” Her friends tittered their agreement behind her.

  “Or it makes him stupid.” Nestra grumbled.

  Helen groaned, and the unfortunate sound drew her niece’s attention to her, despite Helen’s best intentions to stay out of the matter. Iphigenia immediately latched on to a source of aid.

  “Aunt Helen? What was it like, him saving you?” Her eyes lit up with hope.

  “I bet it was very romantic.” One of Iphigenia’s maids cooed.

  They were only girls, but the idiotic chatter combined with her sleepless night had caught up to Helen. She put a staying hand on her sister—Nestra’s cross expression a forewarning of an imminent rebuke—and addressed the girls herself.

  “Oh, yes. It was very romantic. Lying there in the dirt, knowing death was staring me in the face, and worse, that the man who was forced to save me was just as certainly dead. I near swooned from the romance.” She rolled her eyes as the droll words dripped off her tongue.

  Iphigenia’s face puckered when she realized Helen was not going to indulge her fantasies. She gathered Electra and her friends and quickly departed.

  “Did you see their faces?” Clytemnestra laughed merrily as they went. “Ah, we shouldn’t be so hard on her. Do you remember how heartsick we were at that age? Dreaming of foreign princes and demanding one more heroic tale from the bards at supper?” She pressed her elbow into Helen’s ribs.

  The huntsmen, now mounted, began the caravan out of the palace grounds. Helen watched Paris mount. He leapt gracefully, like a man born to the saddle. As he spun his horse around, she caught his eyes momentarily, and again her heart hammered against her ribs. Like Iphigenia, she did dream of a foreign prince, and Paris was the perfect embodiment of those dreams.

  “Fool’s dreams.” Helen snapped, pulling her eyes away from the Trojan. She pressed off the hay bale, anxious to get moving. As spectators, they’d travel with the rear guard. “We shouldn’t fill her head with that romantic drivel. It’ll only hurt worse when she learns the truth.”

  Nestra studied her with a worried frown. “And what truth is that?”

  “Love is for minstrels.” Helen spun away from her sister. “Her life will be dictated by duty. For a queen, there is no room for love.”

  Nestra stood silently beside her as Haemon and another groomsmen led a chariot their way. The groom did not hand over the reigns, but mounted himself. It seemed the unfettered freedom of her last ride was not to be repeated. Agamemnon would not tolerate such unseemly behavior twice.

  Once mounted, their driver cracked his bullwhip, jolting their horses into motion. The hard leather sandals nailed to the animals’ hooves tossed up chunks of mud, the flat surface keeping the horses from sinking too deep in the muck. The mud slapped against the cab like the whips of a cattail, and the yoke chains creaked like bone rubbing bone. It was fitting the ride sounded like a torture chamber. Helen felt like a prisoner.

  “It’s not true.” Nestra murmured.

  “What’s that?” Her sister’s words were spoken so softly Helen almost missed the admission over the commotion of the cab.

  “There’s no man who is all he claims to be. And a wise queen knows to never trust them, anyway.” Nestra turned to Helen, a fierce look emblazoned on her face. “But that does not mean we live without love.” She grabbed Helen’s hand, squeezing it tight to the point of forcing Helen to wince. “I have your love, Helen. Sisters forever, remember?”

  All the sounds of the world dropped out as Nestra’s words washed over her. The jostling of the chariot over ruts in the road seemed distant. The hint of frost—spring’s last grasp to the winter gone by—vaporized. Helen sa
w her life behind her like a giant vortex drawing her relentlessly to this point. All the dangers that threatened her swirled harmlessly on the outside. But on the inside there was Clytemnestra. There had always been Clytemnestra. There was no future uncertain, no danger so vast that seemed insurmountable so long as her twin was at her side.

  She squeezed Nestra’s hand back, just as fierce. The Gods would toy with her, the Fates wrecked havoc on her soul, but she would always have her twin.

  “Sisters forever,” Helen fervently agreed.

  But for the first time in Helen’s life, a tiny portion of her heart remained empty. It was a hidden part, buried deep in her core, a place her twin’s love could not fill. And now that she was aware it existed, Helen doubted she’d ever feel whole again.

  Agamemnon and the hunting party had departed from the assembly over an hour past once the game trail had been confirmed. There were many animals to hunt in the king’s Wood: buck, bull, pheasant and the occasional cat, but it was a wild boar that crossed their path.

  Menelaus rode at the vanguard, confidently leading them toward their quarry. Agamemnon half-suspected his brother planned to hunt the cantankerous pig. It was rutting season, and the over-sexed males were particularly dangerous this time of year.

  The Trojan prince rode a few paces behind Menelaus, seemingly nonchalant. Agamemnon was not fooled. Paris’ eyes were wary, and his back was as taut as a feline ready to pounce at the slightest hint of danger.

  The Trojan delegation turning up at his door had been an unexpected present. His wife might fret herself into panics about the intentions of the delegation, but Agamemnon was beyond such pettiness. Friend or foe, this princeling did not matter. He was a spark, one a clever king could use to push his people in either direction. All he had to do was wait and see which reaction was necessary. If events did not move fast enough, he had only to stir up the pot, something Menelaus made all too easy.

  Menelaus nickered his horse, dominating the path ahead and cutting off the Trojan’s steed. His brother rode Perses, a blood tested warhorse that towered two hand taller than the Trojan’s young stallion. But Kronos, like his rider, refused to admit when he was outmatched. He reared up high, kicking his forelegs wildly, pressing Perses out of his way. The Trojan, to his credit, did not slip. He gripped the beast tight with his thighs and pressed his weight forward.

  “Whoa, Kronos. Easy.” Paris stroked the nervous animal’s neck. The horse, though agitated, did listen to his rider. Perhaps there was some merit to Helen’s wild tales of the bull encounter. Tricking a beast was different than outmaneuvering one. This day held lots of promise for Agamemnon’s entertainment.

  With the horse’s hooves back down on solid ground, Paris reined it aside, giving the lead hunter his due space. But the princes were both keenly aware of one another, like cocks ready to let the spurs fly. Yes, today held lots of promise...

  Agamemnon, in contrast, was thoroughly relaxed. He reclined on his massive steed, enjoying the extra padding of embroidered blankets. The adornment not only made his steed look regal, but it made his ride more enjoyable. There were creature comforts to being king.

  He also didn’t give two shits who brought down the prey today, so long as he was there to witness the act. He had long stopped trying to best younger, more hale men on the field of sport. When he fought, it was for blood, not sport. The rage of battle filled him like the terror of Ares. It was better to unleash that rage only when necessary.

  Menelaus waved forward his favored huntsman. Each man in his company would lay on his sword for the prince, but none more so than Sabineus. The raven-haired hunter held the tethers on a dozen large mastiffs, the best hunting dogs in Agamemnon’s kennels. At Menelaus’ command, he unleashed them, and the dogs sprinted through the underbrush in giant strides, howling like the hounds of Hades.

  “LET FLY TO CHASE!” Menelaus bellowed, raising his sword arm high. A dozen huntsmen leaned forward on their charges, and the hunt began.

  Agamemnon kept good pace. He was surrounded by loyal Mycenaean guards and a few Trojans as well. But it was the princes who took the lead. Even their horses seemed to be in fierce competition.

  They caught a first glimpse of their quarry as they crossed over a rushing stream swollen almost to flooding from the heavy snow runoff. The beast disappeared into the brush ahead of them, while the horses had to slow to pick a safer foothold. Agamemnon got a good look at the beast. The boar was at least five feet long and four feet high. Its grey hide was dotted over with coarse black hair only visible in small patches. Massive tusks protruded from its lower jaw, a great wealth of ivory.

  Menelaus, impatient as ever, growled and forced Perses through the slick riverbed in three reckless leaps.

  “Wait you fool!” Agamemnon shouted, but the man was already gone. One slippery rock or bad footing, and the horse would break an ankle. Menelaus risked hobbling one of Agamemnon’s finest warhorses.

  Stupid, impulsive child. What would push him to be so reckless? But then the Trojan followed after him, Kronos taking a slightly different path where the riverbed was easier to discern. In a matter of seconds both princes were gone from sight.

  Agamemnon nickered his horse to greater speed. His brother was a braggart with more love for himself than anything that truly mattered. Agamemnon usually left him to his ways, despite the frustrations Menelaus caused him on a regular basis. But if he harmed the Trojan, they would all suffer. And Agamemnon was not going to let his simple-minded brother blow this opportunity.

  A deep mastiff howl echoed amongst the trees. It was a resonate howl, a lusty call of satisfaction and longing.

  They had cornered their prey.

  Paris urged Kronos to top speed as they emerged on the far side of the riverbank. The ride out from the palace had been filled with a never-ending stream of baited comments. Menelaus delighted in mocking him, first his horsemanship, then his dress, and even the Trojan longbow he had stowed on his back. There was no artistry in the prince’s attempts to unsettle Paris; he simply chose whatever item his eye fell upon and crafted an air of superiority for himself.

  Paris let the insults wash over him like the harmless air they were. Stronger, more adept men had conditioned him with their heckles and hate. Menelaus’ efforts seemed pathetic by comparison. If you really wanted to unsettle a man, you need to discover what they cared about, and that required more effort on behalf of the heckler.

  It was easy to see what was important to the Mycenaean. His cavalier attitude towards manners and his monarch spoke of a resentment of authority. Menelaus could not tolerate being beholden to anyone; he had to assert his independence. And that meant second place was not an option to the Greek prince. Which was why Paris was going to enjoy killing this pig so much the more.

  Kronos was gaining on the leader. Sweat poured down his chest as the lithe horse heaved with the effort. Warhorses were irreplaceable animals when leading a cavalry charge, but in dense cover like in the woods, their heavy structure limited their ability to maneuver. It was akin to having a ship with a wide berth while navigating a narrow stream.

  They hit a small clearing almost neck and neck just as the boar doubled back towards them. On the opposite side, the pack of mastiffs had created a perimeter. Both Menelaus’ and Paris’ horses reared as the beast charged toward them, its long tusks dangerously level with their tender bellies.

  The boar, facing four flailing hooves, screamed in frustration and bolted to the side, trying to find escape. But the dogs penned it in, their jaws snapping viciously close when the pig tried to force a break in their defenses. Its fear-streaked squeals turned to grunts of rage as it realized it was trapped.

  Screaming defiance, it turned back to the them and heaved its tusks violently in the underbrush. Fallen tree limbs, rocks, and dirt flung into the air in the awesome display of fury.

  A heavy thud by Paris’ side drew his attention away from his prey. Menelaus had dismounted.

  “Are you crazy?” he shouted
at the prince. But Menelaus’ husky laugh belied the danger. He spun his short spear in his hand, banging the wooden end against his shield.

  “Watch and see how a real man claims a beast, Trojan.” He hammered out a taunting rhythm on his shield.

  The boar narrowed its eyes. It tossed up dirt with its forelegs, preparing itself to charge.

  “COME ON!” Menelaus bellowed, and the pig raced for him.

  Paris danced Kronos out of range of the boar’s sweeping tusks, and loaded an arrow, the taut bowstring rubbing against his cheek. This was madness. Menelaus was going to get skewered all to prove his manliness to a foreigner who couldn’t care less. Paris had a clean shot. No one needed to get hurt today.

  But he hesitated. And the boar continued its charge.

  Menelaus had planted himself in the soft earth, his legs spread wide to absorb the shock. When the boar came within striking distance, he pivoted on his left leg, sidestepping. And as the beast ran past, his spear came down, sinking in deep into the boar’s haunch.

  It wasn’t a killing blow, but the pig screamed in pain as the thick shaft tore through its flesh. It spun, taking out a dense fern as it struggled to make the turn. Loss of blood fueling its rage, it took another bearing on the Greek prince.

  Menelaus pulled a dagger from his boot, reversing his hold on the haft, and tossed it right at the boar’s head. But the pig was thrashing its tusks again, and the blade was deflected away. Menelaus, unarmed save for his shield now, planted his feet and held the wooden barrier before him like a battering ram.

  The prince was blocking Paris’ shot. He could not take aim without risk of hitting Menelaus. “Move!” Paris shouted to him, but Menelaus refused to budge. The Mycenaean roared at the boar, a cry the beast matched rage for rage. It charged again, slamming into Menelaus’ shield, shoving the prince back two feet with the force.