The Princess of Sparta: Heroes of the Trojan War

by Aria Cunningham

  “This is Atreus, father of Agamemnon and Menelaus.” Helen stepped into the room gingerly, careful to avoid disturbing the sacrificial bones scattered along the floor. “Once a year, Agamemnon visits the crypt to add tribute to his sire’s legacy. There is a fortune buried in this chamber.”

  A fortune to honor the dead while his people near starve. Helen shuddered. Tyndareus would never seek such extravagance.

  “Atreus,” she continued, clearing her dry throat with a cough, “after discovering his brother Thyestes had laid with his wife, slaughtered his brother’s sons and tricked Thyestes into eating their flesh in a stew.” She spoke point-of-fact, hoping he understood the true lesson of this tragic history. “Atreus held the throne for twenty years afterward until Thyestes’ new son, born to him by his own daughter, came to Mycenae and killed him, exiling Agamemnon and my husband in the process. When Agamemnon reclaimed Mycenae, he butchered his uncle and cousin, tossing their bodies to the fields to let the carrion birds pick at their bones. He then built this crypt, ‘far from the evil ghosts of the rulers who came before’ and thus giving his father the proper burial a regal king deserves.”

  Helen tried not to be dramatic, but there was so much Paris needed to understand before he defied a man like Agamemnon. The sons of Atreus were not typical men. They hailed from a long line of abuse and cruelty. It flowed through their veins as powerfully as the blood they claimed gave them divine rule.

  “So you are saying there is madness in the line of Atreus.”

  She nodded.

  “If he attacks Troy, it will end badly for him.”

  Helen groaned. “It will end badly for all of us. There has to be another way.”

  But Paris was slowly coming to the conclusion that there wasn’t. Agamemnon had proven that he was unyielding and more than eager for a fight. He was like a mad dog that when outnumbered wouldn’t run away, but would fight to the death infecting any other mongrel he engaged.

  Priam had been mistaken. Mycenae was not a hovel on the western frontier. There was great power here—in the land and in the people. If Agamemnon could harness it, he would be a force to be reckoned with. Priam had instructed Paris to teach this Mad King a lesson, but the lesson was for Troy to heed. Yank this lion’s tail at your own peril...

  A familiar emptiness washed over Paris, squelching any thoughts he had of disobedience. He had no right to defy Priam’s command. Priam saved him, when all the Fates screamed for the king to end his son’s life. Paris had to believe he was spared for a reason. He might not always agree with Priam’s orders, but he had to follow them. He owed his father that.

  Agamemnon was not all-powerful yet. He wasn’t stupid enough to fight alone. That horde of weapons was meant for an army, and he didn’t command one yet. Paris turned to Helen, a dire thought freezing his blood. “Is it true your husband can marshal and army of Spartans?” Was that the message Agamemnon wished for him to deliver? A united West?

  But Helen shook her head violently no. “Father would never give over his Hoplites. It would take a miracle of epic proportions.”

  “But when he dies—“

  Helen pressed her fingers to her lips and lifted them to the sky, a prayer to ward off such an event. “He will name his successor. It will not be Menelaus.”

  Paris gasped, the final piece of her tragic life finally falling into place. “Menelaus was the mistake, wasn’t he? The one your father can’t forgive?” Knowing what little he did of Helen’s upbringing, he couldn’t imagine her father choosing that brute for his daughter. Not if the esteem Helen held for him was deserved.

  But she seemed surprised. “Menelaus? No. If I loved him, my father would have let me go to Hades himself. I chose Nestra. Menelaus was... an unfortunate side effect.”

  It was Paris’ turn to be surprised. “You gave up a crown to follow your sister?” It seemed impossible. To be loved so selflessly... Would he blindly follow Hector into danger? Would any of his siblings follow him?

  When he said it, Helen understood how ridiculous the prospect seemed. “Yes... no! I was sixteen. I thought I was supposed to come to Mycenae. That the Gods wanted me to come. Ah—it’s stupid.” She spun from him, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment. How could she explain? She was young and drunk on dreams of love. If he didn’t think her a naive little girl, that would confirm it.

  Paris stretched a hand to her huddled back, rubbing the tension away. She leaned into his touch, allowing herself to be comforted, and he wrapped his arms around her, holding her tenderly.

  She saw a million little crossroads in her life, each choice leading her inexplicably to this point, to him. Were the Gods cruel? Did they seek to test her spirit with temptation? But as she looked up into Paris’ eyes, she wondered, was this something else? If only the Goddess would give her a sign, some way of knowing what was expected of her. But She gave no such guidance.

  Reaching out, Helen grabbed Paris’ hand, lacing her fingers through his. He squeezed back, a similar sense of resignation in the tender hold. His touch sent tingles through her body, but it was calmer now, like the warmth of a banked fire, not the raging inferno that possessed her soul in the wheat fields. Every moment they spent together kindled that flame.

  A myriad of emotions played out on Paris’ face. He was struggling to control himself, as conflicted by these overwhelming desires as she. “I’m sorry your life didn’t turn out the way you hoped.” He cupped her face gently in his hand. “But I’m not sorry you came to Mycenae. If you hadn’t, I would never have met you.”

  They stood inches from one another, both desperately wanting what they could not have, an ocean of duty and honor holding them apart. She tried to imagine a world where she never met her Trojan prince, where each day blended into the next, a lackluster life devoid of happiness. Even if she couldn’t have him, life was better knowing Paris existed.

  “Then I made no mistake after all.”

  She raised Paris’ hand to her lips for a tender kiss. It was all she dared give him.

  Chapter 18

  Festival of Life and Death

  BY THE time they returned to the Palace, the Mounichia Festival was well underway. The central court was teeming with nobles and town officials important enough to warrant a royal invitation. Minstrels played indoor and outdoor alike, their lively tunes accompanied by the stamping of feet and the cheers of their audience. People danced in the hall, flowing gracefully in choreographed steps, while others enjoyed bottomless cups of wine and mead.

  The Mounichia was a celebration of renewal, spring’s promise of new life defeating the cold grip of winter. It was a time of abundance, of indulgence, of hope.

  Helen wove her way through the court, a new gaiety giving spring to her step. She felt like an enormous weight had been lifted from her shoulders. There were no secrets between her and Paris now, no stigma of spying lingering over her. Agamemnon commanded her obedience, but he could not command her heart, and she was free to share it with whomever she pleased.

  And so she did. With everyone. She danced with anyone who asked her. She made special efforts to shower her people with affection, taking the time to greet them by name, laughing at their jokes, and sharing a brief moment of candor. They soaked it in. She had never seen so many beaming faces.

  The celebratory mood was infectious. Even Agamemnon had a leg tossed over his throne, his cheeks bright red from drink. His mountainous laugh carried over the entire hall.

  The Trojans lost their rigid discipline and joined in the festivities. She was sure Paris warned them to be wary after he returned from the armory, but they were safe inside the palace grounds, protected by tradition and the hospitality laws of xenia. The music was too inviting, and one by one, they joined the dance. Helen danced with them all, the last one, Hyllos, was so red-faced with embarrassment he continuously stepped on her toes.

  “Forgive me, Your Highness,” he blubbered manically. She was near beside herself with laughter when Paris finally saved her.


  The prince had switched out his wardrobe for the elegant garments he wore when he was introduced to the court. His shoulder length hair was oiled back, the faint scent of musk clinging to his curls. He wore his crimson cape, the rich fabric making him the brightest object in the plaza. Wherever he walked, a dozen maidens followed. He was irresistible.

  “Stick with numbers, Hyllos. Dancing will never be your talent.” He cut in, taking her hand away from the trade master and bowed. “May I?”

  Helen was breathless from her previous dancing efforts, but she could not refuse him. “Are you sure you know the steps?” she teased, raising her hands before her.

  “I think I can manage.” He pressed his palms to hers.

  It was a simple folk dance, each partner held apart by an arm’s length. A few steps to the right, a short spin, a step away, then back together. It repeated itself until the couple ran out of room, where they would then spin around and find a new partner to complete the dance again in reverse order.

  The crowd instantly gave them space, as they hadn’t for Helen alone. A royal couple on the dance floor afforded double the respect. Paris began stately, completing the first cycle with rigid formality. The feigned intensity on his face almost pushed her over into a laughing fit.

  “Why so serious?” she mocked, adopting a similar frown of concentration and raising an eyebrow so he could see just how ridiculous he looked.

  “I thought I should do it proper first before switching things up.”

  “Before wh—“ but the words were ripped from her lungs as he spun her around. He was improvising, adding in more steps. The minstrels took up the cue and sped up their tempo. Soon the crowd was clapping along, keeping pace.

  “Follow my lead,” he whispered in her ear as he spun her around, his arm and hers raised over their heads as she twirled. The spin flowed seamlessly into the next few steps, Paris spinning around her, his cape creating a rippling flash of red, like a flag unfurling in the wind.

  With each pass, they picked up speed, the music building along with them. She threw herself into the dance, surprised at her own ability to keep pace. Her heart raced, and she was near panting for breath, but it was exhilarating. When they reached the end of the dance floor, Paris had to grab hold of her hand to keep her from flying into the steps again. She reeled, dizzy from the effort.

  The crowd exploded with applause. Helen joined them, clapping merrily as she was surrounded by a giggling cadre of courtiers. “That was delightful!” she gushed. “Where did you learn to dance like that?” She was happy to see Paris was out of breath as well. His stamina seemed limitless.

  “The Phrygosias!” Agamemnon shouted.

  The crowd parted for the king as he joined them on the dance floor. Paris gave him a respectful bow. “You recognized it, Your Grace?”

  Agamemnon sauntered across the hall, the drink lengthening his stride. “A Phrygian rain dance.” He called out to the curious faces in the crowd. A distant clap of thunder followed his words, lending the king a prophetic aura. “I thought only their Seers were taught those steps.”

  Paris watched him closely. Agamemnon slurred his words, but he was not as drunk as he pretended to be. His eyes were not dilated, and he held his focus too easily. “I fostered there. When you live in close proximity, it’s easy to pick things up.”

  “Ha!” Agamemnon swung an arm around Paris’ shoulders, nearly causing his knees to buckle under the weight. “A man of many surprises! Your visit has been most entertaining, Trojan. Allow me to return the favor.”

  Paris tensed, instantly distrusting the man. Was he mad enough to attack him in front of so many witnesses?

  Agamemnon smiled, clearly aware of the distress he was causing. “Do the Phrygians honor the God of the Grape?”

  Paris nodded. “Of course.”

  The king slapped his hands together with a loud clap. “Let’s have a song! The Seduction of Ariadne.” A ripple of anticipation ran through the assembly. “Sister, if you will do the honors?”

  Helen froze. The Seduction, a retelling of Dionysus’s wooing of the Cretan princess, was a popular song, one commonly called for late night in taverns when the maids had enough spirits in their blood to be easy prey. “A moment, Your Grace?” she scrambled for an excuse. “I’ve yet to catch my breath.”

  But the baleful glare Agamemnon returned made her reconsider. She steeled her nerves and dipped into a curtsey. “As you command.” She cut through the crowd toward the minstrels. She knew better than to sing from the masses. If Agamemnon wanted to put her on a pedestal, so be it.

  Paris craned his neck to get a better view. The palace guests crowded around the musicians, filling in every gap of open space. He was not familiar with the song and assumed the myth must have been western in origin. Only Helen’s reluctance gave him reason to be concerned.

  The minstrels struck a minor chord, the darker tone dominating their melody. An instant hush fell over the crowd and Helen began to sing.

  “Far across the distance now, hear their ancient cries.

  Searching for the kindred blood, finding you and I.”

  Her voice was sultry and deep, matching the somber mood she evoked from the crowd.

  “She has a lovely voice.”

  Paris turned, surprised to see the queen standing beside him. He recoiled from Clytemnestra’s unexpected presence. It was strange to see another person walking around with Helen’s face, yet looking absolutely nothing like her. While he felt drawn to Helen, the queen repelled.

  “She does,” he agreed politely, trying to catch the following lyrics.

  “Come with me and you will see pleasures ‘yond reality.

  Close your eyes and visualize,

  Just a little sin, nothing to forgive.”

  Paris blushed, realizing now why Agamemnon chose this song.

  “Do you like the song?” The queen smirked, enjoying his discomfort.

  Paris cleared his throat, and commanded his faculties to order. “It seems a bit bawdry. Is this really appropriate material for the court?”

  “For the Ancients indulged in these simple debaucheries.

  And then, who are we, to ignore their pleas?

  Come and be with me...”

  “It’s more appropriate than you realize. Do you know that men have been lusting after my sister since she was born? Our father had to fight a war to keep a greedy king from her. And she was only eight.” The queen flung the information as if it were mere trifles.

  “Why are you telling me this?” he stiffened.

  Clytemnestra cast him an insolent smirk, her hawkish eyes boring right through him, eyes so eerily similar to Helen’s. “I wanted to give you fair warning, lest you think you’re special. Her beauty is a curse. Don’t get caught in its spell.”

  The music died off, and the crowd erupted into applause. Paris took his eyes off Clytemnestra for a second, but it was enough for the queen to quietly melt away into the crowd. He turned back to Helen, her face aglow with the praise and affection she was receiving from her people.

  Was she really cursed, the same as he?

  Paris pressed through the throng, trying to get to her side, but it was for naught. A richly dressed herald entered the hall and announced that the banquet was ready. Paris lost Helen in the crowd as everyone marched to the dining hall.

  Helen took a seat beside her sister at the head table, eager for a chance to rest. She was more tired than she cared to admit, the day having taken so many twists and turns. She lifted her rhyton, a golden stag-shaped horn used only for special occasions, and quenched her dry throat. The spiced wine tasted marvelous. And it was only the beginning of the treats to come. The kitchen staff loved to over-perform for festival days.

  “You were amazing, Aunt Helen.” Iphigenia gushed. The princess fidgeted nervously with her gossamer gown. She had stopped wearing the simple tunic all children wore only this past autumn and the finery was still foreign to her. “How did you learn to dance so quick?”

&
nbsp; Helen held her rhyton out for the cupbearer to fill, and gave her niece a sultry wink. “I didn’t. I was just too scared to fall over and make a fool of myself. My feet did the rest.” The girl giggled, a sweet tinkling sound that snuffed out the second she caught her mother’s austere glare.

  Clytemnestra wasn’t pleased. Helen buried herself in her cup, hoping to avoid drawing her sister’s ire. Unfortunately, she had a better chance of growing wings and flying to Olympus.

  “You should pace yourself.” Nestra snipped as Helen took another sip of her wine. “Wine loosens your virtue. You wouldn’t want to do anything you might regret.”

  Helen turned to her sister, stunned. She had some conceit questioning Helen’s drinking habits. Nestra often had wine with her morning meal. “It was your husband who requested that song. You should question his virtue, not mine.”

  Nestra eyed her daughter darkly. The girl gave a small yelp and disappeared down the table. “I’m not an idiot.” She hissed at Helen once they were moderately alone. “You hunger for that prince.”

  “I do not!” Helen gasped, her heart hammering against her chest.

  “You can’t lie to me, Sister. I know you better than you know yourself. You want him. Admit it.”

  She was trapped. There was no escaping Clytemnestra when she was on the prowl for information. A lifetime of giving in to her older sister compelled Helen to tell the truth. But even still, she couldn’t betray Paris.

  “It’s... nothing. An infatuation. Nothing will come of it.” She shrunk into her chair.

  “You’re right, nothing will come of it.” Nestra glowered over her. “Whatever ‘it’ is, you’re going to end it. Now.” Clytemnestra was furious. Helen had seldom seen her in such a state.

  A spike of anger wedged itself into Helen’s heart. Agamemnon forced her to his will. Menelaus beat her to it. But Nestra? She was her sister, the one source of friendship she had in this love-forsaken land. Clytemnestra was supposed to be understanding.