The Princess of Sparta: Heroes of the Trojan War

by Aria Cunningham

  “No.” Helen slammed her rhyton down on the table. “I will not.”

  Nestra grabbed her wrist and squeezed. “You will end it, or I will end it for you.”

  “How?” Helen shook off her sister’s grip. “Are you going to run to Menelaus? Tell him I’ve had impure thoughts? Do you want to see me dead? Or perhaps Agamemnon? He’d probably cheer and try to further my education.”

  Nestra went pale, that last barb hitting too close to unpleasantness they swore to never speak about. Helen sighed, instantly regretting the hurt her words caused her twin. She dropped her head in her hands. “I’m sorry,” she moaned, “but don’t ask this of me. Please, leave me this small happiness.”

  “Do you love him?” Nestra’s body, her very voice, frosted over with the question.

  “I...” Helen couldn’t answer. This was no mere infatuation like she pretended. The more time she spent with Paris, the stronger her sense of familiarity grew. She knew Paris. In a way that went beyond words or experience. The comfort and ease in their company was uncanny. And he felt the same for her, she was sure of it.

  “He doesn’t deserve you,” her sister growled. “None of them do. I’ll prove it to you if I have to.”

  Nestra could not understand the irony of her words. You did not earn love. Helen had done nothing so terrible as to ‘earn’ Menelaus’ love. Love was a gift, a blessing from the Goddess. Deserve had nothing to do with it. She cast her sister a pitiful look, “There is nothing you can say that will make me change my mind.”

  That was the line in the sand. Nestra tossed her hand away and stood up, her back rigid. She waited until the conversation paused at the other end of the table, the section where their husbands dined with their Trojan guest.

  Panic gripped Helen. “What are you doing?”

  All she received in return was Nestra’s wicked grin.

  Paris followed Agamemnon to the head table. The kitchen staff rushed around them in the dining hall carrying large platters of freshly baked bread, fruits, and cheeses. Any empty cup was immediately filled. The king seemed in a jovial mood, but after his morning in the armory, Paris new better than to relax. Agamemnon was baiting him, and Paris’ lack of response was only encouraging the king to try harder. Sooner or later, Agamemnon would expose his hand.

  The men and women sat at separate portions of the table. Paris took his seat beside the king and Menelaus sat opposite him. Other royal officials and nobles filled in the remaining seats, proximity to the king determined by some internal ranking. Paris found himself surrounded by sycophants and madmen, his Trojan delegation placed at a separate table within sight but not privy to their conversations.

  But Paris was boxed in by more than courtly seating arrangements. The queen’s words haunted him. He wasn’t a jealous man, and he had no claim to Helen’s affections, but the thought of another man touching her against her will filled him with rage. And if it were many men, like the queen implied, his rage burned white.

  The princess entered at the back of the hall, her cheeks flushed from her earlier performance. Everywhere Helen walked she was greeted with warmth; she was so well loved by her people. Paris could scarcely believe she was real—a compassionate, thoughtful Royal. A born leader who did not seek power for herself—someone who would refuse a crown out of love and duty. Centuries came and went without the birth of such a person.

  But more than her potential as a queen, she was by far the most beautiful woman who graced this earth. Paris had travelled enough to make that claim with confidence. A hundred eyes followed her path to the head table, her charm undeniable. It was a power she seemed wholly unaware of, but one her king was more than happy to wield on her behalf.

  “Lest you think you’re special...” the queen had warned. “Her beauty is a curse.”

  Clytemnestra’s words were the poison he had been hearing his entire life. Cursed and discarded as the least amongst his noble siblings. Unwanted at home, and a stranger abroad, he had no place where he belonged. And until he met Helen, he was content with the lie he told himself, that he neither wanted nor sought that comfort.

  But basking in the shine of her radiant smile? One word of her admiration could buoy his spirits against a thousand Hecubas. If she loved him, he needed no others.

  Lest you think you’re special...

  It was eating at him. He tried to focus on the conversation of the table, but it was hard. His eyes would stray, searching for her. For anyone watching closely, he was sure his behavior was obvious.

  “—a half dozen liege men have arrived.”

  Paris turned his attention back to the head table, missing the last few words of Menelaus’ report.

  “What say you, Trojan? You man enough to face me on the list tomorrow?” The Mycenaean prince seemed eager for that opportunity.

  Paris turned to Agamemnon with a stern frown of disapproval for his host. Agamemnon truly was a Mad King if he expected an ambassador to participate in war games.

  “Chariots.” Agamemnon added, his smug smile showcasing his delight in Paris’ discomfort. “It’s quite safe, assuming you can handle a horse.”

  A derisive laugh rippled through Menelaus and his men. “Or do you need a woman to drive it for you?” the Greek prince added.

  “I’m sure I can manage.” Paris joined their laugh, refusing to let Menelaus mock him. “After boars and bulls, I expect a bit of horseplay will be fun.”

  Menelaus’ cocky grin faded at the mention of the boar. The prince was in for another surprise if he took the field against Paris in a chariot. Dancing wasn’t the only skill he picked up from his sojourn in Phrygia.

  “I hear you visited our strongholds this morning.” Rhopalus, a grizzled advisor who introduced himself as the Master of Arms, spoke. “Did you like what you saw?”

  Paris painstakingly adopted an aloof expression. “An impressive structure. I’m sure you spared no expense in its construction.”

  “For certain.” Agamemnon plucked a cluster of grapes from the table, pulling each morsel off with his teeth one by one. “It will house Mycenae’s greatest treasure when I depart this world. It is only fitting it holds my treasure now while I still breathe.”

  Paris almost laughed. It was not enough to intimidate him, Agamemnon wanted to hear Troy whimper before his might. But cowering a diplomat was far easier than cowering the crown, and in Paris’ case, he represented both.

  “A wise decision, Your Grace. And the stockpile as well. It is best to be prepared for any contingency.” Paris tore a chunk off a nearby loaf of bread and busied himself chewing while the officials considered just what he meant.

  “If you learn nothing else of me, Trojan, you will know I am always prepared.” Agamemnon leaned back, a smug certitude in his bearing.

  “I’m always relieved to know our allies are well defended.” Paris continued with his air of indifference. “Do you know the Assyrians conduct military campaigns every summer? They send their army out in force, expanding their territory year by year. Tukulti-Ninurta claims it keeps his warriors sharp, lest they let their muscles go as soft as their bellies do in winter. He got as far west as Aleppo last year, and was only turned back by the king’s prudent preparations.” He picked up the sharp table knife and used it to pick seeds from his teeth.

  “Has this Assyrian horde ever struck at Troy?” Agamemnon’s eyes lit up as Paris spoke. Did he imagine himself in the field against such a worthy foe? Or did he envy the Assyrian rule by conquest? It was impossible to tell.

  “Once.” Paris paused, keenly aware every ear hung on his words. “The Assyrians tried to cross over the Taurus Mountain range. Priam and his allies sent them packing back to the river lands. That was before I was born. They haven’t rode north since.” He planted the knife point first in the table. “Outlanders don’t fare well in Anatolia. They say our rivers run red from the blood of our enemies.”

  Agamemnon’s wicked grin spread to one of appreciation, a smile Paris shared with him. Whatever stone yo
u place on the board, I can match. Poke me for weakness all you like, Troy will show no frailty.

  “That’s why your stronghold is a good precaution, but an unnecessary one.” Paris continued. “The kings who would try to invade this far west will never make it past Troy’s borders.”

  Rhopalus and his fellow toadies choked on Paris’ brazen words. Menelaus glared at him with his narrow hate-filled eyes, a low growl escaping his lips. Only Agamemnon had the appropriate response. His deep barrel laugh filled the awkward spaces between them, mocking any man too uptight to be offended. He lifted his rhyton in a toast and bellowed, “To our battle ready allies! May they always defend our interests.” The cheer was repeated throughout the hall, many of the men present believing the king honored them personally.

  When the cheers died off, a new silence filled the table. Clytemnestra stood formally, staring directly at him.

  “What is it, my Queen?” Agamemnon waved to his wife, irritated at the interruption.

  “I am curious about our guest.” She smiled sweetly, her twisted lips an aberration on Helen’s graceful expression. “Paris is such an unusual name. Can you tell us what it means?”

  Paris swallowed a lump of relief. For some reason this woman worried him more than Agamemnon and Menelaus combined. “Paris is my middle name, Your Grace.” He raised his voice to carry down the table. “I was named Alexandros Paris after a fierce ally and friend of my father, Aleksandu, the King of Wilusa, whose throne Priam helped him to reclaim.”

  “Oh,” the queen batted her long lashes at him, a show of fake confusion. “I must have heard false information. I was told that the Gods cursed you in your mother’s womb, and your father added the king’s name to yours after she tried to kill you. That he hoped to invoke protection from a powerful patron against the many people who wished you dead.”

  Utter silence followed her words. Paris’ mind went blank. He felt the bite of metal into his palm and realized he was clenching the handle of his table knife in a death grip.

  “Is that not true?” Clytemnestra almost purred. “Aren’t you an ambassador for Troy only because you are not welcome at home?”

  They were all watching him, head table and hall alike, a sea of dark eyes questioning who he was and what he would do, just like in Troy. He couldn’t stay silent, not without bringing more injury to his homeland than his birth already had.

  “I... How?” he struggled to find words. But the damage was done. His feeble attempts to answer only confirmed the queen’s words as true. A hundred hushed conversations broke out across the hall.

  Paris looked into the crowd and found Glaucus’ face, the stoic captain’s frown the only sign of his deep offense. The queen meant to wound Paris, and through him, the loyal men who followed him. She thought him weak, that knowledge of his curse could lay him low. Paris’ shame was fast replaced with anger.

  How dare she?

  Paris released his knife, pressing his palms flat on the table. “I am shocked, Your Grace, to hear such vile slander. Even idle tongues in Troy would not utter these lies, especially to a queen. Please tell me your source and I would be happy to slice his throat for you.”

  But the queen was in no mood to share. She spread her hands with a shrug, the false apology stinging worse than none at all.

  “Woman!” Agamemnon bellowed, half-rising from his chair. The move upset the entire table, fruit rolled and cups were spilt. “Keep your mouth shut. We have no time for your mindless gossip.”

  It was as though a spell were broken. The hall erupted into conversation as soon as the king spoke. More than a few suspicious eyes darted in Paris’ direction. “Pay her no attention, Trojan.” Agamemnon soothed, his eyes still lit up with amusement. “Women are capricious creatures.” That earned him a round of laughs from his advisors.

  The king grimaced at his empty plate and hollered behind him. “Is this a banquet or not? Where’s our meat!”

  Menelaus signaled the nearby staff, an eager grin of his own replacing his usual scowl. “I had something special cooked up for our guest, Brother. We gave the pig to the lowborn.”

  The cooks rushed into the hall carrying covered trays steaming with sizzling meat, the savory aroma making more than one man groan. They planted the trays at key positions along the table, the first directly before Paris and the king. At Menelaus’ command, the cook removed the lid, the steam momentarily obscuring its contents. When the air cleared, the source of Menelaus’ amusement became clear.

  It was the head of Paris’ bull.

  Helen pressed her way through the hall after Paris. When he disappeared onto the far portico, she finally saw her opportunity to talk to him.

  Dinner had been a short affair. After Menelaus gleefully revealed his kill, she lost her appetite. That bull was a noble creature, his offspring could have sired a new breed of cattle, one mighty Zeus would welcome at the steps of Olympus. But Menelaus never thought of the future, delighting only in the feel of his sword through flesh.

  When Nestra stood, Helen feared what her sister would say, that she would reveal Helen’s indiscretions. Menelaus’ sword would not be piercing a bull’s hide if that were the case. But Helen never dreamed her sister would attack the prince personally. Her vile accusation... she saw the damage it wrecked on Paris. It was cruel, even for Nestra’s standards.

  “Princess!” Philon hailed her eagerly, waving her over to a small group of city officials. More than a few people called for her attention, no doubt wishing to pick her mind about the Trojan ambassador. She ignored them all, pressing further past the crowd.

  He was alone on the portico, his back to the hall, his hands gripping the rail with white knuckles. She didn’t say a word or make a sound to alert him to her presence, but he turned the second she stepped out on the balcony.

  “Is it true?”

  He nodded.

  Her heart bled for him. She wanted to wrap her arms around him and hold him close, but the rumbling crowd behind her—her sister, her husband, her king—would never let that be.

  “Why?”

  Paris struggled to find his words. His mouth moved, but no sound came forth. “There was an omen.” He finally spoke. “When I was born, my mother had a vision so powerful in clarity that it terrified her. She dreamt she had given birth to a burning torch, the flames so strong they ignited her very soul. The Seers interpreted the dream, claiming it signaled the ruin of Priam’s house. That this flame, my flame, would destroy Troy.” He took a deep shuddering breath. “I’ve lost track how many times Hecuba, or her followers, have tried to kill me. When I was old enough, I volunteered to treat with our distant allies. I was little missed at home, and over time, the feeling became mutual.”

  Paris felt like a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He had never spoken of those events before. Those who knew were gracious enough to not speak of it, and those who didn’t had no business in knowing. He had no wish to see the shocked looks that accompanied such news, on Helen least of all. But there was no avoiding it now.

  She stood before him, her hands clamped tightly over her mouth, holding back the cry of disgust in which he was all too familiar.

  “They’re wrong!” she gasped.

  “No. The omen is real, I assure you.” Hector had once thought as she, trying desperately to disprove the vision. He questioned Hecuba a hundred times, and each time she spoke the same detail. A burning torch igniting her breast.

  “Not the omen.” Helen stumbled forward, reaching out for him and pulling back at the same time. “Their interpretation. A burning torch does not represent ruin. It is the light that keeps the darkness at bay. It is the candle of hope within the void. The stronger the flame, the greater the courage that fuels it. Paris... it’s what I was named after.”

  Breath escaped him. Paris could not have been more shocked if the Gods reversed the path of the stars and the sun set in the east. It was impossible. He had lived under a death omen his entire life. For it to be wrong? For that dire visio
n to lead him to Helen?

  Helen was utterly convinced. “In the old tongue, my name—Helen—means ‘the fiery brand’.” Her chest heaved with this new awareness, finally understanding her connection to the woe-begotten prince. “I am your torch. You were born for me. And Aphrodite sent me to Mycenae to wait for you.”

  A bolt of lightning forked through the sky, the brilliant purple afterglow leaving stars in her eyes. Paris was surrounded by those stars, a million pinpoints of chance, drawing him from a distant shore into her world. He still hadn’t moved, his muscles frozen in disbelief. Even when it began to rain, the thick drops turning swiftly into a deluge, he remained locked in place.

  “Paris?” She took a hesitant step forward, her chiton already plastered to her skin.

  It was in his eyes. His body might refuse to work, but his eyes were windows to his soul, and they belonged to her. She no longer cared for propriety. She took a strident step forward to her prince—

  And was yanked back by another one. Menelaus held her arm, his merciless grip bruising her tender skin. “What are you doing out here, Wife?”

  She struggled to release herself from him. “I...”

  Menelaus turned and instantly spotted Paris, the Trojan enshrouded in the heavy downfall. Paris made no effort to move and Menelaus, after glancing upward at the torrent, decided against following him out.

  “We’re still racing in the hippodrome tomorrow, Trojan. This rain won’t save you.” He yanked on Helen’s arm, pushing her into the hall before him. “Nor you, woman. It’s time I taught you to respect your Lord.”

  Helen struggled to escape Menelaus’ grasp, to get back to Paris, but her husband was too strong. A heavy clap of thunder drowned out the din in the hall as he towed her away.

  She had one last glimpse of her Trojan from afar.

  He was fury incarnate.