The captain squared his shoulders, a man prepared for a fight. “She is married, Paris. Before Gods and Men.”
“To a brutal pig who resents his vows as much as she.” Paris spat. But his argument sounded petty, even to his own ears. It didn’t matter if Helen regretted her vows to Menelaus, or if Menelaus preferred the company of his huntsman, as Helen said. The only thing that could break the laws of man was divine intervention. And who would believe him if he swore Aphrodite intended Helen for him?
Glaucus eyed the scattered furniture with a deep scowl of disapproval. “I have known you for many years, My Prince. Not once have you conducted yourself in a manner unworthy of a king. Don’t let this infatuation be the start.”
Infatuation? Was that what Glaucus thought was happening between him and Helen? That Paris would jeopardize their mission, their very lives, over an infatuation?
“You do known me, Glaucus. For many years.” Paris turned away from his captain’s scornful glare to face the wall, the will to fight draining from him. “We’ve seen the behavior of kings. They are cruel and lack common decency. Do you truly think I should conduct myself like one? I have always striven to be better than that.“
“But the princess—“
“You don’t understand.” Paris spun. He had spent a lifetime carefully guarding his thoughts and feelings. He could stand in the midst of ridicule and defamation without blinking an eye. But the torrent of emotions boiling inside him was something all his years at Hecuba’s court had not prepared him for. He was no longer in control of himself.
He held Glaucus’ gaze, striving to drive in the depths of how he felt. “I’m not flouting the will of the Gods, I’m trying to listen to them. My entire life I’ve dwelt in darkness, living in the shadow of an omen. But when I’m with Helen, there is no dark future. She is the torch burning the darkness away.” He struggled for words, desperate to give voice for what could only be felt. “I can’t go back to that void. Not after feeling her warmth. For the first time in my life, someone accepts me for exactly who I am.”
A prolonged silence followed his declaration. Glaucus stood in the doorway silhouetted by the dim light of the fading stars, a man struck by revelation.
“You love her.”
It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t an accusation. It was the simple truth stated by a simple man.
Love. It felt like a tiny, infinitesimal word compared to what Paris felt. “There is no world for me without her in it. When I’m with Helen, I’m already home.”
Glaucus was a hard man, but he was not all made of stone. What tenderness resided in him was reserved for Paris. He knew the enormity of what Paris was saying. “That... complicates things.”
“Unbelievably so.” Paris gripped the back of a tall chair, feeling the weight of his conflicting duties pressing down on him.
Glaucus walked silently to his side, and placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. They had spent most of their lives at sea, the captain and his prince. And for true salt-tested sailors, tales of sirens and merfolk were as commonplace as news of the harvest. The Impossible was not a vague concept for those who risked their life every time they set sail. It was a familiar wind that rose when least expected. And in that wind, even a cursed and discarded prince deserved some small measure of happiness.
“When we left on this mission, I knew it would be dangerous.” Glaucus spoke softly. “I agreed to come because at the end there was a promise of home, that you wouldn’t be an outcast any longer. Every man on our crew would die to see that day. But if you have already found it, we will fight to help you keep it, My Prince.”
Paris clasped Glaucus by the shoulder, overcome by the man’s loyalty. He knew he did not deserve it. He could only hope one day he might. “Thank you.”
“Do we abort the mission?”
Paris shook his head, still uncertain which course of action he should take. If the Gods were kind, they’d give him a sign. “Give me a day to work this out.”
Glaucus shifted nervously. If their mission was perilous before, Paris had just steered them into uncharted territory. “A word of precaution?” he offered. “This king is picking at you piece by piece, trying to find some weakness. We don’t benefit from giving him more opportunities than necessary. Deliver your father’s message, and deliver it fast. Or Agamemnon might send one of his own.”
Like my head in a box...
Paris felt the events cascading around him like the sands of an hourglass steadily draining out. The might of a kingdom was determined by three factors: the size of its lands, the strength of its arms and the treasures of its craftsmen. Agamemnon already had two of the three. And Paris knew where he would try to acquire the third.
“I’ll consider it.”
It was sage advice. Glaucus always gave sage advice. Paris suspected he was going to need all he could get in the days to follow. He turned to his bedchambers, hopeful to get an hour of rest before facing whatever Agamemnon had in store. His hand barely touched the latch before Glaucus called out one last time.
“Would you die for her?”
How many nights had they sat around the fire chastising men for that foolishness? How many times was Paris forced to step in and save a poor countryman from throwing his life away in some hopeless cause? Paris never understood what would impel a man to act in such a manner. When he answered, it was not without a touch of irony.
“A thousand times over, yes.”
Glaucus grunted. “Better for her if you live. Remember that in how you proceed.” He ducked his head in deference and disappeared out of their chambers.
Chapter 21
The Offer
HELEN HAD scarcely slept for fear she would wake and find this new happiness was only in her dreams. She kept waiting for shame to cripple her, for the heavens to rain lightning on her wicked soul, but there was a spring to her step, and the only thing reigning in her soul was unabashed joy. She felt like dancing.
She entered the megaron the following morning with a radiant smile on her face, a smile she saw reflected on every servant who crossed her path. Even Aethra put aside her dour frowns and joined in Helen’s festive mood.
“The sun’s burnt through the clouds, My Lady.” Aethra took a deep breath, inhaling the crisp scent of wet earth. “There’s nothing like a spring squall to wash away the rot. There’ll be wild flowers in the fields soon.”
“It’s amazing, isn’t it.” Helen inhaled deeply herself, the bouquet of myrrh and juniper mingled with the smoky remnants of festival bonfires. “When all the world appears dead, a new spark of life is found.”
A spark is all that’s needed to ignite a flame. She blushed, vividly remembering that blaze ripping through her body. Just the thought of Paris was enough to cause her heart to race and her body to ache with longing.
Few people stirred in the throne room. Most of the palace guests slept as heavily this morning as they had drank the night before. Of the few courtiers lining the hall, five huddled together over a smoldering brazier, quietly placing bets on the chariot races of the afternoon. Menelaus was the leading favorite. But if his heavy snoring this morning was any indication, he would hardly be at his best performance.
"Princess!” Nextus waved her over to the brazier, a fond smile gracing his angular face. The steward was one of the few Mycenaean officials who did not curry favor with Agamemnon by snubbing the royal women. “Perhaps you can clarify a matter for us.”
Aethra cast her an amused glance. They had both been hounded non-stop for information about the Trojan delegation. Helen had been luckier than her poor matron in escaping their attentions. She stepped up to the fire and warmed her hands. “And what matter would that be?” She smiled innocently at the steward, amused.
Nextus had difficulty sustaining his focus under her direct gaze. He pulled his hands away from the flames, an awkward titter to his voice. “I... uh, we were not sure what odds to place on the Trojan prince. You have seen him handle a horse. Do you think he will pr
ovide fair competition?”
Helen laughed. She had expected gossip and warmongering. She should have known these men cared only for the metal in their purse. “He is certainly full of surprises. I’d challenge the judgement of any man who bet against him.”
“But against your husband...” Nextus prodded.
Helen sighed, deciding it was not as fun as she hoped provoking the nobles. “Menelaus... is a special case. There are few men who could challenge him,” she ruefully admitted. “But if there is one, I wouldn’t be surprised if it were the Trojan.”
She took her leave, Nextus’ doubt infesting her happy mood. Paris would take the field with Menelaus again today. She trusted he could defend himself should her husband lose his temper, but it was a danger she rather he avoided. She rushed across the hall to a refreshment table and poured herself a cup of mulled wine. It was early for the spicy drink, but she needed something to steady her nerves.
“Will he?” Aethra asked, watching her with an arched brow as she downed the entire cup.
“What?”
“Be challenging your husband?”
Helen froze, a new danger paralyzing her. “Am I so obvious?”
Aethra took the cup from her trembling hand. “To others? No. But I raised you child. I can tell when a woman has been properly bedded. She glows, the essence of Aphrodite flowing through her veins. It is not a thing men can see.”
Aethra led her down the hall to a secluded alcove, forcing Helen down on a bench. She all but collapsed, her knees were so weak. “I am a dead woman,” Helen moaned. “Menelaus will kill us both.”
But Aethra snorted, a distinctly unfeminine sound. “You don’t know that. Maybe your Trojan will kill Menelaus. Have you ever thought of that possibility?”
Helen gasped, shocked by her blunt words. “That’s treason. I’d never—”
“You wouldn’t have to.” Aethra interjected. “Kingdoms change hands as easily as water flows down the riverbank. Men have always killed each other for land and spoils. It is a woman’s lot to wait and see who rises the victor. Better you be prepared for when that river changes direction.”
More nobles were entering the megaron, lulled in by the fresh aroma of hot buns laced with honey that the kitchen staff carried in. Helen watched them all nervously, her stomach dipping, any trace of appetite gone. Open war? Was this what she started by giving herself to Paris?
Helen lowered her voice, speaking barely over a whisper. “I don’t want to hurt anyone. Not even Menelaus... I... I just want to be happy.” Tears leaked down her cheeks.
Aethra raised a gentle hand and soothed them away, her back held rigid, protecting Helen from any courtier who’d dare to come too close. “My poor, sweet, naive little princess. The world does not care how good your intentions are,” her calm voice belying the harshness of her words. “You are a royal. Your actions determine the lives of thousands. You cannot afford to walk this gauntlet with your eyes shut.”
Helen pulled back sharply, shoving her hand away. “Aethra! You dare—“
“Yes, I dare!” Aethra silenced her with a harsh whisper. “I was a queen once before your father killed my son and took me for a slave. Do you remember none of that?”
Helen gasped, her matron’s confession tugging at the hidden corners of her memory. Something lay in those dark recesses, but she could not access it, a formidable wall blocking her.
“No?” Aethra sighed, straightening her skirts fastidiously though they showed no sign of wear. “It’s for the best, then. Some horrors are too terrible to carry in our hearts and minds.”
A murmur ran through the megaron as Paris stepped into the hall. His eyes quickly found her. He had the uncanny ability to sense when she was near. He was troubled, she could tell by the bend of his shoulders and the heavy furrow of his brow. But when he saw her, he brightened. Paris did his best to be circumspect, greeting the few courtiers who crossed his path, but he was steadily making his way in her direction.
Aethra watched the prince like a lioness protecting her cub. “You lost your mother when you were too young, but the Gods saw fit to send you another one.” She turned to Helen, her knowing eyes filled with sorrow. “Trust me, as you would the woman who bore you. Your fate can change in a heartbeat. Grasp what happiness you can while it is still in your power to take it.”
Helen’s eyes widened in surprise. Was Aethra giving her blessing?
The matron spun and raised a hand toward Paris’s guard. “Trojan. A word with you?” she waved Glaucus over, and, by default, Paris. Once in reach, she grabbed the tall captain by the arm and steered him away, whispering fiercely in his ear.
Aethra’s warnings were but a buzzing in Helen’s ears now that Paris stood before her. She had no ability to mask her feelings. Her heart leapt into her eyes. She wanted nothing more than to throw herself into Paris’ arms. It took all her willpower to lower herself into a formal curtsey, the dutiful respect of a princess to a prince.
“I can’t stop thinking of you.” She adopted an innocent smile, seemingly—for the rest of the court—talking of pleasantries. “I need to see you again, soon.”
Paris flushed, an inner heat threatening to burn out his reason. He clenched his sword pommel to keep his hands from reaching for her. “I know. We need to talk. Before... this... gets out of hand.”
But it was already out of hand. One look at Helen, and he could barely control himself. His nerves were taut, like a soldier on the eve of a battle, his whole body aware he was surrounded by danger.
A herald blasted out a note on his horn, announcing the king to the court. Agamemnon rushed past the man and traversed down the hall with long forceful steps. Menelaus and his horsemen surrounded the king, the brothers thick in argument. Menelaus raised his head ever so slightly as he passed them, the unveiled hatred in his eyes making Paris’ blood run cold. That baleful gaze was for Paris and Helen alike, and potentially the king as well. The whole world could burn under the rage of that man.
“What are we going to do?” Helen quivered. In her moment of terror she had grabbed hold of Paris’ arm. She quickly dropped it like it was a poisonous snake.
Paris craned his neck, straining to hear Agamemnon’s heated words. “Just relax.” He tried to soothe her. “I’ll think of something.” But one warning glance from Glaucus and Paris knew his options were limited. They were running out of time.
He looked down at Helen, a wave of protectiveness for his love stronger than his own self-preservation. He couldn’t let her spend another day in this uncertainty. They were both in danger so long as Agamemnon held all the cards. Paris had to act now, and swift, before anything more could happen to her. It was time to teach Agamemnon Priam’s lesson.
“Do you remember when I told you I was not your enemy?” Paris swallowed a lump of dread, steeling himself to become the “Fist in the Silk Glove”.
“Yes...” Helen wrapped her arms around herself, feeling a chill that did not come from the air.
“I spoke the truth. I’m not your enemy. But my father might be depending on how Agamemnon chooses to act. I’m sorry, Helen. But I came here for a reason. I have to do as my father commanded me.” He started off toward the throne.
“Paris.” Helen gasped as loud as she dared, the note of finality in Paris’ words frightening her.
“If anything should happen to me, go to Glaucus.” Paris told her without turning. If he looked back now, he might never leave. “He will help you, if he can.”
“Can I not have a day without you pestering me with your petty squabbles, Brother? You whine like a mule.” Agamemnon was ready to toss Menelaus out in the fields and teach him a lesson with his sword. “Do as you are bid!”
“There is no reason to delay the games. The best horseman will still rule the field.” Menelaus protested.
The storm had deluged the hippodrome. The runoff had made the racecourse unusable. But Menelaus did not care about conditions. He fancied himself another victory, and would not put off the
race for better weather. It was hubris gone sour.
“You would ruin my best race track in your mindless pursuit of self glory!” Agamemnon slammed his fist on his throne, letting his irritation get the best of him. “Get back in the stables. Leave ruling the kingdom to me.”
“A win for the House of Atreus is a win for Mycenae.” Menelaus pressed on, as ignorant of a lost cause as a turtle struggling in vain when flipped on its back. “I will fix your pretty field if you are so worried about it.”
Paris approached the throne, his eyes glued on Menelaus. The Trojan’s appearance could not have been more timely. The two princes glared at each other like cocks set loose in a hen house.
“You should tend your own fields, Menelaus.” Agamemnon smirked, enjoying the crease of outrage on his brother’s face. “Lest another man plant them for you.”
The Trojan raised his brow, and Agamemnon savored the confusion his barb imparted on the prince. It was always a good lesson for a petitioner to see how he dealt with his insubordinate brother. If the king was willing to punish his own family, what might he do to those not afforded the same protection of blood?
“Trojan.” Agamemnon nodded at the man. “It seems the Gods have decided we’ve had our fill of play. You’ve tickled my cock with hints and stories long enough. Foreplay is dull. Let’s attend to business.”
His crude words seemed to embolden the prince, and a shrewd grin spread across the foreigner’s face as he ducked into a short bow. “Stories are for children and old men,” the Trojan agreed. “Is there a place where we can have a word in private?”
“Of course.” Agamemnon waved away his attendants, happy for the excuse to shut off their constant demands. But, when Menelaus stayed, the Trojan refused to speak and stared at Agamemnon’s unruly brother with a blank expression.
“Oh, for the love of Gaia. Follow me.” Agamemnon leapt off his throne and headed for his private antechamber, Paris swiftly following after.
The Princess of Sparta: Heroes of the Trojan War Page 24