The Princess of Sparta: Heroes of the Trojan War

by Aria Cunningham

  Helen readily spotted Paris in the retreating crowds heading up the acropolis. She turned to follow him.

  “Wait.” Clytemnestra grabbed her arm. “We need to talk.”

  Helen pushed her sister away from her. “I think you’ve done enough talking. What you did last night was cruel, Nestra. Even for you.”

  Clytemnestra’s face wrinkled in a mixture of anger and deep concern. The sisters hardly ever fought. Any lingering anger was like a poison slowly eating away at Helen’s soul. She was usually the one to make peace, more sensitive then Nestra by far. But not this time. Helen didn’t want to find solace in her sister’s arms.

  “I did what I had to.” Nestra insisted, still holding on to Helen tightly. “He is no different than all the other men, spouting lies and keeping secrets. You needed to see.”

  “Consider me educated, then.” Helen pulled away again, this time successfully. “You really don’t care who you hurt, do you? For shame, Nestra.” She motioned for Aethra to join her, and they quickly retreated to the palace.

  Helen did not turn to see the crushed look of pain and anger on her sister’s face. She knew Clytemnestra would still be standing on the dock watching her depart, regal as a queen.

  And so Helen missed when the queen finally made up her mind to follow after her.

  Paris and Glaucus returned to the palace at a leisurely pace. Paris opted against the proffered chariot, taking the time traveling on foot to fill in his captain of the king’s demand.

  “You’re lucky he didn’t kill you.”

  “He had his reasons to keep me alive.” Paris grumbled, his stomach turning at the king’s perversity.

  Paris wanted to believe Priam would refuse Agamemnon’s ridiculous offer, but how many of his council would whisper in his ear for him to accept? In one move, his father could quell the bickering in the west and rid himself of Paris, the major source of conflict in his house.

  Until he met Helen, Paris had resigned himself to a life in service to the crown. He knew he was nothing more than a playing chit in the never-ending game of politics and power. He accepted that duty with a sense of pride, knowing his actions helped to increase the greatness of Troy. But this... offer... was a slap in his face. The girl was barely eleven.

  He suspected the Gods toyed with his feelings for their own sick pleasure. To deny him home and happiness his whole life, then offer a taste of what he was missing only to keep it frustratingly out of his reach—their cruelty was beyond enduring.

  They entered the private quarters of the palace, finally getting a bit of privacy from the milling crowds. Only a few chambermaids were allowed in this wing, and they were busy running about their duties.

  “So do we stay or do we depart? With the king gone, we have no formal excuse to linger.”

  And that was the question that was tearing Paris apart. To stay with Helen, however brief their time might be, was to stay true to his heart. To leave, as duty demanded, would honor his promise to his king. If Paris failed in his duty now, his death omen might as well be truth. Troy would suffer the consequences.

  “Ready the men,” he decided. “You will carry this message personally to the king. Not to Aesacus, not Hecuba, not even Hector. Priam himself.” His father needed to know what was happening in Mycenae. Troy needed to prepare itself for the good and the ill if they chose an alliance with this Mad King.

  Glaucus balked. “You aren’t coming with us?” They had not discussed this possibility. Paris knew his captain was loath to leave him in danger.

  “I need to talk to Helen.” Paris frowned, wondering again how she would take this news. “This decision is not mine alone to make. But by moon tide, you set sail. With or without me.”

  They turned the corner into the guest hall and Paris halted, surprised to see they were not alone. Helen’s maid stood outside his quarters. He swore they had left her down at the docks with her mistress. But he and Glaucus had taken the long walk to the palace, and Paris was sure Helen knew every shortcut on the royal grounds.

  He quickened his steps. If Aethra was here, Helen would not be far.

  “Your Grace.” Aethra bowed deep in an elegant curtsey.

  Paris rushed past her, tossing his door open.

  “Should I stay out here—“ Glaucus asked as Paris slammed the door in his face.

  “Helen?” Paris rushed through the foyer. There was no sign of her. “Helen!” He searched Glaucus’ room and then his own before she stepped out from the balcony, cleverly hidden by the long curtains.

  “I’m here.” She reached for him as he passed by.

  The anxiety of the past few hours rolled over him with that touch. He swept her up in his arms, kissing her passionately, fearful it might be his last chance.

  She responded in kind, melting into his arms. “Paris, what did the king say? What’s happening?” A sharp edge of panic laced into her words.

  Paris froze, his arms squeezing her to him. He had no idea where to begin. She must have sensed the dire news in his hesitation. It seemed impossible, but her thin arms pressed him even tighter.

  “You can’t leave me!” she sobbed into his ear. He could hear her heart breaking with that cry.

  She was right. He couldn’t leave her. Helen had bound his heart to hers as securely as if it were wrapped in chains. If she commanded it, he’d stay. He’d face down Agamemnon and Menelaus both to spend his last days in her presence.

  Paris pulled back, tucking strands of Helen’s golden hair away from her face. He had spent so much of his life wandering, always the lonely ship at a distant shore. Here, on the outskirts of civilization, he had finally found someone worthy of his sacred oath. He dropped to his knees and gathered her hands in his.

  “I love you, Helen. More than life, than duty, than honor itself. I love you beyond the oaths I’ve sworn to King and Country, beyond reason, and I will spend the rest of my life protecting you from anyone who wishes to do you harm.”

  She was speechless, her shimmering jewel-blue eyes teaming with unshed tears. A fear-tinged joy beamed out of her radiant face. Paris swallowed the hope blossoming in his heart. Helen deserved to hear it all, to make the right decision not swayed by his emotions. He laced his fingers through hers, raising their entwined hands to his lips.

  “I will stay if you ask it of me and face whatever repercussions that follow. Until the axe falls on my neck.” He clung to her hands, seeing the inevitable path that would follow if he stayed, the shame and the spectacle. “But everything you stand for, the honor you so cherish, would be wiped away in the stigma of an adulterer. All that you are—all that you could ever be—will be ruined.”

  That bitter truth leeched Paris of his strength. He was willing to sacrifice his life for her love, but not hers. And though it tore him apart inside, he continued on. “Regardless if the omens aren’t true, I am a cursed man. I will bring you nothing but misery and death. You... you should discard me.” He buried his head into her stomach, too ashamed to witness the pain he surely caused her.

  Helen wrung her hands, feeling the same helplessness as Paris. He was struggling, trying desperately to do the honorable thing. But there was no easy answer, no right path where no one suffered. If she let him, Paris would suffer the brunt of this pain himself, forsaking his own happiness in deference for others. As he had always done. She saw him, a lonely child rejected by his mother, hated by those who should have treasured him, all for no fault of his own.

  “I will never discard you.” She wrapped her arms around his head, cradling him closer to her womb.

  His shoulders shook with emotion, his hot breath warming her stomach. “I do not deserve you.”

  It amazed her that Paris—who had consistently surprised her with his intellect and insight—would fail to see himself with the same clarity. It was though a lifetime of being denied love stunted his ability to receive it. She thought of her own journey, of all the terrible twists and turns Fate had sent her way. She had almost given up hope, falling into t
he despair that Nestra preached as wisdom. But even in her darkest moments, she clung to the faith that the Goddess would grant her the love that was promised. And, as she held Paris in her arms, Helen knew that faith was rewarded.

  She pulled his head back, staring deep into his eyes with all the passion that threatened to unmake her. “Alexandros Paris, Son of Troy. You more than deserve me... You are the mate of my soul.”

  The words, once spoken, were like magic, unlocking an inner awareness between them. Paris stared at her as if discovering her for the first time. Their inexplicable connection, the uncontrollable desires, deciphered. Soul mates. Two halves of a single soul cursed to search for each other the world over, yearning for unification. He had been searching for Helen his entire life.

  She caressed his face, her touch a conduit linking them body and soul. But that soft touch was the barest fragment of what could be. It was the light fall of snow hiding an avalanche of passion beneath. He rose to his feet, tearing at the sash around her waist.

  Helen reached for his belt, ripping at the coarse leather with the same urgency. She needed to feel him, be with him, she’d destroy anything that stood in their way. She ripped the tunic from his back, the fabric tearing into useless rags. His loincloth fell next and she shoved his naked chest, tossing him roughly down on his bed.

  She stood before him, unable to take her eyes away from his, their chests rising and falling in unison. She plucked the fibula from her shoulder and the fabric of her chiton unfolded like petals opening on a morning flower. Stepping out of the cloth, she climbed up on top of him, straddling his waist between her legs.

  He didn’t say a word—it wasn’t necessary. There was only the rediscovery of his other half, now acknowledged, impossible to deny. They didn’t even kiss. Helen rose above him and lowered herself on his engorged phallus, the soft folds of her silken canal perfectly molded to his flesh. They stayed motionless, both in deep shock at the swirling sensations flooding between them. He felt her, every quiver, every tiny breath, laying bare a surge of love pouring from her into him. When he could bear it no longer, he bucked, rolling on top of her, and thrusted as far as her tender body would allow him to reach.

  It was a wild, often violent, ride. Helen clung to him, raking her nails down his back with every thrust, trying to pull away the layers and get deeper inside him. His hips bruised her pelvis, his phallus stretched her womb, filling her entirely, and still she hungered for more.

  He felt her begin to spasm, the muscles of her font tightening around him as she cried out in orgasm. He came instantly, climaxing in unison with her mewling cries. The pairing was over too quickly, a tantalizing promise of more to come. As he finally pressed his lips to hers, he was utterly certain there would be more.

  Helen was trembling. Paris was surprised to realize that he was, too. It was though his body had no experience, no road map, on how to deal with the passion surging within him.

  “Are you all right?” he pressed his quivering lips to hers again, her touch helping to abate the shaking.

  Helen had no idea if she was all right. Her entire world had been utterly undone. Nothing would ever, could ever, be the same again. She studied Paris, her heart swelling painfully, the thought of losing him terrifying her beyond endurance.

  “I’m scared.”

  “I am, too.” Paris understood the danger of attachment now. Of having something too precious to lose. Helen’s love was a treasure so rare he’d spend the rest of his life defending it. The Gods would have to rip her from his cold dead hands. He cupped her beautiful face in his hands, knowing it might yet come to that.

  “Finding you was a blessing, one I don’t want to squander or needlessly sacrifice.” He kissed her tenderly. “I will die for you if you ask it.” He took a deep breath, knowing now the real option that the Fates had left to them, a path with as many dangers as staying.

  “But I would rather we live. Please, Helen. Come back with me to Troy.”

  Chapter 23

  The Ruin of our House

  CLYTEMNESTRA STOOD on the dock, the wooden planks lurching forwards and back beneath her with the swell of the ocean. She pressed a hand to her forehead, the wave of nausea crawling up her stomach laced with the bitter taste of bile. She reached out, needing something—anything—to hold on to while the panic attack ran through her body.

  But Helen was gone. Nestra watched her twin disappear into the crowds, leaving her alone on the shore.

  “My Queen,” Nestra’s maid grabbed her arm to keep her from falling. “Are you ill?”

  It was happening again. She was loosing Helen, the gulf of silence between them growing daily. A man had come and snatched her away, as had happened in their youth, and would happen over and over again.

  Her breathing came in ragged gasps. The harbor went in and out of focus, the crashing of the waves morphing into a roar in her ears. She couldn’t lose Helen. Not again. Nestra was powerless when they were children, but not now. She was a queen. And she could protect her own.

  “You should sit, Your Grace.” Her maid tried to urge her toward a pile of grain sacks sitting on the dock.

  Clytemnestra shoved her back hard. “Don’t touch me!” The young girl cringed away from her. “Get back to the Palace. All of you.” she commanded, then spun on her heel and raced down the dock after her sister.

  Helen was taking shortcuts, weaving through the city to avoid the slow pace of the procession. Her sister favored these cramped avenues and the crude people who populated them. It was a quirk unique to Helen from the royal family. She cared for the lowest flea-bitten mongrels, showering affection on the disaffected, never seeing the danger her tender heart placed her in. It was one of many reasons why Helen needed protection and a strong hand to guide her. She was too innocent to understand why it was necessary.

  Clytemnestra rushed past the free workers, careful to keep a good distance from the grime-coated lowborn. They huddled away from her, too, shocked to see their monarch striding through their wayward district.

  Helen bypassed the Lion Gates, heading around the acropolis for the sheltered, and less trafficked, Eastern gate. It was a steady climb, and Nestra made quick work of it, but Helen’s flowing chiton stayed frustratingly out of reach. It was as though Hermes maliciously lent her twin His speed, knowing how desperate Nestra was to speak with her.

  Where is she going?

  That was the pressing question that kept Nestra from calling out to her sister. There was something in the way Helen moved that screamed of secret purpose. Nestra used all the skill she inherited from Tyndareus to track her, careful to stay out of sight.

  The eastern entrance was a short distance from the bedrock staircase that fed off the private quarters of the palace. Helen ran up them, taking the steps two at a time.

  Nestra cursed. She couldn’t possibly keep up, the stitching from her difficult birthing at risk of tearing. Fortunately, Helen had her old maid with her and she had to slow for the woman to catch her breath.

  Nestra crept into the cover of a thick patch of cypress trees as they rested. The needle-like leaves poking at her were saturated with a sticky sap. After the manic trek up the hill, and now coated with dust and debris, Clytemnestra knew she must appear wild. But that wildness was nothing compared to the storm raging within her.

  Helen had to listen to reason. The Trojan couldn’t be trusted. No man could. What Nestra did was in order to save her twin future grief. She had to understand that.

  Helen and the maid started up the trail again. In short order, they were up the remainder of the hill and into the private courtyard. Helen’s destination was no longer a mystery. Nestra watched as she darted into the servant’s walkway, the dim and narrow corridors used by the staff to access the royal apartments. The section she entered belonged to the Trojan prince.

  Clytemnestra didn’t hesitate. She darted into the tunnel right after Helen, her alarm growing with every step. When she reached the small door that led into the prince’s ro
om, she hesitated, her empty hand frozen inches from the latch.

  Why is she here?

  But Clytemnestra was no innocent. There was only one reason her sister would sneak into the bedchambers of a strange man. A low moan grew in the hollow of her throat and she sank to the stone floor.

  She stayed there, crumbled on the ground, as the crushing grip of anxiety pressed down on her. She could scarcely breathe. And somewhere in the midst of her immobilization, the prince returned, his panicked voice breaking through Clytemnestra’s trance.

  Their voices were muffled, the dense oak of the sally door too thick for anything less than raised voices to penetrate. But the wood was old and chipped around the planks. The holes were wide enough to see into the room if Nestra pressed her eye to the portal.

  She hesitated, the sordid image of herself—a queen—kneeling in a darkened hall and spying into a bedchamber, overwhelming her. This behavior was beneath her. If anyone were to see...?

  But Helen was on the other side of that wall. And her desire to protect her sister overpowered any lingering claim of propriety. Clytemnestra rose to her knees and pressed her face to the wood.

  What she witnessed was enough to bring her back down to the ground. This was no minor tryst. They clung to each other, an intimacy in their touch that spoke of something beyond the physical. Helen ripped the tunic from his back, ferocious as a jungle cat, a side of her sister Nestra never thought existed. And their coupling... It was violent, demanding, and strangely erotic. Even Agamemnon, in his most robust moments, couldn’t match the efforts of Paris with Helen.

  Clytemnestra watched it all, a sickly void forming in her heart. She should feel outrage, betrayal... something. But kneeling in the dark, an unwelcome participant of their lovemaking, she only felt numb. She was unaware when they left. The outside world had quieted down to a mute whisper as she sat there, head pressed to stiff wood. When she finally stood, her legs tingled painfully, the blood cut off from her lower extremities for too long.