The Princess of Prophecy

by Aria Cunningham

He gripped her hands solidly in his own. "I trust in this. Whatever follows, follows." He wished he had a better plan, that he hadn't convinced her to abandon her old life for a fool's chance at happiness, but in these chaotic times perhaps a fool's chance was better than none. "So long as we are together, I don't care what anyone says."

  "Together," she promised, gracing him with one of her rare smiles. "To the very ends of the earth."

  Commotion broke out on the deck below. They both spun toward the noise just as the sailors on duty pulled in their oars, backing away from the remaining crew who poured out of the hold. Every hand was on deck, and they spread out into a circle, gathering around the mast.

  "What is the meaning of this?" Paris shouted down.

  Before anyone could answer, Glaucus emerged from the hold towing Iamus by the neck. He slammed the unsteady soldier against the mast and placed the edge of his blade to the royal guard's throat.

  "MY PRINCE," Glaucus called to him. "I have found our traitor!"

  Chapter 5

  The Traitor's Price

  A STUNNED SILENCE followed Glaucus' announcement. Paris dropped Helen's hands as a cold shock took hold of him. A pain he could not describe laced through his chest.

  Iamus? The man had been part of Paris' royal guard for as long as he could remember. He was a grizzled veteran of many campaigns. Iamus had betrayed him to the queen?

  Paris leapt down to the main deck, practically flying into the midst of the Trojan sailors. They instantly parted, and he closed the distance to the mast in three powerful strides, his shock lending him speed.

  "Is it true?" he asked, his tone thick with disappointment.

  The man before him hardly resembled the Iamus Paris knew. His pallor was a sickly off-green. His muscles sagged, and his silver-kissed black hair was plastered to his skull. But it was Iamus' eyes that gave Paris the biggest pause. They were liquid pools of sorrow.

  Glaucus tightened his grip around the soldier's throat. "Your prince asked you a question. Answer him!"

  "I... I don't remember fully, but it must have been me." Iamus croaked, his voice breaking as he spoke. "I am sorry, Your Grace. Forgive me."

  Brygos stepped forward and spat on Iamus' face. "You bloody hypocrite, Iamus. You don't deserve his forgiveness."

  The crowd pressed in, their shouts of outrage heating to a clamor. Paris grimaced, sharing in their disgust. The vows of the royal guard were explicit. Iamus had condemned himself. The long years of his valued service could not save him. Blood would be shed, but before the guard paid the traitor's price, Paris needed to hear it.

  "How? Why?"

  Perhaps it was the disappointment he laced into the word, but Iamus nearly broke with his confession. With guilt-laden eyes, he answered: "It was an accident, My Prince. A... a courtesan. That raven-haired vixen... she plied me with drink." He swallowed hard, the bulge in his neck dropping dangerously close to Glaucus' blade. "She wouldn't stop asking about you. I didn't mean to mention the curse. It slipped. And when I woke the next day, I thought I had dreamt it."

  A deep shame colored his cheeks. The man had to know his words condemned him, but some deeper sense of honor forced Iamus to continue on. "I should have come to you sooner, but everything happened so quickly. I wanted to see you safely out of Greece. I... I am sorry."

  As am I. Paris sighed and exchanged looks with Glaucus. There could be no weak link in their company, no question of loyalty in his guard. For a lowborn soldier like Iamus, there was no room for mistakes. Princes governed by the Old Code, and—when that code was broken—they extracted the blood price. Paris was powerless to change tradition.

  His gut twisted. This felt wrong. Iamus had served him loyally for many years. He should not die for a simple mistake. The man deserved a chance to redeem himself, to pay for his error and regain his honor. But mercy was forbidden, a cruel fact of life which Paris knew best of all. His role as an outcast from the Trojan court had been a consequence of that rigid dogma. If he stayed his hand, he would lose the respect of every man on board.

  Paris bent down and withdrew a hidden dagger strapped beneath Iamus' shin guard, a blade the man had used in his defense more times than he could count. With a heavy heart, he gave the knife to Glaucus.

  The captain raised the weapon by its ivory hilt, prepared to enact the sentence.

  "WAIT!"

  A hundred sets of eyes turned to the aft of the ship, to Helen. The crowd parted for her as they had for Paris. Even now, her beauty affected them. Their angered muttering silenced to a hushed awe.

  Helen swallowed nervously and stepped forward on unsteady feet. She had called out without thinking, only knowing the guard had more to account for before the mercy of a swift death. Yet, with every man on board staring at her, their gaze lingering in an uncomfortable way, her conviction wavered, and her body shook with the urge to run.

  Shame filled her. Such fears were unworthy of a Spartan. She could not allow herself to be weak. With a shuddering breath, Helen mustered her courage to do what she knew she must. Marching down to the mast, she pushed Glaucus aside to stand toe-to-to with Iamus, glaring up imperiously on the condemned. She waited, unmoving and disturbingly close, until he met her unforgiving gaze.

  "You betrayed your prince's confidence?"

  Iamus nodded, dropping his head in shame. "I did, Princess."

  "This information was used to humiliate him before the entire court at Mycenae. Knowing the power of that information, knowing it would jeopardize your mission and wound the man you swore to serve, and you let it 'slip'?"

  Iamus winced, the power of her words cutting him as deeply as Glaucus' blade could. "It's a weakness, Your Grace," he confessed. "When my head is stuffed with spirits I cannot control what I say."

  But his words did not soften her. "If spirits are your weakness, you should banish them from your life. It is an infection that leeches you of honor." She stepped back and looked him over, measuring the worth of the man. "The queen played you for a fool, Soldier. You have wronged your prince, making him appear weak when the weakness was your own." The memory of the ill-fated banquet returned with Clytemnestra's cruel words lingering like a pestilence. Her twin's vicious revelation was meant to wound both Paris and Helen alike. "You have wronged me as well." Helen grimaced as a righteous anger filled her. "That information was meant to turn my heart, to make me look upon Paris the way I am looking upon you now."

  Shame overwhelmed the guard. Iamus fell to his knees and he gazed up at her, tears streaming down his face. To his credit, he no longer asked for forgiveness. From the look she cast at him, he would not receive it.

  Through this exchange, Paris could scarcely breath. Helen was terrifying. She was awe-inspiring. She stood over Iamus, the silent judge, the arbiter of righteous indignation, commanding every man on deck to a higher ideal. Paris knew that honor was sacrosanct for the Spartan princess. But the way Helen defended it... If he had to describe her actions, she was regal.

  "What do you know of this curse?" Helen shook, scarcely containing the emotions boiling inside of her. She wanted this man cowed, for him to pay for the suffering he caused Paris, for him to know just how deeply he wronged his prince. "Tell me all of it."

  "Helen—" Paris moved to intercede, a specter of embarrassment on his face.

  "No." She stood her ground. "If he is going to die for it, then the others need to know why." She saw the struggle play out on Paris' face, the desire to hide from the darkness in his past overwhelming him. To his credit, he did not give in to that urge, and a hard look creased his face as he nodded to her, allowing her to proceed. Difficult as facing these daemons might be, until they dealt with it, the omen of his birth would forever overshadow their future.

  "Speak," she demanded of Iamus.

  The guard hesitated, the scrutiny of his fellow soldiers weighing down his tongue. "I know little..." he started to protest. Helen refused to relent. She raised her fist, daring the man to stay silent a moment longer. "There was an omen
on the night of his birth," he added with great haste. "It was so terrifying the Temple demanded he be sacrificed to the Gods, and the queen tried to kill him as he slept. But Priam stopped her. The prince was raised outside the palace, and when he came of age, the king made him an ambassador to keep him out of sight of the Trojan court. That is all I know, I swear it."

  Helen stepped away from the mast. She had heard the same from Paris' lips. It had made her heart bleed then as it did now.

  How could she? What kind of a mother would harm her own flesh?

  And what kind of a queen? Her thoughts strayed, unbidden, to Clytemnestra. Was the whole world ruled by cruelty and lies? She fought down her disgust, knowing very soon she would meet the Queen of Troy.

  "That omen is false."

  The crew broke out into a shocked murmur from her declaration. Their reaction surprised her. She could hardly be the first person to question the validity of the Temple priests. But if the world needed more convincing, so be it. She turned back to Iamus, drawing the Trojans' attention with her.

  "In Greece we believe that the whole of mankind is a shimmering light holding the dark forces of Chaos at bay." She shivered, feeling that darkness surrounding her. "Prometheus gave Man the first fiery brand, a gift from the Gods. It was what I was named after."

  Iamus stirred beside her, his dark eyes riveted to her face.

  "When Chaos is at its strongest, our torch must burn stronger," she continued, speaking more to herself than those around her. "The brighter the flame, the greater the courage that fuels it. Every man I know dreams his flame will burn brighter than all those who came before him." Her father had such dreams. Dreams that for the past ten years she believed she had destroyed. A tear fell down her cheek.

  "Hecuba dreamed she gave birth to a fiery torch whose flame burned her very soul. In the West, that omen would herald the birth of a great hero, a mighty defender of men. It was your priests who claimed it otherwise." The tear became a stream. She made no move to dampen its flow.

  "Do you understand?" She stared out into the crowd, refusing to let any man turn from her gaze, her need for truth overcoming any fear she once had of these strange men. "The Temple knew her child—your prince—was special. They feared him. And in that fear, they manipulated your queen. Do not let them manipulate you as well."

  She locked eyes with Paris. He was still as a rock, his thoughts unreadable. She hoped he was not terribly upset with her for forcing him to relive these dark memories. "With your leave, My Prince, I would like to sentence the traitor myself."

  Paris flinched at her formal address. He was shocked to his core at her pronouncement. The devotion she showed, the faith in his character... it was completely foreign to him. He wanted to warn her that he was not the man that she claimed. But, by all the Gods, he wished he could be. "You have my leave."

  Helen turned to the condemned. "Rise."

  Iamus stood on wobbly legs, the shame he effused earlier tripling. "I am so sorry, Princess. I did not know."

  It was too late for small gestures. Helen raised her hand, ready to sentence him to death. The words were on her lips. They beckoned her to speak...

  But something stayed her hand. The trembling mass before her was not Clytemnestra, who mistook cruelty as a form of justice. Iamus was not Agamemnon, a man whose heart was filled with hate. Nor was he the detestable Hecuba, a queen who let her fears control her. Iamus was simply a man. A man who had made a mistake. Could she condemn him?

  "The worth of a man is not only determined by what he has done, but by what he WILL do." Her father's words echoed back to her across time. When Iamus blinked in response, she realized she had spoken out loud, albeit softly. Clearing her throat, she thought hard on what Tyndareus would do in her stead.

  Then she knew.

  "I hold your life in my hands, Soldier. You know the damage your careless words have caused. You know the pain. Now I would know what punishment you think your actions deserve."

  The man could scarcely look at her. It was cruel to humiliate him before answering for his crime, but she had to make this point explicitly clear. No one was going to use this information to hurt Paris again. No one.

  "I... I am deeply sorry for the pain that I've caused you, Princess. I will carry that shame for the remainder of my life." Iamus choked on his words. "But for breaking my oath to my prince... I deserve to die." A wave of relief washed over the man when he sentenced himself, as though in accepting his punishment he could now face his death with dignity.

  "I'm glad that you feel that way," she said softly, then turned and raised her voice for all to hear. "For my part, I can forgive you."

  The crowd broke out into harsh mutterings. Only then did she realize they expected her to be soft, to accept his apology and show mercy. The Trojan men were formidable, their training strict, but they had not grown up in Sparta. She would show them Spartan mercy.

  "BUT," she continued, shouting above the din, "your crimes against Paris I cannot forgive. Forty lashes. Let the Gods decide if they claim your life. If not, then reclaim your honor."

  Paris drew a sharp breath between his clenched teeth. Forty lashes? There were few men who could survive such a beating. He would have been content to let Iamus walk the plank, or a quick and clean death by Glaucus' blade. His past loyalty surely deserved that leniency. And yet, surprisingly, Iamus looked upon Helen not in horror, but with grim acceptance.

  If the crew had been shocked by her actions before, they were beside themselves now. Glaucus looked to him for guidance and he could only nod.

  The captain grabbed Iamus' tunic and pulled it over his head, shoving the man up against the mast. The guardsman never took his eyes off Helen, and she crossed to the opposite side of the post as Glaucus bound his hands.

  "You might want to go below deck, Princess," Glaucus grunted.

  But Helen refused to leave. "If he has the courage to bear it, then I have the courage to watch."

  The captain cast her a steely eye, but when she did not budge, he repositioned her out of the strike zone of the lash. His bosun handed him the weapon, a vicious-looking length of braided leather with beads of bone woven into six dangling tails. The bone would act like claws, tearing into the flesh. The captain snapped a practice whip into the air, the tips rattling together sharply.

  Iamus winced in anticipation of the blow. Sweat broke out on his brow. On impulse, Helen grabbed his hands. He looked up to her in surprise, and she tightened her grip, locking eyes with his just as the first lash struck its mark. The tremor of pain that ran through Iamus' body pulsed through to her. It was a strangely intimate feeling, like she shared in his punishment.

  "ONE." The bosun shouted out the tally.

  "This is all your fault." Nestra's voice whispered from inside her head. Some part of Helen believed that. If not for her, the queen would never have attacked Paris' character. If not for Helen, Iamus' loyalty would not have been placed in question.

  But it had been. And Iamus failed. He would pay for his failure. As would she.

  Another lash fell, and another. By the fifth blow, Iamus was crying out loud. By the tenth, he was shrieking. He clung to her as though Helen was the only thing keeping him upright.

  "TWENTY TWO. TWENTY THREE."

  She saw the moment when his mind shut off from the pain. His eyes became lucid, the pupils dilated, unable to focus. He stopped breathing. He was on the verge of death, his spirit broken.

  "I forgive you, Iamus," she told the Trojan as the next blow fell, somehow knowing he needed it. "I forgive you," she said again in rhythm to Glaucus' lashes. "I forgive you."

  "THIRTY FOUR. THIRTY FIVE."

  His eyes constricted, and Iamus drew a long and shuddering breath. "I'm sorry," he gasped, his words incoherent for all but Helen. "I'm sorry..."

  "I know. I forgive you."

  "FORTY."

  When the last lash fell, Iamus was still breathing. He managed to survive the punishment, but he was hardly out of danger. He
len did not need to see his back to know it was a ruined landscape. The pool of blood on the deck was evidence enough.

  No one spoke. A solemn pall had gripped the crowd the second she stepped forward as witness. She turned to them, knowing the second danger Iamus faced.

  "He's paid the penalty. In the eyes of Zeus, the crime is wiped clean. Never speak of it." She turned back to the soldier and tucked his disheveled hair away from his face with a gentle hand. A fevered glow lit up his eyes as he stared back at her. She had expected anger, hatred, anything but the adoration he poured in her direction. She leaned in and spoke for his ears alone.

  "Never hurt him again."

  Chapter 6

  Restoration

  AS THE DAY wore into evening, Helen avoided all company. After the events at the mast, she drew more odd looks than usual from the Trojan crew. If the hold had not been so cramped, she would have hidden herself below deck. She eventually retreated to the prow. The long stem, elegantly carved into a rearing horse head, did wonders for blocking the wind and gave Helen a comfortable vantage point to watch the waters ahead.

  She was not alone. Paris had tried to offer her company, but she insisted she was fine. Now, more than ever, he needed to be with his men, which left Helen with Aethra, her elderly matron blessedly silent about the morning's activities. They sat for hours watching the empty horizon. For lack of anything else to occupy her hands, Aethra brushed Helen's hair, plaiting her golden tresses into intricate ropes. When the call rang out for supper, Aethra finally broke the silence.

  "It would have been kinder to let the man die." She raised her head towards the back of the ship, towards the wounded Trojan.

  Helen suppressed a wave of guilt. It would have been kinder, but hardly fair. There was no mistaking which alternative Aethra would have chosen, however. The matron was quick to dish out punishment for any transgression. "He made a mistake, Aethra. Does that become the sum of his worth? Can't he emerge from that shadow for some greater good?"