The Princess of Prophecy

by Aria Cunningham

  "Well," he started, pulling her closer, the warmth of her skin chasing away his earlier anxieties, "for example, women have many rights in the Two Lands and can even own property."

  Helen laughed at that outlandish statement, a concept completely foreign to a Greek. A woman was oikos, the property of her kyrios, her guardian who was first her father and then the husband he chose for her. In Sparta there were some exceptions, where citizens believed that the women of Lacedaemonia were superior to other females in Greece. Though that belief came with greater privileges, any woman who claimed herself equal to a man was courting madness. The rule of the earth was granted to men, not to their female counterparts.

  "And the Temples!" Paris continued. "No house of the Gods can compare with the Temples of Egypt. The priests of Re are mighty magicians and have rituals that can purify the soul, erasing the sins of a man's past as though they never were."

  Erasing your past? "They can do that?" Helen sat up, suddenly very interested, her eyes wide with incredulity.

  "Yes." He perked up at her interest. "And often. Egyptian priests are obsessed with purity."

  Slowly, her amazement shifted to doubt. "Powerful women and temple zealots, these are the fearsome folk you wished to avoid?" Her banter was light, hiding how truly stunned she was by this revelation. What awaited them in this mysterious land they now travelled? "Don't fret, My Love." She batted her dark lashes at him playfully. "I won't let them hurt you."

  Paris pulled her into his arms, reaching in to kiss her neck, delighting in her musical giggles. "Is that so?" He laughed with her. "Perhaps I've been focused on the wrong danger. Should I be more mindful of the lioness in my bed?" Her laughs turned to squeals as he tickled her, and she squirmed in his hold, as feisty as a minx. Doubling his efforts, Paris decided this was far better use of his time than obsessing over events he could not change. Just when he thought he had the best of their bout, Helen froze.

  "That's strange." She tensed, her attention drawn to the obscured coastline. The channel had narrowed. The encroaching marshland was so close to the galley they could almost stretch out over the hull and touch it.

  "What's that?" He reluctantly pulled away from her.

  "That sound... I could swear it sounded like a summer thrush. But those birds are native to Thessaly."

  The warble came again, louder now. Paris' throat constricted. That call came from no bird. "GLAUCUS!" he shouted behind him, pulling Helen down to the deck.

  The attack came swiftly. The camouflage curtain, a thick netting of reeds and swamp undergrowth, dropped to the ground and revealed a band of bedouins behind it. The nomadic fighters, draped in linen robes and headscarves, charged the Trojan vessel with swords brandished high.

  "PIRATES!" The cry rang out through the galley. Trojans spilled over the hull to meet their enemy head on. The ring of metal on metal filled the air.

  "Stay on deck." Paris warned Helen, pushing her out of the line of danger. "Whatever you do, do not get off this ship."

  "Paris!" She tried to hold on to him, but he was fast after his men.

  Glaucus was in the thick of the battle. He wielded a short oar like a quarterstaff, swooping two men from their feet and spinning around to catch the blade of another. Two dozen bedouins had emerged from the reeds. If there were any more of them lying in wait, this would end badly. Paris scanned the remainder of the field, looking for the leader. He needed to finish this quickly.

  The bedouins were covered head to toe. It was difficult to determine if one was dressed more finely than the others. One man had cleared a space around him. Brandishing twin sickles, he mowed down Paris' soldiers like blades of grass. The Trojans were grudgingly giving him space, and by the nervous glances from the other pirates, it appeared the bedouins feared him as well. He had to be their leader.

  Paris launched himself off the ship, somersaulting over a line of fighters. Dropping into a lunge, he sprinted across the spongy earth toward his mark. The pirate was prepared for him and caught Paris' sword between his two, twisting the weapon wide. They circled each other, both men hunched low, their blades flicking dangerously back and forth between them.

  "Who sent you?!" Paris shouted to the pirate leader in Egyptian. Strangely the man did not flinch. Paris tried again. "Do you know who I am? Stop this madness." Again, no response.

  The pirate initiated a counter attack, his sickles spinning so fast they seemed a single blade. Paris barely managed to parry, the curved edge of his enemy's weapon coming dangerously close to his head. That lunge brought the pirate within striking range, too close for Paris' sword but just near enough for his fist. He whipped out his hand, palm-edge first, knocking the man hard in his throat. The pirate leader fell to the ground, choking from the blow.

  Paris kicked the sickles out of his enemy's hands. Reaching down, he yanked the scarf from the pirate's head, exposing his face for the first time. As Paris suspected, his skin was not the taupe hues of the desert nomads, but a sun-darkened olive. The pirate leader was not Egyptian. Paris hauled the man up by by his short black hair, and brought his sword under the man's exposed neck, trying one last time to communicate.

  "I am Trojan," he shouted in Babylonian, followed by "Taurisa," in Akkadian, and then finally in his common tongue: "Troy!"

  That finally got the reaction he was waiting for. The pirate blinked back his confusion. He seemed less ready for violence than a moment before.

  "Tell them to stop or I will slit your throat." Paris hissed in his ear. The pirate made a valiant effort to dislodge him, trying to ram his head at Paris' face, but Paris was too quick. He dodged the blow and slammed his knee between the pirate's legs, dispelling any more fight the man had left. "DO IT!"

  "CEASE YOUR FIGHTING," the pirate shouted to his men in a commanding voice.

  Slowly, the battle came to a halt. Glaucus quickly rounded up their enemies' weapons, the Trojan soldiers battle-ready for whatever order Paris next decreed.

  "That is a diplomatic ship, River Scum. I'm sure you recognize the craft or you're less a pirate than you are an Egyptian."

  "Piss off, Trojan." The leader growled, a dark spike of anger simmering behind his eyes. "Slice me, or admit you lack the stones."

  Paris ignored the barb and balanced himself for another attack should the man prove foolhardy as well as blind. "That is no merchant vessel, and I know you know the difference, so don't play dumb." He pressed his blade dangerously close to the pirate's throat, the sharp edge shaving bristles off the man's day-old stubble. "I'll ask you one last time. Who sent you?"

  "Paris!" Helen, having ignored his instructions, stood at the bow of the ship, her face blanched free of color. "Wait." She delicately leapt to shore and pressed her way through the throng, heedless of any danger. Stopping before the pirate leader, her eyes were as wide as saucers. "I know you."

  The pirate tensed. A similar discomfort ran through his brethren, many of whom glanced at the pile of weapons with an eager eye as though they meant to reengage.

  Paris tightened his grip, cognitive of the mounting danger. "Helen—"

  "This man is Greek." She continued to stare at the pirate leader, utterly confused. "He's a farmer. From Phthia."

  "Myrmidon, Princess," the leader said with a sigh, finally accepting his captive status.

  "I met your boys," Helen continued, her shock blending with disapproval. "On a state visit from Mycenae. They were nearly eight and six." She drew a sharp breath of realization. "Deukalion, what in Great Gaia's name are you doing in Egypt?"

  The pirate tensed at the mention of his name and a dark cast came over his face. "Drought and famine took the boys. What little we had left on the farm went to the tribute collectors. Egypt was as good a place as any other, and better than most, Princess."

  Paris yanked on the man's hair. "He is lying, Helen."

  She pushed his blade aside, staring the man directly in the eye. "Are you here to harm me, Deuk? Is that the man you have become?"

  Deukalion shifted
, uncomfortable under the scrutiny of the petite woman. "I mean you no harm, Princess, but a man has to eat. Your king has squeezed the freemen too long."

  Helen was disgusted by that news. She knew Agamemnon's greedy trade policies were beggaring the outer villages. He failed to take responsibility for the suffering his desire for glory and riches created. "He is not my king," she said with considerable heat. "Paris, this man is not our enemy."

  Deukalion's head jolted up in surprise. As did Paris'. Helen's intentions were noble, but he was not going to let an enemy walk away only to ambush them again. "His blades look plenty sharp to me."

  "Promise me." She turned back to Deukalion. "Say it plain. You will not follow us or raise arms against us again. Say it, and I will believe you."

  The pirates moved to protest but Deukalion waved them down. "I so swear. Zeus strike me blind if I forsake it." Helen seemed satisfied, and with her nod, the pirate leader shoved off Paris' hold. He waited expectantly for the Trojan soldiers to follow her lead and release his men.

  But Paris signaled Glaucus not to lower his guard. "You're not walking out of here without answering some questions first."

  A trumpet call blasted through the air, its clarion note joined by four others. The reeds surrounding them shifted from a force that was not wind.

  "Royal army," Deukalion hissed, turning to run. He met Paris' extended blade and stopped short.

  "Paris," Helen pleaded.

  Something about this encounter struck Paris as false, and it began with this man. His gut told him to keep this Deukalion close, to interrogate him, but the trumpets were nearing. Paris had no wish to be the center of a royal purge of local pirates, be that what the man truly was or not.

  "Go!" He finally lowered his sword. He didn't need to turn to know Glaucus was glaring in his direction. Deukalion collected his blades while his crew slipped away into the marsh.

  "I owe you a debt, Trojan." He tucked his headscarf back into place and saluted Paris with his sickle. The trumpets rang out again, and Deukalion rushed after his men, the whole host disappearing like a flock of water fowl gone to nest.

  "That wasn't wise, Princess." Glaucus stalked over to them.

  "Maybe not." She glared back. "But it was right."

  The captain did not have time to respond as a full squadron of Egyptian military entered the clearing by the channel. Their commander, atop a jet black stallion, galloped to their side, his dark eyes assessing the situation in mere seconds.

  "Foreigners?" he shouted down to them in Egyptian. "Who are you? In the name of Merneptah, Pharaoh of the Two Lands, explain yourselves."

  Paris exchanged a nervous glance with Glaucus. He had meant to stay below deck and let his captain handle their trade. But Egyptians were finicky about status, and dressed as he was, there was no mistaking Paris was noble. The commander watched him expectantly, waiting for an answer, and Paris struggled to provide one. Glaucus' ruse would not work.

  Pressing Helen behind him, he responded in the man's native tongue. "We are pilgrims," he lied. "From Troy. We were in route to Heliopolis when we were stopped by pirates—"

  "Pirates!" The commander spun from him, shouting orders to his infantry men. They set forth immediately into the marshland, leaving only a small contingent with their commander and Paris' men. Once they were gone, the severe man studied Paris again, a distrustful look on his face. "Pilgrims?"

  "Yes," Paris insisted.

  The commander dismounted, the beads braided into his shoulder-length black wig clacking ominously as he strode over to Paris and Helen. "The delta is a dangerous place for pilgrims. We have pirates and smugglers about. Even those who mean to do our great Pharaoh harm." He eyed Paris suggestively, as though insinuating that was precisely what the Trojan galley intended.

  "So I've noticed." Paris bit back his anger at the man's gall. "But I am from a minor house in Troy come only to marvel at the Temple of Amun-Re. Our intentions are peaceful."

  The Egyptian peered over Paris' shoulder, his eyes widening with appreciation as he spied Helen. Paris shifted, cutting off his view.

  "It pleases me to hear that," the commander added with a perturbed tsk, "but you will have to get clearance from our administrator in Heracleion. Foreigners are not allowed in the Two Lands without his say." He turned to bark more orders to his remaining soldiers, leaving Paris to explain to his crew.

  "Where?" Glaucus growled, his grey eyes thunderstorm-dark as he studied the Egyptian commander.

  "A military outpost, less than a league away." Paris grimaced, less than pleased by this predicament. "It's all right," he added off Helen's worried look. "I told them we were pilgrims. We'll file a report of our activities with the local magistrate, restock the galley, and be on our way back to Troy. Nothing has changed."

  Helen seemed relieved. Paris wished he could share her ease. For better or for worse, they had entered Egypt. It was too late to turn back now.

  As Scylax slid into the marsh, thick reeds fell back into place, obscuring the Trojan galley from sight. He yanked his blade free, taking his frustrations out on the unoffending stalks, each stroke abating the mounting need inside him to destroy something.

  The Trojan and the princess had slipped through his fingers. Surrounded by a squadron of the Egyptian royal army, they might as well have been spirited to Mount Olympus, they were so hopelessly beyond his reach. He had this perfect moment to complete his mission, and now it was gone.

  Scylax had made landfall on Egyptian soil shortly before the dawn. With his crew exhausted, and many of them little more than untested whelps, he was forced to make other arrangements in laying his trap.

  At first, he thought hiring Deukalion to be a clever ruse. The queen had ordered this task done, but there was no reason Scylax himself must hold the blade. His old swords brother and fellow commander in the Libyan campaigns was more than capable of flushing out a few hares. By using Deukalion, Scylax was afforded the unique opportunity to case out his enemy, to see the prince in action and know how capable the man was.

  Then everything went horribly wrong, and Scylax knew he had made a terrible mistake.

  You weak fool, he scoffed at himself. If you are incapable of killing the Trojan yourself, the princess is as good as dead. And if she dies, so do your girls.

  He ran a hand over his face, trying to rub some sense back into his head. Why did he delegate this task? The old Scylax would never have let others do his work for him. He would not have hesitated to join the battle and bloody his hands. He would have pounced on this opportunity. The Trojan would be dead, and the princess back on a ship with him to Greece.

  Scylax slashed at the reeds again, the tip of his blade hitting the stalks awkwardly, sending a jolt down his arm. He cursed his bad form, spitting his frustration onto the spongy soil. He was as rusty with a sword as those soft-cheeked boys on his ship.

  But his waning skill was telling, and he could not lie to himself. He was not the man he once was. It had been five years since he'd last killed a man... five wonderful years with Heliodora and their girls. The old Scylax was lethal, a killer who had earned a reputation of swift and silent death. That man would not have thought twice about taking a life, any life. Was he even capable of violence now?

  The military horn rang out again, scattering a flock of grouse into the sky. He had dallied on the field too long. Ducking back into the thick cover, Scylax carved a trail through the undergrowth as he retreated back to the rendezvous point. Tips of broken papyrus flew through the air, cutting into his face with the sharp sting of a swarm of gnats. He cursed, slashing harder, mowing down row after row of the plant stuff, willing his body to remember the feel of his sword carving through flesh. A man was not much more than a bundle of reeds. When the time came, he must be ready to act.

  Some distance from the river, a bedouin camp came into view. Scylax crept around the perimeter, staying clear of their lookouts. He located Deukalion's yurt and slipped in the back, bypassing the piss-poor excuse of a
guard stationed at the entrance.

  The interior was dark and smelled of the untanned leathers covering its driftwood frame. That scent filled Scylax with familiarity. This was a hunter's den, a place of refuge and security where predators lowered their defenses. He had spent most of his life on the outskirts of society in places like this.

  As he waited, a sliver of fear wormed its way into his heart. Over the past five years, something inside him had shifted. With Heliodora's guiding light, he'd found a new appreciation for life. He had changed. She had changed him.

  In the Underworld, however, that morality was a weakness. Only the strong survived here. If Deukalion suspected he had turned clean, if Deuk did not fear him, this mission would be over before it began. Scylax scoured his mind, trying to remember his old mannerisms, to find the correct response for a sword brother who failed his mission.

  He did not have long to consider. In a short amount of time, Deukalion threw open the tent flaps and strode into the room. The blinding light of the mid-day sun flooded the yurt, forcing Scylax to avert his eyes. Fortunately, he didn't need to see. Deukalion, on the other hand, needed time to adjust to the change.

  Scylax slipped behind him, the man's heavy breathing as conspicuous as the royal army's trumpets for one trained to listen. He pressed the tip of his dagger into Deukalion's lower back, relieved when the soldier tensed in surprise.

  "You're getting soft, Deuk. There was a time when no man could get the best of you."

  The raven-haired man shoved him off, the pinch of his face showing more embarrassment than irritation. "Hades Hounds, Scylax. You always were a bastard."

  Scylax feigned indifference, lounging against a support beam and using his blade to pick dirt from beneath his nails. Dismissive and cocksure. He grinned as the memories flooded back to him. "I'd rather be a bastard than craven. You let that lordling disarm you."

  Deukalion's blade flew from his hand and embedded into the wood beside Scylax' head with a solid thunk. An inch to the left and that blade would have punctured his skull, but the old sell-sword didn't want him dead; he was trying to prove something else.