The Princess of Prophecy

by Aria Cunningham

  Scylax glanced at the blade and back to Deukalion with a smirk. "Did I say something to upset you?"

  Deuk stalked over to him and retrieved his blade. A fire burned in his eyes to match his mighty temper. Scylax was vaguely reminded of their time together in the field. Deuk always let his emotions get the best of him. In the heat of battle, he could break an enemy line, but for delicate matters he had the sophistication of a child.

  "That was a royal ship, Scy. What are you playing at?"

  "What do you care?" he fired back. "I'm not paying you for counsel. I bought your sword arm. You were supposed to detain them."

  Deuk backed away and began to pace. "It's so like you to come down here where no one has seen you in years and act like you own the place. We have rules, arrangements with the magistrate. We don't attack royal envoys."

  Scylax grimaced. He did not have to feign the sour wave of disgust clenching at his gut. He pushed off the wall and stalked over to Deukalion on silent feet. "Arrangements. With them. I was wrong; you haven't gone soft. You've become a puppet for the crown."

  He didn't need to say anything more. Service to Pharaoh, to any king, was as vile as the flesh-eating virus to the brothers of the sword. If Scylax had been any other man, Deukalion would have cleft him in two for that comment.

  Slowly, with a Herculean effort, the sell-sword suppressed his anger. "I have no quarrel with Trojans," Deuk added, albeit with less verve. "And you could have warned me. I would have brought more men."

  "It would not have helped you. That prince had your number."

  Deukalion ignored the barb and tucked his sickles into his belt—an uncharacteristic display of control. Perhaps the man had matured in his tenure in the desert. "I know what you want, you sick bastard, and I won't help you get it. 'I need to reclaim stolen property'. Bullshit! You're after the princess. I won't help you start another war!"

  A knot of dread took hold of Scylax, its dark shadow clouding his vision. Scylax had told no one Helen had been abducted, just as the queen instructed. How had Deukalion known? Was that Mycenaean bitch playing him for a fool? Was he being set up to start a war?

  It was the man's screams that pulled Scylax back to reality. In his rage-fueled haze, he had pinned Deukalion to the floor, the tip of his dagger plunged through the tender flesh of his swords-brother's shoulder, impaling the man to the hard earth.

  "Get off me!" Deuk howled in pain just as his guard rushed into the yurt.

  Scylax pulled another dagger free from his belt and held the weapon outstretched, ready to throw. "Leave us!" he hissed at the man. Whatever the guard saw convinced him to flee, and the two mercenaries were left alone again.

  Some part of Scylax was horrified by his actions, but he couldn't control himself; his body moved on instinct. The priests who ran the orphanage at the Temple of Ares often told Scylax that the balance between sanity and madness was finer than the edge of a blade. If pushed at just the precise moment, any man could lose his reason to the fearsome God. As Scylax knew all-too-well. "What do you know about the princess?"

  "Nothing!" Deuk shouted through grit teeth. "Take it out!"

  "Don't lie to me," Scylax lowered the tip of his dagger over Deukalion's eye, "or the next one won't be a flesh wound. Now tell me... how do you know about the princess?"

  "I met her in Phthia!" the mercenary groaned. "She's a good person, not like the other royals." Praise for any royal was a rarity from a brother of the sword, and when Deukalion's dark gaze narrowed and swelled with hate, Scylax took notice. "She doesn't deserve what I know you'll do to her. Just leave her in peace."

  Leave her in peace? Scylax tensed with confusion. The princess Deukalion described hardly resembled the helpless prisoner he sought. His suspicions surged, more wary than ever that he was being manipulated by the crown. "Where are they going?"

  Deukalion spat in his face. "Piss off, Scylax. Do your own dirty work. I won't help you take her."

  Scylax twisted the blade in Deukalion's shoulder, watching the man writhe in pain beneath him. "I don't have time for your petty nonsense. If you are too craven to finish the job, I'll do it myself. Where are they going?"

  "Heracleion, you bloody bastard," Deuk cried, sweat breaking out on his brow as desperation tensed his face. "But Chancellor Bay will detain them. With the right introductions, you can collect them."

  Scylax stood up, his frustration mounting. "No, Deuk, he won't. They won't be staying in Heracleion."

  A royal, foreign or not, would not remain at the mercy of a local magistrate for long. Egypt had them now, and once the prince was caught in its web, there was but one destination possible: Heliopolis, and the Court of the Sun—a vile den of corruption that would make his job infinitely harder. He planted a foot on Deukalion's chest and yanked his blade free.

  "The Gods curse you and your black soul," Deuk spat, cradling his wound and lurching to his feet.

  "They already have."

  Scylax watched his once-friend with a touch of pity. Egypt had taken ahold of him, too. Under its blistering sun on the edge of society, Deukalion lived and fought for nothing. In the sad saga of his life, he wouldn't know what it felt like to love someone so dearly he'd risk his very soul to protect them.

  "For your troubles." He tossed his old comrade a purse of gold and exited the yurt.

  Scylax snuck outside the camp with relative ease, stealing a camel as he left. With the sun beating down on his headscarf and an open road ahead of him, he tried to prepare himself for what lay ahead. This unfortunate delay in the Delta had not been entirely useless. He had witnessed the Trojan in action, and the prince had proven himself extremely capable. He displayed an agility Scylax had rarely seen in battle. With his own skills uncertain, he wasn't ready to take the Trojan in direct combat, ambush or not.

  No, this matter would not be resolved by the sword. It would take cunning to get the prince to lower his defenses, something, as a former commander of the rebel forces, Scylax excelled at.

  He had time to make up if he was to reach the sacred city before the Trojan envoy. Kicking his camel into a gallop, he pressed the animal for more speed, a hard resolve taking hold of him as he began forming his plan.

  Chapter 10

  The Chancellor

  PARIS AND HELEN entered the port city of Heracleion by chariot. The Egyptian commander insisted they accompany him personally, refusing to let the noble couple out of his sight.

  Heracleion was a city under construction. A half-finished temple to Amun was covered with stoneworkers, its walls of dark-grey diorite sparkling under the noonday sun. The "roads" leading into the city were in fact a network of man-made canals, allowing the river trade to thrive in the Delta outpost. It took some persuasion, but Glaucus returned to the Trojan ship and brought the galley down the channel behind them.

  The commander, who refused to give his name, steered their chariot down a dusty path to the most impressive building the city could boast: a military outpost with thick defensive walls. The fort's gypsum-coated exterior was brightly painted in hues of red and green and two sixteen foot statues flanked its massive door.

  Thoth, Paris surmised, recognizing the ibis-headed Egyptian god of scribes. The dwelling was certainly the domicile of a magistrate.

  Helen could scarcely keep her eyes inside her head. She had travelled much of the Hellas. While no other Greek kingdom came close to the architectural wonders of Mycenae, Egypt was a level of magnificence all its own. Its buildings were exotic and constructed on a massive scale. The use of angles and decorative elements created a sense of perfection she had never seen in Grecian works. Even half-finished, Helen knew she was looking at the work of masters.

  As she watched, an Egyptian overseer let fly his whip at half-naked men pulling a laden cart of stone. Their pitiful cries were unheeded, and the overseer brandished his weapon again. "What are they doing?" she whispered to Paris, alarmed.

  "Slaves." A twinge of disapproval crossed his face. "Egyptians always use slave lab
or when constructing their monuments."

  "But some of these people are old men. They couldn't possibly have been taken in battle."

  Paris sighed. Helen had so much to learn of the world. Unfortunately, it was not all going to be pleasant. "Egyptians don't enslave just prisoners of war. They take whole families." Theoretically those families, in time, could become Egyptian and contribute to the crown levies, but Paris had yet to see that promise hold true. A king who gave up a favored toy was a rarity.

  Helen bit her tongue. She had been warned to guard her feelings, to be careful to make no offense, but it was difficult. Her Spartan upbringing placed her at a disadvantage. She had been taught that a virtuous man had nothing to hide. He wore his opinions as plain as his face. One look to their stern captor, however, suppressed that thought. Helen doubted her Spartan virtues would be appreciated here.

  Paris dismounted from the chariot and offered her his hand. They followed the commander into the fort, a path that took them down a long columned hall where pillars were covered in artful hieroglyphics. Guards fully-armed with spear and helm were stationed at each portal, their stature so rigid even a Spartan would envy it. The commander passed them by without comment, leading the pair ultimately to the back of the fort, to an inner chamber remarkable only for its lack of decoration or design. The room boasted four straight white walls, no windows, and a single desk at the far corner where a man poured over papyri reports stacked high before him.

  "Can't you see I'm busy, Khamet," the magistrate spoke, never taking his eyes off his documents. "You're supposed to be in the channels safeguarding my next shipment, not escorting prisoners to the fort. I pray you don't need my advice on how to handle river scum."

  The commander paused mid-step and cleared his throat. "This was a special case, Chancellor Bay. I thought it best if you cleared these travelers."

  The chancellor looked up and Helen got her first full look of the man. Bay was past his prime, aged two-score at least. His head was bereft of hair save for the patch on his chin, and he twined those long strands of black in his fingers. His angular features were different from the Egyptians Helen had seen thus far, and his skin a lighter hue of brown. The contrast made Bay seem out of place. He was foreign in a way that sent shivers down her spine, and when he laid his eyes on her, she had a sudden flash of Agamemnon. She distrusted this chancellor instantly.

  "Well, well... this is not the treasure I was expecting. What have you brought me, Khamet?"

  Paris immediately stepped in front of Helen, cutting off Bay's view. "Chancellor? I am Alexandros, from a minor house in Troy. My friends and I are expected at the Temple of Amun-Re in Heliopolis."

  Bay reclined on his stool. "Are you now?" He studied Paris, his eyes glinting with the knowledge of a man who knew far more than he let on.

  "They travel on a warship, Chancellor," Khamet added. "With a full contingent of Trojan warriors."

  Paris tried to interject, "I never travel with less—"

  "So say the men we capture who raid our shores." Bay cut him short. "So say the men who try to bypass this port and cheat our Pharaoh of his well deserved duty. So which are you, Trojan? Mercenary or smuggler?"

  Paris chewed back his ire. The chancellor wouldn't dare speak to him so disrespectfully if he claimed his full titles. He could feel Helen beside him, her body language speaking of her similar distrust. Bay was an ant blocking his path from bringing her to safety. He could swallow his pride if it brought him closer to that goal.

  "Neither, Chancellor." He grit his teeth. "We were, in fact, beset by pirates before your commander found us. I was fortunate to have my guard. We barely fought them off."

  Bay stood and left his desk, crossing the short distance to stand before them. He twisted his short beard in his fingers and stared at Paris with eyes so dark they seemed to swallow the light around them. Even Bay's sunken cheeks seemed cadaverous, as though something ate his flesh from within. "So, you're not a smuggler?" His tone indicated disbelief. "And my men will find nothing suspicious on your vessel when they search it?"

  "Of course not." Paris rankled with indignation, wracking his mind to remember if there was anything incriminating on board. "I'll lead your commander through the inspection myself."

  Bay turned to Khemet who nodded back. "No need. The inspection is already underway. You may wait here until my man reports."

  Paris inhaled sharply. The gall of this man... But he made sure his concerns did not reflect on his face, adopting instead the bored airs of courtly indifference. "Good. The sooner it's done, the sooner you can send us on our way."

  Bay, however, was finished with him, and he turned his attention now to Helen. "And what is this vision? I am surrounded morning, noon and night by all the beasts of the Nile and you have brought me a lily." He took Helen's hand, bringing it to his lips for a lingering kiss.

  Helen stiffened, her skin crawling from where he touched her. "I prefer roses, Chancellor," she responded with a tart tongue. "Roses have thorns. You pay the price if you try to pick them."

  "Indeed, My Lady." Bay laughed. He slapped his hands together with two sharp claps and a servant ran into the room. Dressed in a half-skirt of white linen and wearing twin golden bangles wrapped around his arms, the servant bowed low, pressing his forehead to the floor—a display of subservience Helen had rarely seen even for royalty.

  "Bring us refreshments," Bay commanded, and more servants ran into the room carrying stools for the official and his guests. Helen took a seat, disturbed by how close Bay chose to sit by her.

  "What is your name, My Lady?"

  "...Helen." She responded with some hesitancy and could not help but glance nervously to Paris as she spoke. It felt strange to use her real name, but Paris assured her it was safe. Having treated with the Egyptians in the past, he was in greater danger of exposure than she. It was best to lie only when necessary.

  "Helen," Bay caressed the word with a thick tongue.

  The brazen behavior was too much for Paris to stomach. "You can address your concerns with me," he interjected. If Bay touched Helen again, he was going to crush the man's throat, and Paris didn't fancy his chances of fighting their way out of an armed fort.

  "I'm sorry," Bay oozed with insincerity. "Did I say something to upset you? Is this your wife?"

  The question stumped Paris and he answered before he gave it much thought. "Well, no—"

  "Then you have no reason to deny me, a chancellor in the royal employ of Mighty Egypt, the pleasure of her company." His eyes gleamed with a sadistic joy. "Isn't that right, Alexandros? Forgive me, but which minor house did you claim?"

  Paris had not the chance to respond as another commander stormed into the room. He was a similar age to Bay, but this Egyptian was built like an ox, robust where Bay was gaunt. The leather breastplate covering his tunic was dented from use, and he held the hilt of his sword with a familiar grip. "Are you conducting military operations in my jurisdiction again, Bay?"

  "General Setnakhte." The chancellor took his time to rise from his seat. "How pleasant to see you again."

  "None of your games, Bay. Why are your men raiding a galley docked at my city?"

  "We found them in the company of pirates—" Khamet tried to interject.

  Setnakhte rounded on the man. "Who was speaking to you, Commander?" Khamet flinched and shrunk back into his stool. "You overstep your bounds, Bay. Or need I remind you that your powerful friends hold no sway in Heracleion?"

  "Is that so?" Bay was clearly not intimidated. If anything, his smile grew. "Then why was I sent here from the capital to clean up your mess? Had you done your duty and purged the raiders from the delta, I wouldn't be forced to spend my days in this rock pile of a city surrounded by imbeciles and base-born mongrels."

  Setnakhte flinched at the insult. There was no question of whom Bay meant when he uttered those last words. "And who did you pay for that honor?"

  "What does it matter? The tides of power are changing, and in this dist
rict, you answer to me, General. I would think a soldier would understand the concept of chain-of-command."

  A fire lit up the general's dark brown eyes. "You play your role well, Chancellor, but never forget, I know from whence you came. You should think twice before you seek to place yourself above honest Egyptians, you ill-bred cur."

  "Paris," Helen whispered into his ear, her urgent tone pulling him away from the drama unfolding before them. He took her hand and began to quietly inch away from the two irate men. If the Egyptians raided their ship, Glaucus would suspect Paris was in trouble. He would send reinforcements. With Bay and Setnakhte distracted by their heated argument, Paris weighed the wisdom of making a run for it.

  "You should crawl back under that rock in Ugarit where you came from," was followed by "It's a pity a dog does not recognize when its days are done. You should lie down and accept this transition."

  Paris pulled Helen closer to the door, the princess amazingly adept and silencing her step. As he reached for the latch, it was thrown open from the other side. Sheltering Helen under his arm, Paris pulled her out of the path of the guard who entered.

  "Chancellor Bay!" the guard shouted as he rushed into the room. The Egyptian was nearly out of breath and carried a parcel wrapped in cloth.

  Bay collected himself and pulled away from his rival. "You'll have to excuse me, General. As much as I enjoy our little talks, I have work to do. And it appears my search has born some fruit."

  Paris froze, exchanging a nervous glance with Helen. There was nothing on board that would incriminate them. He was sure of it. His royal signet ring was hidden in the secret pocket of his cloak. If no one talked, Bay had no proof.

  The Chancellor unwrapped the parcel and gasped, what he discovered taking his breath away. Paris had only to glimpse the colored reflection of the object's jeweled surface to know his lies had been undone.

  You careless fool, he cursed himself. He had forgotten about the kerykeion, the scepter only the highest level of diplomat carried. The kerykeion insured immunity for the bearer, a person almost always of royal lineage. Setnakhte recognized it. The general immediately stalked over to Paris, violence leaping from his eyes.