The Princess of Prophecy

by Aria Cunningham

  On and on it went, detailing the brutal victory of Merneptah over the Libyan revolt and their hired Grecian mercenaries. The land was laid waste where "nothing would grow for generations." The king destroyed his enemies, "enraged like a lion", and captured some 9,000 prisoners that he had castrated and their hands removed like damaged livestock.

  Jason stared at the hieroglyph showcasing that mutilation, his expression unreadable. The enemies of Pharaoh were shown in a line, some cowering beneath his boot, others manacled and chained together, and more still dead and pierced with arrows.

  It was typical for rulers to tout their victories in battle, and the Egyptian kings had a flair for exalting their deeds into grandiose spectacle. For the people of the Two Lands, it reinforced the notion that their God-King was infallible, but for the vanquished foe? Paris studied Jason, his quiet rage and simmering control, with a new appreciation. There were countless disgruntled men, like the former pirate, spread across the world. How long would they be content to wear chains?

  "Can you read?"

  "I don't need to read to know it lies." The words rumbled from Jason's throat like a pending avalanche. "The king never set foot on the battlefield. He had his generals set fire to the grass. He burned his own men to achieve his victory. What manner of person does that?"

  Paris was surprised to hear such candor from a slave. The complaint was valid, however. Many kings, empowered with extreme hubris, committed cruel and profound injustices to secure their seat of power. In his tenure as a Trojan diplomat, it seemed the number of those rulers had increased over the years. There was little a commoner could say or do to change that, however. The Gods had placed noble men in power. Voicing opinions to the contrary could only send the unwary protestor to the execution block.

  Jason must have come to the same realization. His ice-blue eyes spread wide and he dropped to his knees. "Forgive me, Your Highness," he begged. "I did not mean to speak so disrespectfully. Your host is a righteous man. The Gods favor his sword. His retribution on those who defy the Laws of Man should be terrible. My brothers thought to steal from a king. We deserve all he inflicted upon us and more."

  Steal from a king...

  Paris stiffened. By taking Helen from her homeland, that was precisely what he had done. He swallowed hard, at a complete loss of how to respond. In the dark nights when he could not sleep, he had tried to convince himself that a person was not property, but he was sure Agamemnon would not see matters that way. In the eyes of Western law, and perhaps even Egyptian, Paris was a thief no different than the slave prostrated at his feet.

  "You deserve to be treated like a man, not a piece of meat," Paris grimaced, his stomach churning with those dire thoughts. "All men, even slaves, have a right to an opinion, whatever opinion that may be. But be wise when you voice it. Now get up." No man should be made to grovel, and before him least of all.

  Jason scrambled to his feet, the disbelief etched on his face a small indicator of the oddness of Paris' reaction. "I... I will, Your Highness. Thank you." He seemed genuinely touched. Paris wondered how many horrors the man had endured under the Egyptian lash that such a small act of human decency could have that profound an effect.

  "You should not be afraid to speak with me," Paris said, knowing it was a small gesture. "I will help you, if I can."

  "...Thank you."

  They were no longer alone. Paris heard the slippered steps of the approaching priest, even though the man did well to mask them. Taking a deep breath, he prepared himself to deal with the temple servant and whatever new deflection the pastophoroi had come to impart.

  Paris was not, however, prepared for what awaited him. The man standing before him was no mere temple priest, but Meryatum, the High Priest of Re.

  "Your Excellency," he dipped his head with respect. "Thank you for making the time to speak with me. I have no right to expect such a quick response."

  "No, you do not," Meryatum snapped, his dark eyes showing the agitation that lay beneath, "but you are here now, so let's away with these pretenses. Why have you come, Trojan?"

  Paris cleared his throat, trying to recapture the earlier frustrations that had led him to the temple. He motioned Jason to give them some space and stepped beside the priest. "I am here to inquire about Helen. Do you—"

  "I remember you." Meryatum inhaled sharply with recognition. "You were barely a man at Merneptah's coronation, still filled with the curiosity of youth. You asked to study the Mysteries at the House of Life, if I recall."

  "I did." Paris stiffened with surprise. Their encounter had been a chance meeting ten years prior. He had spoken a mere handful of words to the high priest. Hardly memorable. "A petition you granted. A privilege for which I am eternally grateful."

  Paris had been young and unfamiliar with the nuances of international relations when he first traveled to Egypt. Those long hours of study in the House of Life, surrounded by the wealth of Egyptian knowledge, were a godsend. It created a thirst in Paris that he carried into each new kingdom he visited.

  "You granted me that petition long ago, which led me to believe you would approve another," he continued, determined to get answers. "Why is there no date set for Helen's purification?"

  Meryatum studied him, a hairless brow arched high. His face was unreadable. If he withheld the ceremony on order of Seti, or if he stalled for some other purpose, Paris would never know save his confession... and the High Priest of Re confessed to no man.

  "You have some learning in you." Meryatum folded his arms into his sleeves and began a measured pace along the stoa. Paris was forced to keep stride. "You will understand the importance of consulting the Gods and interpreting their omens."

  Paris cast a dubious look to the priest. "Yes, but—"

  "For example," he interjected, "consider this omen in which your untimely visit interrupted from my contemplation. This morning, as I finished my salutations to Re along the western desert, a single locust lit upon my arm. It was unremarkable, as far as locusts go, green and average in size, but as I lifted my arm, it spread its wings, displaying the most incredible colors—a vibrant tapestry I had never seen before. It lifted into the sky and was joined by a thousand more, the swarm spiraling together and collecting into a perfect circle before blotting out the sun. For a moment, I stood in shadow, certain I was witnessing a message from Amun-Re. Then the swarm dispersed, a thousand insects traveling in a thousand different directions. Odd behavior, wouldn't you say?"

  "Indeed." Paris nodded.

  "So, what does it mean?"

  He almost laughed at the irony. Paris was the last person who should be consulted to interpret omens and dreams. In his view, temple officials took perfectly explainable phenomena and laced it with whatever meaning they wished. "I doubt I am qualified..."

  "If you can puzzle out the meaning of Re's message, perhaps you will find the answer you came here seeking."

  He sighed. There seemed no alternative than to play along with the high priest's wishes. A blotted out sun could mean a bad harvest, or a lackluster foaling. He almost said as much, but his last conversation with Jason had filled his head with other concerns. "A single locust becomes a swarm. The one become many. Together they are strong enough to rival the sun, the greatest power of the land."

  The wrinkles along Meryatum's eyes tightened with approval. "My acolytes could not fathom the importance of that omen." He paced sedately around Paris, inspecting him from all sides. "Perhaps, when you tire of travel, you might find a future in service to your Gods."

  Not likely... A bitter irony surged within him.

  "I thank you for your wisdom, Your Excellency. It is not my future, however, that concerns me, but that of my charge. We cannot afford a long delay in our journey. Do you intend to perform the ritual for Helen or not?"

  The question stumped the high priest and he ceased his walking. His face tensed and he seemed a man conflicted. "I am unsure. The omens are misleading. They speak of great favor and woe. The princess is no ord
inary woman. I... I need more time with her, to see Amun-Re's plan."

  The desire in his voice... More time with Helen? For the God's purpose or his own? Paris tensed, a spark of violence inside him begging to be unleashed. He prided himself on his self-control, but danger to Helen struck him deeper than threat to himself.

  Though he did his best to recover from the slip, Meryatum missed nothing. The priest inhaled sharply like a man sensing danger. Lightning quick, he grabbed Paris' hand, flipping over his palm to study the criss-crossing pattern of lines. The priest's touch was icy cold, and to Paris it felt like the piercing sting of nettles arcing through his arm.

  Meryatum took a large step back. He dropped Paris' hand and stared at him as though he were a specter made flesh. "It appears I am mistaken. The Gods have a special purpose for her." His voice rumbled with a cold power. "And for you."

  A familiar emptiness flooded Paris. He had seen that cold look of disapproval before. The priests of Apollo had looked upon him with similar disfavor, calling for his death since he was a child. Meryatum's scrutiny was no different than theirs. That dark gaze had one purpose: to seek some flaw, some sign of impurity in him. In Paris' experience, if one searched hard enough, he inevitably found what he was looking for.

  Paris stood tall, battling the judgement that would surely follow the only way he knew how... with cool indifference. "The Gods' ways are mysterious. For my part, I strive to honor them. The rest I leave to the Fates."

  "Fate..." the priest murmured, a prophetic gleam shining in his eyes as his face drained of color. "We are all slaves to Her merciless pull. I take comfort that She is but a handmaiden to the Gods, a tool they use to balance the scales of ma'at." Though Meryatum spoke with conviction, he nevertheless tightened his grip on the Eye of Horus amulet around his neck, a medallion meant to invoke protection from malicious forces. "Be careful, Trojan. No man can escape his fate." He bowed stiffly at the waist. "May Re's light shine upon you."

  Humiliation surged within Paris as he watched Meryatum retreat back into the temple. Had he done something, said something, to set the priest off? He quickly regrouped with Jason and headed back to the palace at a fast pace, wanting to put as much distance between himself and the judgement of the Gods as possible.

  Escape my fate...?

  Those words sent shivers down his spine. The high priest did not strike Paris as a man without wisdom. He spoke of ma'at, the cosmic order of light over dark, of good over evil. Of life over death. A chill settled into his bones despite the heated air, and he felt the dark shadow of his birth omen return to haunt him again.

  But the omen was false... He hoped against reason that that was true. Deep down inside, however, in the broken corners of his soul, he still doubted. A lifetime of being told he was the herald of woe could not be erased in the span of a few weeks, no matter how strongly Helen believed.

  The darkness of that fate surrounded him. He suffocated beneath its massive weight. The thought that it could bring danger to Helen as well was beyond his endurance. They needed to leave Egypt. Soon. He was no longer going to wait on Seti and the temple for permission.

  As they entered his guest apartments, he grabbed Glaucus by the arm, towing him to a quiet corner where no one could overhear.

  "How well do you know the streets of Heliopolis?"

  "About the same as you." Glaucus shrugged. "I don't."

  Paris cursed, spinning away from his captain. It would take time to infiltrate the black market of the city and secure their escape, and time was one commodity that was running scarce.

  A soft noise drew his attention from those dark thoughts. Jason stood a short distance away, a fierce look of determination dominating his features. "I know Heliopolis."

  Paris exchanged a quick glance with Glaucus, the captain sharing his misgivings. "That won't be necessary—"

  "Please, Your Grace," Jason pleaded, in fact begged. "You said before that you would help me if you could. But I can help you. Let me be of service."

  He hesitated. Paris needed help, and Jason certainly held no love for the Egyptians... but could he trust the man? The Greek's crystal-blue eyes said that he could.

  "Please, My Prince. I will not fail you."

  Chapter 22

  Honor and Oaths

  "FROM THE MOMENT the Trojans arrived, there was something false about the prince." A light rain fell on the acropolis as the queen shared her tale before the near empty megaron. Achilles paced along the portico, his eyes locked on the Mycenaean king who sat on his throne beside his wife. A handful of noble stewards, the king's lawagetas military advisors, and three royal visitors were all that stood in attendance: a dozen men in a space that could hold over two hundred, a fact the king seemed less-than-pleased about as he shifted in his seat, his eyes darting with a manic energy over the assemblage.

  Achilles shared a look of concern with his fellow royals. He had travelled to Mycenae at the king's invitation. As did Diomedes, King of Argos, and Palamedes, Prince of Nauplia, both neighboring realms to the south. They had come to the capital with promise of feast and games—games honoring the Trojan delegation. And now they were witness to an act of war? It was a convenient twist of fate that raised the hair on Achilles' arms.

  "He offered veiled insults in court and a cool arrogance when shown the splendors of Mycenae," Clytemnestra continued. "Helen bravely volunteered to act as Prince Paris' guide, to spy on the Trojans and discover the true purpose of this unannounced visit." The queen's eyes darted nervously to her husband and she tightened a shawl around her neck, wincing in pain. She hid the bruising well, but not as well as she thought. Achilles had noticed the dark marks when Clytemnestra first entered the hall.

  What sort of beast tests his strength against a woman? Achilles glowered at the king. How the Gods tormented him when Phthia had been forced to pledge fealty to such a man.

  "The more Helen reported, the more it became clear," the Mycenaean queen continued. "Paris was not here to establish bonds of friendship between nations but to remind Mycenae of the greatness of Troy, of Her military and economic might. To remind us of our proper place before the Golden City—on bended knee."

  The nobles broke out into heated commentary, each man trying to outdo their rivals with declarations of Grecian valor, their angry murmurings the sort one would expect from trained dogs performing on cue. Achilles scoffed at the vainglorious men. These sycophants administered Agamemnon's rule in the provinces. While they held the power of life and death over their subjects, they inspired no love in their people. They had no concept of how to rally warriors to their cause. They preened with self-importance, nothing more than mongrels fighting for scraps from their master's table.

  He continued to watch on in silence, rainwater sluicing down his matted blonde hair to the stone tiles of the portico. It splattered against the rock with a rhythmic pounding, pulsing like a finger on an exposed nerve. It was not so long ago that Achilles had stood on opposite sides of a battlefield from these Mycenaeans. How they got the best of his father was beyond him, but best Phthia they did, or he would not be forced to stand here and listen to this drivel.

  The queen was not finished. She waited with regal cool until the outburst wore down to a manageable murmur and continued, "Before we could conclude our negotiations, my husband and Menelaus were called away with news of their Grandsire's murder. Once gone, the prince showed his true nature." A dark shadow crossed over her lovely face, and she shook with a barely contained anger. Even the maids who simpered and cooed at her every word took a noticeable step back. "With the cloak of night to hide his depravity, he raided the royal treasury and kidnapped Helen. His galley slipped anchor with the midnight tide, and we did not discover his foul deeds until the following morning when they were long set to sea."

  Agamemnon gripped his scepter with a death lock, his knuckles so tight they drained of color. He tipped the royal regalia toward his brother, and Menelaus stepped before the central hearth, the burning coals hissing from t
he steady drip of water leaking down from the oculus above.

  "That bastard of Troy will pay for his crimes." The orange flames danced in Menelaus' eyes with a wildness that matched the prince's reputation. "I don't care how many men he has to hide behind. I will find him and slice his throat for this insult."

  The Mycenaean king rose to his feet, his dark gaze leveled on every man in attendance. "This insult is not borne by Menelaus alone. As diplomat, the prince was acting on behalf of Troy. King Priam treats the Men of the West with no honor, and if we do not answer this treachery forthwith, then we have none as well. You all swore the Oath. It's time the kingdoms of the Hellas united!"

  Cries of allegiance filled the air. There was no end of nobles eager to swear their swords in the powerful king's service. Not a single one of them had the wits to question the fanciful tale, to question Agamemnon's battle lust. Even Palamedes joined their heated cries, his call for Trojan blood ringing out across the megaron and bouncing off the stucco walls and high timber ceiling.

  Only Achilles and Diomedes stood apart. The Argolian king clasped his hands behind his back, soaking in every word Agamemnon uttered. From the tight expression on his face, he did not favor this turn of events any more than did Achilles.

  Troy, the golden gateway of the Hellespont, one of the mightiest empires of the Old World, a kingdom that had stood for a thousand years. A sovereign nation whose armies greatly outnumbered their own. And Agamemnon wished to attack them based on the words of a woman...

  Achilles leaned over and whispered fiercely into Diomedes ear, "If Troy was truly behind this incident, would not the prince have taken the queen?"

  Clytemnestra was an alluring woman, her beauty like that of the massive ice crystals that formed on the high reaches of Mt. Orthrys, as awe-inspiring as it was deadly. She and Helen were identical. Kidnapping the queen would have satisfied any man's lust-filled fantasies and have been the act of war Agamemnon claimed.