The Princess of Prophecy

by Aria Cunningham

  "My Prince," she purred as she stroked, beginning a trail of kisses that ran down is navel. "Whatever you desire, ask it. Let me serve you."

  He wove his fingers through her silky black hair. Right when she pressed her lips to his shaft, he pulled her upright, her mouth inches from his. "Wine," he rasped, letting the heat of his breath linger between them like an imminent promise. "Bring me wine." He gave her rump a none-too-gentle slap.

  The look of frustration on her delicate face was priceless. She poured a goblet of tart, blood-red vintage Achilles had brought with him from his homeland and offered the vessel with a flustered hand.

  "Not like that." Achilles pulled her before the bed, positioning her like a statue adorning a temple. "Here." He lifted the goblet to her breasts and then knelt before her, pressing his mouth to the folds of her cleft. The lascivious smile returned to her lips as she poured the liquid down the valley of her breasts to his awaiting mouth. He made sure to lap up every drop, and she shivered with delight at the stroke of his rough tongue.

  "I've been thinking of what you said in the throne room." He rose to his feet, pressing her back on the bed. "Of how the Trojan prince 'bound her hand and foot' and made off in the night to have his way with her." He spread Astyanassa's legs apart, teasing her flower with the tips of his fingers. She moaned and arched her back. "Powerless and at the mercy of his sick desires," he continued, snatching up the length of rope from his belt. "Would you like to know how that feels?"

  Her eyes popped open and she responded with a heat that surprised him. "Yes." Astyanassa wiggled into position beneath him, a wicked grin on her face. "Don't hurt me," she pleaded, her eyes telling him to do his worst.

  His stomach twisted with disgust. He had no place to question what carnal pleasures others enjoyed, but if her mistress had been treated in such a manner, this fantasy bordered on treason.

  "Was it like this?" He grabbed her ankles and wrapped the rope around them. "Or was he behind her?" He flipped her over. The lithe little maid was light as a feather in his arms.

  "Yes," she moaned again as he trailed his hand along her backside. She arched her back, rubbing into his groin.

  "Which was it?" He pressed into her gyrating hips, teasing her.

  "Behind. No, in front." Her words came in heavy gasps, and he knew he had her on the edge of reason. Just a taste more and his little bird would sing her song.

  He flipped her over again, and bound her hands with a sash. She struggled against the bonds with mock urgency, her legs parting, inviting him in.

  He lowered himself, hovering mere specks above her, sharing her body heat but not touching her skin. "And did he toss her over his shoulder? Or did he take her right then?" He stared into her dark eyes, eyes heavily laden with desire. She tried to kiss him, but again he denied her. "Well?"

  "He took her," she blurted out, lifting her hips against his, the suggestion blatant.

  He pinned her to the bed by her throat and thrust himself into her. The sultry siren was ready for him, her moist core taking in every inch. "Like this?"

  "Yes..."

  He thrust again and again, until she was moaning incoherently, her mewls rising with intensity. And right when her thighs tightened around him, he pulled out, keeping her dangling on the edge of ecstasy.

  "I thought you said he taunted her, 'with claims of all the horrible things he would do once they left Mycenae.'"

  "Yes. No. Please, don't stop," she moaned, in fact begged. She lifted her hips, trying desperately to get to him, but he kept himself frustratingly out of her reach.

  "It never happened, did it?" He lowered his lips to her ear, twisting her nipple in his fingers, eliciting another groan. "Don't worry, sweet thing. I know what you need, and I'm going to to give it to you." He slapped the greedy mouth between her legs with just enough sting to make her gasp in pleasure and pain. "But first you are going to give me something."

  "Anything," she promised, bucking at her bonds.

  "The truth." He slapped her font again, letting his hand linger long enough for her to press into it for relief. "And not some hawker's tale about a prince who snatches crones and leaves an exquisite treasure like you behind."

  The maiden was mad with her need for release. Like clay to be molded, he knew she was his. "I wasn't there," Astyanassa confessed, her eyes rolling back as he rewarded her by stroking her throbbing flower. "No one saw them leave." She rubbed against his hand with rhythmic thrusts. "The Trojan was craven, not bold like you, My Lord." A moan escaped her lips. "Please..."

  He continued to stroke her, the familiar thrill of victory surging in his veins. "Tell me everything." He pressed his lips to her quivering breasts. "Everything, Astyanassa." He mounted her again as she cried out his name. "And I'll show you why every king in the Hellas fears my sword."

  "Agamemnon has lied to us all!" Achilles paced around the bonfire of the Argolian courtyard. An owl screeched overhead, darting through the starlit sky, spooked from its perch by Achilles heated tone.

  Diomedes and Palamedes sat before him, wrapped in the thick folds of their woolen cloaks. His fellow royals were not pleased at being wakened at such a late hour, but Achilles was beyond such considerations. After Astyanassa sang her tale, he stormed down the acropolis to the private annex housing Agamemnon's honored guests and their retinue.

  "For all we know, he might have killed the Spartan princess himself and placed the blame on the Trojans." Achilles was working himself into a fury. He could feel the cold grip of reason slipping away from him. That lack of control was doing little to sway the minds of the two men before him, and they shared an uneasy look as they listened to all he discovered. "He hungers for glory and doesn't care whose men he slaughters to achieve it!"

  "Think on what you say." Palamedes grimaced, his eyes darting nervously to the palace on the hill. "You are a guest in Agamemnon's house. You cannot go about accusing the man of treachery without proof."

  Achilles glared at the prince, unsurprised to find Palamedes' courage lacking. Naupalia was a small principality in the shadow of Mycenae's might. From his courtly dress and the fashion of his coiled beard, Palamedes was Mycenaean in all but name. He had spent every minute of his time at the capital currying favor. If he had not also shown a mind of great cunning, Achilles would have left the prince out of his findings altogether.

  "I have proof." Achilles lowered his voice and strove for calm, forcing the words out through grit teeth. "Their 'witness' confessed that her story is a complete fabrication. There was no raid on the treasury and no witness to Helen's abduction."

  "The words of a whore," Palamedes countered, raising to his feet in agitation. "Will you stand in the megaron and denounce a king on the confessions of such a base person? Are you mad?"

  "Yes, I'm mad." Achilles gripped his sword and took a menacing step toward the offensive man. "And you should be as well, unless you enjoy dancing for your master when he pulls your strings."

  Palamedes' face constricted in near panic, and he took an unconscious step back, gripping his cloak tightly about his neck.

  "Peace, Achilles." Diomedes stepped between them, a steady hand pressed against Achilles chest to keep the men at bay. "Palamedes speaks reason. Agamemnon is a powerful man. His lands greatly outsize any other kingdom in the Hellas. The prosperity of Mycenae's trade ensures the wealth of the entire West. He is not a king you cross lightly. Now, think. If the events behind Helen's abduction are a lie, what purpose do they serve?"

  Achilles released his hold on his weapon, Diomedes' deliberate words soothing his heated blood. Think, do not be Agamemnon's pawn.

  "He seeks to invoke the Oath, to unite Greece." He took a measured breath, his hawkish eyes still locked on Palamedes.

  "And is that such a terrible thing? To come together under bonds of fellowship?" Diomedes guided him back over to the fire, pushing him down on the log Palamedes had vacated. "Should we not answer the Trojan's insult with an iron fist?"

  "But if they don't have th
e princess—"

  "Oh, who cares?" Palamedes kicked sand into the fire, cutting Achilles' words short. The coals sparked and embers jumped into the sky, punctuating the irate stance of the prince. "Troy has long stared down their nose at Greece. Agamemnon is right to desire redress for their arrogance. What does it matter if they hold the princess?"

  "Because it matters!" Achilles shot back. Was the man willfully ignorant? Respect earned with the skulls of the innocent was not glorious; it was tyrannical. The Gods punished such hubris with terrible consequences.

  "I've heard enough." Palamedes turned to go. "I suggest you bury the hatchet you bear for our host, Achilles. The tide of war approaches, and you'd best get comfortable with your allies." He straightened his shoulders, attempting to look confident in that decision. "Are you coming, Diomedes?"

  The Argolian king did not stir. He twisted the short hairs of his beard with his thumb and forefinger, studying Achilles with a thoughtful expression. "In a moment. Rest well, Palamedes." When the prince was gone, Diomedes extended his hand to Achilles, offering his help up. "Will you walk with me?"

  Achilles nodded, his frustrations mounting. The proof of Agamemnon's wrongdoing was right before their eyes, and they cared not. Was it futile to even try? Was Agamemnon truly that powerful?

  Diomedes led him out of the small courtyard he shared with the Naupalian delegation. They followed a small garden path made of river rock until they reached the perimeter wall of Mycenae. The thick, defensive barrier towered fifty feet above them where Mycenaean guards patrolled along the walkways. Even in times of peace, Agamemnon safeguarded against attack.

  "You have every right to hate Agamemnon, Achilles. His treatment of your father has not been forgotten." Diomedes clasped his hands behind his back as he walked. "Phthia might not be as strong as it once was, but her legacy lives on. You are an honorable man, and your sword is invincible because it is always swung with righteous purpose."

  Achilles tensed under the praise. One did not offer compliments unless unpleasantness was to follow.

  "The other kings respect you," Diomedes continued, "but this is not the battlefield of your experience. Politics is a king's game. It is not a simple matter of true or false. It is a negotiation of power on a delicate scale, unbalanced by the smallest defector. You must put these dark feelings aside."

  Achilles held his tongue, his thoughts simmering as the trail came to an end. Before them, a massive tumulus rose from the ground, a covered limestone circle that housed the ancient dead. Achilles turned his back on the monument, feeling as trapped as the corpses rotting beneath those stones. "So I am to suffer my disapproval silently? He has bled Phthia dry. Am I honor bound to also give him my life?"

  Diomedes shook his head, placing a calming hand on Achilles' arm. "No one said you had to serve him, Achilles, but you did swear the Oath, and Helen is missing. If we unite, it is to reclaim her only. Agamemnon will not renew his campaigns in the West. Put your fears to rest."

  Put my fears to rest? Fire burned in his belly. Only fools turned a blind eye to danger. "You think me paranoid." Achilles grimaced, understanding Diomedes' reluctance all-too-well. Acknowledging the unsavory nature of a man you broke bread with was inconvenient. It was easier to turn one's head from their crimes than to admit you were powerless to stop it. "My father once thought as you did, that Agamemnon was a man of his word. If you play the courtly games and offer him no insult, the specter of Mycenaean death will pass you by."

  He glanced over his shoulder at the tomb again. Inside rested the forefathers of the House of Atreus, men as mad as they were ruthless. Men who once toppled an empire... Imperial Crete had been the strongest power in the Mediterranean but two centuries hence. If that mighty nation bowed its head before Mycenae, was it so terrible if Phthia joined that esteemed alumnus?

  Achilles' stomach twisted with defiance, refusing defeat. "You know not the powers you meddle with, Diomedes. Agamemnon is not a king. He's a conqueror. He does not play your game of kings, not unless it suits his purpose. His ambition knows no bounds. He won't be satisfied until every king in Greece bends knee to his rule."

  Diomedes opened his mouth to protest, but the effort died on his lips. Some portion of his words must have rung true.

  Sadly, it did not matter if Diomedes believed him. His hands were tied, the same as Achilles'. Protest all he like, he could not defy his host—at least not openly. He strutted over to the tumulus, to the men who had sired that beast of a man. Tossing his cape over his shoulder, he lifted his tunic to relieve himself. Phthia may have fallen, but her spirit would remain unbroken.

  "Mark my words, Diomedes. He will try to claim your lands, and the lands of those of whom you love. And when he does, the reigns of power you grant him might just be the rope he hangs you by."

  Achilles shook himself dry. He returned to the palace, leaving Diomedes alone with the inglorious dead to ponder that dark and future day.

  Chapter 28

  A Poisoned Offer

  "WE COULD LEAVE tonight," Scylax prodded the Trojan prince again. Paris paced the tiled floor of the guest apartments, a man on the edge of good reason. If he continued his stride, he was likely to carve rivets into the ground. "There is a team of smugglers at a hidden wadi north of town. They can carry us to your ship in Heracleion."

  Just one more push and Scylax would net the queen her prize. Just one more step and the Trojan and his Spartan captive would be irrevocably in his clutches. He'd have the means to get his family back. And once Heliodora and the girls were safe again, he'd carry them far from Greece and the royal scum that always managed to ruin his life.

  "We wait," the prince bristled with the command. "I will not leave Glaucus behind."

  In the dimming light of twilight Scylax had difficulty reading the man's expressions. The prince was frustratingly loyal. In Scylax' experience, when pressure ran high, a royal would always save his own skin over his bondsmen's. He just needed the right motivation.

  Scylax motioned to Yuli, one of the other meshwesh servants, and he quickly set about lighting the evening candles. His former swords brothers, still shocked by his arrival in their prison, were quick to respond to his commands. Though he had known none of them by name, they had all heard tale of him. Yuli, like many others, believed he had come to rescue them. Scylax sneered at the thought. Such fantasies were for children. The only respite a man could expect from this living hell came when the cold earth embraced you.

  "My Prince, we may not get another opportunity like this." He adopted the timid speech of his assumed character. 'Jason' was a mixture of many captives he had taken over a long, and illustrious career. Fear and desperation was what fueled those facing their end. They clung to a false hope that there was some way out, some chance their miseries would end. That tiny spark of hope never ceased, even when his sword came down on their necks. "Surely your captain can follow after?"

  "No!" Paris kicked a three-legged stool, sending the item crashing across the room. Sandarvo, a Sikel, had to jump out of the way to avoid getting hit. "Glaucus is family. He would never leave me behind, and neither will I him."

  Scylax cursed internally. If reasoning would not sway Paris, then perhaps fear could. "I am sorry I upset you, My Prince. I meant no disrespect. It is only that I fear for your safety. And the princess'. A poisoned arrow could easily become a poisoned cup."

  The princess... that was his angle into the Trojan. Paris' face creased with deep pain. He crumbled onto the cushioned bench in the center of the room, the manic energy of his pacing vanishing.

  Scylax raced to the bench, kneeling beside him. "Your Highness? Are you all right?"

  Paris' gaze was far away, a palpable sadness surrounding him. "Have you ever loved someone more than life itself?"

  Scylax stiffened. It made him uncomfortable when Paris spoke so openly.

  "A person," the prince continued, "who when they look at you, cuts straight to your soul and makes you want to be a better man? A man even a fract
ion of what they think you can be?"

  Scylax fought to control his reaction. Paris was on the edge, ready to succumb to the right pressure. His mission was within his reach...

  Heliodora came unbidden to his mind. His Egyptian healer had mended so much more than his broken body. She took a tortured soul, unworthy of even an ounce of compassion, and reshaped him. He understood, intimately, what the prince was experiencing.

  "Yes, I have." He surprised himself by answering honestly. For a moment Jason's mask vanished and he knelt before Paris as he truly was.

  The Trojan clasped his shoulder, a friendly act between equals. "Then you have an inkling of what I feel for Helen."

  The calculating portion of his mind screamed at him to act, the portion that had crafted and enacted cruel acts of brutality. Paris was vulnerable. The time to strike was now!

  But he was utterly confused. The Trojan was not the cowardly prince the queen had led him to believe. He had not hidden behind others but had shown considerable skill in battle, a commodity that would have swollen the ego of a baser man. Yet Paris was modest. He treated all men, whether high or low born, as his equals. In another life, Scylax would have admired him.

  Even his crime of abducting the princess was more complicated than it had originally seemed. Helen had come willingly, a fact the queen must have known. The princess was being hunted, persecuted, simply for having fallen in love with the wrong man.

  Was he feeling... compassion? Scylax sneered at himself, squelching those weak inclinations. He did not care how deeply the lovers felt for each other. It did not make him love his family less. He would not sacrifice their lives for a pair of royals, no matter how honorable the prince might prove himself.

  He cleared his throat, forcing the words across a heavy tongue. "If you love her, then you must protect her." He could hear a tiny portion of his soul cry out against his actions, a voice that sounded surprisingly like his missing wife. "Your captain would tell you to do the same. We should leave immediately."