by Ben Blake
*
“Who are you?” a voice said in Paris’ ear. A woman’s voice, very low and smoky. He knew at once whose it must be.
“My name is Paris,” he said carefully. The blade she held pressed against his larynx. “I am the son of Priam of Troy.”
“Liar.”
He nearly shook his head before he remembered that might be fatal. “No. I swear it.”
“Princes don’t usually pay visits by sneaking into a queen’s bedroom at night. Why should I believe you?”
“Light a lamp,” he said, mouth dry. “You’ll see by my dress that I’m Trojan, and wealthy too.”
She hesitated. “You light it. On the table behind you. And be slow, prince. Move a beat too fast, even once, and I’ll slit your throat.”
He edged backwards, taking his time, and fumbled on the table until his hands encountered a lamp and taper. It was hard, not being able to look down to see what his hands were doing because of the knife. But he found a box with a hot coal in it, lit the taper and then the candle, and a pool of light widened around them. Paris turned his head to look at her.
His breath stopped. He’d decided not to believe in her beauty until he saw it for himself. It was hard to remember why.
Helen of Sparta was utterly gorgeous, with tawny hair over a heart-shaped face, and full lips slightly parted as she studied him. But it was her eyes which held Paris, darker than the sea and brighter than the sun which lit it. He knew he was staring and couldn’t stop. All his life he’d been entranced by women; he thought he’d made love with forty, perhaps fifty, some of them just for a single night, others like Oenone returned to time and again. But he’d never seen one like this. Never thought he might.
Antenor was right, his mind decided distantly. The Argives will make any trade for this woman.
“You dress like a prince,” Helen said. “But you have the look of a stunned sheep.”
He blinked, surprised, but years of smooth talk with women came to his rescue. “I am stunned, my lady. I hadn’t believed the tales of your beauty could actually fall short of the truth.”
“Empty words,” she said disdainfully. “Which tell me nothing of why you are here. Were you so overcome by the stories of me that you couldn’t resist sneaking in here to ravish me?”
“Never that,” he promised. He held up a hand, palm skywards. “By mighty Tarhun I swear it, and Athena who guards Troy’s walls. And by Aphrodite who surely gave you her own beauty. Not to ravish.”
“Then what?”
“To take you away,” he said. The knife was still at his throat, and he had the sense of this woman that she would smell a lie if he spoke one. “To bring you to Troy, safely and in honour, so we can exchange you for my own aunt Hesione, still held in Salamis.”
He saw those captivating eyes widen. “You’re here to abduct me? I will use this knife, prince of Troy.”
“Then do so,” he shrugged. “Or come with me. I promise you’ll not be harmed. You’ll get to see Troy, and you will help right an old wrong. How else could you ever do such things?”
She was silent. Her gaze remained on his though, and Paris swore he could feel the crackle of her thoughts, like lightning in nearby trees. Or perhaps that was just her, the sensuality he’d felt in her the moment she spoke. He wanted to reach out and touch her, run his fingers over her skin. It was madness, to want to hold her hand while she held a blade at his throat. But he did. He thought she was aware of it, too. Helen’s beauty was such that she must always have been accustomed to men longing for her.
“I’ve heard that Anatolian women have rights denied in Greece,” she said finally. “Is that true?”
“Quite true,” Paris agreed. “My mother chooses who her children will marry, not my father. It’s her decision which cities to tie to Troy by marriage, and which to spurn. And it’s she who deals with all the spiritual affairs of the city.”
There was movement in the doorway. From the side of his vision Paris saw a pair of Trojan soldiers advance into the room, and he put out a hand to stop them without looking away from Helen. “Wait. Do nothing.”
“You really are a prince of Troy,” she breathed. Her violet eyes had never left him.
He nodded, as much as the knife would let him. “I am.”
“Do you know what I am?” she asked. She didn’t wait for a reply. “I am nothing. A bauble, perhaps, to be displayed by my husband when he has guests, men he wants to impress or make jealous. No more than that. I spend my days weaving, or bathing, or having my hair put up and woven into a braid, and none of it matters. None of it. Not since I was married.”
Paris said nothing. Their gazes were still locked together.
“Once I chose my husband,” Helen said. “I want to feel power like that again. Here is my offer, prince of Troy. I will go to the Topless Towers with you, but not to be bargained away, not as a piece on another man’s game board. I will go as your betrothed, and in Troy your mother or her priests will set aside my marriage to Menelaus and we will be wed, you and I.”
He stared at her.
“Swear it,” she insisted. “Swear it on every god of Troy and of Greece, or by their names I promise I will cut your throat from ear to ear where you now stand.”
Her eyes really were extraordinary. Again he felt that urge to reach out and tangle his hands in her hair, cup her face, touch the flesh of her body. His tongue seemed to act on its own. “I swear it.”
“Name the gods,” she pressed.
He smiled. “In Tarhun’s name, by Arianna of the sun and Ipirru of horses, by Athena, I swear to marry you and stand by you, Helen. Let Zeus hear, and Hera lady of marriages witness my words. By Apollo and Aphrodite, Artemis and Poseidon Earth-Shaker, I give you my word.”
A moment passed, and then she took the knife from his neck. He could still feel the line where it had rested for so long. He reached out though, and finding her hand he twined his fingers through hers. She was very warm, her skin flushed with heat. Paris smiled at her.
“I must fetch my jewellery,” she said.