“You speak truth.” Tyndareus acknowledged. Thus far, the man had not spoken one word they hadn’t already discussed.
Odysseus leaned forward, emboldened by the warmth in the king’s tone. “What if I were to tell you there was a way these men will leave happily of their own accord? A way to announce a betrothal without shedding a single drop of blood? And for a cost you’d scarce notice?”
“Cost?” Agamemnon growled, inserting his bulking frame between his host and the young king. This was one upset too many for his tempered blood. If Odysseus had the audacity to bargain like a crude merchant before the throne, then he had clearly misjudged the quality of this man.
“I ask only for a boon,” Odysseus added quickly, retreating half a step. “A token of gratitude I assure you you’ll consider fair.”
Odysseus quickly divulged his plan, its brilliance matched only by its simplicity. Agamemnon curled his fingers through his oiled beard, studying the worth of the man before them. Odysseus’ wits were unmatched in all of Greece. A cunning man could easily use his skills for devious endeavors. But Ithaka was too far from Mycenae for Agamemnon to consider it a serious threat. Nonetheless, he was glad to count the young king his ally.
The advice was sage, and because it came from Odysseus, Tyndareus would not refuse it. Agamemnon almost laughed, deciding instantly that he liked the young man. Odysseus had stones to match a mighty bull. He let his mind wander, considering the benefits this new arrangement provided. With one sacred vow, Tyndareus’ dilemma would be solved. The Hellas would be a step closer to unification.
And if they make one vow, it is a short measure to make them swear another.
A lust of a different sort flooded Agamemnon. Mycenae would prosper from this match, by blood or sacred vow. Just like he intended.
Chapter 4
The Love that Binds
THE PAST week had flown by in a blur for Helen. She spent every waking moment with her twin, delighting in Clytemnestra’s tales of her new life at Mycenae. Dominating the northeastern coast of the mainland, Mycenae was the trading center for the rest of Greece. The capital was a bustling port city that rivaled the wonders of ancient Crete itself, so Nestra said, and it abounded with modern advancements. Agamemnon’s palace played host to all manner of exotic guests. To Helen, Nestra’s life seemed a glorious adventure filled with exciting people.
“Hardly.” Nestra snorted when Helen voiced her thoughts. She bounced her daughter on her knee, alternating her attention between Helen and the chubby toddler. “Most of the visitors are glorified merchants, fat on the riches they collected from cheating lesser lords. They’re more likely to make off with the silver than provide company of value.”
Helen laughed at the thought, but after the past week there was no behavior of houseguests that would surprise her. The situation with her suitors had grown steadily worse. Every time she tried to appear in public, their competitive nature got the best of them. They’d start with wild boasts of their accomplishments. Whether they meant to impress her or each other, she could not tell. And if the chest puffing wasn’t enough to get a fellow suitor to stand down, it would come to blows. Helen tried to avoid their gatherings, certain she had witnessed enough of that barbarity, but Tyndareus insisted she attend every event. He was constantly filling her ears with the virtues and weaknesses of each suitor. It was an exhausting endeavor. Only now that the courtship neared its end, was she given a moment for herself.
Though Clytemnestra’s rooms were identical to Helen’s own, the royal suite felt cramped. The Mycenaean delegation had twice as many retainers as Helen was used to. Adding a baby into the mix, the walking space became nonexistent.
Helen took Iphigenia from her sister, tickling the baby into giggles. “She’s absolutely perfect, Nestra. She hardly cries at all.” The babe cast her a toothless grin.
“A blessing, I’m sure of it.” Clytemnestra crossed her fingers to the Gods in thanks and leaned back against a pile of cushions. “I’ve heard most babes are little monsters.”
Helen laughed. Only Nestra could look at a baby and call it a monster. “Careful,” she warned her twin. “You’re asking the Fates to make your next child a beast.”
Nestra didn’t laugh. She had been under considerable strain for the past week. Agamemnon made constant demands of her. He was grooming her, Nestra confided, to behave in a manner that better reflected her new station, a High queen of the Hellas. She took pride in that lofty title, but the cost was a bombardment of belittling comments and disapproving glares.
“He wants a son.” Nestra’s voice drained of joy. “He’s after me twice a day with the bedding and yet still has an eye for the serving girls. His lust is insatiable.”
“Impossible,” Helen gasped. “He made a sacred vow!” The king might have a roaming eye, but he wouldn’t betray Nestra’s honor. Doing so would tarnish his reputation as well.
Clytemnestra’s knowing gaze spoke a different truth. “Words are just words, Helen, whether they’re sacred or not. You’ll learn soon enough. For the men of the Hellas, women are for breeding. There is no vow they’ll honor save the ones they make to each other.”
Helen bit her tongue and resisted the urge to challenge her. Clytemnestra couldn’t mean what she said. Her tough experiences with a brutish husband had twisted her heart and made her less forgiving. The race of Men could not be so bereft of honor.
But what if they are? Helen swallowed a nervous lump. Thus far, not a single suitor had proven himself anything more than a quarrelsome brigand. She had to trust her father to see more than what she had witnessed, to find her a husband of quality. But if what Nestra said was true, it wouldn’t matter which man Tyndareus chose.
Some of Helen’s concern must have reflected on her face. Nestra reached out and squeezed her hand in sympathy, a hard look emblazoned on her face. “Pity them, Sister. They know nothing of what you and I share.”
Helen squeezed back, returning her sister’s affection measure for measure. This was real. The love the twins shared was complete, unconditional. Was that such a rare thing?
A timid knock came from the hall and Astyanassa peaked her head in to the room. “Princess? Tryphosa awaits you at the Temple.” She bowed her head, letting her dark brown hair hide the flush of excitement on her cheeks.
Helen froze. She had momentarily forgotten about her womanhood ritual. Her betrothal was being announced tomorrow. This was officially her last night of childhood. It was time for the Priestess to anoint her with Aphrodite’s blessing as she moved into the next phase of life.
“Come with me.” She turned impulsively to her sister.
Clytemnestra’s eyes lit up, sharing Helen’s excitement. Her own wedding came too fast to observe the old rituals. She missed out on the Blessing.
“Forgive me, Princess,” Astyanassa interrupted softly. “But Tryphosa said the ceremony was for maidens only.”
Helen turned on her handmaiden, her irritation plain on her face. “That’s a stupid tradition. I’m sure the Priestess won’t mind.”
“But—“
“She can make an exception.” Helen insisted. “Clytemnestra is my twin. We entered the world together. She shares my innocence.”
The poor girl looked terrified. Her nervous eyes darted to Clytemnestra and the baby Iphigenia in Helen’s arms. Helen knew her argument was feeble—Nestra was no innocent—but it was unfair to exclude her from this important ceremony.
“Forget about it, Helen.” Nestra snapped bitterly, snatching her daughter from Helen’s arms.
Helen froze, torn between her obligations to the temple and her loyalty to her sister. “But I want you to come.”
One glance at Nestra’s hard face told Helen how little that mattered. There were few women as stubborn as her twin, and becoming a queen had only increased that quality.
“Go.” Nestra insisted. “Have your ceremony. Don’t let me spoil it for you.”
It’s not you, Helen tried to console herself, stiffening
from Nestra’s hurtful tone. She’s upset to be left out. She’s not angry with you.
Then Iphigenia began to cry. It was such an unusual occurrence it jarred Helen out of her private thoughts. Clytemnestra was holding the child too tight and was pinching the baby’s sensitive skin. Astyanassa wisely stepped into the hall to wait for her, leaving the twins alone.
“Will I see you tonight?” Helen asked, adopting a sweet smile that reflected none of the hurt she was feeling inside.
Nestra spun towards the wall, shielding her face from view. “Perhaps,” she answered tersely. “If I have time.”
“Then I will wait all night.”
Helen curtsied and exited the apartment.
The moon was halfway through the night sky when Helen waited outside Aphrodite’s Hall to be collected by temple initiates. She wore a simple white chiton, unadorned like the sort children wear. Her hair hung loose around her shoulders free of any bindings, a symbol of the burden-free life she was soon to leave.
The temple was outside the palace defensive walls, a simple columned building beneath a grove of apple trees. Torches lined the exterior in ornate sconces set on each pillar. Those flames fought valiantly to keep the darkness at bay, the tongues of fire crackling with the slight breeze that threatened to snuff them out.
Helen shivered. Her wardrobe offered no protection against the night chills. But that was not the cause of her discomfort. Left alone for the past hour in the inky blackness of full night without a soul to share her vigil had left Helen plenty of time to dwell on her current predicament. When the Priestess deemed the time was right, she would enter the temple and beseech Aphrodite’s help in securing the man of her heart. And Helen had no idea which man that might be.
The chiming of cymbals rang out accompanied by rhythmic clapping and the sweet voices of the Goddess’ initiates. In a burst of light, the girls emerged from the temple adorned in garlands of myrtle and white flowing dresses similar to Helen’s own. They formed a chain that wove around the princess in an elegant infinity symbol, one end around Helen, the other bending around the temple entrance.
The girls chanted in rhythm to the music, their voices united in a spirit of youthful energy and anticipation. Helen thought she recognized some of the faces that passed her by. Astyanassa was there. As was Clymene, her doe eyed chambermaid, a girl of twelve years. None of the initiates were older than Helen, a fact that reminded the princess she no longer belonged in their company.
The circle broke as Tryphosa emerged from the Temple. Helen’s trembling returned, this time from awe at the priestess’ lush beauty. A long dress of crimson accentuated Tryphosa’s womanly curves. Her sandy locks were pulled high on her head and cascaded down her back in spiral waves. Her plump lips pressed together with a knowing smile, one that invited all manner of speculation of what naughty thoughts it suppressed. She was exquisite. The Goddess had bestowed many favors on her chosen one.
Tryphosa spread her arms wide and the initiates divided into two lines creating a tunnel between Helen and the priestess. With a flick of her delicate hand, she motioned the princess forward.
Helen adopted her father’s cool confidence, pacing herself as she walked sedately toward the temple entrance. The girl’s giggles followed her as she passed. Reaching into satchels tied to their waist, they tossed blood-red poppy petals over her head. By the dim light of flickering torches, the portico seemed to rain blood.
“Who approaches the Altar of Aphrodite?” the priestess demanded in a deep voice that made her chest heave.
Helen bowed her head. “A humble child who would share in Her secrets of Love.” The soft kisses of petals trickled down her neck and gown.
“Such secrets are not for the ears of children,” Tryphosa declared, her azure eyes narrowing as she studied her initiates with a frown. “If you step into Her realm, you will be a child no longer, but a woman fully grown. The transformation does not come without a price. Are you prepared to pay the toll?”
Helen straightened herself. Fully erect, she stood eye to eye with the priestess, equal in height and stature. “My heart is pure, my body chaste. I offer my Innocence at Love’s burning altar. Do not hide your face from me, Goddess Divine.”
According to ritual, she should have been ushered into the temple immediately, Eros’ secrets confided in the newly raised woman’s ear. But the priestess blocked the entrance, a strange look crossing over her beautiful features.
Suddenly, Tryphosa threw back her head and cackled like a crone. It was a terrifyingly mocking sound.
Helen froze. Even the initiates tittered nervously behind her. The torch light flared high by some unseen force, and when the last note of the priestess’ cry died off, an eerie silence permeated the portico.
“Shoo. Begone!” Tryphosa shouted to the girls, and the initiates scattered like the wind. Once alone, the priestess beckoned Helen forward.
Helen made no move to follow, shocked by the awesome display.
“Don’t be shy, Princess.” Tryphosa beckoned again. “You asked to see the Goddess’ face, and you will soon learn she has many.”
But the Goddess was love divine. She was passion, the heat that burned in a maiden’s breast. She was erotic energy that stabbed at a person’s soul, drawing lovers together with a force that could not be denied. There was nothing sinister or ugly about Aphrodite.
“And what of jealousy, betrayal and rape?” Tryphosa questioned, answering Helen’s unspoken question. “These are the shadow faces of Love. You cannot be a woman until you recognize the dangers of the Goddess’ power. Now, come.” She added more forcibly.
Helen had no choice but to comply, transfixed on the unblinking gaze of the priestess. Tryphosa led them into the temple’s inner chamber. A copper brazier sat in the center of the room, the glowing coals inside heating the room almost to the point of sweltering. A heavy incense burned, clouding Helen’s vision and thoughts.
“Breathe deeply, Princess.” Tryphosa purred in her ear, pressing Helen down onto the embroidered cushions lining the floor. She crossed to the other side of the room and picked up an urn decorated with black figures—maidens dancing beneath the trees, a similar scene to the one replicated outside. Tryphosa tipped the urn, pouring a thick liquid over the coals. Steam erupted, billowing to the sky like the putrid breath of Vulcano, filling the room with an acrid tasting cloud. Helen blinked back tears from her stinging eyes. She could see nothing.
“Priestess?” she coughed. But the only sound came from the sharp hissing of the coals. “Tryphosa?”
The warmth had worked its way into her bones. Helen felt her muscles slacken, and she had to resist the urge to crumble into the cushions. It was so soft, so comfortable...
“That’s it.” The priestess’ musical voice floated to her through the void. In the darkness it had grown deeper, rumbling with a hidden power. “Give in to your pleasure. You will find the Goddess there.”
Helen’s head felt unbelievably heavy. She tried to stay upright, but it was a losing battle. She had neither the will nor the strength to resist. She collapsed onto the floor, her body tingling from head to toe.
It started in her chest, the pulling sensation that caused her heart to race as though the organ was trying to escape her ribs. Her nipples tightened, elongating beneath the rough fabric of her chiton. Helen groaned. Never before had her breasts ached in this manner. Every inch of her skin screamed in exquisite sensitivity.
The pulling travelled down her torso, infusing her body with waves of blistering warmth until she broke out in a sweat. Like a ghostly brush of fingers, the feeling trailed down her abdomen until it latched firmly down on her vulva.
A wave of pure euphoria engulfed her. Helen gasped, her back arched against her will, and she cried out as the strange feeling crested to new heights.
And then the phantom assault was gone. Her body crumbled back to the cushions and she was left in a hazy peace.
“What was that?” she whispered huskily, her hands roamin
g over her still tingling skin. Her pulse was skyrocketing. She had never felt more alive. She sat up slowly, her mind no longer clouded but blessedly clear.
Tryphosa, beside the brazier in the diminishing smoke, sat opposite of her. “That was Aphrodite’s touch. You will receive it again with Love’s true embrace.”
Helen blushed. Receive it again? She didn’t trust herself. It was too powerful, she was too weak. The promise of such pleasure would make her a wanton, desperate for more.
“You share it with another?” The prospect of that intimacy was both tantalizing as it was shocking.
“If the soul is your match, yes.” The priestess answered. She tossed a tightly bound bushel of herbs into the brazier, a leaf Helen didn’t recognize. Thin tendrils of smoke trailed upwards, and the priestess breathed of them deeply, her eyes rolling back in her skull. She seemed utterly at peace until she lurched forward in a violent jerk.
“Ask what you will, Blessed Daughter. I am here.”
Helen’s eyes shot wide. It was no earthly voice. No living creature could produce such an awesome mixture of melody and vibration. Tryphosa, the mortal, had vanished. The person sitting before Helen was a rigid shell, the mouth for the Goddess who spoke through her lips.
Helen leaned forward, drawn towards that force like a cub to her dame. Ask, she had offered. Helen’s mind swirled with the many faces of her suitors. But her curiosity, as always, got the best of her. “Is it true-” she hesitated, hating the question but desperately needing its answer, “Is it true that men are ignorant of love, real love?” She didn’t want to believe Nestra, but her sister had been married three years. She had seen much of the world. Helen’s knowledge of men was nonexistent. What little she’d seen had done nothing to convince her Nestra was wrong.
“There are some, both male and female, who are ignorant of my love.” The Goddess intoned. “But I am not so fickle to deny them that bliss. They choose the cold solitude of a shuttered heart.”
The Princess of Sparta: Heroes of the Trojan War Page 4
