The Princess of Sparta: Heroes of the Trojan War

by Aria Cunningham

  “Troilus, come away from there,” she demanded, panic gripping at her high-pitched voice.

  The boy skipped up to the throne, ignorant of her concern. “Mother, look at the gift Paris has brought me!” He flourished the fabric, spinning it around for all to see.

  Hecuba snatched it from her son, inspecting the material on all sides. “Did you steal it?” she accused him, her eyes darting around nervously for some hidden danger.

  Paris knelt before the throne. He raised his head formally to his mother’s address. “It is a gift, Your Grace, from the Queen of Tyre. So that your sons will stand out as Prince of Princes and the honor of Priam’s house will be undisputed.”

  “It is not honor this child brings you.” Aesacus cut in. “But the ruin of your house. The ruin of Troy.”

  Hecuba moaned, tapping her brow with the ritual sign to beseech Athena’s favor. “Forgive me Goddess, forgive this curse of my loins.” Her voice cracked as she prayed.

  “What superstitious poison is this?” Hector glared at the graybeard seer with unveiled disgust.

  The monkey cackled and raced up his master’s back, clinging desperately to Aesacus’ head. The seer did not budge, even when Hector—bristling with youthful anger—stood toe to toe with the man.

  “You speak of ruin when Paris returns with bounteous tribute?” Hector spun toward the king. “Father?”

  Priam shared Hector’s look of distaste, but not his boldness. He reclined on his throne, the strain of his rule wearing heavily on his shoulders. It was happening already. Paris sighed, regretting the burden his presence added to his father’s troubles. It was far better to keep these meetings brief.

  “Leave us, Soothsayer.” Priam dismissed the graybeard. “Preach your omens to those with weak wills.”

  “Even kings must heed the will of the Gods.” Aesacus warned.

  “GO!” Priam shouted, his powerful voice affording no argument.

  Aesacus disappeared down a nearby corridor. Hecuba quickly joined that retreat, gathering her youngest child as she went. She paused at the exit, watching Paris with a mixed look of fear and sorrow. As Paris expected, fear ruled out, and she left with no further comment.

  “Rise, Son, and give account of your travels,” Priam commanded him. The king ran his hand across his stout jaw, rubbing his fingers through his short-trimmed black beard. There was more grey in that beard than when Paris had left. A result, he suspected, of the ongoing hostilities in the East.

  “King Baal-Termeg accepts your offer of friendship and will stand with you against the Hatti. The tribute I returned with is a sign of his friendship and esteem he bears for your kingship. He pledges another shipment in two weeks time. He is eager as you to rid Anatolia of the rot of their empire.”

  A wave of relief washed over Priam’s face. He descended from the throne and swiftly embraced Paris in a hearty manner that shocked both Paris and Hector. “Ha, ha!” he shouted. “Well done, my son.”

  Paris straightened under his father’s praise. Any sign of favor was a rare event from Priam. He normally adopted a strict neutrality when dealing with his ill-favored son.

  “I only wish to honor you, Father.” Paris bowed his head.

  Hector stepped forward, his face still fuming from the seer’s disrespect. “Paris has done everything you have asked of him. Can you please denounce the omens and be done with it?”

  Paris stiffened. What Hector asked was an impossibility. As much as he wished his father’s love would prevail over politics, Paris understood the problem he represented. How could Priam claim to rule by divine right if he defied the divinities? Even if they denounced his own child.

  “Peace, Hector.” Paris waved his brother off. “He has his reasons.”

  “What reasons?” Hector demanded. “That rumor and whispers are more powerful than the king’s will? That is not how I would rule.”

  “BUT YOU DO NOT RULE YET!” Priam towered over his eldest son. “The boy-king of Hatti has called for my head. My bondsmen are falling beneath the fist of his armies, and you want me to start a battle at home? Are you mad?”

  Hector, shaken, bowed his head. With great effort, he held his tongue.

  “Your brother still lives. And he will continue to live under my rule. There is your victory over the power of superstition.” Priam grumbled and began to pace. “Now, go. I have business with Paris and I tire of your insolent tongue.”

  Paris whispered a prayer of relief when Hector ducked into a respectful bow without further comment. They both loved their father dearly, but that love was not the armor Hector mistook it for. Paris did not want his brother to say something he might regret, especially on his behalf.

  As he turned to depart, Hector grabbed his arm. “I will see you after?”

  Paris nodded, watching his brother leave with a pang of sorrow. He was touched by Hector’s concern, but it was a losing battle. He had long ago accepted his role as an outcast of the court. He only wished Hector would one day accept it as well.

  Priam resettled on his throne, also watching his eldest child with heavy-lidded eyes. “He was born to rule but does not have half your patience or discernment. Loyalty is a noble trait, but not when it clouds your mind from reason.”

  Paris joined him on the dais, allowing himself to finally relax and enjoy a moment of peace with Priam. The expectations of the temple hung heavily on the king’s head. It was only behind the privacy of closed doors that they could converse as father and son.

  “Is it so bad that he says what he means? Or that he will not back down no matter how mighty his foe?” As a young prince, Hector terrified the other noble sons. Paris lost count how many times Hector’s righteous wrath scattered Hecuba’s minions who sought to do him harm.

  “A king must pick his battles wisely. And your brother cannot right all the wrongs of the world with his sword arm. The sooner he realizes that, the safer the realm will be.”

  Paris could not help but agree. Troy was on the brink of war. Cooler heads needed to prevail in their conflicts, both foreign and domestic. Which was usually the case when Priam asked to speak with him privately.

  “What is troubling you, Father?”

  The king grimaced, a shadow of remorse on his aged face. “The Hatti have choked off our trade from the east and now some fledgling king in the west seeks to cheat me. I have need of you, Paris.”

  Paris pushed aside his disappointment. Every visit home was short-lived, but this was exceptionally short. Usually, he’d have at least a fortnight in the golden city before the next mission was set. “What would you have me do?”

  “My merchants return from the Greek isles with payment half the value of the wares that they took. This High King of Mycenae thinks himself, and his spoils, far grander than they be.” Priam scowled at the title. “He refuses the sea tariff that keeps the channel free of pirates, enjoying the free trade my campaigns deliver but believing himself too important to pay for it. He is a pig who wallows in mud but claims it ambrosia. I want you to go and educate him otherwise.”

  Paris stiffened. Never before had Priam sent him to deliver a threat. He was always the negotiator, the one who broke bread with wary kings and created bonds of fellowship. Priam didn’t settle trade disputes by sending an ambassador. Why now? Why him?

  “Surely the Trades Master—“

  “This is too important to leave to the merchants.” Priam interjected. “If it was only a matter of coin, I would not call on you. But the Hatti campaigns have cost us dearly. With every success in battle they weaken my hold over our satraps. I cannot let this barbarian king also defy me with impunity. My vassals will slip through my fingers if they think me so weak. And if I cannot tame the wildlings in my own backyard, I do not deserve their respect.”

  Paris gazed up into his father’s eyes, the mighty monarch an awesome sight enshrined on his golden throne. Few kings deserved the privileged position they inherited, but Priam possessed an aura of authority that could not be denied. He command
ed respect from kingdoms from the river lands to the Egyptian delta. He was a giant amongst lesser men. This Mycenaean king was meddling with powers he could not possibly understand. The West would suffer for this insolence.

  “And you think I’m best suited to deliver this message?” He had to ask. He would walk into fire for his father, but this quest was an altogether different matter than what he had been trained to do. Surely Hector would have been a better choice.

  Priam watched him with an astute eye. He raised his right hand and tapped Paris over his heart. “The man who must threaten force is not one to be feared. It is what is left unsaid that strikes a dagger in the hearts of lesser men.”

  Paris blinked back his surprise, unsure if he understood his father correctly. “You want me to remind these Mycenaeans of the glory of Troy?” he asked, trying to decipher Priam’s request. “Of the respect we carry throughout the world and the power we represent?”

  Priam nodded. “And how unwise it would be to invoke my wrath. You are my fist in the silk glove. Quell this rebellious king before the sword becomes necessary.”

  “A delicate affair... ” Paris mused, his mind already devising tactics to complete the task.

  “That is why it must be you.” A hint of pride gleamed in Priam’s eyes. “You have never failed me.”

  And I never will.

  Paris gave his father a curt nod, indicating he understood. “I will do as you command. My ship can sail on the morning tide.”

  Priam stood and reached out for him, placing a sturdy hand on Paris’ shoulder. For a moment he showered Paris with the love he withheld for Hector alone.

  “Alexandros Paris of House Laomedon, I know I have asked a lot from you, and I promise it has not been for naught. You were named after the bravest man I have ever known—a great king of men. You bear his name, now bear his honor.”

  Priam’s chest swelled as though the shade of his old comrade walked the hall. “Teach Mycenae to respect their elders. Do this, and I swear I will never send you from my side again.”

  Chapter 7

  The Court of Smiths

  LATER THAT evening, Paris joined Hector for festivities at the Court of Smiths. Each trade claimed a district in the hub city surrounding the acropolis. The Smiths, whose work was marveled throughout the river lands, had constructed theirs with an eye for opulence.

  Massive copper gates, forged with an embossed hammer and anvil on alternating panels, were open to the public. Towering buildings three stories high surrounded the interior court, their ivy-clung walls studded in bronze rosettes. Craftsmen, journeymen and apprentice alike were out of doors swilling grog and hollering requests to a band of minstrels. The hearth fires burned bright, laughter was in the air, and with the promise of wealth from the bounty Paris had secured from Tyre, the Smiths celebrated.

  The princes reclined in wicker chairs beneath a canopy of stars. Of the few hours he had left in Troy, Paris preferred to spend it in the company of these honest craftsmen in lieu of the hostile halls of the Palace. The libations were flowing and even Hector deeply indulged.

  “He swore? By Apollo’s honor, you better not be lying to me. You are coming home to stay this time?”

  “Zeus strike me down if it’s not true.” Paris lifted his flagon of ale to toast with his brother. “To home.” He forced a smile, though inside his heart was in chaos.

  Home...

  Paris’ restless wanderings could soon be at an end. It was the moment he had always dreamt, and now that it was in sight, he wasn’t sure he wanted it. Troy, and all her wonders, was never truly home. And despite Hector’s assurances, Paris doubted he’d ever really be welcome here.

  “The Western Wilds.” A note of longing filtered into Hector’s slurs. “You lucky bastard.” He drained his cup.

  “Slow down.” Paris plucked the empty flagon from his hand. “Andromache will never forgive me if I deliver you home drunk as a shore-leave sailor.”

  Hector’s smile slipped into a boyish grin at the mention of his beautiful bride. “Aye, she won’t at that.” Hector’s love for Andromache was as vibrant as his chestnut-colored hair. Paris envied his brother’s happiness. The newly-wed couple shared something sacred.

  “Seriously Paris, aren’t you a teensy bit excited?”

  Paris was, despite his cool demeanor. Mycenae was located along the frontier, their lands comprised of the edges of the known world, lands rumored to be home to creatures of legend—wild, like the men who settled there.

  “Do you think they are barbarians like Father insists?” Paris mused. The men of the Hellas were mostly unknown to him. Who knew how they’d react to a royal delegation.

  “If they are wild, perhaps you can learn some new secrets to share...?”

  “Like I’d share it with you.” Paris chuckled. Hector had been trying to illicit details from his sojourn at the Cypriot bathhouses for the past half-hour. With a new wife to bed, Hector desperately wanted to impress.

  But the question did bear some consideration. If the men of the Hellas lived up to their reputation, would the women be as wild? He wondered if they’d all be hairy femmes covered in untanned leathers as fearsome as the Amazons of legend.

  “Watch yourself!” Hector laughed when Paris voiced his thoughts. “That’s precisely the sort of woman who could force you to swear your vows.”

  Paris swirled his cup, watching the amber liquid froth while he considered Hector’s jest. A barbarian wife?, he laughed to himself. He was enough of an embarrassment to the royal family without adding that sort of nonsense.

  “Don’t hold your breath.” Paris muttered. “I’m going into the lion’s den to yank its tail. And everyone knows it’s the lioness who has the longer claws.”

  “More likely the cub’s den.” Hector snorted. He shared Priam’s low esteem for their western neighbors. “It’s a daft mission. You have a better chance of slaying the Minotaur than getting this Agamemnon to bend the knee. I swear Father is inventing reasons to send you from the city.”

  The remark hit closer to Paris’ heart than he was sure his brother intended. Priam’s pledge to finally let him return to Troy was wholly unexpected, and Paris was unsure if he could accept it. His homecoming would cause more havoc than the king could afford.

  He shrugged off those morbid thoughts and turned to Hector with a grin. “You think I can’t handle a minor king? Your skill with a sword might have no match, but diplomacy is my weapon. You’ll swallow those words when I return.”

  It was not an unfounded boast. Paris had brought Tyre, Millawanda, and Cyprus into Priam’s fold, each realm eager to unite against their common enemy. How different could Mycenae be? They might not share Troy’s hatred for the Hatti, but they shared a common language. Other similarities must exist. Paris had only to discover what Agamemnon wanted, his secret desires, and exploit them.

  But Hector could not be diverted. “Father could have let you stay a week, at least.” He grumbled a few choice curses into his empty cup.

  “Oh, no. Wipe that sourpuss expression off your face.” Paris leapt to his feet. “I only get one night here and you are not going to ruin it.” He banged their empty flagons together to garner the attention of the crowd. “The next round is on your princes. DRINK UP!”

  His words rippled through the crowd with welcome cheers. The minstrels picked up a lively tune and a busty serving girl quickly replaced their mugs, the ale foaming over the tops. When the libations were all handed out, a hundred smiths raised their drunken voices to toast to Hector and Paris’ good health.

  “Watch out, little brother,” Hector warned playfully as he pulled Paris back to his seat, “or they’ll dub you the Prince of Hops.”

  Paris took a long swig of the yeasty brew, and wiped the foam from his chin with his sleeve. “I’ve been called worse.”

  It was a poor choice of words. He knew it the instant he saw Hector’s face. “Forget about it.”

  “I will not.” Hector slammed his cup down on their table.
“Not until I see Aesacus hung from a gibbet. And that foul monkey, too.”

  Paris sighed and put down his drink. No amount of spirits was going to save him from this conversation. Hector thought he could deal with any threat with the strength of his arms. But this foe could not be bested with an army, let alone by the passion of one prince.

  “You can’t save me, Hector.” Paris turned to him. “Father can make as many promises as he likes, but it won’t save me either. Killing Aesacus will not convince his followers that his prophecy is untrue. You know I am not welcome here.”

  “How do you know—“

  “Because I do.” He spoke more firmly than he intended. “I’ve spent six weeks in Troy in the past two years. Six weeks. And every visit felt too long by half. You fighting everyone only makes it worse. I... I just want a moment of peace. Let me enjoy your company without having to dwell on all the other mess. Please.”

  Paris watched the fight drain from Hector’s muscles. “I... will.” His brother sighed, wilting into his chair. “Forgive me, Paris. It’s just that I miss you.”

  “I miss you, too.”

  It was a surprising moment of candor between them. Paris treasured his brother. The years had steadily pulled their lives in different directions, but not their affection. The summers of their youth playing on the steps of Mt. Ida could not be erased by time and politics.

  “I’ll only be gone a few weeks this time. We’ll talk about Aesacus when I get back, all right?”

  Hector reached out and grabbed Paris’ hands. “Promise me you won’t do anything stupid.” There was a strange urgency in Hector’s words.

  Paris almost fell from his chair. He looked into his brother’s earnest face, stunned by Hector’s serious pallor. It was tinged with a prophetic aura, like their sister Cassandra’s when plagued by her dire visions. Why would he question Paris’ return now? On a mission far simpler than any in recent memory?

  “I promise.” He clasped Hector’s hands tight and made his vow. “I won’t risk my life needlessly. If the Gods are fair, I will make it back to Troy.”