The Princess of Sparta: Heroes of the Trojan War

by Aria Cunningham

  As the night wore on, Paris buried himself in his drink, trying to drown out that ominous feeling. The Gods had never been fair, and to Paris least of all. He knew better than to expect their favor.

  Mycenae, the frontier of civilization... what dangers could it hold in store for a prince of Troy?

  Chapter 8

  In Mycenae

  THE BRIGHT afternoon sun stabbed Helen’s eyes as she exited Mycenae’s royal granary. She dusted her hands on the leather apron Philon had pressed on her for the inspection. The planting season was almost over, and their stores were running low. A concern Philon, as Harvest Master, voiced to her in secret.

  “They drained the reserves when the last merchant vessel came through, Your Grace. Won’t naught be left if another trader comes before the summer rains.”

  Helen sighed, stretching out the knot growing in the small of her back. The time she spent at the Mycenaean court had done little to acclimatize her to Agamemnon’s capricious rule. Her Spartan sensibilities were constantly challenged. Tyndareus would never demand so much of his people while giving so little in return.

  Her heart filled with sorrow at the thought of her father. It had been ten years since she last had spoken with her beloved king, just after they finalized her betrothal. Tyndareus had been explicit—no son of Atreus would rule in Sparta. And since Menelaus was a second son with no land to rule as his own, Helen had cursed herself to a life of irrelevance, a lesser member of an already crowded royal household. If she had known that laying her wedding wreath at Mycenae’s door she would be choosing her sister over her father, would she have chosen the same?

  One glance at Philon’s worried face pulled her from her dark musings. She did not have the luxury of living in hindsight. Helen would not wallow in self-pity while these good people needed her. Lending an ear to the citizen’s concerns seemed to lessen her own, and in little time the Mycenaean people wormed their way into her vacated heart. She could do little to change her own situation, but she could help them.

  Clytemnestra might think mingling with the common folk was beneath her, but Helen didn’t. The time away from the palace was a respite from the pressures of court. And the warm regard of commoners like Philon was a welcome change from the chilly affections of her husband.

  “And the planting?” Helen pressed. “Can’t we expand? Plow farther afield?” She pulled the apron from her waist, careful not to snag her embroidered chiton. The craftsmanship on the garment was lovely, despite the low neckline. It did wonders to show off her youthful curves. The dress was from Agamemnon, a gift to his sister-by-law. Helen knew better than to refuse the Great King’s gifts, but wearing the garment made her feel half-naked.

  Philon shifted nervously, seemingly embarrassed by her question. A poor planting would mean a poor harvest, and a poor harvest would cost him his job. “We’re having troubles, Your Grace. A massive bull has claimed the borders along the western fields. He’s a monster ten span long with horns to match a Minotaur. My plow herds say he is Poseidon incarnate. They won’t go near him.”

  She sighed. This news would not bode well in the Master’s Council. Only yesterday, Nestra threatened to cancel the Mounichia Festival if more supplies could not be found. The queen detested the religious superstitions of the common folk. And if they cost the crown a prized festival...? Helen frowned, not wanting to envision how her sister would respond.

  “A hungry child is a far greater danger than that of a wild bull.” She chastised Philon lightly. “I will ask the king to dispatch his huntsmen. But see that you increase the crop accordingly. No excuses.”

  “Thank you, Princess.” The harvest master effused, ducking his head in deference.

  A ghost of a smile graced her lips. She tried her best to make amends for Agamemnon’s careless rule, but an increased harvest couldn’t answer all the problems plaguing the growing nation. A larger bounty would only inspire the power-hungry king to continue his expanded trade. And while his royal arsenal grew, the people sacrificed one meal at a time. At least with Helen’s visits, the common folk felt their needs were being addressed. She was their conduit to the throne.

  She headed up to the palace along a steep inclining ramp. The granary was located at the base of the rising acropolis, surrounded by the enormous defense walls that separated palatial land from the communal. The Grand Walkway, as the ramp had come to be known, was the widest road of Mycenae. Small indents carved from the ruts of chariot wheels were the only blemish on the otherwise smooth limestone surface.

  Helen continued westward, following the ramp ever higher. It was a long hike, but finally, at a natural curve in the bedrock, the inner wall gave way to a massive staircase that revealed a palace that out-marveled any in Greece. Despite all the hardships Agamemnon pressed on his people, Mycenae had grown under his rule. The capital was twice the size from when Helen first arrived.

  Her smile turned bittersweet remembering those first few days on the foreign soil—of her first glimpse of the towering fortress and how it had filled her with wonder. Her heart had swelled with hope and dreams of love on meeting her husband-to-be. What a lovelorn fool she had been.

  It hadn’t taken long for Clytemnestra’s dark warnings to prove true. The men of Mycenae dreamed of battle and swords not of love. Too soon she realized the absence of Menelaus from her courtship was not a matter of duty, but a lack of care. Her husband sought nothing in this life more than spiting his older brother, an unfortunate familial grudge that manifested in all manner of petty acts—acts that Helen now found herself an unfortunate pawn.

  From the courtyard, she climbed another staircase to the megaron above. Nestra was hiding behind the pillars of the portico, spying on the king and his audience. She waved Helen over, her nervous manner warning Helen to keep quiet.

  “I am not some lackey you can command. I am king in my own right!” Menelaus’ baritone voice pierced the air about them.

  Helen stiffened, knowing now why Nestra hid. Her husband was in a temper again. She peaked her head around the pillar and watched the drama unfold.

  Fire and fury, those were the elements that graced her mighty lord. Fire of hair, of tongue, of temper. And fury for any man stupid enough to provoke him—a pastime Agamemnon loved to indulge.

  “You are no king yet, Brother.” The High King sneered. “Tyndareus is not dead. Only when his flesh feeds the worms will Sparta be yours.”

  “A favor I have you to thank for.” Menelaus spat. “It’s you he despises, not me!”

  Agamemnon leapt to his feet, grabbing his jeweled scepter like a club. “You should thank me. You should bow down and kiss my feet! Had I not pressed your suit, you would not even be married and next in line to rule. A throne afforded you by contract, not divine right as I hold here. So you will obey me.”

  Helen sighed. Direct demands meant this confrontation would not end well. Nestra was shaking like a leaf. If their husbands did not settle their differences, the wives would bear the burden of their displeasure. Nestra bore too many scars from Agamemnon’s fearsome temper.

  But there was no reason for them both to suffer. Helen lifted her shoulders back and walked into the throne room at a regal pace.

  “Are you crazy?” Nestra whispered after her. Helen’s heart fluttered, secretly agreeing with her sister. But crazed or not, she would not let Nestra suffer. Not when she could do something to help. She entered the megaron behind her husband, quiet as a mouse.

  “I will not go.” Menelaus glared at the king, his foot on the raised dais that led to the throne. He taunted Agamemnon, standing just outside the king’s striking distance. “The foaling season is about to begin. I won’t abandon the herd to collect your tribute. Send someone else.”

  Agamemnon’s eyes blazed with anger, raising his scepter threateningly. But when Helen crossed his line of sight, those eyes turned to unveiled hunger. She bowed low, sure to accentuate her near exposed bosom. He had designed the dress with a purpose. Agamemnon could not claim her outright
—especially in public—but his eyes had no qualms marking her as prey.

  “Sire.” She lowered her head and voice respectfully. “If I may be of service?”

  Agamemnon relaxed immediately. He retook his seat, casting his brother a mocking grin. “You spend too much time with your ponies, Menelaus, and not enough with your own mare. Be careful another stallion does not tend to your flock.”

  Helen blushed furiously. She tried to shield her face from her husband in her golden tresses. The audacity of the man... he knew well enough what other “stallions” were braying at her door.

  “Rise, Sweet Sister. What would you have from your king.” He said the words as though they were an invitation. Menelaus stiffened, his evil glare equally for her as for his brother.

  “The farmhands complain of a great bull harassing the wheat fields.” She rose to her feet, adopting a mask of indifference. “I told them I would petition you for a hunt.”

  “Bah.” He spat. “I have no time to dispatch every animal that ranges near our fields. Not when we have so many outstanding debts to collect.” He cast another glare at Menelaus, his potent ire simmering again.

  “Of course, My King.” She added quickly, trying to draw his attention back to her. “If it is conflict of circumstance, perhaps I can tend to the foals and free my husband to the task?”

  Menelaus grabbed her arm roughly, spinning her to look at him directly. “And what would a woman know of horse husbandry? You presume much, Wife.”

  She grit her teeth, knowing she was crossing into danger. “I know nothing, My Lord, save the troubles of giving birth. That, it seems, is a province of women.” She planted the barb with just enough defiance that Menelaus would redirect his anger and stop this futile fight with his brother.

  “Some women, perhaps.” He responded, taking her bait. “But not you, Wife. In that regard you are just as useless as a crone.”

  Agamemnon’s cruel laugh mocked them both. It struck a sliver of fear in Helen’s heart as it shamed her husband. “I will consider your offer, Sister. Now go. Both of you. I sense my brother is keen to give you a lesson in husbandry.”

  Menelaus didn’t bother to respond but towed her roughly out the hall. She barely caught Clytemnestra’s eye before she was tossed into the outer chamber. Her sacrifice was not lost on the queen.

  “You need to learn your place, woman.” Menelaus growled in her ear as they neared their apartments.

  “Yes, My Lord.” Helen’s reply was automatic now, devoid of emotion. He would hit her if she ignored him, he would hit her if she shouted back. There was no reason to fight back, not when it only made her situation worse.

  He tossed the doors to their apartments open, scaring the chambermaids near to death. “Out!” he shouted as they scattered.

  He tossed Helen down on the bed, pushing the skirt of her chiton over her back. He lifted her hips, spreading her legs roughly as he fumbled at his breeches.

  “I am your lord.” He growled into her ear. “And You. Will. Mind. Me.” With each word he shoved himself violently into her, mounting her from behind. His engorged phallus was a sword that ripped her apart.

  She grasped the furs on her bed, trying to stabilize herself. It was difficult to stay balanced. Menelaus was a powerful man and he never held back when he took her. She thanked the gods how rare those events were.

  When he had spent himself, he collapsed on top of her, the weight of his body crushing the air from her lungs. “I will put a son in your belly. That should teach you to mind your mouth.”

  “Yes, My Lord.” She struggled to breathe. He rolled off her, and she pulled her legs up onto the bed, tucking into a small ball. She wished she had the fortitude to sit up, to shout her defiance at him from the rooftops. But everything inside her hurt. It took all her strength to not cry.

  “Get back to your duties.” He sneered, lacing himself back up and storming out of the room.

  The room was eerily quiet when he left. Helen sat unmoving for a time beyond her counting. The silence flooded through her, allowing her a brief moment where nothing existed. Not Menelaus, not Mycenae, and not her broken dreams.

  You should not provoke him, a little voice inside her warned. Agamemnon treats him like a child. How should he react when his wife affords him no respect either?

  She propped herself up onto the embroidered pillows covering her bed, but that only served to give her a better view to the door of the adjoining servant’s quarters. She glared at it, pouring all her hurt into that mournful stare.

  If you loved him better, he would not seek comfort in the arms of another.

  That room had never housed a servant. She learned quickly why Menelaus spent all his time in the stables. He liked to keep his lover close. He spent their wedding night in that room, rutting another man. Even now, ten years later, he preferred to sleep in Sabineus’ bed than in hers.

  She moved in a daze. Her dress was torn. It would never do to be seen in court in such a state. She let the garment drop to the ground and selected another. Without conscious thought, she grabbed her wedding robes, the soft linen caressing her skin as she tied her belt in place. Her hair came next. She began to pleat her golden locks, but when she was half done she caught a glimpse of herself in the bronze mirror by her bed. Her hands dropped uselessly at her side.

  What was the point of it all? Why replace the damage Menelaus caused? Her beauty only caused her more troubles. If it was not her brute husband, then it was Agamemnon who visited her bed, eager to possess his brother’s prize. She could not believe Nestra said coupling could be pleasurable. It only filled her with pain and loathing.

  She tore at her braids, a wild cry escaping her lips. Her hair fell loose around her shoulders.

  “Princess?” A timid knock came from the door. Aethra had returned. Helen ignored her, staring at her reflection in a daze. The woman in the mirror was a wild thing, not a princess at all. When the knocking became more insistent, she grabbed her crimson cloak and fled through the back door.

  The wind had picked up, ushering in a great mist from the sea. She raced into it, running down the steep hillside, past the royal gardens and out to the easternmost precipice of the palace walls. It was an isolated vista, a rocky outcrop that hung above the crashing waves of the Argolian Gulf. She ran to its very edge, completely enshrouded in mist. Finally, with this cloak of solitude, the tears came. They flooded her cheeks, spilling down to the thundering waves below.

  “Why?” She demanded of the Gods. “I’ve done all you asked of me. I cannot take it any longer.” How had her life gone so terribly wrong? Bound to a husband that neither needed nor wanted her, and with no home to return to... where was her great destiny now?

  Her slippered foot traced the edge of the precipice, sending loose limestone tumbling down to the jagged rocks below. It would be so easy to step over the ledge. With one step, she’d no longer be anyone’s disappointment. She’d lost count how many times she considered it.

  “Please,” she begged the Gods. “Make it stop. End my torment.” The desperate prayer gripped at her heart. “Blessed Hera, Gentle Aphrodite, please... just give me a sign.”

  A loud horn reverberated off the cliffs, cutting through the fog. At first she thought she dreamt it, but it blasted again, gaining in volume with each peal. Like the hand of Zeus, the sun broke through the clouds. The mist parted.

  And then she saw him.

  He stood at the prow of a ship, a phantom encased in silver fog. He was unlike any man she had ever seen: tall, like the Thracians from the north, but svelte like the strapping island men of Crete. When he turned to her, lowering the horn from his lips and reaching a hand in her direction, she had the uncanny feeling he was important.

  The mist reclaimed him and the moment was broken.

  Helen shook off her vapid thoughts and pulled her cloak securely around her shoulders to ward off the chill. The Gods had never answered her prayers before, and Helen knew better than to trust to hope. No divine interventi
on was coming to save her. She was alone.

  She walked back to the Palace, the hole in her heart growing larger with each step.

  The oars of the Trojan longship dipped into the frothy waters of the Aegean. Paris’ crew had left Troy’s golden shores ten days hence. What should have been a simple journey erupted into chaos as the rough winds and unpredictable currents tossed his ship in circles. But, if their maps were correct, they were nearing their destination.

  The coastline of the Greek isles should have been visible on the horizon. But when the sun stirred from her nightly rest, a sea-born mist, heavy like the breath of a dragon, obscured their line of sight.

  “Bring out the sounding horn!” Glaucus shouted to his bosun. The captain was a venerated sea dog. He often boasted there was no squall strong enough to keel a vessel in his charge, but even Glaucus took notice when they sailed into the western Aegean. He swore any man who braved these waters must have the courage of Herakles and Poseidon combined. Paris heartily agreed.

  Paris grabbed the instrument and took a vantage position at the bow of the ship. Any manner of danger could be hidden in a fog. They could run aground on jagged rock, or crash unknowingly into a cliff. He blasted a note into the sky and waited for its echo to return if solid mass lay before them. If there was danger ahead, he’d be the first to hear it.

  Paris inhaled deeply as he waited. The tang of salt air filled his nostrils and the crisp bite of the western winds numbed his bones. The great expanse of unknown lands lay before him. He lived for moments like these.

  Glaucus joined him at the bow, the captain’s pale-grey eyes narrowed as he searched for hidden dangers. “Give me a feisty squall or maelstrom any day, but the Gods curse this bloody fog.”

  Most sailors were a superstitious lot, but Paris’ captain delighted in finding ways to thumb his nose at the Immortals. The priests called it blasphemy, but thus far Glaucus had never lost a ship.