The Princess of Sparta: Heroes of the Trojan War

by Aria Cunningham

  The Mycenaean herald returned. He bellowed a solid note from the bone horn strapped to his waist, a brutish sound following the elegant instrument from Troy. A flash of irritation creased the face of the king.

  “You approach the throne of Agamemnon, Son of Atreus, Son of Pelops, Sacker of Lydia, Slayer of False Brothers, favored Son of the Hellas, Ruler of the Argive and High King of Mycenae. All Hail the King!” The herald was nearly out of breath by the time he finished.

  “ALL HAIL THE KING!” the assembled Mycenaeans repeated.

  Paris righted himself, prepared to launch into his prearranged speech, but the tingling sensation had returned. His eyes darted to the left of the throne.

  And he saw her. A vision of elegance and grace. Their eyes locked and breath escaped him. He would not have been more stunned if Zeus had struck him with a thunderbolt.

  Oh, fuck me.

  For the moment the Trojan delegation entered the room, reality shifted for Helen and she felt like she had slipped into a dream. The Trojan guard reminded her so forcibly of her father’s Spartan Hoplites, with their crested helms and rigid formations, that a small cry escaped her lips, earning her a stern glare of disapproval from her husband.

  And the prince himself!

  She soaked in every detail. His skin was a tanned olive with the healthy glow of a man who spent a good deal of time beneath the sun. His eyes were almond in shape and framed by dark lashes. His hair was a dark brown, the color of rich earth, and it fell in thick waves about his wide-set shoulders. His muscles rippled beneath the tight linen of his cream colored tunic.

  Helen had never seen a more handsome man. He lacked whiskers on his chin, a style uncommon in Mycenae. And though his features seem youthful, only a fool would say he was less man than the hairy warriors of Mycenae. His beauty was exotic, strange and undeniable. She was woozy by the time he bowed before the king. He was so close she could almost smell the scent of his oiled hair. She could not keep her eyes off him.

  And then he turned to her, his dark penetrating eyes seeming to see into her. Helen’s heart hammered against her ribs like a war drum, she had never felt so exposed. She was paralyzed in that gaze. It was fortuitous the prince tore his eyes away to turn back to the king. She doubted she had the fortitude.

  She cast the king a furtive look, careful to not look in the prince’s direction. Agamemnon was not pleased. Helen recognized the hard expression he reserved for dealing with men whose loyalty he questioned. The silence lasted longer than would seem proper, both men studying one another, waiting for the other man to speak first.

  Agamemnon finally relented, albeit with a note of irritation. “Rise, Son of Troy, and state your business with Mycenae.”

  Helen shifted nervously. It was no accident their visitor’s titles were so brief, and Agamemnon’s so long. He meant to intimidate this prince.

  Paris recognized the clumsy tactic as well. He adopted a mask of pleasant indifference, neither responding nor acknowledging Agamemnon’s slight. He kept his focus on the king, refusing to look towards the mysterious beauty on his left. But now that he knew she was near, his senses were heightened, as if he could feel her movements instinctively.

  “Noble Agamemnon,” he steadied himself. “It is with great joy that I travel to Mycenae to cement the bonds of friendship between your realm and that of my father, King Priam of Troy. The prosperity of that friendship is one Priam treasures. Mycenae’s influence grows in the Old World as your trade passes through our borders. The kingdoms of the East clamor to know you. And as neighbors who share a common tongue and ancestry, we have been amiss to not visit you sooner and greet you as brothers.”

  He watched Agamemnon’s face closely, searching for any hint of his desires. Was it pride that would move this man? Greed? A mixture of both? It was Paris’ task to discover the Mycenaean’s weakness, and his every word, his every movement was designed to unveil it.

  Agamemnon seemed mollified by his declaration of friendship, but there was still a question in his hawkish eyes. Am I friend or foe? Paris cast him a benign smile that gave no indication either way.

  Helen knew the prince’s elegant words were meant to soothe Agamemnon. And while the king seemed pleased from what he was hearing, her sister appeared less convinced. Clytemnestra’s face was pinched as though she caught the scent of insult.

  “You are welcome here, Paris, Son of Priam.” Agamemnon straightened on his throne. “We are past due acquainting our two kingdoms. But may I assume this is a visit of profit and pleasure?”

  Helen almost choked. The hint was obvious. It was no secret that Agamemnon hungered for riches. And the bards delighted in singing tales about the golden wealth of Troy.

  Paris also picked up on the slip. So it was greed that unlocked this man. “Our ship holds are full. I will leave the details of our barter to my Trade Master. But I do have one item to impart, a small token of Priam’s regard.” He turned to Glaucus. The captain pulled a long dagger stowed at the small of his back, handing it to the prince.

  The weapon was sheathed in a decorative cover, depicting a great hero in the act of slaying a Minotaur. The hilt ended in a golden head of a bull, its horns encircling the holder’s hand. Agamemnon took it from Paris’ hands eagerly, pulling the bronze blade free with a ringing chime.

  Helen pressed forward to get a better view just as the prince pulled back from his offering. His furtive eyes darted past her again, and being so close, she could hear his sharp intake of breath. He took an involuntary step back, stumbling to regain his balance. It was the first break in his elegant poise.

  Agamemnon, however, paid little attention to the prince, his razor-sharp focus on the tribute before him. “Excellent.” The king crowed, sheathing the blade and tucking the weapon into his belt. “My Steward will see you are housed.” He waved Nextus forward. The thin man gave a curt nod and quickly disappeared down the hall.

  “Menelaus!” Agamemnon called out sharply behind him.

  Her husband stepped forward. He shared a similar glare of disapproval as Clytemnestra, whether for the prince or his brother’s curt summons, Helen could not tell. “My brother will arrange entertainment for your visit.” Agamemnon continued. “Something involving sport and horse should suffice. You can manage that, can’t you Little Brother?”

  Menelaus stiffened, trying unsuccessfully not to register the barb. “Perhaps a hunt?” he grimaced. “If we can rouse the banner men, we can put the chariots to field as well.”

  “Done!” Agamemnon announced. “And a feast for the Mounichia. Let it not be said that Agamemnon broke the bonds of xenia.”

  The prince bowed again, his hand over his heart. “You honor me, Great King. I look forward to the festivities. But if I may ask one more boon?”

  A small crease of irritation crossed the king’s face. Helen knew what Agamemnon was thinking. What more could he want after feasting and games? The prince could ask for anything right now and the king would be honor pressed to provide.

  She recognized Agamemnon’s conflicting interests immediately. Their silos were running low. They could scarcely afford such festivities as it was, and this unexpected visit would bring additional hardship to his already beleaguered people. But a chance to display the might of Mycenae? She feared this request would not bode well for their people.

  “Ask and I will do as I can,” Agamemnon conceded.

  Paris smiled, knowing he was playing his part superbly. He waited a few moments longer to allow the king to fret over what greater cost Paris could extract, then spoke. “My father requested I make efforts to know the customs and cultures of this land. Long have we heard of the wild spirit of the Hellas and the independent men and women who tamed its shores. I would be honored to see your city and meet its inhabitants.”

  It was a simple request, one Agamemnon should have no trouble meeting. But the king groaned irritably. “That’s women’s work.” He rolled his eyes dismissively. “But if you insist, I will put my queen at your disposal.
”

  Helen studied the Trojan as he frowned. The man was unsettled by Agamemnon’s suggestion. After a slight hesitation he turned to her and bowed deeply, far deeper than he had for Agamemnon. “Your Grace, I would be honored by your assistance.”

  Helen looked over the assembled court nervously. A stunned silence followed the prince’s words. No one knew how to respond. But her sister registered the insult. Clytemnestra glared at the Trojan, her teeth clenched tight.

  The prince, however, was blissfully unaware, his head bowed before her.

  “Get up.” She whispered fervently, hoping he didn’t shame himself too long.

  Agamemnon’s mocking laughed filled the hall. It was a bitter laugh, one that insulted his guest and his wife alike. “That is my brother’s wife you address, Trojan. But I understand how you might be fooled since the women shared a womb.”

  Paris stood quickly, completely off-guard. He did a double take between the princess and queen. Identical twins? They couldn’t be more different in his eyes. He collected himself, and turned to the queen, bowing even deeper. “Forgive me, Your Grace.”

  “Don’t concern yourself with the foibles of feminine feeling.” Agamemnon chided, thoroughly enjoying Trojan’s mistake. “We know you are weary from your travels. Rest. We will rejoin in the morning.” He clapped his hands together, signaling the end of the audience. The crowd erupted in chatter as Paris and his retinue excused themselves.

  As he turned to go, Paris glanced one last time to the mysterious princess. His body ignited at the sight of her. He felt inexplicably connected to the woman.

  A married woman, he reminded himself. Somewhere in the heavens the Gods were having a fantastic jest on his behalf. With great effort, he turned away and disappeared down the corridor.

  Chapter 10

  A Game of Stones

  AGAMEMNON WAITED for the hall to empty out before retiring to his private antechamber. He quickly dismissed his staff, leaving only his family behind. Once alone, he pulled the Trojan dagger from his belt and inspected the weapon again. The craftsmanship was superb. The gold filigree on the sheath must have taken weeks to complete. It was a kingly gift, one he could bequeath to his son, and his son’s son thereafter.

  This was one item from Troy’s treasure trove. One example of the wealth they possessed, wealth he hungered for. Agamemnon’s subjects excelled in works of clay and bone, but metal was the province of Old World smiths. He had amassed an arsenal of bronze weaponry, traded every scrap he could to gain more. He knew, in his heart of hearts, that whichever kingdom mastered the manipulation of metal would rule the world. There was no reason it couldn’t be Mycenae.

  “I do not trust him, My Lord.” His queen continued her harping. “Every word he spoke was veiled in double meaning and innuendo. He is here for a purpose he does not state.”

  Agamemnon studied his wife. She was intelligent for a woman, a fact he would only admit when they were in private. “So what if he is? I hardly see the danger in letting him converse with peasants and travel the countryside.”

  He had already deduced the Trojan’s presence signified something greater than mere trade relations. The young prince played a game of wills. He was quite good at it, in fact, with a few minor exceptions. But his skills paled in comparison with Agamemnon’s own. Agamemnon was content to let the game play out and see if the Trojan had more to give than just decorative swords.

  He settled back in an armchair, and watched his family come to their own conclusions. Menelaus paced by the door, frowning irritably. His aloof behavior here, and in the megaron before, broadcasted Menelaus’ resentment loud and clear. He hated politics, preferring instead the thrill of battle and sport.

  Agamemnon sneered. His brother claimed the rights of a king but behaved like a petulant child. “Is there somewhere else you’d rather be, Menelaus? Or do you have something to contribute to the conversation?”

  Menelaus grimaced, swallowing the insult like a bitter tonic. “I agree with the queen. The Trojan could be spying on us, scouting our perimeters, checking for weaknesses.”

  “For certain,” Agamemnon mocked his brother. “Priam sends a beardless boy to scout out our defenses. The perfect ruse.”

  Menelaus scowled and turned away, continuing his antsy pacing beside the door. Agamemnon disliked this ill-mood. First Clytemnestra, and now his own brother. They were jumping at shadows. This prince was no threat. He could not even be an accomplished ambassador. Mistaking a queen was the mark of an amateur. No true ambassador would have been so clumsy.

  Agamemnon frowned. Was that a message Priam made? That Mycenae was important enough to treat with but not enough to send their best? Or did he think Agamemnon would be wooed by a visit from a pampered prince and a set of pretty soldiers?

  Only Helen seemed immune to the invading paranoia of his council, her gentle eyes lost in thought. “And what say you, Sweet Sister?” She startled as he addressed her. “Do you preach caution as well? Do you believe the prince is all that he seems?”

  “No...” she stammered, drawing the ire of his queen and her husband. “What man can be known after such a short audience?” Her confidence grew as she steadied herself beneath their judgmental stares. “But one thing I am certain of, My King—if he is looking for weaknesses, he will not find any.”

  Agamemnon laughed. What a spirit she possessed. Such sweet innocence mixed with unquestionable loyalty. It was a pity she was not born the elder. His poor brother had no idea how to savor this treasure.

  “Well said, Sister. He can’t find weakness if none exists. The only tales this Trojan will spread will be of our courage and strength. Mycenae is as powerful as the Empires of Old.”

  And my kingship rivals any they hold.

  “Be wary, Husband.” Clytemnestra warned again. “No king willingly gives away prestige. The prince said, ‘through Troy does our influence grow’. King Priam would make you his vassal.”

  “I would die first!” Menelaus spat. “We bow to no foreign power.”

  “You will if he brings an army to our shores!” she fired back. “Or blocks our trade? We’d wither away if that happened. He is a danger!”

  “Settle down, both of you!” Agamemnon shouted at his brother and wife alike, pushing Clytemnestra behind him. “I will not respond to a royal messenger like a paranoid barbarian.”

  “My Lord?” Clytemnestra continued, unfazed by his stern glare. “There is something false about this man. I can sense it.”

  Agamemnon groaned. Clytemnestra would always advise to strike first. It was a Spartan frailty. She lacked the patience to be subtle. But not so her sister....

  “And what if he speaks the truth?” Helen countered, staring her sister down. “What do we lose by acting in good faith? What have we to fear?”

  Helen crossed the room and addressed him directly. “Let him see Mycenae. And in return we are afforded the same opportunity to study him. We should seize this moment so we might better understand Troy and her intentions.”

  Agamemnon stroked his beard, considering the move. To let the watched become the watcher? It had a devious flare that would make men whisper of his cunning. This foreign knowledge might be exactly what he needed to convince the other Greek kingdoms to unite behind him.

  “You are wise, My King, to not overreact.” Helen lowered her head demurely, though there was no retreat in her eyes. “If we are not servants to a distant land, than we should not cower like one.”

  A fire burned in his belly with her words, her challenge laid bare. Are you a king worthy of great glory, or a pretender clamoring for attention at the edge of the world? One look to Menelaus was all the reminder he needed of how much he detested that comparison.

  “Welcome him,” Agamemnon decided. “Show him the glory of Mycenae. He has full immunity.”

  “Brother!” Menelaus protested.

  “Do it!” he glowered at the puerile man. It was one thing to advise, but Agamemnon would not take outright rebellion in his own hou
se. “Whatever he asks, whatever he requires, you give it.”

  “No.” Clytemnestra’s cold refusal shocked him to his core.

  “What did you say?” He felt the rage building up inside him. Defiance? From his woman?

  Clytemnestra stuck out her jaw, refusing to back down. “You want to show him our greatness? Do not put your queen, and by proxy our king, at the beck and call of this ambassador. We do not kowtow to a visitor who lands on our shores unannounced. Send Helen instead.”

  Menelaus choked. “Absolutely not. You saw the way he looked at her. I don’t want that Trojan within ten yards of my wife.”

  Agamemnon took a closer look at Helen. Her cheeks were flushed a rosy red, her beauty undeniable. What better an envoy to strike jealousy into a rival’s heart?

  Yes. Let Troy envy Mycenae’s might and her beauty.

  “You worry too much brother.” He pushed Menelaus back. “Only a boy-sick fool would not be touched by your wife’s grace. We can use this to our advantage.”

  Helen blinked, sweet confusion on her face. “My King?”

  “Get to know him, Helen. Make him fall in love with the city and our people. Get him to confide in you. And when he does, you report back to me. Can you do this?” It was fitting that she challenged him before. He could now return the favor.

  Are you a daughter of Tyndareus? Does the fierce spirit of Sparta still run in your veins?

  There was cold fire in Helen’s lovely blue eyes. Her barely contained anger made his cock grow hard. Nothing could provoke Helen more than questioning her honor, and that obsessive virtue made her easy to manipulate. She was different from his queen in so many ways.

  Helen raised her chin. “As you wish, My King.”

  Chapter 11

  The Familiar Stranger