The Princess of Sparta: Heroes of the Trojan War

by Aria Cunningham

  AGAMEMNON’S STEWARD, Nextus, showed Paris to his guest quarters shortly after they exited the throne room. The stoic man barely said a word, even when given a direct question. After a few failed attempts at conversation, Paris fell silent. Thus far, the Mycenaeans seemed as chilly as their cold stone halls.

  After a short walk down several narrow corridors, they arrived in the eastern wing of the palace where the royal apartments were housed. His chambers were accommodating but snug, its walls built in the same thick defensive style as the rest of the palace. Paris was given a main room with two connected sleeping chambers. The suite had an open-air balcony that looked over the inner courtyard one story below. By the lack of adornment, he suspected the rooms typically housed non-royal visitors or vassal leaders. Definitely a strange choice for an ambassador who was usually afforded a ruler’s best.

  A small repast was set for him in the apartments, a haunch of roast mutton and a decanter of mulled wine. Sparse, but satisfying. After his cool reception in the harbor, he wondered if Agamemnon was purposely restricting his hospitality, or if Paris’ visit had really taken the Mycenaean by surprise. If the king was truly motivated by greed, it was logical he would not waste his finery on others. But if the snub persisted, Paris would have to take counter measures. Priam had been explicit—this wayward king would not disrespect Troy with impunity, and that included disrespecting Paris, himself.

  He hoped Agamemnon didn’t make his last excursion more painful than it needed to be, but only time would tell. Paris needed to be wary, but not overtly sensitive. In his experience, if you went searching for insult you will eventually find it, whether intentional or not.

  Don’t make snap judgements. What feels like disregard is usually a cultural misunderstanding.

  It was quite possible these apartments actually were the king’s finest, and the hot meal a courtesy an unexpected guest should be grateful to receive. It was too early to be jumping at shadows or losing sleep on this assignment.

  Paris decided to keep Glaucus nearby, giving the captain one of the sleeping chambers for his own, while the rest of the Trojan guard took housing down the hill in the royal barracks. Glaucus joined him for the meal. They both ate heartily, reclining on the thick pillows lining the sitting area of the main chamber.

  “What do you think of the Hellas thus far?” Paris stretched, feeling the ache of his travels catching up to him. He took a long pull from their skin of wine, savoring the faint taste of nutmeg and elderberry.

  “I like the scenery.” Glaucus snorted, the sound of a man who’d seen too many distant shores.

  Paris frowned. “And which scenery is that?”

  “The same one you’ve been admiring. Gold spun hay, clear blue skies, rolling contours of hill and vale. The Gods couldn’t paint a prettier vista.”

  Paris stiffened. Glaucus wasn’t talking about landscape. The princess’ beauty wasn’t far from Paris’ mind either, try as he might to distract himself with his father’s task. Every line of her perfect face was forever etched into his mind: the arc of her high cheekbones, the delicate button-chin on her heart shaped face, her jewel eyes a deeper-than-lapis blue framed by coal black lashes. She was breathtaking. In all his travels, Paris had never seen her like.

  “We aren’t here to moon over the view.” Paris tried to clear his mind. “We have a big day ahead of us tomorrow. We can’t afford to make any more mistakes.” Glaucus gave him a wolfish grin, the captain more than aware who needed that advice.

  They had discussed their duties in great detail on the trip across the Aegean. While all eyes were on Paris, his retinue was free to infiltrate the market town and learn the truth of Mycenaean capabilities. Paris need only distract the queen, glean what information he could about Agamemnon that could be used to unsettle the man, and present an impeachable regal presence of Troy. A simple, albeit boring, task. He would suffer through the grand tour when he’d rather be swapping tales in the taverns.

  “You’re coming with me.” Paris informed his captain and stifled a yawn. “If I have to be miserable, so do you.”

  “How considerate of you, My Prince.” Glaucus snorted again. “But say it plain. You can’t bear to be without me. I know I’m a charmer.” He winked at Paris.

  Paris’ laugh came out more as a gag. He decided it was time for bed. “Rest well, Glaucus. In a week, good or ill, this will all be over.”

  It was a mantra in his head. One more week, one more week. He had only to survive the next few days, complete this mission and his duty to Troy would be over. A new chapter of his life would begin.

  How much trouble could he possibly stir up in just one week?

  “I am no spy.” Helen bemoaned to Aethra as her matron busily prepared her for touring duties the following morning. “I haven’t the faintest idea how to get a foreigner to confide in me.”

  “Gracious child, don’t let your mind take flight with fancies. Observing a man and spying are not the same thing.” Aethra tugged the horsehair brush through Helen’s hair harder than would seem necessary. “Now what were the king’s words? His exact words?”

  “He said to make the prince fall in love with Mycenae and her many splendors.” She shivered, remembering the heat in the king’s voice. The tour was a ruse to lower the ambassador’s defenses, make him comfortable, and in his laxity she should seek to exploit a cordial relationship. Falsehoods and lies when Helen prided herself on truthfulness and candor. The whole enterprise made her feel dirty.

  Aethra cupped her chin, forcing Helen to meet her motherly gaze. “That does not sound so hard, does it? Now stop your fretting. A face like yours is meant for smiles.” She tucked a red saffron flower into Helen’s brow, a red blossom to match her elegant chiton. The fabric was no match for the prince’s fine cloak, but its design was the best in the Hellas. Tyndareus had given her that dress, and its colors reminded Helen she was still a Princess of Sparta.

  Why me? Helen groaned again. I am no diplomat. And Nestra says I’m a hopeless hostess. Why send me? But knowing Agamemnon, there was some twisted reason behind her selection. “What do you think he wants me to do?” She tightened her shawl around her chest.

  “Peace, child. You’ll do nothing you aren’t willing to do. A king cannot command a man’s dignity.” Aethra grumbled, rubbing a drop of rouge onto Helen’s cheeks. “Or a lady’s!” She pulled Helen to her feet and inspected her nose to toe. “That’ll do. At least you look the part, so long as you don’t betray yourself by running through the fields.”

  Helen attempted a grin at the lighthearted remark, but failed miserably. It wasn’t only Agamemnon’s odd request twisting her stomach in knots, but the prospect of spending an entire day in the prince’s presence. She wanted very much to get to know the man better, and that desire frightened her. A fire ignited in her breast the moment she saw him, a fire she could barely contain. She felt like a young maiden dancing in the orchards waiting for a festival to begin. She could scarcely focus on the matters before her. Blessedly, she wouldn’t be alone. Aethra was more than capable of keeping her from making too much a fool of herself.

  “Let’s go. The cock’s already crowed twice.” Helen headed to the door.

  “But you must eat!” Aethra urged her toward the untouched tray of steaming oats.

  Helen waved her off and was halfway down the hall by the time her matron caught up. She could no more eat than calm her racing heart. In short order, they arrived in the guest wing of the palace and Aethra rapped on the prince’s door with her hard knuckles.

  The door immediately swung open. The Trojan guard at the entrance was similar in age to Aethra, the grey in his whiskers dominating the brown. He had a quiet presence about him, like that of the wildcats which roamed the mountains of Sparta, seemingly relaxed but ready to pounce in a moment’s notice. His eyes widened in recognition when he saw her, but other than that small gesture, he was a rock.

  “Your Highness,” he opened the door wide, stepping aside to grant her access.


  The prince stood by the balcony, his back to her, overlooking the court and numerous household staff busily completing their duties. He had forsaken his simple clothing for garments more suiting his station. A band of multicolored embroidery ran along the edge of his tunic. A matching sash was draped over his shoulder and tied along his waist. The cape was the same, the crimson material tied across his neck with golden rope. It was an item he clearly favored.

  Aethra stepped forward to announce her, but Helen held her maid back with a wary hand, taking the extra moments to study the stranger. The prince clasped his hands behind his back. He wore a heavy signet ring on his left hand that he twisted unconsciously as he watched the activities below. The curve of his shoulders lacked the bulky muscular frame of a Mycenaean soldier. His build was lean, like the Spartan men who finished the Agoge and went on to join the ranks of the royal army. He was incredibly handsome.

  Paris waited impatiently for the queen to be introduced. His shoulders itched, knowing she was near. He had carefully placed himself at the balcony so he would not be seen waiting submissively. Now that she was in the room, he couldn’t be the first to turn. In the delicate game of politics, whoever moved first lost.

  What is taking her so long?

  Then Glaucus cleared his throat. Loudly. Paris sighed, and spun to meet his host. He wasn’t going to win this first contest of wills.

  He made it half-way through his turn before jerking upright in alarm, his greeting frozen on his lips. He knew he was staring openly, but it couldn’t be helped. Of all the people Paris was prepared to see walk through his door, his mystery princess was not among them. His dignified poise vanished as he failed to find words.

  Helen curtsied gracefully as Aethra rattled off her titles, doing her best to ignore the confusion playing out on the prince’s face. “Your Grace.” She addressed him respectfully, keeping her eyes steady on his olive face as she righted herself.

  The soldier cleared his throat again, stirring the prince from his silence. “Princess, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

  Helen blushed, preparing herself for her first lie. “The Queen, my sister, finds herself preoccupied this day. I volunteered to act as your guide in her stead, if you so desire.” She watched his cheeks flush, whether from her words or the obvious insult, she could not tell. The lie was necessary, she reminded herself, if the prince was what Clytemnestra feared.

  Paris’ mind raced. So he was to be shuffled off to a lesser house member? Was Agamemnon trying to provoke him? One stray glance at Glaucus told him the captain’s opinion. The first jab was meant to see how many you would take before striking back. “Am I to assume the queen will be similarly preoccupied on the morrow?” the tension in his shoulders leaked into his words. “And for the duration of my visit?”

  Helen stiffened. He had every right to be upset. She knew he might take her replacement badly. It was stupid to take his anger personally, but strangely his response felt like a rejection of her. “I do not know the affairs of the queen,” she tore her eyes away from his handsome face, “but if you’d rather have another guide—“ she turned to the door.

  “No.” Paris stopped her quickly, grabbing her hands and pulling her back. “On the contrary, Princess. Nothing would please me more.”

  The second the prince touched her, Helen’s pulse began to race. His hands were rough, calloused from working rope or leather. It was a heady contrast to the scented oil in his hair and the fine clothes that he wore. Could he really be her enemy? Everything about the man seemed refined and genteel.

  “Please,” Paris added more gently. “I would be honored to share your company.”

  Relief flooded her and she smiled. It was one of her rare smiles, one she shared only when truly happy. His hands tightened in response and he lost himself in studying her face.

  Aethra cleared her throat. “My Lady?” Her tart voice cut right through the fog in Helen’s brain. “Should we start at the workshops?”

  Helen blushed, yanking her hands away. She was behaving like a brazen harlot. They were not alone. The last thing she needed was for idle whispers to reach her husband.

  “Yes, thank you Aethra. Your Grace?” She stepped aside to allow him to pass into the hall.

  “Paris.” The prince straightened his perfectly smoothed tunic. “Please, call me Paris. And this is Glaucus, my Captain at Arms.” He waved the guard forward, motioning the man to exit first.

  “Paris.” The word rolled easily off her tongue, familiar and smooth. She savored it like a rare foreign fruit. “And you must call me Helen.”

  They strolled through the palace grounds chatting amicably about nothing of consequence. Helen kept their conversation light, maintaining a steady pace toward the royal stables. She was determined to conduct herself regally and kept a proper distance between her and Paris, a prospect much easier in public than it had been in his chambers. And should she fail, there was always loyal Aethra, trailing a few paces behind them. The matron conversed quietly with the Trojan Captain, her eyes never far from Helen and her virtue.

  Helen asked on his travels, and Paris responded with generic details. They cast furtive glances at one another as they walked, and every few seconds their eyes would lock. A jolt of energy shot through her body each time that happened.

  “The city seemed a bit overcrowded when we travelled from the harbor yesterday.” Paris commented after a particularly tense silence. “Is that common?”

  “Yes,” she tore her eyes away from his, grateful for the change of topic. “There are many visitors for the upcoming Mounchia festival, but most are residents. The city has grown under Agamemnon’s rule. The land is fertile, and its rivers clear. Mycenae is the most influential state on the mainland.”

  Paris nodded appreciatively. “With so much land to spread to, I’m sure that trend will continue.” He glanced at her from the corner of his eye. “I noticed you say ‘the city’ not ‘our city’. Is this place not also your home?”

  “I am from Sparta.” Her chest swelled with pride. “It’s farther south from here and inland. In mountain country.” It had been too long since she last visited her homeland. The western steppes would be covered in lilac now. And Tyndareus would soon be sending the young recruits into the wilds to hunt their first blood. She sighed wistfully, lost in her memories.

  When she did not elaborate further, he prodded, “And is Sparta equally rich and fertile?”

  A stray image of legionnaires working the field crossed her mind. It was so preposterous she laughed out loud. “We do not grow crops in Sparta.”

  Paris raised his eyebrow, confused. “Then what do you grow?”

  A wicked smile crossed her face as she answered him point-of-fact. “Warriors, of course.” She walked a few paces before realizing he had stopped. It was clearly not the answer he expected to hear. “Are you coming?”

  “You lived along the western border?” Paris jogged to her side, trying to fit this new piece of information into the puzzle the princess represented. “Is it true what they say? Do the mythos live on the outskirts?”

  Helen stopped in her tracks. “What? Dragons and chimeras and hydras?” Those were rumors for young boys to whisper about when their mothers weren’t close enough to box their ears. “You have been spending too much time with sailors.”

  “Probably.” He grinned. “But if they do exist, it would have to be in the terra incognita. The western wilds are some of the last places unmapped. It’s bound to hold some secrets.” Paris’ eyes lit up with the prospect. “I’d give anything to walk those lands.”

  “And that land would grind a soft prince to mincemeat if he tried,” she added playfully, enjoying the banter. There was something irresistible in his excitement. How many frontiers had Paris travelled? How many new cultures had he explored? As an ambassador, the prince lived a life of adventure that she could only imagine.

  “Were the Spartans the first to conquer the wilds?”

  “Some of the first.” She state
d proudly. “But certainly the best. The barbarian hordes fought harder in our region than in any other.” She tried not to boast, but she was proud of her ancestors’ achievements. They deserved the respect of Troy.

  “So Sparta claimed those lands, but not Mycenae?” Thus far, Paris was having trouble understanding the complex alliances of the Helladic peoples. If they were back in the Old World, and Sparta was the premier military force, it would hold suzerainty over the other kingdoms.

  “Well, no...” Helen stumbled, realizing her mistake. Agamemnon was his host, not Tyndareus. “Mycenae is a port city. Her strength comes from trade.” But her explanation only made her adopted home sound weak.

  “Ah, traders.” Paris laughed. “Merchants have taken hold of Troy as well. One day I swear they will rule the world.”

  “Traders ruling instead of kings?” It took her a moment to realize he was joking, and she joined his hearty laugh. “I did not take you for a comedian.”

  “My brothers say I am more a fool than a diplomat.” He readily agreed, only his self-assured smile belying the comment.

  They were forced to wait at the royal stockyard while a shepherd crossed his herd of goats. It was an abnormally large flock, and the shepherd shot her an apologetic glance as they waited. Helen counted the dams, each with a pair of billies. The kidding had been a great success this year.

  “How many brothers do you have?” she asked, trying to imagine what a brood of Trojan princes would be like.

  “Too many.” His brow creased. “There are five of us legitimate, another twenty that are not, and equally so for my sisters.”

  Helen’s eyes shot wide. “Fifty?” It was hard to imagine. She always dreamed of having brothers. In her nocturnal imagination, they were twins, like her and Clytemnestra, and they lived to protect the girls from harm. But to have fifty brothers and sisters? “How do you tell them all apart?”

  “You don’t.” Paris grimaced. “At least not the ones who don’t matter.” He didn’t bother to add that he spent so little time at the capital he didn’t find that lack of familiarity inconvenient. He could only wish for that same anonymity from his siblings. But it was a vain wish. Everyone knew his name.