“I can do that,” he promised.
Paris, having finished his discussion with the harbor master, strode toward them. Lukos’ eyes widened with recognition as the prince stepped onto the dock.
“Trojan.” He grunted the word, the Spartan equivalent of a gasp of surprise.
Paris also studied the captain, a perplexed expression on his face.
“Lukos, this is Prince Paris of the royal house of Troy, a guest of Mycenae.” But the men already shook hands, ignoring her words.
“Jaffa, right?” Paris asked with a pleasantly surprised grin. “The Boar’s Tusk tavern?”
Lukos grunted again, a slight shade of embarrassment on his face. “What little I remember of it, aye. You should never offer a sailor a bottomless cup.”
Paris turned to her. “If you are wondering where my outlandish ideas about the frontier came from, Princess, you have to look no further. Lukos is quite adept at spinning a yarn.”
“Only when it buys me trading rights along the Sidonian coast.” He nodded to the prince. “Many thanks for that, Your Grace.”
Helen watched in amazement. Lukos was not a man who warmed to a person lightly. Yet here he was, addressing her mysterious prince like an old comrade in arms.
“Perhaps you can return the favor?” Paris suggested. “My Trade Master is in the market. I’m sure he’d be interested to know the current rates you’ve encountered in your travels, both near and far. If you don’t mind?”
“Done.” Lukos readily accepted. “Forgive me, Princess. But I best see about my cargo.”
“Of course.” She stepped out of Lukos’ way.
“I will deliver your message.” He promised again, then picked up his register and marched into town.
Helen watched him go, a pang of homesickness flooding her heart. She envied Lukos, that he could board a ship and sail wherever he pleased. If she had that luxury, she’d be back on Spartan soil.
“Were you expecting some news?” Paris asked her softly.
“No, but I was hoping.”
“From your father?” The question popped out of Paris’ mouth before he could censor himself. “I’m sorry, that’s none of my business.” But something inside him told him he was right. Helen had seemed so happy a moment ago. To watch the sorrow creep over her joyful face was daunting. He wanted to help her, if he could. That urge was almost overpowering.
Helen tensed. So many conflicting emotions battled inside her. It had been too long since anyone asked her about her father. Even Nestra, who shared her estranged status, never spoke of him. Giving these emotions voice would stir a pot of resentment that would only fester, Nestra said. But it was festering. Unable to share, those unspoken feelings boiled within Helen, unable to escape. Paris was a foreigner. He had no stake in her current predicament. She felt an overwhelming urge to confide in him.
“I made a mistake, a long time ago. I’m waiting for him to forgive me.” She tried to smile through the tears swelling in her eyes, but her traitorous mouth wouldn’t cooperate. A moment of respectful silence followed her words.
“I don’t know if this helps,” the prince finally spoke after a weighted hesitation, “but you should know you can’t change him, or how he feels about you. You can only be the best person you know how. The rest is up to the Gods.”
So many times during the day, she had seen a dark presence take hold of the prince, as though he were haunted by some dire purpose or secret too terrible to bear. As she stared up into his almond eyes, she saw it again, this time recognizing the darkness for what it was: the same abandonment she felt ripping her heart in pieces.
“Thank you.” She wiped away her tears, finally finding the will to smile. The one she received in turn made all her previous heartache vanish.
“I guess we should head back to the palace.” Paris added reluctantly, never taking his eyes from hers. The sun was dipping low on the horizon.
Helen turned to the fortress towering high on the acropolis. Reality, and the crushing weight of all the things she could not change, returned in force. She wished she could stay in the village and enjoy a simple life like the common folk she so loved. But she was a princess. The Fates had a different future in store for her.
Paris held out his arm for her and she readily accepted it. It wasn’t until they had left the village behind and rode up the Grand Walkway that she realized he no longer pulled away from her touch. She leaned back against him as they continued up the ramp, feeling comforted for the first time since she left her homeland behind.
Chapter 12
A Conflict of Interests
“HE IS well travelled.” Helen reported back to Agamemnon and her sister later that evening. “He has treated with a half dozen of our southeastern allies, and some of those unknown to us as well.”
“I knew that already.” Agamemnon shouted testily at her. “Details! Give me details, Helen.” He paced the space of his private antechamber completing the circuit in three giant strides. It made the room feel more cramped than usual. Helen couldn’t take two steps without the tall man glowering down on her.
At Clytemnestra’s insistence, they held this meeting behind closed doors. There were too many toadies at court who couldn’t be trusted, she said. And right now discretion was their biggest asset. Against what, Helen couldn’t fathom.
She dug into her memory, trying to unearth some detail that would satisfy the king. But, after several hours in the company of the prince, she had surprisingly little information to share that Agamemnon deemed appropriate. She could not find a fault where none existed.
Paris was nothing like her family suspected him to be. He was dignified and refined, showing her respect in ways she hadn’t experienced since leaving Sparta. Yes, there was a darkness to him, but it was nothing to be feared. When she looked into his almond eyes, she saw elements of herself reflecting back. He was simply a man performing his duty to his king, a position she intimately understood.
Clytemnestra sat behind the king on a bench lining the wall. Periodically she would glare at Helen and roll her eyes. Helen didn’t need to hear her thoughts to know her sister was disappointed in the lack of salacious news.
“There are dozens of royal children,” Helen added. “He is second born, but I sensed from his manner he was not in line for succession.”
Clytemnestra looked sharply to the king, this last detail spiking her interest. “A matter of legitimacy, perhaps?”
Agamemnon paused, giving the possibility some thought. “A bastard ambassador? I doubt it.” He scoffed. “Either he lied to you, Helen, or Priam considers his children disposable. Neither answer inspires confidence in me.”
“I told you his presence here was a message.” Clytemnestra’s voice cut through the room. “Priam won’t honor you with his heir, Husband. We can gather little lasting favor from this prince. You should refuse to treat with him until Priam sends a real ambassador.”
Helen swallowed a ball of guilt forming in her throat. The atmosphere of the chamber was fast resembling the frenzied craze of a witch hunt. Clytemnestra was usually cautious, but this behavior bordered on paranoia. She hardly knew the man. And Agamemnon did not care about the truth unless it uncovered some weakness he could exploit.
“He is a real ambassador.” Helen grit her teeth. “The traders in the market knew him.”
“What traders?” Clytemnestra turned on her. “He could have paid them to throw you off.”
“Are you saying Lukos can be bought?” Helen shot back. “You might question my judgement, Nestra, but do you question his?”
But her twin was intractable. “Don’t be blinded by his charms, Sister. You know he’s up to no good.”
“Quiet down, both of you!” Agamemnon shouted, the violent edge to his voice silencing them instantly. He turned to Helen, his coal-black eyes darker pools than the pits of Hades. “You promised you would study this stranger, Helen. You said you would help me see the truth of his intentions. Do you still plan to honor that p
romise?”
Years facing Agamemnon’s displeasure and free-flying fists had taught Helen to proceed with caution. She shivered, but held her ground. “I took him to the workshops and down to the market, like you requested.” She answered through clenched teeth. “He seemed genuinely interested in trade. If he has some hidden agenda, he has yet to show his hand.”
Yet. She saw the word settle into his mind. Only too late did she realize Agamemnon would not be satisfied until he found some nugget to discredit the Trojan. He would not see strength in their guest in fear it might lessen his own.
“And what of the man himself.” Agamemnon spoke after some consideration. “What are your personal feelings?”
Helen lowered her gaze, guilt overwhelming her. Paris had shown her nothing but kindness today, and she repaid him by betraying his confidence. What type of honorable person behaved in such a cowardly manner? When she looked up, she wiped her face blank, a clear canvas that reflected none of what transpired beneath. She had become expert in hiding her feelings.
Helen reclaimed her noble bearing and answered with a clear voice. “In my opinion-and this is based on very little information—the prince is here on errand from his king, a duty he is not pleased to conduct. His travels have made him arrogant, and he is numb to the splendors of Mycenae. I doubt there is anything we possess that would impress the man.” She hated the lie, but it seemed to mollify the king. Perhaps, if they thought Paris a vainglorious fop, they wouldn’t be so hell-bent on creating a reason to fear him.
Agamemnon turned to his queen. Clytemnestra left her perch on the bench, pressing her lips together tightly the way she always did when puzzling out information. Helen’s sister had the mind of a commander when she wished to indulge it.
“If he is nothing but a messenger, than perhaps we can send one back with him.” Nestra suggested, her cold blue eyes never blinking.
“What message?” Helen asked, a shiver of foreboding constricting her face.
Agamemnon brightened under the prospect, grasping immediately what Helen did not.
“What message?” she asked again, her eyes darting nervously between her sister and the king. He shrugged and waved Clytemnestra on, letting his queen do the honors.
“Take him to the armory tomorrow.” Clytemnestra instructed her. “Show him the practice fields and soldiers in training. We’ll see then if the Trojan remains indifferent.”
Helen froze. The armory... they intended to see the prince cowed. She cursed the Fates that bade she be this messenger. Helen gave Nestra a curt nod acknowledging the assignment and turned to the door, claiming the need to refresh herself before the dinner bell.
“Helen? One more thing.” Agamemnon called out to her. “The groomsmen said that you drove the chariot today?” His chill of disapproval struck a nerve of fear in her.
“Yes.” She swallowed the word, the blood draining from her cheeks. Helen tried to sneak rides in the field when she first arrived at Mycenae. The king quickly disabused her of the idea. Royal women did not cavort in public. “The prince was uncomfortable behind the reigns. Too much time at sea, he claimed. I thought it unwise to decline his offer since it seemed to put him at ease.”
Agamemnon’s eyes narrowed, and she feared he saw right through her bluff. Helen enjoyed her time with the prince, and that enjoyment was bleeding into indecent behavior. Any moment Agamemnon was going to toss her to the ground and remind her what happened to family members who reflected poorly on his kingship.
But Agamemnon’s lips spread in a lewd smile. He enjoyed watching her distress. “Thank you, Sister. You may go. And if you see your husband later, please express my displeasure that he was not present.”
Helen quickly took her leave, racing down the hall, as far away from the king’s plots and deceits as possible. She needed a bath. A hot one. And all the soap in the world might not be enough to scrub away the shame of what her family was forcing her to do.
Menelaus was not in their chambers, nor was he at the dining hall when the dinner bell rang. Helen entered the near-empty hall and took a seat several spaces down from the head table, her nerves frayed. She hoped it was enough to ensure she didn’t have to converse with Paris. After her interrogation by the king, she was terrified she would betray her growing affection for the prince.
She was torn between two duties. One to Agamemnon who commanded her loyalty, and the other to her honor that demanded she act on behalf of truth. Helen couldn’t let any harm befall Paris, not when she knew it was in her power to stop it. He was a blameless victim of Agamemnon’s quest for power.
Paris entered the room, crossing the hall with a light step. His hair was wet from the baths. Glaucus, as always, was a shadow step behind him. He cast her a friendly smile then proceeded forward to the king, taking a place on his right hand side.
She lowered her gaze to her empty plate, guilt overwhelming her. She couldn’t bear look at him.
“Helen.”
She turned, surprised to see Clytemnestra take a seat beside her. Nestra had also taken the time to freshen up. She wore a fresh chiton the color of a clear sky, offsetting her lovely eyes. It folded along her torso, belted at the waist, hiding what little pregnancy fat that still clung to her.
“Nestra.” Helen inclined her head to her sister, still smarting from their earlier encounter. She could not help but place blame at her sister’s feet. Nestra should have played guide today. It should have been the queen forced to choose between her duty and her honor.
Nestra fidgeted with her utensils, her eyes also downcast. “I regret some of the things I said today.” she blurted out. “Will you forgive me?”
The admission took Helen by surprise. Nestra hardly ever admitted when she was wrong. “There’s nothing to forgive.” She squeezed Nestra’s hand. “You were acting out of love for your king.”
But the fierce look on Nestra’s face belied that statement. “I don’t trust the Trojan.” She snapped. “And I dislike having you so close to the man. We... I sent you off with a stranger with no protection at all. I’m sorry, Helen. I won’t let my fears cloud my reason again.”
Helen sighed. Her sister’s concerns were well meant, but wholly unnecessary. “He’s harmless, Nestra. He’s a pampered prince who probably thinks I’m a spoiled royal. He can’t hurt me.” She reiterated, hating to perpetuate the lie she began in the king’s antechamber. But Clytemnestra did seem mollified.
Helen dared a glance up the table towards Paris and the king. She hoped she was right about him. The Gods save him—save them both—should he prove to be false.
The kitchen maids laid out a course of roast pheasant spiced with sage and goat cream just as Paris took his seat. Glaucus needed persuasion, but at the request of the king, Paris’ captain took a seat beside him.
“I hope you have been enjoying your time in town.” Agamemnon offered, raising a rhyton filled with spiced wine to his lips.
Paris dug into the meal with appetite, taking a juicy bite of the meat. “Yes, I have. It was unfortunate the queen could not join us. I hope her pressing concerns were not serious?” He pretended to be absorbed into his meal, but secretly watched the king from the corner of his eye.
Agamemnon, to his credit, did not gloat. He rolled his rhyton in his hand, letting the perfumed wine swirl dangerously to the lip of the vessel. “No woman’s duty is truly serious,” the king scoffed. “But unfortunately her responsibilities will keep her occupied for the remainder of the week.”
Paris took another vigorous bite of the fowl, letting his relaxed manner translate to the king. You cannot provoke me. An insult is not an insult if I do not acknowledge it.
“I must thank you for sending the princess in her stead. The horse master said I could not have a better guide. She is quite knowledgeable.” He made sure to thicken his voice enough to be misinterpreted.
There was a crack in the king’s armor at the remark. Was it pride? Or irritation? Paris had been trained to read the tiny reactions in a person�
��s face, to determine the subtext that the slightest fold at the eye, or the crease of a brow would indicate. Many of his missions sent him to realms without a common tongue. Body language was often the major form of communication.
But when he mentioned Helen, Paris swore the king’s eyes flashed with jealousy. The moment passed almost fast enough to not be called a moment. In its place, the king leered back, the eager smile of a man about to hook a fish. “She is at that.”
Of course, Paris meant what he said. An afternoon of drudgery had been replaced with something wholly unexpected. And though he let little of what he felt show externally, he was surprisingly impressed with the candor of the Mycenaean people, and with Helen in particular. The princess forced Paris to reevaluate everything he previously believed about the men of the West. She inspired her people, and yet had no idea the depths of their affection. It was an intoxicating mix of greatness and humility.
That was all, he told himself. He respected the princess. His esteem would never go beyond that. He had a job to do here, and he would not let his nascent feelings get in the way. To ensure that, he steadfastly refused to look down the table in her direction.
“Is your brother not present? I had hoped to establish a better acquaintance with the prince.” Paris asked. His words couldn’t be further from the truth. He had no desire to meet the man Helen wedded, but it was suspicious that Menelaus was absent. Was it another intended slight?
“He is busy rousing the banner men.” Agamemnon’s creased brow broadcast his irritation. “Your arrival caught us off-guard, I’m afraid. Every noble in the region would be distraught if we did not invite them hence to meet you. We seldom have royals grace our distant shores.”
“A pity for those other royals,” Paris added. The heavy aroma of roast peppers filled his nostrils as another servant deposited a tureen of barley stew before him.
Say what you will of this king, the man knows how to set a table.
The Princess of Sparta: Heroes of the Trojan War Page 13
