She cursed herself and her lewd behavior. She was a married woman and a princess! She could not give in to these feelings. These... urges... were fleeting, a moment of weakness in her traitorous heart. She was tasked with showing him the capital, and that was all. She picked up her pace.
A handful of goldsmiths worked along the porticos, taking advantage of the soft light of the mid-morning sun while they hammered plates of the precious metal into intricate designs. Some of the artisans waved to her, but Helen rushed past them, too agitated to stop for a friendly hello. She climbed further up the summit, increasing her speed as if she meant to outpace her unfaithful thoughts. It wasn’t until she reached the top of the acropolis that she realized where her feet had unconsciously taken them.
A hundred feet ahead the hillside came to an abrupt end, the rocky precipice jutting dangerously over the vast Khavos Ravine to the south and the violent Argolic Gulf waters to the east. It was the place she found solace when her thoughts grew dark, when she needed to escape the pressures of the life she had chosen... the place she had first seen Paris.
Helen spun back toward the prince, a sudden realization flooding her. She had prayed that night, begged in fact, for the Goddess to grant her some reprieve from her life. Was it mere coincidence that Paris arrived at that precise moment? Was he the answer she asked for?
“Princess?” He approached her, a puzzled look on Paris’ face as he waited for her to pick their path.
She chided her foolishness. Nestra would mock her if she gave ear to this superstitious nonsense. But still, Helen couldn’t shake the uncanny connection she felt with this man.
“This way.” She turned away from the precipice and back toward the temple plateau.
Paris frowned, certain he had said something to upset her. He hadn’t meant to act so familiar before. He prided himself on his reserve, his discipline, but Helen had a bewitching way of putting him at ease. He scarcely felt himself in her presence.
And when she pulled away... he was instantly reminded of his life back in Troy, the cursed child whose presence was to be avoided at all cost. His clumsy attempts to impress her only seemed to make her more uncomfortable.
Paris shook his head. The princess had no use for his friendship. And, as much as he wanted it, his mission did not require earning hers. He needed to stay focused on the task at hand.
The plateau comprised over a furlong of flat open space. At the southern edge an enormous temple dominated the vista. It towered three stories high and was open to the air, a dozen fluted columns stretching to the heavens like fingers of the earth goddess reaching for her mate in the clouds.
“The House of Columns, sacred to Hera.” Helen spoke as four priestesses exited the inner sanctum. They held clay censers filled with smoking incense that they swung from side to side as they sang a light hymn. It was a pleasant tune, one that spoke of the Goddess’ birth waters fertilizing the plains.
Helen paused, watching Paris closely for any sign of awe. Most pilgrims dropped to their knees when they first spied the sacred temple. But Paris was not looking at the House of Columns. Instead, he faced a solitary building sheltered on the corner of the plateau.
“Now there’s a sight,” he whispered.
Helen turned to the direction he was looking. A modest-sized temple sat beneath an orchard of blooming apple trees, its limestone walls covered in ivy and a narrow stream trickled across its portal door. She was glad he noticed the small treasure.
“It’s a shrine to Aphrodite. A gift from Agamemnon to my sister and me. Would you like to see it?” When he nodded, she led him across the plateau.
Once they stepped beneath the shade of the sacred grove, Helen could not help but smile. This small parcel of land, so similar to the temple in Sparta, always made her feel at home. She raised her hand, trailing her fingers across the low-hanging branches, its pink blossoms floated into the air like butterflies on wing.
Helen closed her eyes and let the flowers shower over her, spinning with delight. The clear water from the stream licked at her ankles as she stepped over to the portal door. Pausing at the entrance, she turned to find her guest. Surprisingly, Paris was not at her side. He hung back a safe distance, watching her play.
“Come on.” She beckoned him to the door.
But he balked at the stream. “I shouldn’t. I feel like a trespasser.”
“It’s all right,” she insisted. “Men are allowed.”
“Noble men,” Aethra placed a firm hand on Glaucus’ chest as he moved to join the prince. “Not the likes of you.” Her sharp tone brokered no argument. “We’ll wait for you outside, Princess.”
The shrine was not large, no more than ten paces wide. Skylights allowed sunbeams to dapple into the small room. Helen walked into the familiar space and past the stone altar covered in wild flowers. A bust of the Goddess rested in a nook, Her serene gaze smiling down on Her offerings.
Helen lit a candle from the other burning votives lining the wall. “At the full moon, they say Artemis guards the grove with a silver bow, keeping away the unwanted eyes of men.” She spoke softly, the quiet nature of the shrine adding to her pensive mood. “Young virgins will dance beneath the trees and beseech the Goddess for her favor. If the girl is pure of heart, Aphrodite will bless her with a life of love and happiness.”
Paris watched her, feeling the sorrow he was not sure she intended to impart. There was something achingly sad about Helen’s tale, as though she said the words but did not believe them. “Now I know I am trespassing.” He forced a laugh, a nervous tremor marring his regal composure. “Didn’t your maid say you were chosen by the Goddess?”
“Yes, or so they tell me.” Helen made efforts to keep her tone light. Chosen of Aphrodite... Her father had sworn it was an honor. His conviction had given Helen faith, and she trusted the temple as naively as a little child. Only Nestra had the wisdom to warn her against such blindness.
“Did you dance once? In a grove like this?”
A vision of her womanhood ritual flooded over Helen, and of all the wonders Tryphosa had promised. “I did.” She clenched her jaw, fighting the bitterness that had become a constant companion once those promises had proven hollow.
She shook off her dark thoughts and managed a bittersweet smile for the prince. Plucking a poppy off the altar, she tucked the blossom into the binding of his cape. “You said no God has claimed you?”
“Not to my knowledge.” Paris tensed as she pressed the stem against his skin.
“Then perhaps you are meant for Aphrodite. Maybe you are one of her chosen ones, too.”
Her chosen fool, perhaps... Paris’ heart pounded beneath Helen’s gentle touch. Propriety screamed at him to go. He knew he shouldn’t be alone with this intoxicating, married, woman. But when she gazed up at him, her jewel-blue eyes framed by black-as-night lashes, he was utterly powerless. He could not take his eyes off her; her rosy lips parted ever-so-slightly as if begging to be kissed. His tongue grew heavy in his mouth.
“I... um, doubt the Goddess would want me.” His muscles finally unclenched, and he backed away from her nervously. He raised his fingers to his lips and pressed them to the altar. Whispering a prayer for self-restraint, he hastily backed out of the temple like an awkward boy.
The hot sun hit him with the force of a tidal wave. He soaked it in, the roar of his heated blood clouding his vision to all but the image of Helen’s breathtaking face. He was within inches of pressing her down on that altar and ravishing her.
What am I doing?
“Paris!” Glaucus hailed him from along the drop-off facing the ravine. Helen’s dour maid was at his side, glaring at Paris as he exited the temple.
Not that Paris blamed her. For all his rigorous discipline and training, he felt control slipping from his fingers. Paris tried to shake off his bewilderment, and sloshed through the stream in Glaucus’ direction.
Helen quickly followed after him, her face flushed with embarrassment. Had she upset him? He moved aw
ay so quickly. And then her words struck her. The Goddess was a patron of youth and innocence. She could not claim the prince if he was already claimed...
“Is your wife very beautiful?” Helen swallowed a small lump in her throat as she followed him to the ridge.
“I... don’t have one.”
Helen nearly tripped, she was so stunned. As handsome as Paris was, she suspected he’d have been married ages ago. “Why?”
“That’s... complicated.” He picked up his pace.
Complicated? How could it be complicated? Especially for a royal? Most matches were prearranged before a prince or princess came of age. She pressed him for an answer, mindless of fact that she was prying.
“I haven’t gotten around to it yet.” The words fell like stones from Paris’ mouth. He had no desire to tell her his reasons for bachelorhood, of the burdens of being a man shadowed by a dark fate. That truth would only result in the warmth of her kind affections to grow cold.
But to Helen, his reluctance to speak spoke volumes nonetheless. His reticence in the temple, the pained longing that occasionally tensed his face—she recognized the loneliness that haunted her days. Whether by choice or by fortune, she was certain he was denied the love of the person he sought. Her heart twisted as she imagined a woman of stunning beauty standing along a seashore whispering a prayer for Paris’ safe and swift return.
“...is she waiting for you? This woman that you love?” Helen spoke after a slight hesitation. She had no idea why she asked, but the question felt important, like a missing piece in the puzzle of the man before her.
Paris glanced nervously toward the nearing ridge. Glaucus and Aethra were almost within earshot. “There is no other woman,” he swore, and the haunted shadow returned to his face.
Helen gasped, finally understanding what he meant by “complicated.”
“It is a man, then?”
The prince stumbled, nearly tripping over himself. Apparently Glaucus had excellent hearing. The soldier was beside himself with laughter. Only Aethra wore her same dignified frown.
“That has never been my appetite, Princess,” he asserted as soon as he could speak. “I have been an ambassador for Troy for the past eight years. That lifestyle is not conducive to finding a bride.” He spared an evil glare for Glaucus who had yet to settle down. “Although I know a few men who could use a good buggering.”
“Forgive me, My Prince.” The captain wheezed, still waving them up to the overlook. “But I think there is something you would like to see.”
Aethra immediately stepped between them, hoisting her standard over Helen’s head. “Having an engaging conversation, are you?”
Helen flushed. Ignoring her matron’s glare, she joined the men on the overlook. The ridge rose a hundred feet over the Khavos Ravine where fields of wheat extended far into the horizon. A gentle breeze picked up from the west and set the stalks in motion. The land rolled like a golden sea, an ocean that could feed a nation.
Helen sighed. It would feed a nation, but not theirs. Agamemnon had already promised this yield to Crete on the summer tide. Philon was right to be concerned.
“I have to go down there.” Paris declared with surprising urgency.
Helen cast him a puzzled look. This gave him pause? No piece of art, no palatial structure could spike his interest, but a wheat field inspired awe? “There is a meadow on the far side of the crop. We can have our afternoon meal down there, if you’d like.”
“Yes, please.” he answered eagerly, his face lit up with childlike glee.
Helen turned to Aethra, a similar eagerness dominating her own face. She could use this distraction to her benefit and rid herself of her disapproving chaperone. “Go back to the palace and gather some refreshments. We’ll be by the laurel tree on the west side.”
Aethra hesitated, her hands twisting with concern. She looked at Glaucus and the prince suspiciously. “I shouldn’t leave you, Princess. It wouldn’t be proper.”
Anger flashed in Helen’s eyes. She was tired of Aethra’s peevish concerns. Helen was not a child any longer; her matron should not question her judgement.
“Fetch the meal, Aethra,” she repeated firmly. The elder woman, albeit reluctant, ducked into a curt bow and retreated without another word.
Helen led the Trojans down a narrow series of switchbacks that cut into the rock face and down to the valley below. It was a dusty affair, this road was normally reserved for beasts of burden, but they reached the valley in a matter of minutes.
It was hotter in the valley. A light sheen of perspiration broke out on Helen’s forehead as she pressed through the crops. She mentally cursed herself for her pride. If Aethra were near, she’d at least have some shade.
After what seemed like an eternity, they entered the far meadow. Helen took off her sandals and cooled her feet in the nearby brook, not caring if the behavior was unbecoming of a princess. The sun was shining, the day was young, and she was enjoying herself far too much for such scruples.
Paris and Glaucus entered behind her, deeply engrossed in conversation. “It must be a hybrid strand. Look how robust the stalks are.” Paris twirled a piece of wheat in his fingers.
The curiosity was killing her. “Wheat?” she laughed. “Truly? Are you that enamored by a silly plant?”
Paris crossed to her rock, amused by her playful ignorance. He attempted a serious tone as he spoke. “Whenkingdoms go to war, they salt their enemy’s fields. Nothing will grow for seasons and people starve.” A haunted memory pulled at him. It was a cruel fate that the people suffered the sins of their rulers. He had seen too many children dying of starvation, images he could never forget. “But a hardy plant,” he continued, twirling the stalk in front of Helen’s face, “like this one here, might have a better chance to survive. It could save lives.” He tapped her on the nose with the stalk. “Now what where you saying about silly plants?”
“Silly?” she feigned innocence. “Did I say silly? I meant special, of course.”
It was special. Helen had never seen a ruler show concern for the commonwealth the way Paris espoused. Agamemnon cared only for his own greatness, the plight of his subjects be damned. But Helen knew it was the people who made a land great, and the might of a king was only a reflection of theirs.
Glaucus circled around the clearing, his eyes darting over the tall crop. “There’s too much cover here, Paris.” he grimaced, gripping his spear tight. “I’m going to scout the perimeter.” Paris waved him on, but the captain hesitated at the edge of the clearing. “I’ll just be gone a moment.”
Paris suppressed the urge to toss a rock at the man. It was one thing for Glaucus to watch his back, but he didn’t want the man’s prudish nature alarm the princess. He turned back to Helen, relieved to see she paid the guard no attention. She was splashing her feet in the stream, her chiton gathered about her knees exposing two perfect ivory-toned legs. Her hair was unpinned, and the golden tresses dangled loosely around her breasts.
A small wave of panic gripped Paris as he realized they were completely alone. But even knowing that, he could not help but ask, “May I join you?”
“Of course.” She scooted over on her rock.
Paris unlaced his sandals and dipped his feet alongside hers. The water was refreshingly crisp, the product of spring thaws on the mountain rages above. “That feels blessedly good.” he groaned. Closing his eyes, he leaned back on the ground, soaking in the warm sunlight.
Helen leaned over Paris, watching him breathe. His chest fell in even rhythms. It was a muscular chest, not brawny like the Greek men she was accustomed to, but lean. As he exhaled, a tiny smile crept over his face. He looked absolutely content laying in the dirt.
A pang of guilt twisted in her heart. She could not imagine sharing a day like this with Menelaus. He would never allow her to speak as freely as she did with Paris. He would never surprise her with an act of kindness or compassion.
Paris’ eyes shot open, and he gasped, utterly surprised to find he
r so near.
“I...” Helen stammered, an inexplicable guilt washing over her. She hadn’t meant to sit so close... she was only curious. But that was a lie, and she knew it. She was drawn to this prince as powerfully as two magnets pulled by some inexplicable force.
Paris swallowed nervously, trying hard to reclaim his composure. But at this proximity, he couldn’t think straight. He wanted this mysterious beauty with a desperation that burned out reason. His pupils constricted as he stared hopelessly into her eyes. No wall of propriety, no mask of humor barred its way. His look was one of pure unadulterated adoration.
Helen could scarcely breathe, mesmerized by his powerful gaze. Her head felt woozy. She felt herself sinking towards him and planted a hand on his chest to steady herself. But that touch only intensified the feeling.
“I am a twice-damned fool.” Paris moaned, and reaching up he pulled her lips to his.
Shock waves ran through Helen’s body. Paris’ kiss ignited her in ways she couldn’t describe. The hot steam of his breath, the rough stubble on his jaw, the salty taste of his tongue... she reeled from it. She opened her mouth for more, inviting him to continue.
But when he reached his other hand to cradle her neck, the moment snapped. She pulled back sharply, eyes wild, panic flooding her.
What am I doing?
Paris sat up, reaching for her. “Wait, Helen...”
But she leapt to her feet, shame lending her strength. She couldn’t stay here, she had to get away. She turned and ran into the field.
“Helen!” his panicked voice followed after her.
The thick stalks slapped at her face, the bristles scratching at her bare skin. In her mad rush, she had left her sandals at the brook, and the dried husks littering the ground bit into her soft feet. Helen ignored the pain, and continued to run as fast as she could.
The Princess of Sparta: Heroes of the Trojan War Page 15
