The Princess of Sparta: Heroes of the Trojan War

by Aria Cunningham

  Menelaus chewed his lip, his attempt at court decorum puckering him like a sour grape. “A hunt!” he bellowed. “Tomorrow. The spears are gathering in the stables at the hour of the wolf. Come enjoy some real sport.” He hefted the sword holstered at his hip, a thick broadsword that could cleave Paris in two.

  An entire day alone with this brute? Paris hesitated, shooting a quick glance to Glaucus. The captain looked similarly undecided.

  “That is, unless, you prefer the company of women...” A wicked grin spread across Menelaus’ broad face. He shared a crude laugh with his hunters.

  It was a familiar laugh for Paris. Their mocking tone cut right to his core. They saw his smaller frame, his preference for civility and respect, as a source of weakness. With one glance they presumed to know the measure of his worth. And like Hecuba and her minions, they found him lacking.

  Glaucus gave a tiny shake of his head. Don’t let them bait you, that motion warned. But Paris didn’t care. He felt the slap of that challenge. He didn’t want to back down anymore. This crude man had no idea the world of hurt Paris could inflict.

  “I could use some good sport.” Paris slapped Menelaus on his thick arm, meeting the prince glare for glare. “Count me in.”

  Clytemnestra jostled Orestes on her lap, trying to find a comfortable position on her throne as she nursed her infant son. The stiff replica of Agamemnon’s lofty chair cut into her tender hips. She longed for the cushions of her apartments, at least until she healed from the birthing, but such laxity was forbidden to her. A queen of Mycenae did not show that sort of weakness.

  The hall was filled with various courtiers and administrative toadies, whispering in shadowed corners. The Buzzard’s Bay, she’d dubbed them. Those cowardly men who waited till their betters showed some sign of frailty, and then they’d descend with their vicious gossip, pecking apart their beleaguered prey until there was nothing but bones and a shattered reputation.

  And today they waited for Helen to arrive, to hear her tale of danger and rescue. Not because they were concerned for the princess. No, they only cared how these new events would affect their standing. They waited, hoping for some slip of honor or duty, something they could exploit for their own benefit.

  Clytemnestra sneered. Ever since she arrived on Argive soil, a child bride alone and untrusted, they had tried to find a way to challenge her authority, desperate to discover a hole in her armor. They found none, and never would. So now they tried to strike at her through her sister.

  Pigs. She jostled her babe again, trying to still his constant kicking. Orestes bit down on her nipple, latching on with manic strength.

  “Hades Hounds!” she cursed, pulling the writhing babe from her breast. He wailed with powerful lungs, filling the megaron with his racket. “Take him.” She shoved the child to his wet-nurse.

  Orestes was becoming impossible to handle. He cried night and day. Cursed with the colic, her midwives informed her. Flesh of her flesh, she should have greater patience with the babe, but a growing resentment was festering in her heart. When she saw his swollen face red from crying, or his chubby hands grasping for her breasts, she wanted no part of him. He was his father’s son. Bit by bit, she left Orestes care to his nurses.

  Helen entered the hall trailed, as usual, by a flock of noble maidens. The women were as bad as the men, but instead of grasping for power, they traded in secrets. Fortunately, they were easier to manipulate, and this flock belonged to the queen.

  Nestra caught the eye of one of Helen’s handmaidens, Astyanassa. The girl had fleshed out into an alluring vixen in her time at Mycenae, her long black hair a veil to hide a naughty nature that would make even Aphrodite blush.

  Astyanassa smiled seductively, a telling sign to Clytemnestra that her mission was a success. These Trojans were no different than other men. Spill their seed and their secrets would follow.

  Nestra descended from the throne and rushed to her sister’s side. Helen’s sudden arrival this afternoon, trembling like a leaf and pale as a ghost, had taken the palace by surprise. Her matron refused to let anyone near her. Clytemnestra almost had the Trojan prince seized, certain her condition was somehow Paris’ fault. But Aethra and the unflinching Trojan captain immediately revealed the circumstance of Helen’s shock. And their tales spread like wildfire throughout the palace.

  The heroic Prince Paris... Nestra hated when events moved beyond her control. This information should have come to the king first, and then revealed to the court in the manner he deemed fit. Now every noble wanted a piece of this foreign prince, the girls to woo him and the men to garner favor. It could all be lies for all Clytemnestra knew.

  But a well told lie was as good as truth for these toadies. Let them suck up to the prince. He’ll probably enjoy it. What do I care so long as Helen is safe?

  “Sister.” Nestra wrapped her warm arms around her twin and pressed her lips to Helen’s cheeks.

  This is flesh of my flesh. She clung to Helen tightly, her twin’s love fulfilling her in ways Agamemnon, and even Orestes, never could. She pulled back from the embrace, and inspected her sister. The color had returned to Helen’s cheeks. Nestra insisted she soak away her trauma in a hot bath before presenting herself to the throne. It appeared to have done wonders.

  “Leave us. All of you.” Nestra glowered at the court. “My sister has endured enough today without you buzzing around like harpies.”

  The hall emptied, but that hardly meant there weren’t lurkers in the eaves. Nestra took Helen’s arm in hers, and led her to the private antechamber behind the throne. It was the only place she was modestly sure they wouldn’t be overheard.

  “Where is Agamemnon?” Helen asked.

  “Finishing his afternoon repast.” Nestra answered with a sniff.

  Helen watched her with a concerned eye. The sisters showed the world a brave face; their Spartan dignity demanded it. But to each other, those defenses were unnecessary. They shared their hurts freely. “Which one?”

  “Chimera, a kitchen wench. He’s been favoring that one lately.”

  There was no illusion what her husband was up to. He began taking his meals alone in their apartments as soon as she grew too round to be mounted. Normally Agamemnon would cast off his harlots by this stage in her recovery, but not this time. Not that Clytemnestra minded. Severing the physical side of their relationship had strengthened their ability to work together as King and Queen.

  Mistresses were an unfortunate reality of palace life. Clytemnestra was too smart to acknowledge the dishonor publicly. But she had ways of making the lives of those brazen bitches miserable. Catching the eye of the king was not the honor they thought.

  Helen curled her lip, as disgusted with the king’s behavior as she was. It was a shame Agamemnon had not learned the art of discretion as Menelaus had. There were only a handful of people who knew of the prince’s particular appetites.

  Helen crossed the antechamber to warm herself by the hearth, a distant look in her eyes as she stared into the glowing coals. Nestra made sure the chamber door was secure before joining her. “What happened, Helen? Tell me everything.”

  “I... I lost my way.” Helen wrung her hands, her knuckles turning white under the pressure. “I got too far ahead of Paris and his guard. I thought the sounds up ahead belonged to them and I walked right into the bull’s territory.”

  Nestra sucked her breath between clenched teeth. Helen was lying. She could always tell. There was a slight tremor to her voice, and her eyes would shift nervously. Why would she lie?

  “Is that all?” Nestra pressed. “You weren’t trying to escape the Trojans? Paris didn’t do anything to upset you?”

  Her sister went frigid, her eyes as round as saucers. “Of course not!”

  But there was something hidden behind her terse reply. Clytemnestra grabbed Helen’s icy hands, forcing her sister to meet her gaze. “Whatever it is, I won’t breathe a word to Agamemnon, I swear. You can trust me.”

  Helen’s silence sla
mmed into Nestra with the force of a hammer. There were no secrets between them.

  “What happened?” she demanded again.

  The change was subtle, invisible to someone who did not know this woman as intimately as she. Helen softened. A wave of relief flooded over Nestra. She could suffer terrible insult and injury, but the thought of estrangement from her twin was beyond agony.

  “I—“ Helen began.

  That was when her idiot husband chose to join them. Helen clenched her jaw shut and instantly regained her armor of disaffected coolness.

  “Ah, there are my ladies.” Agamemnon strode across the chamber to place a lusty kiss on her. He had the decency to make Helen’s more chaste. “Now what is this nonsense I hear about a bull?”

  Clytemnestra retreated beyond the hearth, tightening her shawl around her shoulders as Helen recounted her story. It was a terse description, action with no embellishment, a retelling so colorless it would make a number-loving scribe envious. Agamemnon listened intently, missing the salient fact that Helen gave no indication of her personal feelings in the encounter.

  “He wove a spell over the creature with his words.” Helen finished her tale. “I would not believe it had I not witnessed the event with my own eyes.”

  Agamemnon slapped his knee and let fly a harsh laugh. “He is no wizard, Little Sister. He’s a tauromancer.”

  Nestra looked sharply to her husband. A what?

  “I forget how stunted your Spartan upbringing was.” His laugh died off derisively. “Bull fighting. In Crete, the practice is common. I was first introduced to the sport when visiting my grandsire’s court. But its origin is further east, from Cyprus and beyond.”

  “Sport?” Helen recoiled, a flash of annoyance in her hard stance. “I hardly think the bull was playing.”

  Her annoyance amused the king. He always lorded his superior knowledge over Helen’s innocence—schooling her, he said. Nestra stepped protectively between them and watched her husband’s lusty grin morph into a leer.

  “You’re supposed to kill the bull, not tame it. Only the acrobats confront the beasts unarmed.” He pulled his fingers through his thick beard. “It’s a devilishly tricky sport to master, leaping bulls. Perhaps I’ve underestimated our little princeling.”

  Nestra sniffed. A prince leaping bulls! That was behavior for jesters and entertainers, hardly the province of royalty. This piece of information did little to impress her. But Agamemnon laughed again, clearly of a different opinion.

  “This should make tomorrow interesting.” He muttered.

  She felt Helen tense behind her. “Tomorrow?” Nestra turned to her husband. “What’s happening tomorrow?”

  “Menelaus has arranged a hunt.” Agamemnon’s expression turned sour as it always did when his little brother was mentioned.

  Nestra studied her twin from the corner of her eye. Helen was trembling. Was she worried for this prince? A spike of jealousy lodged itself in Nestra’s heart.

  The Trojan is not worthy of her concern.

  Clytemnestra took a deep breath, burrowing that spike away. She reminded herself that Helen had just been saved by the man. Some leniency was merited. And considering Menelaus’ fierce temper, perhaps concern was in order, tauromancer or not.

  “We should accompany them.” she declared to the surprise of her husband and Helen alike. “The court could use a demonstration of their leader’s prowess. They’ve been holed up in the palace all winter like rats in a den.”

  Agamemnon seemed eager for the excursion, too. Her fool husband was probably intending to join the hunt, regardless. Serve him right if he gets pelted by a stray arrow.

  “A brilliant suggestion, Wife.” Agamemnon leapt to his feet. “But keep the list small. Some of those sycophants are more apt to scare game away than chase it out.”

  Nestra smirked. Restricting the invitation had the added benefit of making the ones left behind fret over why they were left out. “As you wish, Husband.”

  “And let’s keep this information about the prince to ourselves.” Agamemnon decided with a wicked grin. “Why bother Menelaus with little details?”

  Nestra rolled her eyes. The games those brothers tormented each other with were beyond her. She often wondered what was the source of their mutual hatred.

  “May I take my leave, Your Grace?” Helen asked.

  Nestra had thought Helen would be more relieved at her suggestion, but her twin was as twitchy as a flea-ridden mongrel. She could hardly stand still. Something odd was happening with her sister, and Clytemnestra did not like it.

  Agamemnon waved her off, and Clytemnestra followed after her. Helen was not going to escape their conversation that easily. But the second Nestra exited into the megaron, a dozen courtiers surrounded her. Helen was already disappearing out the portico.

  “Your Grace?”

  Nestra turned to Astyanassa’s sultry voice.

  “A moment of your time?”

  Clytemnestra balked. Helen would have to wait. It was disturbing that her sister would try to lie to her, but she decided it was more important to root out the source of that betrayal, and that meant uncovering every dark detail about this foreign prince.

  And if the Trojan hurt her precious sister in any way, Nestra would hold nothing back.

  Chapter 15

  The Hunt

  THE ANNOUNCEMENT that the court was joining the hunt reached Paris shortly after his brief meeting with Menelaus. Since the gathering was so early, the dinner meal was cancelled. The kitchen staff brought trays to their rooms, which meant he had to suffer through dinner with no one but Glaucus for company.

  The captain had gone hoarse preaching caution. Paris murmured the occasional “of course” and “certainly” during the diatribe, but Glaucus’ dire warnings fell on deaf ears. Paris hungered for this opportunity. Men like Menelaus had pushed him around from his infancy. They attacked him with impunity knowing the temple approved of their measures, and that the crown would not defend him. But not here, not now. All of Paris’ hopeless desires for Helen channeled itself into a single, overwhelming urge to prove his worth to Agamemnon, to Menelaus, to the world itself.

  He woke the next morning bristling with energy, and was down to the stables before the rest of the house had awakened. Haemon greeted him at the barn doors, his limp more pronounced in the frigid pre-dawn air.

  “We weren’t expecting you for another hour, Your Grace.”

  Paris took the proffered torch, craning his neck to get a good look at the stock. “I don’t like to ride out on an animal I haven’t acquainted myself with,” he told Haemon while inspecting the horseflesh from stall to stall.

  The majority of the animals were stocky, bred for charging. Paris passed them by. They were too much like their Greek masters, muscular and inflexible. He wanted an animal that could respond quickly and adapt to a changing terrain. “Is this the entire royal stock?”

  “Half the mares are thick with foal.” Haemon answered with a nod of apology. “But the best bloodlines are here.”

  Paris was about to give up hope when a loud braying erupted from a dark corner of the stables. He lifted his torch high banishing the shadows to the rafters, and a magnificent red-gold stallion reared from the flame.

  He was young, barely over a two-year. The horse whinnied like a bellows, trumpeting his frustration at being imprisoned. Paris approached the animal, his hand outstretched to allow his scent to precede him. “Why is this one separated from the others?”

  “What, Kronos?” Haemon spat in the hay. “He has a temper as foul as his breeding. He’s a runt, Your Grace.”

  Kronos reared again, shaking his black mane with fury. Paris reached out and pulled his snout down, forcing the stallion to meet him eye to eye. “He’s perfect. Bring out some tackle.”

  Haemon shuffled off, grumbling to himself, “Don’t listen to me, I’m just the Horse Master...”

  “He doesn’t think much of you.” Paris told the horse in Phrygian. Kronos’ ear
s perked up at the foreign tongue. The Phrygians boasted they were the first to tame an equine, that they shared a kinship with the noble creatures. It was moments like this that Paris almost believed it true. “Would you like to prove him wrong?”

  Kronos watched the horse master hobble away and brayed again. Once the outburst was finished, he turned to Paris, an inquisitive look behind his wide liquid eyes. Paris fished an apple out of his tunic and took a bite. The horse nudged closer, his nostrils flared until Paris handed over the morsel.

  “You know, tough guys don’t beg for treats.” He rustled the stallion’s mane, keeping his hand close to Kronos’ muzzle. Paris could tell the beast was calming; his tail stopped swishing and his ears relaxed.

  “That runt’s not broken, Trojan.” Menelaus shouted from across the stable. “My brother won’t be pleased when the beast throws you and you break that pretty neck.” The Mycenaean crossed into the stall of the largest stallion in the barn, tossing a padded saddlecloth over the giant’s back.

  Kronos brayed nervously, shuffling back into his stall and away from Greek prince. Paris stepped protectively in front of him. If Menelaus’ voice could create that panic, Paris wondered what other abuse the horse had received.

  “I doubt you have an animal here that could unseat me.” Paris shot back. It wasn’t a boast. He and Hector had been placed in a saddle as soon as they could walk. But Menelaus eyed him doubtfully, a lifetime of false truths making him overconfident. Size did not make a man harder to toss. It only made them land harder when they fell.

  In a single move, Paris grabbed Kronos’ mane and leaped up onto the stallion bareback. Once up, Menelaus could no longer sneer down on him. He grinned at the Mycenaean, kicking Kronos into motion. “But I am touched by your concern, Your Highness.”

  “I hope you brought your sword this time, Trojan.” Menelaus’ bitter laugh followed him out of the stable. “That sweet tongue of yours won’t save you in the king’s Wood.”

  The stockyard was filling with huntsmen and courtiers when Helen arrived in the pre-dawn darkness. The hounds raced underfoot, feeding off the energy of their human counterparts. Blood would be shed this day, and both hunter and hound lived for that opportunity.