Menelaus tried to reach a fist over his shield to hit his prey, but the tusks were too long. The boar’s vulnerable head was just out of reach.
Paris took aim again. If he didn’t shoot now, then he was committed to letting this animal take a piece of the prince. He let his arrow fly just as Kronos shifted nervously away from the action. His arrow, meant to distract the pig by striking its flank, sailed dangerously close to Menelaus’ head and sank just below the pig’s ear.
Paris cursed, leaping off the horse and narrowing the space between him and the animal. “He’s mine!” Menelaus screamed, his fury unabated. “Back off!”
But the boar had made no such promise. It spotted Paris, a smaller obstacle and lacking the wide shield Menelaus carried. It decided these odds were much better. Paris loaded another arrow as it raced towards him.
Aim. Draw. Loose. This time his arrow flew true, sinking into the beast’s baleful eye. But its momentum was too great; it still charged at Paris, unaware that death was grabbing hold of its tail. Paris dropped his bow and held his hands out before him, grabbing the boar’s tusks as they thrust at his chest. He launched himself over the beast, his heel kicking the butt end of his arrow deeper into the boar’s brain. It dropped instantly to the ground.
“NO!” Menelaus scrambled through the loamy soil towards him. He ripped his spear from the carcass and advanced on Paris, puffing as wildly as the wounded pig. “That was my beast, Trojan. I had him dead to rights.”
Paris froze. Nothing in his training had prepared him for an encounter like this. Menelaus advanced on him, his haft dripping blood, his eyes wild with battle rage. Paris itched to unsheathe the sword at his hip, but a deeper voice screamed inside his head for restraint. He could not, under any circumstance, bear a weapon against his host. It was a line he would not be the first to cross.
Paris stood his ground. He let his arms drop uselessly to his side. He was far from helpless, his body was as much a weapon as the metal he carried, but Menelaus didn’t know that. By sheer size, the advantage was still in the Mycenaean’s favor, if he chose to press it by attacking an unarmed man. Menelaus raised his spear, and—
“HOLD!” Agamemnon’s heavy voice boomed through the clearing. The king and remaining huntsmen stared down on them from the tree line. He spurred his horse forward, forcing Menelaus back a pace. Agamemnon lowered his voice, but Paris was still close enough to hear their heated exchange.
“You fucking braggart, he’s my guest!”
“That was my pig!” Menelaus growled back. “He stole my kill. Only a worm hunts with a bow.”
Agamemnon dismounted, landing hard beside Menelaus. Shoulder to shoulder, the king dominated his little brother. “Only a worm harms a houseguest. You. Will. Back. Off.”
Menelaus cursed. He tossed his spear at the dead boar, crushing in the top of its skull. He stalked back to his horse and mounted, spinning one last time to Paris, the struggle for control playing out on his face. “That was my pig. The next time you steal what’s mine, I’ll slit your fucking throat.” He reared his horse and tore off into the brush. Half the huntsmen followed with him.
Paris could feel Agamemnon’s eyes on him, carefully watching his reaction. He had none. He wouldn’t give the blowhard his anger or fear. He gave him nothing, just like he deserved.
But that didn’t mean he felt nothing. Paris’ rage simmered just beneath the surface, stretching every nerve in his body taut. He felt like a coiled asp, ready to strike, yet utterly still until that last decisive moment.
Menelaus was an animal. And he was Helen’s lord. Paris remembered the fear in her voice, the terror when she spoke of her duty to her husband. Paris had to still the shaking in his arms. Of all the cruel injustices...
“Please forgive my brother.” Agamemnon stood beside him, his eyes also following the retreating form of the prince. “The Gods were wise when they made him second born. The prospect of him commanding an army is terrifying.”
Paris turned sharply to the king. There was no apology in his voice, he meant for Paris to consider that prospect. Menelaus was married to Helen, and Helen was a Princess of Sparta—a land, by her own admission, that bred warriors. Paris swallowed the bile creeping up his throat and looked down at his kill. The boar was bloodied, its flesh torn, its skull cracked. Yes, Paris had landed the killing blow, his arrow sunken into the pig’s brain with only the feathered fletching protruded from its eye. But Menelaus had exacted a heavy toll.
And perhaps that was the lesson of this hunt after all.
Chapter 16
Eros' Arrows
HELEN AND the courtiers returned from the hunt shortly after her husband charged through the assembly covered in blood and cursing like a sailor. It took over an hour to sort out what had happened, an hour she waited in near panic, too afraid to ask after Paris. The Trojan prince had also disappeared back to the palace with his delegation, but without the dramatic exit of her husband. Fortunately there were enough gossip hungry courtiers to do her asking for her.
Neither Paris nor Menelaus made an appearance at the dining hall, further adding to the rumors spreading through the court that there was some sort of altercation between them. Did Menelaus know of her transgression? Did he try to kill Paris? Would she be next? She dreaded facing her husband, and even though she could barely eat, she spent an hour longer at the table rolling her untouched meat around with a fork. The hall had nearly emptied out when Agamemnon dragged a chair over to her side and took a seat.
“You are looking pale, Sister. Are you ill?”
The note of concern surprised her. Agamemnon was only sweet when he wanted something from her. She closed her eyes, and prayed whatever he wanted was small. She couldn’t bear a night visit from the king.
“Just my moon cramps.” She winced to make the lie more believable. Agamemnon scooted back a foot in his chair, clearly uncomfortable at the thought of her bleeding. Most men stayed away from women during their blood phase, believing spirits battled within them. A physical foe was easy to face, but the intangible? A wise man knew not to tempt that evil.
“Ah, well I hope it passes.” He grimaced. “I’ve been meaning to ask, but why didn’t you take the prince to the armory like I requested?” His dark eyes bore into her, never once blinking.
“I... I wanted to save the armory for the end of our tour—so it would have a lasting impression.” She fumbled.
Agamemnon nodded thoughtfully and she breathed a bit easier. On occasion she could surprise her king. It didn’t happen often, but the reprieve from his anger was worth the effort.
“Take him there tomorrow. Early. He needs to be aware of our resources.” He nodded again, making some mental decision she was not privy to share.
“As you wish.” She dropped her gaze. Unfortunately, she could still see the lecherous smile on his face.
“Wear the chiton I had made for you.”
She flushed. “But it’s soiled, My King. There is no time to launder it.” Was it not enough that she was forced to do his bidding? Did he have to flaunt her flesh like some cheap harlot?
Agamemnon leaned toward her, his lips so close to her ear she felt his hot breath against her neck. “Wear it, Helen. Or I will dress you myself.”
She didn’t trust her voice, but nodded her agreement. Agamemnon pressed his lips to her neck and left. She waited until she was sure he was fully gone before pressing back from the table and rushing to her quarters.
The torches were burning low in her private chambers, casting the room in a sultry darkness. Incense smoked in their burners and a half eaten meal lay scattered on the small table. Roast fowl, grapes off the vine and an empty flagon of wine. Menelaus’ absence from the dining hall was no longer a mystery.
He had left the door open again. She hated when he did that. With the servant door shut, Helen could ignore his indiscretions and pretend the grunts and moans belonged to someone else. With it open, she felt like an unwilling participant.
She decided to r
isk his displeasure and shut the door herself. She crept to the portal, trying hard not to make a sound, but before she could lay her hand on the latch she caught sight of their rutting.
Menelaus was on top in his favored position. He cried wildly as he stabbed Sabineus with his sword of flesh. It seemed a violent act to Helen, each thrust going deeper and harder. How could the man bear it?
But Sabineus cried out in ecstasy, welcoming the embrace. He wasn’t fighting Menelaus’ thrust, but yielding to it, his groans of pleasure matching that of her husband.
Helen watched, enthralled. Coitus had never been an act of pleasure for her. She’d never felt the rapture that other women spoke of, the utter bliss Sabineus enjoyed with the man that should be hers. She had long resigned to the fact that she never would.
Menelaus climaxed with a heavy cry, collapsing into Sabineus’ arms. The men locked lips, tearing at each other with a deep-seated hunger.
Her hand faltered and she backed away, leaving the door untouched. The way they touched... Her fingertips grazed her own lips. She could still feel Paris’ mouth on hers, his tongue probing hers. Just remembering it caused that passion to reignite and dampness to seep between her legs. What would it be like to lay with him? Would she still feel pain? Or would she find joy, like Sabineus?
It was a foolish question. It could never be. She was not free to follow her heart. She was an object, a pawn for kings to maneuver as they pleased.
Resentment boiled within her as she watched Menelaus cradle his lover. How was this fair, that her husband could lie with whomever he chose and have no fault in the eyes of Gods and Man? But if it where she? They’d stone her as an adulterer, and any man she lay with would be hunted as a thief.
Was it so evil? Sabineus was an honorable man. He never spoke crudely to her. In fact, he hardly spoke to her at all. A pervasive guilt kept them a good distance apart.
She bore the man no ill will. Menelaus’ lack of affection for her wasn’t his fault. Sabineus and Menelaus had been children together. They trained together and fought by each other’s side. Neither man would be alive if the other had not defended him with sword and shield. They had history. It was Helen who was the intruder in their unfortunate trio.
She often wondered if that was the source of Menelaus’ cruelty towards her. He could never openly be with the man he loved. Society kept them apart, but so did she. Helen never understood what that felt like until now.
They had grown quiet now. Only the soft vesper of kisses could be heard from the adjoining room. Helen backed away, leaving her husband to whatever happiness he could find and retired to their big empty bed.
Glaucus insisted the entire delegation lay low after Menelaus’ outburst. The prince was a loose arrow, one that Agamemnon could not, or chose to not, rein in. It was better to let the heated man’s blood cool. Accidents happened when passions ran high, and an accident on this mission could lead to war, a pastime Agamemnon seemed all too eager to engage.
Paris didn’t mind the time away from court. His own blood was boiled near explosion. An evening spent with his troops was exactly what he needed to reestablish his priorities. They sat around a bonfire in the courtyard outside where the troops were housed and passed a skin of mead between them, swapping tales of the absurdities they encountered in their travels.
“Where was that elephant hunt?” Brygos slurred, lurching for the skin, the dancing light of the fire making the thick man look more wild than usual.
Ariston groaned, knowing where this story was headed. As the youngest member of their crew, the jibes of his naivety were almost as common as those regarding the fuzz on his cheeks. Fortunately for Ariston, he had a natural talent for the sword and usually made his tormentors suffer in the practice ring.
“The Kassite lands, on the Euphrates.” Iamus shouted helpfully. After a stern glare from Glaucus, he passed the skin by without partaking. The sandy-haired sailor was on notice for his love of drink. Glaucus had a strict regime for any of his men who over imbibed that involved ice baths and salt water flushes. Iamus was the only warrior Paris had met who suffered through that regime over ten times. From the green-tinged cast to Iamus’ face, he was probably going to add to that record number.
“Yes, in Babylon!” Brygos continued on with his story. “Our prince was the guest of that puppet king... Kad... Uh, Kur...”
“Kudur-Enlil.” Paris helped the poor man out. Brygos was already red of face. He was likely to have a stroke if he forced his brain to work any harder.
“Yes, His Grace Kudur-Enlil, thick of gut and skull! How could I forget?”
“Is that a real question?” Dexios laughed, shielding himself from the spray of dirt Brygos kicked in his direction in response.
“I was saying... The elephant hunt.” Brygos’ grin spread another two inches. “The entire court had taken to the king’s reserve, and this bugger—“ he pointed a wavy finger at Ariston to a round of heavy laughter, “had a fancy to impress a pretty little skirt in the king’s harem.”
Ariston suffered through a round of kissey-faces from his brothers-at-arms. “Oh, piss off, Brygos. Shurusha was no ‘pretty skirt’. She had eyes the color of a sunset at sea, and hair more fine than spun silk.” He sighed wistfully, all to another chorus of laughter.
“SO,” Brygos raised his voice to cut off the din, “he thought it was the Fates shining down on him, blessing his quest, when he stumbled across the albino pachyderm, the beast so miniature he could trap and net it himself.”
“Wait, albino elephant?” Dexios questioned. “Isn’t that—“
“Aye.” Brygos winked. “Our little lover bagged the king’s royal pet. Which he found out quick enough when he proudly displayed his prize to the court.”
Ariston blushed. “It’s not funny, Brygos. They almost took my head for that.”
“If you had your way with that woman, Kudur would have chopped off more than your head.” Brygos chortled between gasps. “You’re lucky our prince has a silver tongue and saved your neck.”
Paris inclined his head, acknowledging the round of thanks each man sent his way. They might tease the lad, but he was a sworn member of the royal guard, and that fraternity was bound with ties of love and duty.
“Don’t be so hard on him, Brygos.” Paris tossed a handful of hay into the bonfire, watching the strands spark and lift into the night sky as they caught fire. “What man here hasn’t fallen victim to Eros’ arrows? You’d act the fool if the right girl crossed your path.”
That, of course, set up a challenge amongst his troops, each man revealing his biggest love, both won and lost. For Dexios, it was a raven-haired beauty in Ugarit. Iamus had a strawberry kissed lass in Troy, a brunette in Aleppo, and a fisherman’s wife in Thebes. He would have continued the list if Brygos hadn’t cut him off. When it was his turn to share, Paris decided he had enough of story time.
“I’m off. Get some rest, boys. The festival starts tomorrow. With the crowds inside the palace grounds, the opportunity to get a knife in the ribs triples.”
A loud chorus of groans followed his announcement. Brygos in particular, was not happy with being put off his quest for embarrassing information. “A name, My Prince! Surely there is one bright-eyed beauty who’s put your heart in a flutter.”
Six sets of eager eyes watched him, begging for an answer. Most of these men had travelled with Paris to the far reaches of empire. They knew there was no lover he left behind. But sailors lived for their stories, and they’d make one up for him if he did not satisfy their curiosity.
“You want a name?” he toyed with his men, waiting for their renewed chants to reach a boisterous level. He waved down the ruckus and, ignoring the worried look on Glaucus’ face, he whispered, “Aphrodite. If you are going to lose your heart to a dame, you might as well aim high.”
Amidst a new level of lustful cheers, he retired to his rooms.
Chapter 17
The House of Atreus
PARIS LAY awake most the night. It
was not Helen’s lovely face that banished sleep from his grasp, but the knowledge that Agamemnon was manipulating him, and that Helen was certainly part of his plan. Hyllos had informed him about Tyndareus’ Oath last night, a commonly told tale in the taverns of Mycenae. Any threat to her marriage could unite the Hellas. Agamemnon used her as bait, a delectable treat to tempt Paris and enrage his berserker brother. And now that Paris knew the trap was set, he could not willingly walk into it.
He gave a brave face to his men the night before, but he was no luckier in love than young Ariston. For Helen, he had played the fool, and he could not afford to play that role any longer. This impulse, this infatuation, would destroy them both. And surrendering to it meant betraying their families, a stigma Paris had defied his entire life. He had to banish her from his heart and mind.
The grey dawn came with storm clouds in the eastern horizon, a stone colored sky to match the stony resolve in his heart. “We’ll need to give a donation to the temple. A few amphorae of our best wine should suffice,” he told Glaucus shortly after the kitchen staff cleared their chambers of the morning meal. He tied his sword belt over his fresh tunic, determined to not go without a weapon for the remainder of his visit. “But wait until the plateau fills with pilgrims.”
“A gift is not a gift if no one sees the giving.” Glaucus nodded appreciatively. “And what of you, today? Many of the courtiers have been sending invitations to luncheon with them.”
Paris pulled a hand through his hair, trying to get his weary brain to function. “Have we determined which house is Agamemnon’s chief adversary? I don’t want to waste my time dining with sycophants.”
“I’ll have to check with Hyllos. He was keeping track of the court maneuvering.” Glaucus rose to his feet as though he meant to see to the matter immediately when a sharp knock came from their door. He cast a wary eye to Paris. “Are you expecting anyone?”
The Princess of Sparta: Heroes of the Trojan War Page 19
