The Princess of Sparta: Heroes of the Trojan War

by Aria Cunningham

  Paris shook his head, but composed himself for any contingency. He leaned against one of the tall-backed chairs in the greeting room, a casual hand on his sword hip. He had a good view of the hall as Glaucus opened the door.

  Helen stood on the other side, her grey-haired matron behind her. There were dark circles beneath her eyes, and her lovely gold-spun hair was limp, falling loose around her shoulders. Despite her unkempt appearance, she was still the most beautiful woman Paris had ever seen. Glaucus took a step back, allowing her into their chambers.

  “Your Grace,” she curtsied low, the move giving him an uncomfortable view of her bulging bosom. The chiton she wore criss-crossed in vibrant colors, but the neckline was immodestly low, even for Paris’ liberal tastes.

  "Princess.” He forced any trace of emotion from his tone. “What do I owe the pleasure?”

  She saw where his eyes landed and blushed furiously, pulling her shawl closer for a modicum of cover. “The king wishes for me to finish our tour. There are a few items of interest he does not want you to miss.”

  Paris shot a wary glance to Glaucus. If Agamemnon had sent her, any manner of surprise could lie in wait at their destination. “I’d be obliged, Princess, but I have so much to do today. For the festival...” It was a lame excuse, but he couldn’t put himself at the king’s beck and call. Not after that gauntlet was dropped yesterday. The man who blinked first would lose. And Paris was far from ready to surrender.

  But Helen’s face creased with panic. She forced a timid smile as she turned to Glaucus. “Captain? I need a word alone with the prince. Do you mind waiting in the hall with my matron?”

  “Of course.” Glaucus bowed stiffly. He was out the chamber with the door shut behind him in a matter of seconds.

  “What are you doing here, Helen?” Paris turned to her, hating the cold edge that laced his words.

  As the latch clicked shut, Helen’s shoulders sagged, the life drained from her bones. She gazed up at him, her sad eyes lidded with thick coal-black lashes. She didn’t speak, her mouth seemingly unable to work. After two failed attempts, she rushed into his arms and buried her head into his chest.

  “Helen?” His stately reserve was burned away in worry for her. She clung to him fiercely, her small body wracked with sobs.

  “I’m so sorry,” she cried. “You don’t deserve how they are treating you. And yesterday, with Menelaus... I was so worried he would hurt you.”

  Paris pulled her off his chest, trying to soothe her shaking arms. She was near beside herself with worry.

  For me? It seemed impossible. No one had ever shown such concern over his welfare. Even Hector only protested his poor treatment—it never unmade him.

  But that was exactly what was happening to Helen. He wrapped his arm around her shoulders, helping to support her. “He didn’t hurt me. He can’t hurt me. Look for yourself. I’m fine.” He placed her hands on his chest.

  Her shaky hands roamed his uninjured frame, a look of relief overtaking her. “Thank the Goddess,” she whispered, her hand coming to a rest over his heart.

  She was so close. He could see the rosy stain to her cheeks, the wet pool of tears caught in her lashes. More so, the floral scent of her perfume filled his nostrils. Her lips parted, welcoming him.

  It took all the effort he could muster to pull away from her. He had made the decision to put these feelings aside. He would not act the fool before Agamemnon and his court. The decision stung all the more, because—with Helen before him, so soft and caring—he didn’t care if a thousand Agamemnons tormented him. She was worth every barbed injury. She was worth death itself.

  Helen seemed as affected as he. She wiped her tears away with the corner of her fringed shawl, a haunted shadow still hovering over her face. Then it dawned on him. She asked if Menelaus had harmed him, but she was the one who shared his bedchamber.

  “Did he hurt you?” The words ripped out of his lungs like an avalanche.

  “N-n-no.” she stammered, unable to meet his gaze.

  “But he has before.” He completed her unfinished thought. He should have recognized it. He had met many women whose lords beat them. In some countries it was commonplace to punish the woman for the crimes of the lover.

  I should have let the pig skewer him.

  Her eyes did not refute him. There was a sad resignation in their deep blue depths. “Agamemnon is far worse when he does not get his way.” Paris’ blood ran cold with her dispassionate words. “Please do not refuse me today. There is something you have to see.”

  And therein lay the danger. He could refuse her nothing. “Lead on.” He finally acquiesced. “Wherever you go, I will follow.”

  After a quick stop at the stables to pick up their chariot, Helen instructed Paris which direction to head. They took off down the Grand Walkway and out the Lion Gates, Glaucus and Aethra trailing behind them like before. Helen insisted he drive, and Paris thought better than to ask her the reason why. Her melancholy demeanor seeped into him, and they travelled mostly in silence, save when she guided him towards the correct path.

  They turned down a new road, one that lead away from the flat lowlands of the city proper. This road was wide, made of rubble smoothed over with a white plaster. It showed very little wear and Paris judged its construction no later than five years hence.

  “It leads to Corinth.” Helen answered his unasked question. “One of Mycenae’s ancillary cities. The roads ensure Agamemnon’s tribute is collected on a regular schedule.”

  When they had travelled over 500 meters into the utter seclusion of empty road and hillside, he had to ask, “And why are we going there?”

  “We’re not.” Helen shook her head, pointing to a small nearly invisible side road on their right. Paris led their chariot over it, the carriage bouncing roughly on the thick underbrush. He pulled the horses to a stop as they reached the eastern facing slope of a slow rising hill.

  The hill seemed like any other in the region, the chalky brown dirt was patched with tuffs of dead grass, the hint of green shoots peaking through here and there. There were no trees, only the occasional granite boulder, and the summit was no more than fifty feet high. But Helen dismounted and began to hike along its base, seemingly out for a walk in the wild lands in an ill-suited court dress.

  The design was clever. Paris would have missed the entrance had Helen not known exactly where she was headed. But some twenty paces out from the road, a horizontal avenue cut right into the rocky hillside as though dug from above. Paris paused and marveled at the ingenuity.

  “This is a dromos,” Helen spoke, showing little of the enthusiasm she had displayed in their previous explorations. “It is a processional walk, bringing petitioners to the House of the Dead.”

  She began that walk now, the dromos some twenty feet wide and over a hundred feet long. Each side of the passage was retrofitted with massive ashlar masonry, one of the bricks measuring the lengths of four men lined head to toe. It would have taken a Cyclops to construct such an undertaking.

  Helen marched on, leaving Paris, Glaucus and Aethra to hurry along after her. At the end of the dromos, an imposing vertical facade stretched up to the hilltop forty-six feet above. A thick stone door was cut into its surface. The massive door, nine feet across and eighteen feet high, was swung open, framed on the outside by two semi-columns made of grey alabaster, each richly carved in zigzags and spirals. Above the lintel of the door, a triangular cavity was filled with red porphyry, the crystal studded stone glittering like a moonlit sky. It was as fine an entrance as any royal sepulcher Paris had ever visited.

  Helen paused before entering, speaking quietly to the two guards holding vigil. When she waved him forward, Paris cast Glaucus a staying hand, motioning his guard to wait outside.

  “No, let him come,” Helen insisted. “He should see this, too.”

  And so they all entered into the hillside, the towering doorway opening into a subterranean brick-lined passage. The blinding sunlight behind them cast the t
unnel in shadow. But Paris didn’t need light to know a gaping darkness awaited them inside. The dank air was thick with the earthy smell of death. He waited as Helen acquired a torch from the guards and continued down the path.

  The walls surrounding them were decorated with beautiful squares of bronze rosettes. Between the rosettes, frescos of Grecian women carried urns and grave goods into the inner chamber. At Helen’s urging, Paris took the torch and walked the final steps into the massive tomb inside the hill.

  The space was enormous. Paris had to lift his torch high to see the upper reaches of the beehive shaped chamber, and even still the final bricks remained in shadow. A family of bats that had taken up residence in the upper reaches shuffled their wings in agitation at his unwelcome light.

  The tomb was circular in design with each successive row of bricks tapering in, gradually converging to a singular capstone at the very top, a hollow mountain within a mountain. Each brick was perfectly hewn, not a speck of dirt or hint of root poked through its smooth facade.

  Paris paced out the chamber’s width, counting forty-eight feet across. He surmised it was equally the same in height. It was a monumental structure, rival to even those built by the God-Kings of Egypt.

  But it was not the masonry that held Paris’ breath. It was the contents of the tomb itself. It appeared, while the chamber awaited its ruler’s far-distant demise, it was now host to his many treasures. And for Agamemnon, there was only one thing he truly valued.

  The room was overflowing with bronze swords, spears, shields, and armor. By Paris’ rough count, there were tens of thousands instruments of death, far outnumbering the people the monarch ruled. It was clear where the profits Agamemnon squeezed from Troy and his people had been invested.

  “Does he need this many weapons to fight the legions of the afterlife?” Paris swallowed the bile burning in his throat. “Does he fear death so greatly?” But he already knew that answer. The greedy king would not wait for death to wet these blades with the blood of his enemies. One glance at Glaucus, and he could tell the captain felt the same. This was an arsenal with one purpose... war.

  “Agamemnon does not fear anything.” Helen answered, the sharp edge of disgust coloring her words. “He needs these weapons for the army he plans to raise and the war he dreams of leading.”

  “Princess!” Aethra exclaimed in utter shock.

  “He bade me show him this room. He never said I shouldn’t speak my mind.” Helen snapped at her matron. “And if he is too stupid to care if the world knows his intentions, then he should suffer the consequences.”

  Aethra clamped her mouth shut, a firm line forming from her pressed lips. It was enough to satisfy Helen and she turned back to him. “Are you impressed, Your Grace? Do you understand now, the power of Mycenae, of the resources Agamemnon commands?”

  Paris was as stunned as Aethra of the change come over the princess. He heard the words leave her lips, her formal detachment worthy of a queen facing her foe. But it was not Helen, not the respectful compassionate person he had come to know.

  “I understand, Helen. This is the message that duty demands you share with me.” He lowered his torch, and shook his head sadly. “But I am not your enemy.”

  Helen shut her eyes, pressing down her frustration with great effort. She should not have shouted at Aethra, but it was easier to vent on her matron than keep her boiling emotions bottle up inside. She was a poisoned dart Agamemnon was throwing at Paris, meant to provoke and spy, perhaps even to seduce. What other reason would Agamemnon insist she dress so brazenly? She wanted to expose her king, but even deeper was a fear that Paris would take the bait, that he would prove no better than the men that dominated her life.

  When she opened her eyes, Paris had crossed the tomb to stand beside her. He made no move to touch her, but watched her closely, his eyes caressing her as his hands could not. “I’m not your enemy,” he repeated softly.

  “I... I know.” As the words escaped her lips, she knew they were true. She felt safer with Paris than a lifetime of experience would deem wise. And despite her instincts to fall into his arms, she swallowed her guilt, and proceeded as instructed. “But you didn’t answer my question. Do you understand the might of Mycenae and of my king?”

  Behind the torch light, a twinkle of understanding danced in Paris’ eyes. He paused, taking his time to consider her question. “May I speak as frankly as you? Without fear you will repeat my words verbatim to the king? That you will keep my confidence as I keep yours?”

  The remark could not help but soften her resolve. It was a question of her feelings for him. Can I trust you? he asked. Is what’s between us strong enough for truth?

  “Absolutely,” she promised.

  He tipped his torch into a brazier along the wall. The flames leapt high, giving more definition to the room. He then handed the torch to Glaucus, indicating to the soldier to continue around the room and light the others. They had a quiet but heated exchange before Glaucus did as he was bid. Aethra remained a respectful distance from Helen, far enough to not eavesdrop, but near enough for her hawkish eyes to watch their every move.

  When Paris returned to her, a serious pallor dominated his face. “All of this,” he waved to the now brightly lit tomb, “this grandeur to honor the royal dead? That is how we should honor the Gods. It is a small man that feels the need to display his deeds loudly. I do not fear small men.”

  Helen caught her breath. Did he mean it? He did not fear Agamemnon? “You should fear this man,” she spoke with utter conviction.

  “Why?” he challenged. “Because he has killed lots of men? He has bathed in their blood? Are those deeds worthy of my fear and respect?”

  “No, but that does not mean—“

  But Paris, now unleashed, would not stop until he had said his piece. “It’s a perverse tradition we honor. Kings adorn their halls with images of battles they won, the people they’ve conquered.” He paced as he vented, a lifetime of frustration pent up in that twisted truth. “I have brought kingdoms on the brink of war to peace, and my deeds will never be deemed as heroic as those who kill.”

  He spun to her, Helen the Honest, the woman who valued honor so much she would quietly accept all the misery that duty demanded. “If I bent my knee to whomever was the most powerful, what would you think of me? Be honest.”

  She squirmed under his direct gaze, but silence was not an option. “I’d say you were a coward!” she shot back loud enough to carry to their two chaperones. A hushed silence followed her admission.

  “Then I’d say we finally understand each other.”

  “No,” Helen moaned. There was no hint of retreat or bowed spirit in Paris. She could not let him walk away secure in his ignorance. He had to know! “You understand me, but you still don’t understand him.”

  Something in Helen’s plea gave Paris pause. This was not the desperation of a battered wife, but the open terror of a person who had experienced the black depths of Hades and lived to tell of it.

  “Get out. Both of you,” he order Glaucus, including Aethra in the command. She was not his to order about, but the matron had been a servant long enough to know when a lord should not be challenged. Glaucus led her by the arm, the swishing of her heavy skirts the only sound in the hollow chamber as they exited.

  For long moments neither Paris nor Helen spoke, their ragged breaths echoing throughout the chamber. He studied her forlorn face. He heard the alarm in her voice. Did she fear for her life? Would provoking Agamemnon put her in danger? “What did he do to you, Helen? Please, tell me.”

  Helen did not answer him. Her eyes fell to the floor and she turned her head away, hiding behind a veil of her golden hair. As she turned, the torch light glinted off the brightly colored embroidery on her chiton, that scandalous dress that left little to the imagination. Suddenly Paris knew—the shame in her bearing and the unbidden sob on her lips announced the king’s debauchery as loud as a herald. He understood, finally, why she feared her king so deeply
.

  “I’ll kill him.” Paris bristled with anger. Agamemnon would pay for what he had done to her. He swore it on all he called holy.

  “You can’t,” she forced the words through clenched teeth. “Don’t you understand? It’s what he wants. If you attack him, he wins.”

  She was right, of course. He couldn’t attack the king. Paris was an ambassador, bound by the sacred oaths of ancient tradition. His duty forbade him from lifting a finger against his host.

  A wave of shame clenched Paris’ gut. For years, he had dutifully completed the missions his father had trusted to him. But it was different this time. He wasn’t building alliances. He was Priam’s ‘fist within the silken glove’. Agamemnon needed to be taught his lesson...

  And Helen would be caught in the crossfire.

  Can I do it? Knowing the danger I’m putting her in?

  He already knew the answer. He valued her life more than his own. He grabbed her hands, pressing them to his heart. “Let me help you.” He begged, desperate for a way out of the quagmire the Fates had immersed them in. “Please, you don’t have to live like this.”

  Helen was moved by Paris’ earnest plea. This proud prince would not bow to Agamemnon, a man who terrified her, but would prostrated himself before her? Whatever loyalty her king could claim from her evaporated. She tightened her grip on Paris’ hands and met his earnest plea with one of her own.

  “There is something I need to show you.”

  She pulled him toward a darkened corner of the tomb. What looked like a sunken recess turned out to be a doorway leading into a small side-chamber. Helen grabbed an unused torch hanging in a golden sconce and lit it from the brazier. She motioned Paris forward, the small light pushing back the veil of darkness in the inner room.

  The wall was lined with precious objects: polished faience, crystal goblets, gold studded weapons. In the center of the room was a raised sepulcher. There was room for many more, but the room was currently host to only one dearly departed. The former king was stretched out, his decayed body covered in a cloth of spun gold. A mask of the same fine metal lay over his face, hammered to showcase the features he had in this life throughout the next.