The Princess of Sparta: Heroes of the Trojan War

by Aria Cunningham

  Agamemnon crossed the cramped room in three quick strides.Tossing his cape down on a padded bench, he plucked his gloves off finger by finger and warmed himself beside the central hearth as the door closed shut behind them with a solid boom.

  “I hope you aren’t here to protest your treatment last night,” he grimaced. “I can no more understand the wiles of women than the secrets of the Gods. They say and do as they please.”

  The effeminate prince had been suspiciously put off by his wife’s careless words. It surprised Agamemnon that a familial death threat could offend the Trojan so deeply. Any Greek worthy of their title knew to sleep with a dagger by his side for brother and uncle alike. If half the kingdom did not want you dead, then you were too weak to rule.

  The prince hadn’t moved from the door. He watched as Agamemnon settled down in his seat, taking his sweet time to answer. “The time for pretenses between us has past, Agamemnon. I know what you are doing here, and it’s time you knew why Priam sent me.”

  Agamemnon grinned, pleasantly surprised by the prince’s candor. He was as sick of the court maneuvering as Menelaus. “Have I offended the perfumed lords of the east?” he mocked. “Is this where you chastise me for poor behavior? Or insist I pay taxes to a man whom I’ve never met?”

  The affect on the Trojan was powerful. He froze in mid step, his eyes wide with surprise. The prince, like many men before him, underestimated Agamemnon, believing his wits were as thick as his muscular frame. But Agamemnon was no dullard. He had a talent for strategy and command, and he pressed his advantage.

  “You wouldn’t have come to Mycenae over a matter as petty as that, Trojan. I have something Priam wants. And I’m prepared to give it to him... for a price.”

  “You have an offer for Priam?” Disbelief was plastered over Paris’ face.

  “Troy is bogged down in a war with the Hatti.” Agamemnon set his boots on the hearth and reclined on his cushioned bench, conversations of war as commonplace for the king as talk of the harvest. “Priam’s vassals fall like leaves before the blades from the East. Your enemy does not fear you. But they would fear me. You’ve seen my armory. I can lead a legion of Greek warriors and give these Hatti a bloodletting they’ll soon not forget. One taste of Grecian Rage and those horse lords will never trouble you again.”

  The lust was heavy in his voice. Since he had heard of the campaigns in the east, Agamemnon had dreamt nightly of riding forth with an army at his back.

  But the prince was a blank slate, his his face devoid of emotion. When he spoke it was through clenched teeth. “And the price...?”

  Agamemnon plucked a dagger from his belt and started to shave his nails. The next part of his offer was genius. His fellow kings of the Hellas would never agree to fight a foreign war. But for familia, they would cross the black sea and sail down the River Styx itself. “Seal our alliance with a marriage. Tell Priam I would wed my daughter to his heir. Do this and my men are his.”

  “Priam’s heir is already wed.” Paris stared at him, speaking again without a trace of emotion. “To a princess of Phrygia, a kingdom both ancient and powerful. My father will not accept your offer.”

  Agamemnon cursed his foul luck. He needed to find a way to seize this opportunity without losing stature, and a royal match was the best solution. The prestige of uniting Mycenae with an ancient line would cement his rise to Overlord. But if he could not have Priam’s heir, he’d settle for the next best thing. “Then it will be you. No exceptions. My men for a royal wedding. Carry that message to your king.”

  “Iphigenia is a child!” Paris choked, his delicate sensibilities deliciously offended.

  Agamemnon knew he had the beardless boy by the stones, and delighted in watching him squirm. This... arrangement... was a twist for which the prince had not been prepared, and he shook with barely contained anger.

  “Wed her now, bed her later, I do not care.” Agamemnon laughed at the prince’s foibles. “Her mother bled early, this one will as well. I assure you, she is bred from fine stock.”

  Paris felt sick. If he had bothered breaking his fast this morning he would have emptied his stomach. The king offered insult when he should be giving thanks. Blinded by hubris, Agamemnon demanded a royal wedding with a child-bride, believing Paris would be honored instead of horrified. He was a vile creature, a carrion sucking vulture preying on his own people. He had to be stopped.

  “Are you finished?” Paris grimaced.

  Agamemnon nodded, a smug grin broadcasting his unfounded confidence in their negotiations.

  Had Priam been present, he would have taken Agamemnon’s head from his shoulders. A handful of soldiers for the heir to his kingdom? Yes, there was greatness in Mycenae, but it was nascent, not fully formed. In a few hundred years, who knew of what they might be capable? But now? They were a fledgling society, and Agamemnon a pretender grasping at greatness.

  Paris walked toward him, pacing around the edge of the hearth. The angry-red glow of the flames lit up his eyes as he stared down on the lecherous king.

  “I will never marry your daughter. Not in a thousand years would King Priam consider the terms of your conceit. You are mad to even suggest it.”

  Agamemnon leapt to his feet. His eyes darted wildly from side to side, the man’s tenuous grip on sanity clearly in the balance. Paris suspected no one in his entire life had spoken to him with such disrespect.

  “You puny little runt...”

  But Paris was through sitting by quietly while Agamemnon insulted him—insulted Troy—with impunity. “You have never seen Troy. You have no idea of her vastness or the sizable army Priam commands. He has vassals from the plains of Anatolia to the delta marshlands of the Nile. Some are much larger than the lands you now rule.” Paris felt his control slipping, the silk glove Priam bade him don ripped from his fist. “You have five thousand men... Troy has one hundred thousand. You command a force a fraction of Priam’s own. You have nothing Troy needs or wants. Except your obedience.”

  The muscles on Agamemnon’s neck constricted. The king was fast changing color, his robust glow taking on the sick grey of a man not breathing. His eyes were like black fire, staring an inferno into Paris. But Paris was not done.

  “I have an offer for you, Agamemnon. For you alone. End your Draconian trade war with Troy. Pay the taxes you owe to my father’s campaigns that protect the free-trade, campaigns that benefit all of Greece. Do this, and give thanks that Troy is your powerful ally. Do it not, and the next visitor on your shores will not be an ambassador, but the cold grip of Hades as we choke off your trade and sink your ships on the high seas.”

  The attack happened quickly. Agamemnon sprang on him with the speed of a cheetah. Had the king not shifted his weight to prepare for the move, Paris would have been wholly unprepared. He barely moved out of the way as two hundred and fifty pounds of Grecian rage rushed past him.

  “I’m an ambassador!” Paris shouted, allowing his disgust to fully show on his face. “You’d dare offend the Gods by attacking me?”

  But Agamemnon more than dared. He spun around, his arm flailing wide, forcing Paris to leap back to avoid getting crushed. The move almost tipped over the fire.

  “Stand still and face me, you mewling brat.” The giant king growled. “I’ll teach you to show proper respect to a king!” Again, Agamemnon launched himself at him, his fist flying at Paris’ head.

  Paris ducked, grabbing Agamemnon’s arm as he passed. He spun and pinned Agamemnon’s arm behind his back, shoving the king up against the wall. “Do not mistake my patience for weakness,” he hissed in Agamemnon’s ear. “Calm yourself.”

  “I’ll have your head on a pike, you braggart.”

  The king tensed his muscles, preparing to break Paris’ lock, but Paris was prepared. He kicked Agamemnon’s feet wide, unbalancing the man and forcing his head against the stone in a jarring blow.

  “If you kill me, you’re dreams of empire will bleed out with me.”

  Agamemnon stiffened bene
ath his hold. The king’s secret desires were blatantly obvious to Paris. His arsenal wasn’t meant for enemies in the east, but a target much closer to home. Agamemnon was not as subtle as he believed.

  “The free cities of the Hellas will never unite behind a man who broke the bonds of xenia. If you murder an ambassador, they will revile you and call you as mad as your dead father.”

  That cold truth stifled Agamemnon’s wrath as reason could not. Paris felt the fight drain out of the king’s muscles. He released Agamemnon and took a giant stride back, sure to stay out of striking distance.

  Agamemnon was brutally strong. Paris wondered, not for the first time, if this were the brother he should consider the greater danger. Menelaus’ rage was obvious, as naked as a spring shorn-lamb. But Agamemnon was a simmering cauldron, the coiled asp waiting to strike, his danger hidden until you were already dead.

  The king turned to face him, the baleful glare in his eyes the only break in a face devoid of expression. He wiped his lip where it had split against the stone, the dark red of his blood staining the back of his hand. He ran that hand across his tongue, tasting his own blood, while casing Paris from head to toe. He flexed his muscles in a threatening manner.

  Paris watched him carefully. This was the moment that decided everything. Would Agamemnon listen to reason? Or was he more animal than king? Paris shifted his stance, prepared for both. He readied his palm, knowing he had only to strike once—across the nose, up and back. If Agamemnon attacked, he would dispatch the king to the netherworld. He could do that much for Helen and all the others Agamemnon wronged.

  But the the king did not move. Instead, he laughed. It was a bitter laugh, mocking Paris and the real danger this meeting foreshadowed. “You have stones, Trojan. But you fight like a woman. If you stopped that dancing, I would crush you.”

  Paris leveled a flat look on the king. “Probably. You outweigh me by half a talent. I might not like it, but I can admit when I am outmatched. Can you?”

  Agamemnon’s cruel smile faded to a grimace. The danger had not passed. Paris shifted behind the hearth, putting more space between them while a mix of pride and greed played out on the king’s face.

  “There is no match for a man of Greece, Trojan. You’re a fool if you do not see it.” Agamemnon lowered his voice dangerously. “I will not bend the knee.”

  “No one is asking you to.”

  “I will not suffer extortion.” His narrowed eyes hinted this was the heart of Agamemnon’s defiance.

  “The High Seas Tax isn’t extortion, it’s good policy. And contributing to the public safety will only help you garner esteem.” Paris added, an answer ready for any of the king’s concerns.

  “And the other matter...?”

  Paris shook his head. Priam did not care if Agamemnon filled his days attacking his brothers, as detestable a pastime as that was. As much as Paris wished to advise against that folly, it wasn’t his role to do so. “Create your empire; Troy will not try to stop you. But you won’t keep it long if you make us your enemy.”

  Agamemnon tensed from the barb, a minor break in his cold demeanor before he adopted a sneer. “Other men have tried to take things from me before, Trojan. Other dead men.” The king’s hand strayed to the dagger at his belt, his fingers tightening around the hilt.

  “Whatever you may have heard, I assure you my father values my life.” He held his hand before him in warning. Paris knew he was placing his life on the scales when he walked into the room, and he was probably dead, regardless. He had only one last weapon in his arsenal. “You can send Priam my head, and war will be on your shores before my body rots. Or you can send him another message. A smarter message.” He folded his arms across his chest. “I have nothing more to say. The choice is yours.”

  Paris waited, staring into the hate-fueled eyes of Agamemnon, unapologetic. Minutes passed with neither of them moving. They were both paralyzed by the finality of their actions. Whatever next was said, or done, would affect both their countries.

  A loud knock pounded on the antechamber door, breaking the ominous spell.

  “Go away, or the Gods help me, I will boil the eyes out of your skull!” Agamemnon shouted at the disturbance.

  But the door cracked open and a shaking guard peaked his head in. “Y-y-y... Your Grace. There is a messenger ship from Knossos at port. It’s flying a black flag...”

  There was only a slight moment of hesitation before Agamemnon tore his eyes away from him and stormed out of the room. He shoved the guard so roughly the man slid halfway toward the throne. Paris had no choice but to follow him out.

  “What of the offer, Agamemnon?” he pressed, but the king refused to answer. Paris made to follow him up the dais, but two guards grabbed him from behind, holding him back. “Agamemnon.”

  A gathering of nobles watched their encounter in shocked silence. Paris looked over the crowd and spotted Helen instantly, her round eyes filled with concern. He shook his head, warning her to keep quiet.

  As soon as the king took his seat, the doors of the megaron flew open and a young man ran toward the throne. He was dressed in the lively colors of the royal house of Crete, a vibrant yellow and burnt orange. He crashed into a few courtiers before he could steady his trembling legs.

  “YOUR GRACE!” the messenger shouted with a hoarse voice. “An urgent message from Knossos!” He almost fell at the steps to the throne, the poor boy heaving from his long run up the acropolis.

  Agamemnon climbed down from his dais and lifted the boy to his feet. “What is it?” he shook the lad.

  “King Catreus of Crete is dead.” The messenger cried, his words followed by an audible gasp from the crowd. “Your grandsire is dead, Your Grace.”

  Agamemnon was visibly shaken. He dropped the boy and fell back on his throne. “How?”

  “His ship was attacked on the Aegean. By pirates, some say. The reports are confusing.”

  Clytemnestra rushed up to Agamemnon, kneeling before him, her words too soft to carry far. But Paris was within earshot and heard her every word, perhaps as she intended. “Pirates would never attack a royal flagship. This is a message, my love. You know who patrols the seas of the East.” She twisted just enough to lay two eyes of judgement upon him.

  “Someone will bleed for this!” Agamemnon shouted, his grief making his hulking presence more intimidating. “MENELAUS!”

  The king’s cry echoed across the silent megaron. He launched to his feet, scanning the hall for his brother. Courtiers looked amongst themselves, but the prince was not present.

  “FIND HIM!” Agamemnon shouted to Nextus, the steward disappearing down the hall at his command. “I leave on the next tide. My brother is coming with me, or so help me, I will banish him from this realm.” He turned to Clytemnestra, his fury matching the simmering anger of the queen. “I will find the foul men responsible for this atrocity and flay the flesh from their bones. The Gods as my witness, it will be done!”

  He was in a rage now, storming down the megaron. In a moment, that hairy brute would be gone, and Paris would be well and goodly trapped. He raced after the king. “Agamemnon, what of my offer?”

  Agamemnon rounded on him, a fearsome sight in his righteous anger. “I’ll hear no more of your vile slander, Trojan. You utter another word and I’ll cut your tongue off. You know my mind. Bring my offer to your king and begone! I have traitors to kill.” He fled the megaron, a storm of attendants in his wake.

  Paris turned about in the steadily emptying hall, Helen not ten paces from where he stood. She watched him, the unanswered question in her eyes.

  What do we do now?

  He had no answer. He backed up toward the exiting courtiers, and followed them to the harbor.

  Chapter 22

  The Honorable Thing

  AGAMEMNON WAS a man of his word. He sailed on the next tide, not four hours after he received the dire news of his grandsire’s death. Half the court gathered on the docks of the harbor to see him off. As members of the royal
household, both Helen and Clytemnestra should have travelled with their husbands. But Agamemnon was insistent, with a household filled with guests, the queen was needed to see to affairs at home. And Menelaus could care less if Helen accompanied him anywhere. It was Sabineus at his side, not she.

  “Make sure he leaves with the next trade winds.” Agamemnon instructed his wife, taking her into his arms in a chaste embrace.

  “Gladly, My Lord.”

  He turned to Helen next, embracing her as he did his wife. She cringed. His grip was too tight, his lips lingering on her cheek too long. “Don’t look so worried, Sweet Sister. I will be back in a fortnight.”

  Helen pulled away, hiding her disgust. “Be careful, My King. Your grandsire was lost to us at sea. I pray you do not encounter the same dangers.”

  Unless the Gods are kind...

  “I pray we do.” Agamemnon growled, showing his usual display of cocksure pomposity. “These ruffians will not find me as easy prey.”

  Menelaus stepped forward and planted a chaste kiss on her lips, enough to satisfy the watching courtiers that their marriage was real. They spoke no words. On impulse, Helen reached out for Sabineus, using the opportunity to whisper a farewell to him as she kissed his cheeks.

  “Take care of him.”

  The dark-haired man blinked with surprise. “I... I will, Princess,” he promised, his words heartfelt.

  And then they were gone. Twenty-five sets of oars carried the longship out of the harbor where they released the mainsail, the linen billowing in the northwestern winds. In a few short minutes, the ship was nothing but a speck on the horizon.

  Helen almost cried with joy. It was a rare event when both brothers were gone from the capital, when she was spared the constant anxiety of navigating their violent moods. It should have been a moment of blissful freedom, an unexpected respite granted from the Gods. But when Agamemnon’s ship sailed, so too would the Trojan’s. She was losing her prince as surely as the turning of the tides, and they had only just found one another.