But every gust of wind pulled them closer to discovery, back to the men who had made a prison of her life. If the Goddess was aiding her flight, then surely there were other gods who worked against them, vengeful gods who cared nothing for love and valued cold, dispassionate duty. It did not matter that her vows were sworn to a man who treated her wedding contract as thought it were a slaver's agreement.
"When will the port be in sight?" Paris tightened his arm around her waist.
"An hour. Maybe two." Glaucus offered the information with slight reluctance. "We could circumvent the island and try a port on the southern side—"
"No." Paris cut him off. "The sooner we get this done, the better." Try as he might, Glaucus could not persuade his prince to listen to his reasoned advice. Having left in the dead of night, the Trojan galley was not prepared for a long voyage across open waters. They needed to procure supplies, preferably—Paris stressed—before news of her departure became public knowledge. But to dock at Crete?
"Dius is our best bet," Paris continued. "Any other port might not have enough stores to see us through to Troy."
The captain shifted his weight, a minimal indicator of his mounting disapproval. "There are other ports. Ones further away from Knossos..."
"We are not stopping in Egypt." Paris shook with suppressed irritation as he repeated that command for the umpteenth time. "Get the men together. I want this stop to be as short as possible."
Glaucus grumbled something incoherent, then collected himself. "As you command, My Prince." With a curt nod to her and Paris, he turned to go. Glaucus bore the strain well, but the pressures of their questionable departure were beginning to bow his broad shoulders.
"Captain?" Helen rushed forward, untangling herself from Paris' arm. "I am sorry for the danger I have brought to you. And your ship." Stretching up on her toes, she planted a chaste kiss on the grizzled veteran's cheek. "Thank you... for your efforts."
Glaucus pretended indifference, but stood taller in the aftermath of her small token of affection. "Have no fear, Princess," he spoke with a fatherly frown. "I've spent most my life at sea. If the crown intends pursuit, they will never catch this ship." His certainty filled her with comfort, and then he left with no further comment.
Paris pulled Helen back to him and kissed the top of her head. "You will need to stay out of sight." He stroked the length of her hair.
She tightened her grip around his waist. "Do you have to go?"
"You don't have to worry." He lifted her chin and looked straight into her eyes. "The business of trade is straightforward. I've sailed into a thousand ports. This one is no different."
But the lie was in his eyes. Everything was different. "Please be careful."
"Of course I will." He placed a tender kiss on her lips. A chill ran through her body with his touch, a chill of longing and of foreboding.
She watched quietly as he left to manage preparations for the landing crew. The Trojan galley, nearly one hundred feet in length, was one of the longest ships she had ever seen, but it was hardly spacious. Almost all of their activities occurred above deck: cooking, eating, exercise, all while navigating the ship. Living in close proximity over the past week, she had seen first-hand how well loved Paris was by his crew, especially by his royal guard: the five elite fighters who joined him now.
She pulled a fringed shawl over her head and whispered a prayer, asking Hermes to send the message of her departure astray. It was a foolish hope—Agamemnon and his allies would eventually come for them—but when she had no options left, Helen always held to her faith.
Eventually, Aethra joined her at the aft-deck. Despite the early hour, her matron was a pinnacle of feminine propriety. Her thick woolen dress pressed tight to ample curves, and not a strand of hair was out of place on her proud head. Aethra would not have taken one step above deck otherwise. Her lips pressed into a firm line, the closest effort the woman ever made toward smiling.
For an hour they watched the men complete their work, not a word spoken between them. When the sun was fully above the horizon, the red-tinged glow making more than one sailor step cautiously, Helen could bear it no longer.
"Zeus strike me blind, you have never held your tongue this long," she snapped at her matron. "Do you have anything to say on the matter?"
Aethra raised an eyebrow at the hasty comment, an amused look on her face. "I speak when necessary. If you want idle chatter, you should have brought a chambermaid."
"I didn't bring you. You insisted on coming." Helen let that point simmer between them. The woman's claims of loyalty had been sorely tested with Helen's resurfacing memories. And though Aethra protected her as fierce as a she-bear defending her cub, Helen still had trouble trusting the woman. She had birthed a man so monstrous Helen shook at the barest memory of him. She had been only a child when Theseus abducted her, but the scars from his touch had yet to fade.
"You are a slave no longer." Helen banished the evil man from thought and focused back on what truly mattered. "You came of your own free will to advise me. So advise."
"You wish to know my mind?" Aethra sounded surprised. "So be it. This flight from Greece is ill-conceived." She raised her head towards the bow of the ship, towards Paris. "He should have killed Menelaus when he had the chance."
Helen nearly choked. "You think Paris should have killed a member of his host family?" Did Aethra believe him completely bereft of honor? "That is your sage advice?"
Her matron shrugged. "It would have been cleaner."
"It would have been an act of war!"
But Aethra didn't flinch. She held firm under Helen's disapproving glare. "And how are his current actions any less?"
It wasn't. And Helen knew it, the words of her suitor's oath burning a hole in her mind. To unite and defend against any wrong done to her husband in relation to their union...
A cold chill settled over her, but before she could respond, the coastline of Crete came into focus on the horizon, and with it, the island port of Dius. She cast her matron one last frustrated glance and headed to the hold.
Events were moving too quickly for her to do more than react. But the enormity of Paris' and her actions, and the repercussions sure to follow, were not lost on her. They had shirked the laws of Man to be together. Even though the Gods had given them signs, the world would take more convincing.
She caught one last glimpse of her prince before she kept her promise to stay out of sight. He had changed to a simple wool tunic favored by the common folk. Even dressed as a peasant, Paris was strikingly handsome.
Her heart ached with worry for his safety. If anything happened to him, her world would crumble. She whispered a prayer to Aphrodite that the price of their love would not be paid with swords, but the words died on her lips.
Perhaps this time, faith was not enough.
Chapter 2
The Black Flag
"WHAT HOME PORT did you say?" the piebald harbor master asked.
Paris lounged behind Glaucus and Hyllos, trying to appear inconspicuous as they finished their exit interview at Dius' port entrance. The rat-faced official was the same unsavory sort Paris had run into a dozen times over in as many countries. Grease his palm and all manner of information would flow their way.
"Rhodes," Hyllos answered, sliding over a nugget of gold.
That part of their ruse had been Paris' suggestion. The best lies were always half-truths. As with the men of the Hellas, Troy shared a common ancestry and tongue with Rhodes. No one should suspect their true origin.
Rat-face tested the nugget between a pair of cracked teeth, pleased with the soft give in the metal that indicated purity. "And you've got nothing to declare?" His tone bespoke of how suspicious that circumstance was for merchants of the sea.
Hyllos grunted, playing his part perfectly. "We stopped in Mycenae and unloaded. I didn't restock, especially at Agamemnon's prices." He cast a nervous glance Paris' way.
Negotiations between Troy and Mycenae had been disas
trous. There was no question that Paris' mission had failed. Agamemnon had delivered an ultimatum, one King Priam was sure to retaliate against in kind. In the end, Paris had gone a step further than his diplomatic authority permitted. By taking Helen, he had arguably "stolen" the greatest treasure of the Hellas, and he couldn't imagine Agamemnon would give her up without a fight. They were sailing home, but potentially with an army at their back.
"I prefer to deal with honest traders." Hyllos cleared his throat and continued on, "Thought it better to stop here."
"You thought right," Rat-face croaked. "Best you get down to The Chimera if you want to fill your larders before it's all gone. The trade master is a big fella by name of Xenocrates." He made a few notes in his ledger and waved them on.
Normally a comment like that needed explanation, but in the short time it took to disembark from the Trojan galley and walk to the harbor master's hut, seven wagons laden with sacks of grain, fruit and livestock rolled down the gangplank to awaiting galleys. Either a mass exodus was occurring on the island, or something bigger was afoot. Paris made to follow his men, but at the last moment his curiosity got the best of him.
"Messir, what's all the bustle about, keepin' us in the offing?" he asked, adopting the universal slang favored by sailors.
Rat-face gave him a funny eye, reading Paris' poor-posture and rough clothes as a marker of a grunt, hardly the sort that an important man like himself need answer. But the harbor master rolled his gold nugget around in his hand and decided it was worth the effort. "It's for the feast on the mainland." He pointed to the knoll behind them as though the answer was self-evident.
Atop a wooden flagpole, a black banner rippled in the gentle morning breeze. Stitched into its center were the white-winged forms of the baleful keres: the female death sprites who spirited away those who met a violent end.
Paris cursed under his breath. He had forgotten Crete was in the midst of mourning their king. The announcement in Agamemnon's court had happened too quickly for him to take notice. The Cretans would be on high alert, especially since their monarch was murdered by pirates.
"Seems the royal dead need enough food to feed a village." Rat-face grimaced. "Is a bloody waste if you ask me. But nobody does." His frustration was similar to what they encountered in the common folk at Mycenae. A poor harvest coupled with excessive taxes had made the commonwealth nearly mutinous.
Glaucus, at the crossroad into the city proper, was glaring at him to hurry up. "Best be on me way." Paris tossed the harbor master another nugget and rushed to join his captain.
"What are you doing?" Glaucus growled at him. "You are a Rhodian deckhand. Keep your purse out of sight. If anyone means to give us trouble, the first person they'll target is the man with the money."
Paris nodded, seeming for all the world a hired-hand getting reprimanded by his commanding officer. He dropped in line behind his tall captain. Observe and keep quiet, he chastised himself, remembering the promise he swore to Glaucus when planning this ruse.
It was a short walk to the tavern Rat-face indicated. The open markets where farmers and craftsmen displayed their wares were for women and old men. Real trade occurred in taverns, and the best prices always went to the man who bought the most rounds.
The Chimera was a fairly large establishment, two stories high and with its timber frame finished in stucco. Two voluptuous women of ill-repute dangled their legs out of the second story window, shouting out to potential marks.
"Soft-Cheeks!" a raven-haired trollop called down. "I've got something that'll make a man of you." It took a moment for Paris to realize she was talking to him, he being the only one in their retinue without facial hair. He almost laughed. It had been a long time since anyone had spoken to him so brazenly. As soon as he looked up, she let loose an intoxicated giggle and lifted her chiton, showcasing her wares.
Glaucus placed a none-too-gentle hand on his back and shoved him into the tavern. He stumbled ten feet before catching his balance and had to bite back an angry retort. His old friend was enjoying the reversal of roles far too much.
The common room was surprisingly full despite the early hour. A few men diced on a corner table, and others held conversations over their cups in groups of twos and threes. As soon as the Trojans entered, those lively conversations came to an abrupt halt.
"Shut the door," a lone man shouted from a darkened nook. He bounded to his feet and stalked over to where Glaucus entered. Though he stumbled on unstable legs, the irritated drunk was of equal stature with the captain.
Paris quickly made note of the man's thick leather garments and the sharpened sword at his hip. A sell-sword. And by his sloven appearance, one currently out of work. The practice of turning mercenary only happened in a region where the king commanded no loyalty, or when a man had no other way to feed his family. Apparently Greece was a mixture of both.
Glaucus stretched out a hand and shoved the heavy door, all-the-while glaring at the hostile Greek. As soon as the door slammed shut, the room, lit only by a handful of oil lamps, instantly dimmed. The air was thick with the stench of sour beer and fried bacon... and something unfamiliar. Paris grimaced. The place had the feel of an opium den.
"Sit down, Nikias." A middle-aged barkeep crossed the room to greet them. "I'll have you out on your arse if you harass customers." He wiped his hands on the filthy apron tied around his waist and turned to Glaucus. "What'll it be? Food? Drink? Or something else?" He nodded toward the back to the sounds of heavy grunts and rocking furniture.
"Drink. And the table of your trade master."
Paris blended into the crowd as Hyllos and Glaucus took a seat at a nearby table with a group of local merchants to haggle over wares. His other guards spread out across the room in an effort to glean more information. Brygos joined the dicers, Iamus and Ariston went to the bar, and Dexios stayed alert by the door. Ale was handed out liberally, and soon the atmosphere of the tavern returned to its steady hum.
He reclined in a shadowy corner, his back to the wall, and watched. The sell-sword was muttering to himself, a dangerous glint to his eyes. He had the look of a man wanting to pick a fight.
"What's your story, Sailor?"
Paris spun toward his addresser. A graybeard sat at the table beside him, the old man little more than a bag of bones with a weathered skin that would make a tanner envious.
"Nothing to say." Paris shrugged. "They drag me along when they need a back to haul their goods."
"Ah, but it's honest work, no? They pay you well?"
Paris gave the man a knowing smile. The graybeard was fishing for some liquid friendship. He signaled to the barkeep for two mugs and took the empty chair opposite him.
"Nikodaemos." The graybeard stretched his thin arm out as way of introduction.
"Piyama-rados," Paris offered in return. The name came spontaneously to his lips, a picture of the infamous renegade floating out of his distant memory. The wizened warrior had once taken refuge at his father's court. To a young prince, Piyama seemed all-powerful and ancient. Paris smiled at the old man across from him, knowing why the name had come to him now.
"Okay, old man. What's the story here? Why're the locals tensed like a cat in a boneyard?"
Nikodaemos buried his whiskers in the foam of his cup, a sad cast to his face. "There be talk of war."
Paris stiffened. Had news of their departure from Greece followed them already? A fierce defiance raged in his chest, and he gritted his teeth. He didn't care if he'd have to face an entire Greek armada, he was never giving Helen back. He had travelled the whole world over and never met a woman as thoughtful and compassionate as his princess. To have won her heart, that she was willing to fight for a life with him, defied reason. She was a slice of happiness he had no right to expect. He'd suffer the injustices of his life twice over if that path always led him to her.
"War? Is that so?" Paris took a long pull of ale, hoping the move masked the hammering of his pulse. "With whom?"
"To them basta
rds who killed King Catreus. Easterners, they say."
Paris sighed with relief and cast a nervous eye around the common room. The earlier hostility had vanished, replaced now with guarded whispers. The locals twitched at any loud sound, cagey as badgers guarding their dens. He had seen the look before, by men expecting to be pressed into service at any moment. This port was a tinderbox waiting for a spark to set it off.
"Your king was well loved?"
"No more than two shits and a fart," Nikodaemos grunted. "But he left no heir, which means some mainland prat will claim the throne."
A sour realization gripped Paris' stomach. He could guess which king would be eager to claim that honor.
"Mycenae? How long were ye in port?"
Paris' ears perked up to the conversation at the adjacent table. The crowd at Hyllos' table had grown. Trade Master Xenocrates, a burly merchant with shoulders set as wide as an ox, asked the question while his partner measured Glaucus' purse with a set of scales and balances.
"A few days. Just long enough to unload and avoid extended port taxes." Hyllos used the same cover story they planted at the port.
"Did ye get a gander at the Trojan prince?" Xenocrates' voice was amplified in his inebriated condition and it easily carried across the common room. "Rumor has it the perfumed lordling is a dead-man walking. Cursed by the Gods."
Hyllos tensed, his eyes darting unconsciously in Paris' direction. "The only Trojans I saw were in the market. I don't mingle with princes."
"Pity," the trade master cast him a sick grin. "That's a sight I'd pay a dram to see." He laughed loudly, a mocking sound picked up by his fellows.
The Princess of Prophecy Page 2
