The Princess of Prophecy

by Aria Cunningham

  Paris steadied his hand on the table, feeling the heat of embarrassment flush his cheeks. The dire warning of his birth omen hung over him like a storm cloud. In Troy, he was prepared to face the slander of Hecuba and her sycophants. But here in the West, at the edge of the civilized world? To have that humiliation be common knowledge everywhere he went?

  He took a deep breath, pressing the anger and shame away, tucking it into a corner of his soul that he never let loose, just as he had when Clytemnestra exposed him to the Mycenaean court. He would not let that dark vision be the measure of his worth.

  His companions, however, were not so good at containing themselves. Iamus marched from the bar and grabbed Xenocrates rough by his tunic. "Where did you hear that?" His face was devoid of color. The entire common room turned to watch the two men.

  "Go back to your drinks, Sailor," Glaucus growled in a vain attempt to control the situation.

  But the damage was done. The locals were looking at Paris and his men in a new light, the tension in the room as thick as the smoke. The sell-sword left his table again and struted over to Glaucus.

  "You are no man of Rhodes," Nikias simmered. "You hide it well, but I've seen your like before... Lycian."

  It seemed impossible, but the tension in the room increased. The word "Lycian" rippled through the gathered men like a dirty epithet. Paris slipped out of his chair and cased out the danger. The sell-sword was the biggest threat, the only real warrior in the tavern. But the West bred hardy men, and the locals—merchants, farmers and fishermen—looked as dangerous as any battle-hardened solider.

  Glaucus stood to face his accuser, not an ounce of emotion showing on his face. The stoic captain had been in Paris' guard for so long he had forgotten about the man's questionable past. In spirit, Glaucus was as Trojan as he was. "Say that again." Glaucus' voice rumbled with the threat.

  "Lycian." Nikias spat. "Pirate."

  Glaucus didn't have time to move; two Cretans grabbed him from behind. Paris' other guards were in a similar plight as the brawl broke out. Fists flew, crockery shattered, and shouts filled the air. But hot-blooded as the local merchants were, it was the sell-sword who was the ringleader. He pulled his sword free of his belt and advanced on Glaucus.

  Paris was on him with lightning speed. He grabbed Nikias' outstretched arm and spun, launching the sell-sword over his back and slamming him down on the mud brick floor. The man gasped for breath as the air was knocked clear of his lungs. While he struggled to get up, Paris stomped a foot down on his neck.

  "STOP!" he shouted to the room at large, using his most authoritative voice.

  Slowly, the violence halted, every eye on him to see his next move. He twisted Nikias' arm, forcing the man to drop his sword, while keeping pressure on the man's neck, ready to snap it without a moment's hesitation.

  "You brain-soft idiot," Paris hissed at the man. "If we were pirates, would we be here bartering for goods? Or would we wait on the high seas and pillage your ships as they left port?"

  Nikias' hate-filled eyes narrowed with fear. He gagged as he stared up at Paris, a man who knew he looked death in the face.

  The Cretans had taken the quiet moment to regroup. A dozen armed merchants had joined ranks with Xenocrates forming a formidable barrier. They watched Paris warily. Even Nikodaemos looked at him as though he were a Titan in their midst. His moves were too acrobatic for a common deckhand. Paris had exposed himself as either a nobleman or assassin of the highest caliber. From the look on the faces of the honest tradesmen, they did not desire the company of either sort.

  "It's time you go," Xenocrates told them darkly, a deep murmur of agreement coming from behind him as his numbers continued to swell. By Paris' quick count, they were outnumbered three to one.

  "Go?" Glaucus growled in protest, pressing forward heedless of the danger. More than a few merchants took an unconscious step back from the irate man. "Our business is not finished!"

  "Yes, it is." Xenocrates signaled his partner, and the merchant tossed back their sack of gold. It fell to the ground with a resounding thud. "Your metal is no good here, Lycian. Hoist anchor and set off. No one in Dius will trade with your kind."

  For a moment, Paris wondered if Glaucus was going to call the man's bluff. Xenocrates was flushed with drink, as were the other merchants. Even if they were sober, he'd give his captain even odds at taking down this back-alley mob. There might have been a time when Glaucus would have invited such a fight in defense of his honor, but those days had passed. Paris needed to end this, and preferably without further risk to his crew.

  "We're leaving," Paris ordered his men in a tone the bore no argument. "Now."

  The other Trojans, save Glaucus, sprung to action. Hyllos collected their gold as the other guards exited the tavern. Only after the last man was safely out of the melee, did Paris drop his hold on Nikias and grab Glaucus by the arm, towing the captain to the exit. The Cretans backing away from them as they passed by.

  Once outside, Paris regrouped with his men, frustration heating his blood. Would he never be free of the omens of his birth? He shook his head. There would be time to deal with his personal troubles later. His first priority was the welfare of his men. Iamus' chest heaved as he recovered from a berserker fit and Brygos had a bloody nose, but no one else looked worse for the wear.

  Glaucus, however, was an unhealthy shade of white, a picture of fury incarnate. "There's only one way the Mycenaean queen learned of that god-forsaken curse, and you all know it. Someone talked." He glowered at his troops, his six foot frame towering over them. "I want the traitor found!"

  "Glaucus—" Paris tried to find words, but failed. There was no doubt someone on their crew had betrayed them by divulging that sensitive information to Helen's sister, but continuing the witch hunt, turning soldier against soldier, only served to destroy what loyalty remained.

  "It's insubordination." Glaucus refused to back down, trembling with pent-up fury, a man hellbent on enacting justice. He took the presence of a traitor on his ship personally. "It will not stand!"

  A bone-chilling silence invaded his men. As sworn swords of the Royal Guard, they made a sacred vow to defend Paris' life and honor. To have a traitor in their midst tarnished them all. To a man, they were in agreement with their captain.

  It sickened Paris that the horrible circumstances of his birth would claim someone else's life. His curse was an infection that undermined every relationship he held dear. He backed off, giving Glaucus leave to handle this situation as he saw fit.

  "We've already interviewed the entire crew," Dexios stated grimly, a firm cast to his sun-bronzed face.

  "Then do it again," Glaucus ordered. "Each sailor is on double-duty until the culprit is found."

  As they returned to the harbor, Paris' mood soured for the worse. Dius had been a mistake. They had not procured the supplies needed to see them back to Troy. Still in enemy waters and with no other choice before him, he'd be forced to brave more perilous harbors.

  But if Glaucus was right, if one of Paris' men had truly betrayed him, then the dangers of an enemy port were minuscule compared to what hid beneath his deck.

  Chapter 3

  Giving Chase

  HOW COULD SHE leave me?

  Clytemnestra lamented silently to herself, the heartbroken thought becoming a mantra in her mind ever since she learned of Helen's disappearance the night prior.

  The sun was at its zenith now, and the queen rode through the lower city of Mycenae in a raised palanquin. The lightweight carriage required only four slaves to hoist it, but today Clytemnestra had a dozen men in attendance. A show of strength was necessary, she reminded herself, especially after the insolent actions of that vile Trojan prince.

  Her face flushed with heat. The barest thought of the foul man who seduced her sister was enough to send her into a fit. We should have killed him the moment he stepped off his cursed ship.

  Ichor boiled in the queen's blood. This mess she'd been forced to handle was all
Paris' fault. The Trojan had bewitched her sister, feeding her lies about love, while offering Helen nothing but a tarnished reputation and eternal damnation from more powerful men. That insipid prince was going to pay for his crimes if it was the last task Clytemnestra meted out on this earth. If not for him, she would not have had to treat her sister so roughly...

  A pang of regret stirred in her bosom. Nestra had no choice but to shock her twin back to reason, to prove to her the feelings Paris evoked were not special. Anyone could stir them. Helen was too innocent to see through his empty promises, defenseless against his devilish charms. She trusted naively instead of holding the man suspect. As she should hold all men suspect.

  Clytemnestra sighed. Perhaps she had pushed Helen too far. She was was not ready to accept the cruel truths of this world. Of course she had run away. If Nestra could only talk to her, she could explain that she would never hurt Helen without reason. Her punishment, while harsh, was nothing compared to what Agamemnon would do. Helen had to understand...

  A painful sob constricted her chest, the loss of her twin more devastating than Clytemnestra could have ever imagined. Helen was her only ray of sunshine in this God-forsaken world, her sister's joyful spirit the only thing that made living at Agamemnon's side bearable.

  And now she was gone...

  A sharp pang seared through Clytemnestra's head and the confined space within her palanquin went out of focus. Her breaths came in shallow gasps. It was happening again. A foreign prince had abducted her twin, disappearing into the night to inflict his sick pleasures on her body. The girls had been only eight the first time it had happened, and the stain of that dark memory haunted Nestra thereafter.

  The cry of alarm rang through their father's camp. Nestra burrowed beneath the furs in their tent just as the raiders threw open the flap. But Helen was too slow. She was caught in the open...

  Nestra would never forget the sound of her sister's screams as that vile Athenian king took her away. Or the feeling of utter helplessness that paralyzed her body as she quivered beneath the blankets. Nestra had been too weak to save Helen from Theseus, and it disgusted her. In the horrible aftermath that followed, she made a solemn vow to herself: to banish all weakness from her heart and to protect her twin at all costs.

  But how could she save Helen from herself?

  A jolt in the litter stirred the queen from her dark thoughts. Nestra pulled back the gossamer curtains hiding her from view and surveyed her surroundings. The entourage had moved off the smooth limestone streets of the main city and onto the hard-packed avenues of the lower fields.

  Mycenae had grown too quickly for any sort of rational plan. Pockets of occupation popped up as more peasants migrated to the great city. Unfortunately, that brought as many unsavory sorts as hard-working citizen.

  Layabouts, thieves, and rapists, Nestra sneered, dabbing her nose with a perfumed cloth, a futile attempt to block the stench of sewage running down the street. The locals had dubbed this precinct "Vagabond Fields". Only the truly desperate came here. Or those looking for the desperate.

  A pair of children ducked into an alley at the sight of her palanquin. Probably orphans by the state of their disheveled dress. They stared at her with dark, beady eyes, and there was a glint of hunger in their hate-filled glare that did not desire food.

  The queen glared back. Her husband spent too much time pursuing enemies abroad. Only a fool ignored a threat in his own house. If Nestra had her way, she'd purge the entire district. It was better to strike than wait to see what damage your enemy could inflict.

  The slaves halted fifty feet away from a dilapidated hut. The thatching on the roof was newly mended and the paint on the door fresh. The work masked the bones of a questionable structure, and it spoke of occupants who could not afford the copper or time to build something better.

  "Are you sure this is the place?" She turned to Belos, the dark-skinned captain who commanded her guard.

  "I knew him well, My Queen. He is the one you seek."

  Nestra nodded and Belos gave the command for his men to spread out and secure the perimeter. Her guardsmen feared Belos like they did the wrath of Zeus. The muscular warrior hailed from the southern continent and resembled the black jungle cat of his homelands in both ferocity and temperament. Nestra placed all her trust in the man, as she could not with Agamemnon's lackeys. Belos' fortunes were tied to her own, unlike the Mycenaean soldiers who owed her no such loyalty.

  "Once it's clear, take only the men you trust inside. I don't want talk of this meeting spreading throughout the city," Clytemnestra instructed him.

  "Of course, My Queen." He departed immediately to oversee the task.

  Nestra wrung a kerchief in her hands, the small square of linen damp with tears. This plan had to work. Each day, each minute, she delayed put Helen's life further at risk.

  Belos waved to her from the hut. Her men were ready. She gave him a quick nod to proceed and watched as Belos kicked in the door and stormed the interior with five equally muscular men.

  There were sounds of struggle from within. Belos had promised to make short work of the man, but it continued for long, tense minutes. A baby wailed, crockery shattered, and a man screamed in pain.

  Clytemnestra froze, the threat of danger urging her to run. Had she made a mistake? Desperation brought her to this dilapidated place, and for an angst-ridden moment, she doubted the wisdom of her plan.

  The hut fell to silence, and Belos finally stepped out the front door. "We are ready for you, My Queen."

  Clytemnestra closed off the pathetic yammering of her heart, slamming shut a stone door on any emotion. Now was the time for strength. She strut into the house like a true Spartan, her back stiff as a corpse and an arrogant sneer on her face. She wanted this man to have no mistake where he stood in her favor.

  There had been quite a battle. The one-room hovel was completely turned out. A wooden table, now missing a leg, was smashed against the wall. One of her guards gasped for breath while clutching his ribs, the white tip of bone protruding from his tunic. Feathers from slashed bedding filled the air, cascading around them like flakes of snow. Nestra kicked aside broken pottery as she entered, her eyes boring straight into the man she had come to see.

  He was tall, over six feet, with sandy-brown hair that hung to his shoulders. His clothes were poor, the fabric thin, but beneath that wrapping lay the body of a well toned warrior. He brandished the missing table leg like a man familiar with combat. Behind him, an exotic, dark-haired beauty grasped his arm, an infant at her breast and another child, but one year older, clinging to her leg.

  "What is the meaning of this? I've committed no crime!" he shouted, his petulant tone reminiscent of the toadies in her court. Was this really the man Belos had told her of? He seemed no more dangerous than the unsavory men who traded in dark alleys.

  "You dare to speak that way before royalty?" Belos growled. "You should kneel, you meshwesh scum." One of her guards stepped forward, an arrow drawn taut in his bow.

  "There is no need for formalities." Nestra crossed the room to stand before him. The man was far from the type to bend the knee. "I know who you are, Scylax."

  He froze. That infamous name was poisoned with the spirits of the countless dead he had dispatched. His arm tensed, pushing his wife further behind him. "I am not that man."

  Clytemnestra was taken aback by the heat in his voice. Not a flicker of emotion crossed his eyes, those crystal blue orbs as cold as ice. They were a strikingly pale blue, like the pallor of a two-day-dead corpse. They froze her heart and warned her of danger. Clytemnestra laughed at her own foolishness and cast the man a devilish smile, deciding it was his best feature.

  "You're a mercenary." She let the word drip with the revulsion she felt. Sell-swords had no honor, they stood for nothing and no one, save their own advancement. In the eyes of the Gods they ranked just above merchants as the lowest form of humanity.

  "But you aren't just any mercenary," she continued. "You comm
anded a company of Greeks in the employ of Libyan rebels. You tried to unseat a sitting Pharaoh. Any man who thinks he can topple kings is one I pay close attention to." She moved in dangerously close as she spoke, delivering her next words with the seductive cadence of a lover. "It's important to know who your enemies are. Are you my enemy, Scylax?"

  The man was completely at her mercy, and he knew it. He flinched, pulling away from her uncomfortable presence. "I'm not that man. Please, leave me and my family be—"

  She gave Belos the pre-arranged signal. Her guard stepped forward and yanked Scylax' wife away by the hair, placing a naked blade at her throat.

  The change happened quickly. With lightning fast reflexes, Scylax pounced forward clubbing the first guard who attempted to subdue him. He took hold of Belos' sword arm, wrenching the blade loose. It was an incredible display of strength. He was about to pick up the weapon for murderous effect when a cry cut through the din.

  "Scylax, no!" his wife sobbed, her pitiful cries freezing the man in place.

  A tense moment of silence followed while her royal guards stood motionless, fear of their opponent writ large on their faces. But Clytemnestra knew how to end this stalemate. Scylax' weakness was obvious: his family.

  "Is this your daughter?" She plucked the toddler off the ground. The sell-sword had forgotten the child in his mad rush to save his wife. The babe wailed in Clytemnestra's arms, confused at the identity of this stranger who was clearly not her mother.

  Scylax hesitated, stuck halfway between her and Belos. He could not save one loved one without endangering the other. The desperation in his attack drained from his body. In its place grew something far more dangerous. He crouched low, the stance of a man prepared to unleash bloody revenge.

  Clytemnestra laughed. She was wondering when the man would reveal himself. This was the true Scylax, the ruthless killer whom even the brave knew to fear.

  "I'll ask you again. Are you my enemy, Scylax?" She added her own murderous heat to her words. "Or would you rather be my ally?"