Aethra folded her arms beneath her ample bosom. "Are we talking about the Trojan or someone else?"
Helen avoided her steely gaze. She knew better than to play coy with the woman. It was Aethra, after all, who taught Helen her first lessons in introspection, but guilt was gnawing at her, like a swarm of beetles devouring the summer crop. It stripped her soul bare, exposing her traitorous heart. "I swore an oath to Menelaus, an oath I broke." She shuddered against the cool breeze. "If I deserve a second chance, why not him?"
Aethra sighed, her dark eyes filled with pity. "Do you need to stand before the mast before you can forgive yourself, Child?" She laid a gentle hand on Helen's back. "You broke no oath that he had not already shattered by his own deeds. The sons of Atreus left you no option but to leave. Do not play the fool for crimes committed against you. You are stronger than that."
Helen gazed across the galley toward Paris. He sat with his men before a burning brazier. As though by instinct, he looked in her direction, his quiet affection piercing her heart.
She had played the fool. Her entire life had been one compromise after another until she met the Trojan prince. Through Paris, she discovered a part of herself she had long thought lost: a vein of strength and moral fortitude. He had proven to her there was still honor and goodness in the world. He was a rare, precious human being, and she was going to protect him at all cost.
"You've held yourself apart for too long." Aethra added, watching the gathering men like a commander surveying enemy troops. "You are a stranger to the crew. A foreigner. Men fear what they do not know. We should join them."
"Are you suggesting I fraternize with the lowborn?" Helen faked a smile, adopting a light-hearted tone. In Mycenae, that sort of behavior had earned her more lectures from her stern chaperone than she cared recounting, precisely the sort of topic to distract the woman from the current line of conversation. "How uncharacteristic of you, Aethra."
"Are you avoiding them on purpose? How uncharacteristic of you, Princess," Aethra quipped back, not fooled for an instant by the deflection.
Helen tightened a shawl around her chest to help mask her discomfort. How could she explain the doubt she encountered every time she faced an unknown warrior? Or her fear of trusting her safety with a man, any man? With everything that had happened in Mycenae, from even her own sister... Helen doubted she would ever trust again.
"Not all men are like Greeks." Aethra continued to lecture her like a child. "Show these Trojans how you expect to be treated and they will see you as a queen. In that, you should trust me." She stood and offered a hand to Helen, beckoning toward the main hold.
Were it so simple.
But Aethra did have experience in the matter. Although technically a slave, one would be a fool to not recognize the woman came from royal blood, albeit a tainted line that Helen's father had all but wiped out. Her matron had reinvented herself more times than Helen could guess.
Helen softened. If this voyage was truly taking her to a new beginning, then perhaps she could leave her old self behind and become some one else. Maybe even the person she always dreamt she would be. Regardless if she felt like that person yet, she could at least try.
"By all means," Helen waved Aethra onward. "After you."
Paris took a seat beside Glaucus and ladled himself a portion of mutton stew. The meat was tough, salvaged from the leftovers of their meal three nights past, but still savory. And warm. It was the best the crew could expect under the circumstances.
"If we have to eat slop, it'd be nice to have something to wash it down, Captain," Brygos suggested, trying hard to make the request sound innocent—a difficult endeavor for the bulky man.
"You'll wash it down with salt water, you lazy dog." Glaucus simmered. "We need to keep our wits about us, not pilot this sea-bitch three sheets to the wind."
"Let them have it," Paris interrupted what he was sure would be an epic tongue-lashing.
"But, Paris—"
"A round in honor of our brother, Iamus." He hushed his captain.
A bawdy cheer ran through the crowd, loud enough—he hoped—for the recovering guardsman to appreciate. Over their boisterous cries, Paris leaned in and whispered into Glaucus' ear. "They have done all we have asked without complaint. Give them one night of rest."
Glaucus nodded, the stress-lines along his neck unclenching. "As you wish."
Joyful conversation broke out at the announcement, many in thanks to their disgraced companion, an unexpected side-effect that convinced Paris even more of the wisdom of his decision. From the men surrounding him, the elite fighters of his royal guard, the conversation was more intimate, for they knew Iamus best.
"Do you remember the time Iamus barged into the bathhouse in Rhodes claiming someone had stolen his purse?" Dexios recounted, waving Brygos over to top off his cup.
"Don't you mean the ladies' bathhouse?" Brygos added with a grin, replacing the stopper in the clay amphora.
"I don't think that was an accident." Paris joined their round of laughter, taking a sip of the tart Grecian wine. "But he did find the cutpurse hiding in the steam room. How many purses did he recover?"
A fair number of hands went into the air.
"Only after he made right by the bath madame," Dexios said with a sigh. "Lucky bastard. She was a lovely dame at that."
Paris couldn't help but grin. The infamous guard was almost as good at getting out of trouble as he was at getting into it. Despite his disappointment in the man, he was glad Iamus was not dead. Losing him would have left a gaping hole in the hearts of his crew.
How had Helen managed such a miracle? He replayed the events of the morning over and over again in his mind, shocked to his core by what he had witnessed. Helen's act of mercy should have been met with ridicule and outrage. Instead, she had won the loyalty of every man on board. Standing before the mast, she refused to buckle to tradition and challenged everyone to rethink their concept of justice. She showed a courage he had rarely seen in his lifetime, even from himself.
As though the thought summoned her, Helen appeared at his side. She carried a bowl of stew in her right hand, and with her left she stroked his cheek. Her touch, as usual, stirred his blood.
The conversation died off the moment she stepped into the light. Brygos in particular was coughing nervously. Paris wondered what crudity the man had last uttered.
"Join us." He shuffled aside on the rowing bench to make room for his beloved.
"Thank you." She smiled, but then crossed to the opposite side of the fire, taking a seat between his guardsmen. Ariston barely managed to make room, the youth was so mesmerized.
Paris grinned. It was entertaining to see his men struggle to find their words. Helen's presence cowed them faster than one of Glaucus' famous salt-baths. When she asked what they were drinking, Brygos hastily offered her his glass.
"That's dreadful!" Her face puckered from the bitter vintage. "I hope you didn't pay much for that. I've tasted better swill from the bottom of the jar."
Hyllos, who sat to her left, looked away sheepishly. "Not much..." the trade master muttered into his cup, which, of course, earned him a round of heckles from the crew. It was a conservative jest they had on Hyllos behalf, the men still unsure what behavior was expected of them before a princess.
"You are a merchant, no?" Helen asked. Hyllos nodded, too tongue-tied to answer. "I thought the gift of barter ran through a tradesman's blood." She leaned forward with a mischievous grin. "Or did you lose your wits to a woman, the same as your bloodied mate?"
It was too much for Brygos, and the hefty man—already deep in his cups—guffawed loudly. He was quickly joined by the others.
Paris watched Helen with a new appreciation. She deftly put the gruff soldiers at ease. She was clearly a woman raised by men.
Or perhaps, he mused, Spartans hold to a different ideal of female conduct than their Argive cousins.
"To be fair, Princess," he interrupted their laughter, "the women of the Hellas ha
ve proven to be more intoxicating than the spirits in a cup. If Hyllos was besotted, then perhaps the blame was not entirely his own?"
"A fair argument, but perhaps the prince should save that excuse for his own transgressions?"
Paris whipped around to find Aethra standing behind him. The rigid woman was watching their gathering with a bemused smile on her aged face.
Aethra, smiling? He had thought the woman was born with a frown.
"There is no excuse for botching a trade," she continued, taking a seat beside him. "Especially where wine is concerned."
His shock must have played out on his face, for Helen's merry laugh followed. "Indeed, My Lady!" She raised her cup with great fanfare. "Perhaps you can teach him how it is done since you are so good at knowing everyone else's business." Aethra was not amused by the jest. Paris wondered, once again, what was festering between the two women.
Once his men settled down, Helen turned to Ariston with a look of mock seriousness on her lovely face. "My matron is full of useful advice of late. She reminded me that I have been remiss in offering gratitude to the men who so bravely freed me from my palatial prison. Yet how am I to thank you if I don't know your names?"
Dexios prodded Ariston in the back as the youth squirmed under her prolonged attention. "Uh, Ariston, Your Grace." He knuckled his forehead.
"Ariston," she tried out the word, causing the poor guard to blush three shades red. "You seem young to be in the company of these veterans. How did you join their ranks?"
After several failed attempts to speak, Dexios finally spoke for the lad, "He's good with his sword." There was an awkward pause before Dexios realized his poor phrasing. "I meant—" But he was drowned out by the roar of laughter.
"I see." Helen looked aside, a blush of her own gracing her cheeks.
"I never—I wouldn't..." Ariston tried to protest, stammering like a spirit-soaked goat herder.
Paris looked around at his crew, at the many joyful faces. All beaming, and all red. He wondered just how many jars Glaucus had fetched. Farther down the galley, a few oarsmen had procured a pair of lyres and were playing a lively tune. Some of the sailors even danced a jig.
He stretched out, feeling a sense of ease he hadn't experienced since arriving on Argive soil. If Paris was truthful with himself, he hadn't felt this good... well, ever. He looked over to Helen—his beautiful, sweet Helen—and knew it was all because of her.
She held her own with his guardsmen, Brygos attempting to elicit one of her musical laughs with another tale of questionable behavior. She countered with one of her own, something about Spartan manhood rituals that sounded decidedly unpleasant.
"They really go naked?" Ariston asked, his eyes wide in disbelief. When Helen opened her mouth to elaborate Paris decided it was past time to rescue her.
"I'd say that's enough vulgarity for one night." He walked over to his beloved, offering her his hand. "I should have warned you, Princess. When you consort with sailors, your manners will be corrupted."
She took his hand, a spark of challenge in her eye. "And what happens when you consort with princes?"
"That depends on the prince." He winked at her.
The musicians switched songs, plucking out a sweet tune. He pulled Helen after him, dragging her away from the crowded deck to the more spacious and darkened corner at the bow. His guardsmen howled at their departure, but Paris wasn't about to give her back to those hooligans. He wrapped her arms around his neck, and led her into a slow dance.
"You truly are amazing. Do you know that?" Her sweet perfume of lilac and rose inundated his senses. He inhaled deeply, letting her intoxicating presence soak into him. He doubted ambrosia tasted as sweet as her ruby kisses.
Helen's heart pounded against her chest. The way he was looking at her, with complete adoration... she was powerless in that gaze. She could deny him nothing. And when he ran his hand down her back, every nerve in her body began to tingle, responding unconsciously to his touch. Perhaps it was the wine, but she was suddenly overwhelmed with desire for him. It had been too long since they had been together. Not since the night they left Mycenae, before... other things... had transpired.
A silent tremor ran through her body. After that night, could she physically love again? It seemed irrational, but a portion of her soul felt dirty, used up... broken. Paris hadn't pressed her to perform, despite the ample opportunities for him to have done so. His patience allowed her a safe haven in his arms. Safe, like she would never feel in the outside world again. Helen pulled in closer to his chest and met his loving gaze, astonished that he could care for her so deeply, especially when she came with nothing but troubles.
A new fear took hold of her. If she was truly damaged, as she feared her sister's punishment had left her, would Paris still want her by his side? Men had needs, and if she failed to meet them? That fear threatened to unmake her. In her mind's eye, she saw herself broken and bloodied in her royal apartments, the delicate little princess who was eternally the victim of a cruel and vicious world. That person disgusted her. She was weak, unworthy.
Helen couldn't let Nestra infect what she and Paris shared. She had to purge those fears. For this man she could at least try. Lacing her fingers through his hair, she pulled Paris' lips down to hers. His touch ignited her blood, the heat of his hot breath kindling a flame within. Nestra's lingering presence, that spike of icy fear, tried to battle the inferno inside her. If she loved Paris less, that ice storm might have won out. But not this day, not before the flame of this man.
"Can we go somewhere more private?" she asked in a voice she scarcely recognized as her own.
"Are you sure?"
Helen nodded. She had never been more certain of anything in her life.
Aethra watched her charge disappear below deck with a frown. The child was reckless. One moment Helen presented herself as a fearsome queen, demanding—nay, deserving—respect. And the next? A shameless minx at the mercies of her lusty nature. Aethra chewed her lower lip, trying to bite away her frustration. Her efforts to preserve the girl's virtue were a losing battle. Sparks flew when Paris and Helen were together. It would take more than a disapproving chaperone to pull them apart.
"Dare I ask who has offended you, and should I give them fair warning before you strike?"
She turned to the unwelcome disturbance. The Trojan captain climbed the final few steps of the aft-deck, two steaming cups in his hands. She sniffed in disapproval before finally accepting his offer. "You best not be trying to drug me."
"If I thought it would mellow your acerbic tongue, I just might." Glaucus grunted. "Peace woman. It's only tea." He settled himself against the sternpost beside her and added, "It is not yet summer. Nights on the Great Sea can be unforgiving."
She pulled her wrap around her against that cold. Perhaps the man wasn't completely without use. She sipped her tea and studied the rigid captain.
His hair had been black once, before it turned to grey—an unfortunate curse of aging that Aethra was all too familiar with. The lighter color suited the man, it lent him an aura of grizzled wisdom not found in the cocksure Trojans in his charge.
"You're not one of them, are you?" she exclaimed with sudden realization.
His pale-grey eyes hardened. "What makes you say that?"
"You have an accent." Aethra delighted in his surprised look. "You roll your r's. It's subtle, but noticeable. The Helladic dialect is not your native tongue."
That much was obvious, that and his broadly set shoulders, had set him apart. She wondered where he hailed from. One of the southern isles?
"Lukka." He offered without her asking. It wasn't the first time Glaucus had correctly read her thoughts.
"Lukka?" She frowned. She knew of no such place.
"Lycia to you Greeks. It's along the southern reaches of Anatolia, in the shadow of the Great Taurus mountains."
"Lycia!" The disapproval escaped her lips before she thought to censor herself. Lycia was home to notorious pirates and dereli
cts. Why would a Trojan prince sail with such a questionable character? "Should I be concerned?" She eyed him warily.
"So you've heard of it?" He seemed mildly amused.
"By reputation." She sniffed again. "And don't take that as a compliment." A small grin threatened to make his face pleasant, which meant he looked like a wolf playing with a meal.
"You are well versed in foreign cultures." Glaucus continued, ignoring her subtle hints for solitude. "Unusual for a—"
"A what?" She cut him off sharply. "A slave? For a man with large eyes you see little."
Her barb had no effect on the man. His face was like stone. "...For a Westerner. Careful of hasty judgements, My Lady. They blind you from truth."
She swallowed her quick reply. Glaucus came offering a kindness and did not deserve her barbed wit. Helen's rash behavior had put her in a mood. The girl no longer respected her as she once had, and now Aethra found herself fighting against any slight, perceived or real.
It still galled her to be considered a slave. Aethra had years to accustom herself to her lowly station, but for some reason Glaucus, more than any other man, made her feel the absence of her crown. She wanted him to see her as she once was: a queen of a mighty kingdom.
She looked away, banishing the tears that threatened her stoic composure. That life was a distant memory now. This was her new world, and Helen her salvation. The Winds of Change filled their sails. Clinging to a distant past was a mistake for the weak of heart, not her.
They sat in silence for a long while, each guardian enjoying a moment of peace. The steady slap of waves on the hull and the jangling of halyard rings above created a sense of solitude from the festivities on deck. As captain of this ship, Glaucus should have been with his men, enjoying a night of respite. Yet, he was here keeping her company. That, more than his refusal to leave, lulled Aethra into lowering her stalwart defenses.
"Do you miss it? Your homeland?" She offered the first olive branch.
"I had a wife once." His face creased at the memory, a dark shadow overtaking him. "She was taken from me. Lukka wasn't home afterwards." She thought he was finished, the brief dialogue more words than she'd heard from the man in one sitting. When he continued, it was like the confession was battling to come out. "I didn't care much where I went, or who I worked for, until Paris found me. Not many men would have bothered cleaning up a spice-addled soldier of fortune, let alone a prince. But he did. I have been Trojan ever since."
The Princess of Prophecy Page 6
