"Who sent for you? Which prince?"
Paris pressed Helen behind him and rose to his full height. The time for pretenses was gone. "No one sent us. We are traveling to the Temple in Heliopolis. No farther."
Bay cradled the kerykeion, a fevered glow in his eyes. "They are pilgrims, from a minor house of Troy. Why would a minor lord have such a treasure?"
"Don't be stupid," Setnakhte snapped at the chancellor. "He is no minor lord." He turned back to Paris, more desperate than ever. "Who sent for you? What is your name?"
Paris opened his mouth, scrambling for the right answer to get him and Helen out of the room safely. But he took too long, and Bay answered for him.
"He said it was Alexandros. Why? Is he lying?" The chancellor tightened his grip on the scepter as though he meant to claim it for his own.
Paris could see the name settle into the general's mind. His eyes widened with shock and he dropped to one knee. "Forgive me, Your Grace. I did not recognize you."
Paris cursed under his breath. He cursed all the Gods and their capricious natures. They took his every fear and made them come to be.
Bay charged to the general's side. "What are you doing? Get up."
But Setnakhte grabbed Bay by his tunic and brought him down to his knees. "He is the second son of King Priam, you fool. He is a prince of Troy."
The sniveling official scowled at Paris with disbelief, the truth crawling over his face like news of the plague.
"That's enough." Paris sighed, waving them back to their feet. He held his hand out expectantly to Bay, and the chancellor reluctantly gave back the kerykeion. "I don't know what is going on between you two, and I don't care. I want nothing of it. I spoke the truth. We are traveling to Heliopolis and no farther."
"Of course, Your Grace." Setnakhte ducked his head with respect. "I'll accompany you to the palace myself."
Paris shook his head. He had to salvage something out of this mess. "No. We are restocking our larder and going to the Temple. I will meet with the vizier afterwards."
Bay and Setnakhte shared a confused look, neither wanting to speak first. "But surely you must know—" Bay started first.
"What?" Paris snapped back.
"The royal family is there." Setnakhte shifted nervously. "Pharaoh and his sons hold court in Heliopolis."
Paris groaned. The full court? There would be no escaping notice now. No visiting royal could deny an audience with Pharaoh. Such disrespect would cause a deep rift between their nations. Priam would never condone it.
"Then we are fortunate," Paris lied to them both, feeling the bars of his royal cage locking into place. "Please, General. Lead on. And don't stop until we stand before the king."
He exchanged a quiet nod with Helen, a crease of concern tensing her lovely face. Yes, they would stand before the king, and once there, Paris would have to explain what they were doing in Egypt.
And if Pharaoh didn't like what he heard, there was very little Paris could do about it.
Chapter 11
The High King Returns
"STRAIGHTEN YOUR BACK," Clytemnestra snapped at her youngest daughter while fanning herself on the balcony of her royal apartments. Electra scowled in her direction, the girl's tense eight-year-old face resembling her fearsome father more each day. With features so mannish, it would be feat to secure her a proper husband.
"A curtsey is a show of respect." Nestra slapped the wooden fan down in her palm, the sharp sound making the maids jump nervously. "You represent the honor of your house when you bow before a king."
"I'm trying." The girl made another awkward attempt.
Nestra groaned. She was starting to believe the task hopeless. "Iphigenia, please. Show her how."
Her eldest stirred from the padded chair along the chamber wall where she had taken refuge. At nearly twelve, Iphigenia was considered a lady-in-training, having set aside the garments of childhood. Though she wore an ankle length chiton that flowed gracefully over her sun-kissed freckled skin, Iphigenia still lacked the curves that would ultimately declare her of child-bearing age. She remained Nestra's lovely girl.
"Yes, Mother," came her dutiful reply. The princess rose from her perch doing her best to hide the melancholy that invaded their household since news of Helen's abduction became common knowledge. She cast her royal mother the tender smile she had inherited from her aunt and dipped into a curtsey, proceeding to take over Electra's lessons.
Nestra allowed her attention to wander, gazing across the palace grounds towards the Khavos ravine and the turbulent sea beyond. Far off shore, dark storm clouds gathered on the horizon, and forks of purple lightning burned an afterglow into Nestra's eyes. She prayed it was a small squall. Summer heat bred the worst sort of storms, sending even the best mariners down to the depths of Poseidon's realm. With no word from Scylax, Nestra could only assume her twin was still out there, the dangers to her life mounting ever greater.
"That's it!" Iphigenia chimed, clapping at her sister's successful curtsey. "Head held high, and dip." The girls enacted the move in unison, giggling like a pair of maids.
Clytemnestra envied her children and these years of innocence. It was a shame it would be short-lived. Times of war scoured away traces of childhood as quickly as dry tinder took to spark. She remembered her own transition only too well. She had not been much older than Iphigenia when Agamemnon demanded a Spartan bride and forced her to his bed. Innocence was a luxury one could not afford when joining the house of Atreus. She would not have lived long in Mycenae without learning to put aside her childish ways.
"Again," she instructed her daughters, studying their form with her keen eyes, ensuring there was no flaw.
The doors to her chambers flew open and Astyanassa rushed to her side, the raven-haired chambermaid's eyes wide with fear. "The King has returned," she gasped as she knelt by Clytemnestra's side. "He is headed this way."
A vein of panic gripped Nestra's stomach as she steeled her nerves. "Go. And remember what I told you. If anyone asks, you tell them what we agreed and nothing more."
The sultry woman nodded. There was a hint of untamed spirit in the maid that made Nestra more than a little nervous. Everything relied on their interchangeable stories. That hot-blooded vixen had best not fail her now.
Astyanassa scurried back to the door, nearly running head-first into the mountainous chest of Clytemnestra's husband. He shoved the maid out of his way, his obsidian eyes held firmly on his queen.
"Is it true?" Violence simmered beneath his deceptively calm exterior. Nestra lost her voice as she rose on shaky legs.
Iphigenia instantly grabbed Electra by the arm, the two girls inching back towards the door, their eyes darting between their parents. This was far from the first episode they had witnessed between Clytemnestra and her husband. Her eldest had learned early to disappear or share in his wrath.
"Father." Electra strained against her sister's hold, her voice laced with an eagerness to please. "I've missed you, Papa."
Agamemnon ignored her, his body shaking with suppressed rage as his eyes bore into his queen. "Is it true?!"
Clytemnestra rushed to her daughters' side, pushing them out of Agamemnon's path with hasty hands. "Go back to your chambers."
Iphigenia began to protest, hesitant to leave her. "But Mother—"
"Now!" Nestra shouted at the girls. The older princess quickly collected her sister, a pained look of concern on her face as they exited the royal apartments.
"Answer me, Woman. Did that perfumed lordling... take Helen?" Agamemnon trembled with suppressed rage, and Nestra prayed to Hera he did not find a new outlet of release.
"Yes." The word escaped her clenched throat. "The night after you left. The Trojans escaped under the cloak of darkness, like thieves raiding a village. We did not know of the prince's depravity until well into the next day."
Agamemnon paced the antechamber, eyeing his queen with unveiled disgust. "That was almost a fortnight ago! Why didn't you send for me?"
"Nothing takes precedence over this!" He spat on the floor, his eyes wild with wrath. "Curse you, Woman. You sat here on your backside, in the luxury I provide for you, and did nothing!"
She struggled for air, his fingers constricting so tightly she feared her neck would break. "No," she choked out. "Not nothing... I sent...an...assassin," she wheezed, clawing at his hands, black specks dancing across her vision. "To kill the Trojan...and reclaim...what he took from you."
Agamemnon tossed her to the ground and she gulped in precious air. "You stupid woman! You play at politics, meddling in matters you cannot possibly understand." His pacing began anew.
Clytemnestra took a moment to clear her senses. She knew what she said next would determine her fate—hers and Helen's. Rising to her feet, she presented herself before her king, dipping into a humble curtsey Electra would have envied.
"You are right, My Lord. I acted foolishly, believing a swift and deadly response to be best." She flinched as his hand tightened into a fist. Agamemnon was always loath to admit when she spoke sense. It was best to say her piece quickly before his temper ran wild. "I thought such actions would go unnoticed by those who would tarnish your reputation. I am but a woman. I might be queen, but I could not presume to lead in your stead. You are the king. And one day soon, you will be High King. The formal response need must come from you."
Slowly, the muscles around his neck unclenched and he lowered his fist. Clytemnestra breathed a sigh of relief, careful not to make any sudden move that would agitate him.
"I will be High King," her husband growled with that promise. "And you would do well to remember your place behind me. You take too many liberties, Wife."
Clytemnestra lowered her eyes, hoping to mask the spike of rebellion flaring within her. Agamemnon would never be High King without her help. One day he would recognize the benefit of having a Spartan bride at his side. That or pay the consequences of underestimating her potential.
"As you say, My Lord. Your throne and the glory of Mycenae are all that matters."
Agamemnon watched his wife humble herself before him, her moment of humility not enough to mollify his wounded pride. This rebellious behavior was unacceptable. How could he command the respect of the Grecian kings if he could not manage the affairs of his own house?
"Tell me what you know. All of it."
She recanted her tale, of how the prince raided his treasure room and Helen sought to stop him, of how she was taken captive and smuggled to the Trojan ship in the dead of night.
She lies... His fist tightened to strike her for the offense. The Trojans could neither have gotten past his guards at the treasury nor the traps he set within. Why would his wife fabricate these details? But, as his blood rose in temperature while Clytemnestra described the abduction, Agamemnon realized he didn't care.
That fool Trojan took the bait. He could scarcely believe it true. His idle threats and insults had proven enough to spur the insipid prince to this rash action. Helen's abduction was the inconceivable sin, the match that would ignite the flames of war. Tyndareus' ill-conceived Oath could be invoked, and his brother kings were honor-bound to answer his call. Years of planning would now bear fruit.
Agamemnon paced the anteroom of his bedchamber, his mind ablaze. Finally, his grand destiny would be realized. His war with the East was now justified. By the sword, he'd force the lords of the Old World to bend knee to his rule. They would tremble before the might of the West! Agamemnon would ascend his throne as Overlord of Greece, enshrined by the will of the Gods, just as Calchas prophesied. He should rejoice at these fortuitous chain of events.
But he did not.
Helen, delectable, sweet Helen, was gone. A white-hot rage burned inside him, threatening to obliterate all of his careful planning. Yes, Helen's abduction gave him a strategic advantage, but the thought of that pretty-boy prince having his way with his golden princess made him sick.
How dare he? I'll gut him like a suckling pig and toss his entrails to the dogs!
That madness bottled up within him. He needed a release. He swung his arm out, sending a decorative vase to the floor, the broken pieces of ceramic cutting into his fist. "A quick death is too good for that Trojan bastard." He turned to his wife and his fist flew free, knocking her across the temple. "I will make him pay. I will make his whole bloody family pay. And anyone who dares stand in my way."
Clytemnestra raised her head, her lapis-blue eyes glaring at him with an unbroken spirit. Blood trickled down her face from a gash where her head had hit the stone. "His death will not be quick," his queen uttered with heat, picking herself off the ground. Her hate-filled gaze was flush with the same jealousy that raged within him, whether for the Trojan or Agamemnon himself, he could not tell. His wife was always prickly in matters regarding her twin. The first time she confronted him about his infidelity was also the last.
This display of Spartan courage deeply aroused him. It had been too long since he last showed her the rightful treatment of a king to his queen. Too long since he reminded her of the power he wielded over her body. He grabbed Clytemnestra by the throat again, pulling her to him for a bruising embrace. She did not resist. Only the spark of fury in her eyes gave hint of the spirit battling within.
He tore at her chiton, the embroidered fabric falling to the floor in rags. Pressing her down on their bed, he savaged her throat and breasts with a bestial hunger, his fingers crushing her tender flesh to him. With a few short moves, he rid himself of his kingly garments and mounted her, his frustrations fueling each powerful thrust until she cried out in a mix of pain and pleasure.
How different from her twin, his wife was. Clytemnestra hid nothing, defiant, daring him to do his worst. His queen seemed to welcome this exchange of wills, as though each tangle between the sheets somehow made her stronger, like a warrior who survived the battlefield.
Helen, in contrast, quietly accepted his attentions. Her soft yielding was intoxicating, some portion of her spirit hidden away, a tantalizing treat he could never reach. The promise of capturing that tender morsel kept him returning to her bed. She was a treasure his brother had no idea how to savor. One day he would possess her again.
With a shuddering cry, he climaxed, pumping his seed deep within his queen. He collapsed on top of her, feeling a peace he hadn't experienced in weeks.
"Clean yourself up," he commanded, pressing his lips to her ear as she squirmed beneath him. "You'll tell this tale to the lawagetas lords, and when the time comes, to the kings who assemble. You will not say one word that is not first cleared by me. Nod if you understand."
She nodded, a touch of fear-tinged respect finally constricting her face. He rose from the bed and donned his clothes. With strict instructions that he expected her in the megaron within the hour, he left the royal apartments.
He stormed down the long corridor, his confidence growing with each stride. He was but a child when Apollo's priest prophesied his grand destiny, but those words strummed through his veins with the same power.
Through a sea of blood and betrayal of kin, will the son of Atreus rise to power. All will bow to his majesty, and from the ashes of his victory, the world will be made anew.
Agamemnon would unite the Hellas. His destiny as High King was writ in the stars. It was time now to collect his crown.
And it all began with Troy.
Chapter 12
The Cobra Lies in Wait
THE ACRID SMOKE of torch fire stung Scylax' eyes as he travelled deeper into the dungeons of Heliopolis. Kenamon set a good pace. The Egyptian royal guard, though off-duty, wore the light armor of his office. Like many of his fellow guardsmen, Kenamon provided information to those who could pay, and if the purse was fat enough, he even provided favors.
Scylax kept a watchful eye on his Egyptian guide. Only a fool trusted someone who sold secrets
. Too soon, one found himself paying for silence as well as information.
The prison corridor, although connected to the royal palace, angled downward and further away from the acropolis. The design was ingenious, following the septic lines back to the Nile, the refuse of society housed with the waste of the highborn. In Egypt, anyone who disrupted the established order of the realm was considered a loathsome creature, a traitor and miscreant.
A fire burned in Scylax' belly. It was not so long ago he walked these halls in chains, a prisoner of war. He knew intimately why the the Crown kept its prisoners stationed far out of sight where the sounds of their tortured cries could not reach refined ears. If not for a young healer of Isis, he would have died in the dank underbelly of Heliopolis' dungeons.
They neared a blind corner. Kenamon raised a hand to signal a stop, and Scylax immediately pressed back into the shadows, the cool touch of the stone walls tensing his muscles.
"Wait here," Kenamon whispered, handing over the torch. "The guards make rounds at top of hour. I will see, make sure they go, and collect you." He spoke in a pidgin language that was part Egyptian, part Greek, and part Akkadian, the universal language for the swordsmen who hailed from so many distant lands. Scylax made it a point to feign ignorance of the full Egyptian tongue. Men who could not be trusted often showed their hand when confident they could not be overheard.
Kenamon turned to go, but Scylax grabbed the man by the tunic. "Be quick. Or I find you." He lifted the hilt of his sword so the guard did not mistake his meaning. Kenamon nodded nervously and slipped around the corner.
Slowly, the stillness of the place surrounded him. In the distance, a whistle of wind and steady drip of water echoed down the tunnels to Scylax' ears. With it came the muffled moans of human misery.
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