The Princess of Prophecy

by Aria Cunningham

  "She travels with Prince Alexandros of Troy," Nefertari added, and excited murmuring erupted from that announcement. More than one heated whisper of "Trojan" broke out through the room. "On Pharaoh's honor, make efforts to show her the beauty and grace of Egypt."

  The room became a buzz of activity as the ladies giggled and whispered to one another. Perhaps it was her stillness that drew Helen's attention, but one princess stood apart, her smoldering eyes ablaze.

  "Shoteraja, my sister-wife," Twosret whispered softly in her ear. Helen frowned at the unfamiliar term and suspected the two women were related by marriage.

  The older princess wore twice as much jewelry as any other wife, and exposed twice as much flesh. It was a pathetic attempt to draw attention to a body that was lacking. With an ample bosom and hourglass curves, Twosret was a rose in full bloom compared to Shoteraja's wilted flower, a fact the other princess clearly resented. She glared at Twosret and Helen alike, a bull defending its territory.

  "Follow me." Twosret tugged on her arm, and she turned away from that baleful glare to the portico where the princess led her out into the sunshine.

  The large patio fed to the Nile, ending in wide stone steps that descended into the river. More women lounged beside the water where lilies floated by and lush foliage of reed, palm and grass provided shade. Two young girls, no older than six and ten, splashed in a pool, their wet gowns plastered to their skin. Beside them, a grey heron pruned its feathers and a pair of bitterns cooed from inside the brush. It was a garden paradise.

  Helen sighed, wishing she could join the girls. She had spent the majority of her childhood summers in a similar fashion, playing in the Eurotas river. In Mycenae, Agamemnon forbid the members of his household from such frivolity. It had been ages since she last swam, and she ached to wash away the salt from her long voyage at sea.

  Twosret cast her a knowing smile and untangled herself from Helen's arm. "Prepare a bath for the princess," she called over to a servant. After a sharp sniff she added, "And fresh clothes. We'll wait for you along the river."

  Helen almost groaned her appreciation. The princess was surprisingly observant. "Thank you, Your Highness." She dipped into a short curtsey.

  "Twosret, Helen." The princess tucked a lock of Helen's hair back, a gentle smile curving her lips. "We are not in court. Here, in the seclusion of these halls, we women may be at ease with one another."

  Helen tensed. Could she? She looked to Aethra, her matron's raised brow warning against the wisdom of lowering her defenses. But Helen was a guest in Pharaoh's house, and she would not dishonor her host. "Thank you, Twosret."

  They took a seat beside the river, the queen retreating to a shaded alcove where a pair of servants propped the matriarch up on colorful cushions. She watched over the gathered wives with observant eyes, presiding—while not participating—in their youthful activities.

  Helen sat beside a pair of young women cooling their ankles in the water. She unstrapped her sandals and joined them. The foreign beauty nearest to her grinned, the colorful beads woven into her many braids jingling as she inclined her head.

  "This is Talia," Twosret introduced the woman, "and beside her is Merit. They are both wives of King Merneptah."

  Helen's eyes shot wide, suddenly understanding the term Twosret used in the hall. Queens sharing a husband? Clytemnestra would kill any woman who thought they could steal her position. Yet here these women sat, the braided beauty and the timid woman beside her, holding hands and seemingly as close as sisters. "Are they all wives of Pharaoh?"

  "Wives to one Pharaoh or the next." Twosret plucked a lily from the water and tucked it behind Helen's ear. "Some were wife to Pi-Rameses, like Nefertari. Others to Merneptah. And some are queens in the making, since Seti has not yet ascended his throne." The other wives tittered playfully, acknowledging Twosret with many nods of respect, a strange gesture of deference from queens to a princess.

  Helen shared a look with Aethra. "So many..." she mused, her small gasp the only indicator of her shocked sensibilities. Three kings claiming over three hundred women? She could not imagine sharing Paris with a single person, let alone enough to fill an entire court. The thought of him in the arms of another was enough to make her stomach twist. "Do you not worry which one he loves best?"

  Talia giggled, hiding her laugh in her hands, and Helen spun to her. "Did I say something funny?"

  The Pharaoh's wife looked to Nefertari, a shade of embarrassment on her face. "Speak your mind, Talia." The aged queen motioned over a servant who began to cool the queen with a woven fan of ostrich feathers. "We are all dying to know what you are thinking."

  Talia giggled again, a flush heating her cream-colored cheeks. "Pharaoh is Horus incarnate, Princess. We must all serve our God as best we can. If he is best served in the arms of another, we should rejoice that he is satisfied and not worry about the petty concerns of our heart." Her eyes lit up with a fervor Helen had only witnessed in temple priests and priestesses. It seemed Talia did not think of her husband as man of flesh and bone, but a revered deity she was honored to serve.

  Duty without love. Helen knew only too well the hollow existence that sort of relationship boded. That was her fate until Paris awoke her to something better. These women, at least, did not have to suffer that duty in solitude. They had each other for company.

  "But what of succession?" Aethra prodded the queen. "How do you determine which prince inherits the throne?" The sharp look her matron shot to her told Helen to pay attention. Understanding the power structures of one's host could not only spare her future humiliation, but potentially save her life.

  "Pharaoh selects his crown prince," Twosret answered, taking a seat beside Helen at the river. The other wives instantly made room for the princess. Though not yet a queen, Twosret had certainly carved out her position amongst her sisters. They looked to the stunning beauty with as much awe as they did Nefertari. "The Crook and Flail pass to the strong. It is not set on birth rank or sentiment of heart."

  "It is true," Talia added, her sweet voice so small Helen had difficulty hearing her. "Pi-Rameses sired 96 princes. Merneptah is the son of Nefertari's sister-wife. He was chosen by the Gods to outshine his many brothers."

  Perhaps she imagined it, but Helen swore a pang of sorrow creased Nefertari's face. She suppressed her urge to question further, sensing the matriarch did not welcome the conversation. Egyptian hierarchy seemed amazingly complex.

  Not all present were as sensitive to the queen's desires. "Odd, is it not, that our Grandmare's boys were not destined to rule?" Shoteraja strode into their gathering, a pale and sickly toddler balanced on her hip. "Oh Nefertari, Great of Praises, Sweet of Love, Lady of Grace, Great King's Wife, His Beloved, Lady of the Two Lands, Lady of All Lands, Wife of the Strong Bull, God's Wife, Mistress of Upper and Lower Egypt. The One for Whom the Sun Shines."

  The entrance of the Egyptian princess was like a frost on a spring day. The other wives silenced immediately, their festive mood gone. Shoteraja seemed to enjoy their fear and she cast an evil eye on Twosret as uttered the next, "Pharaoh has many wives, but only one Great Wife."

  Nefertari acknowledged the title with a twisted smile and rolled her eyes, the first sign of irritation Helen had spied on the composed woman. "A distinction I earned because I loved Pharaoh best. I gave him no reason to doubt my love. Remember that the next time Seti calls you to his bed, child."

  The other wives giggled loudly before Shoteraja's stern glare silenced them again. "I'm afraid my skills pale in comparison with yours, Grandmare," she cooed, her sultry tone oozing with falsehood. "They say in days gone by, a man would kill to possess your beauty, and Pharaoh most of all."

  Helen tensed, inching closer to Aethra. She had seen Shoteraja's type before: jealous and eager to tear down friend and foe alike so she would seem to stand taller. She hoped the power exchange they witnessed was innocent and not something more sinister.

  Twosret stood and raced to the shaded corner where Nefe
rtari sat. "For shame, Sister." She placed her hands on the queen's shoulders protectively. "Why do you stir those unpleasant memories? Men did not just say they would kill for Grandmare, many acted on those passions. It is a terrible thing to be lusted after so powerfully. You cannot begin to understand those dangers."

  Helen shuddered, understanding intimately the dangers the princess spoke of. All of her life she had been preyed upon for her beauty. From the haunted expression on Twosret's face, it was clear the princess was no stranger to those dangers as well. Helen locked eyes with Twosret and they shared an understanding that went far beyond words.

  The moment of accord was not lost on the other princess. Shoteraja refocused her attention on Helen and let loose a sharp laugh. "What terrible hosts we've been," she chastised Twosret with mock sincerity, taking the princess' former seat beside Helen. "Prattling on about our Grandmare while we have a guest." She bounced her son on her knee despite the fact the young prince looked ready to sick up. "Do tell, Helen. What of Sparta? Do you have a Great Queen like Nefertari? Or is the land truly as brutal as you claim?"

  For the women not in the main hall, details of Helen's arrival were new, and they leaned in closer, hanging on her next words. Only Twosret hung back.

  Helen schooled her face to blankness, knowing she had somehow become immersed in a feud among sisters. She did not need Aethra's tense look to know to proceed cautiously. "We do not have sister-wives in the North." She met the wives' curious faces with a raised chin. "Though you are certainly without equal, Nefertari." She made sure to pay the monarch the respect due a queen. "In the Hellas, every wife is considered great by her husband."

  "And were you?" Shoteraja fluttered her eyelashes, a false show of confusion tensing her face.

  "Was I what?"

  "Considered great by your husband?"

  Helen stiffened, the color draining from her face.

  "I assume he must be dead," Shoteraja continued, her sweet tone belying the dark intent behind the question. "Why else would a woman require purification? Why else would a princess your age travel to Troy?"

  Helen's heart hammered against her ribs. This woman was a danger to her, and not just with subtle shaming and innuendo. There was something darker afoot. She could feel it in her bones.

  An instinct to survive took hold of Helen. Perhaps the Egyptian way was to play coy and speak in riddles, but Helen was Spartan, and like the hardy warriors of her motherland, she was taught to face her foes head on. Ignoring a potential threat would only encourage it to return in strength. She grit her teeth and glared at Shoteraja. "You assume much, Princess. My future husband awaits me in Troy. And my reasons for purification are mine alone."

  Aethra cleared her throat. Helen knew she was treading on thin ice by addressing a royal in such a tone, but she was finished with letting powerful people abuse her with impunity.

  A twisted grin crept over Shoteraja's face. Helen suspected few dared to directly confront the woman, and the princess seemed to enjoy the spirited encounter. "Of course you travel for marriage. Please, pardon my confusion, Princess. I am ignorant of your Northern ways. In Egypt we would never send a princess for a royal wedding with no honor guard save a single maid. Sparta must truly be as brutal as you say."

  Aethra placed a steady hand on Helen's arm, keeping her in place. Her pride burned, and she longed to show the brazen woman just how brutal Spartans could be.

  "My Queen?" Memnut stepped forward with caution. He approached the river, his eyes darting nervously between the royal women. "The bath is ready." A few paces back a copper tub had been placed on the patio. Steam rose from the scented water that reached its brim.

  Helen rose to her feet, locking eyes with Shoteraja. Without thinking why, she plucked the pin from her shoulder and stepped out of her clothes. Memnut inhaled sharply, averting his eyes from her naked body. If the grace of the flesh was all these Egyptians valued, then Helen would show them she was as well endowed as they.

  The other wives gasped, but did not shy away. They gaped openly, taking in their fill of her. Even Twosret stared, her eyes as hard as fresh cut emeralds. Soon, their girlish giggles morphed to soft murmurs of approval.

  "You seem overly concerned with beauty, Princess." Helen began unweaving the small braids in her hair, completely at ease in her nudity. "In Sparta, we believe true beauty cannot be measured by the eye. It is ethereal, the spirit of Aphrodite that all must worship and adore. It is not something men can kill to possess. True beauty is what they die to defend."

  Shoteraja's eyes flashed hot, and a small glimpse of the bitter nature beneath shone through. "If that is true, then I weep for the poor dead souls that will fall in your wake. For my part, I will take my men strong and breathing." She rose hastily to her feet and fled the yard, her son crying bitterly as they exited.

  A tense silence lingered in her wake. The young wives looked to each other, eyes wide. Their lack of response was an indicator of the influence Shoteraja held over their sisterhood. She was an agitator, one they stepped carefully around, and now many watched Helen with that same unease.

  "Our sister acts more like a man every day." Twosret shook her head, her gentle sigh breaking the tension on the patio. "The day is young. The sun is shining. Do not let Shoteraja's shadow cloud your fun."

  Talia giggled softly at the jest, her chiming laugh like the trickling of water that precedes the thaw. Soon the other wives joined her, and the patio became a place of joy again.

  The rush of adrenaline drained from Helen's body, and the sour grip of remorse took its place. What have I done? Her behavior was atrocious! Brazen! But Shoteraja's had been far worse. With a flush of embarrassment, Helen realized she had let the princess bait her. She berated herself, feeling as she had in Mycenae when at the mercy of Agamemnon and his belittling comments. Like her former king, Shoteraja wanted to make her feel small, and Helen had just shown her how. She turned to her bath, channeling all her frustrations inside. She could not succumb to such obvious ploys.

  Helen cursed her prized beauty and the jealousy it inspired. She had warned Paris that others would try to claim her, that he would spend his life defending her against lusty men, like Bay or Seti, who sought to make her their prize. To her folly, she had forgotten about the more insidious danger of the fairer sex. While some desired to possess beauty, worse were those who sought to destroy it. Shoteraja was of the latter sort.

  "Forgive my sister's insults, Helen." Twosret stepped to her side. "It is me she hates. Seti loves me best, even though she gave him a son. Now she strikes at anyone she considers a threat." She guided Helen to the tub, a twinge of embarrassment on her delicate features. "It is petty and cruel what she does. We are all sister-wives here, but some of us will never truly be family. I fear for Egypt if she gains the power she seeks."

  Shoteraja as a Great Wife? Helen shuddered at the thought. She glanced over to the shaded alcove where Nefertari watched over the harem with regal detachment, her narrowed eyes studying the two princesses as they conversed.

  "There is nothing to forgive." Helen lowered herself into the steaming water, letting the heat soak into her clenched muscles. "I've faced worse dangers. Words and veiled threats do not disturb me."

  "As well they shouldn't," Nefertari added, the queen, surprisingly, crossing over to the tub. "Especially when a woman is protected with charm and grace." Memnut rushed over with a stool and the queen took a seat beside the tub. "Do you still wish to learn the secrets of Isis, Princess?"

  Twosret stiffened with confusion. "But I thought I was—"

  "I changed my mind." The queen shushed the princess' concerns. "Our Spartan is a special case. Since her time is limited, I will see to Helen's care. You may attend to your other duties, Twosret," she added blithely as way of dismissal.

  "Of course, Grandmare." Twosret composed herself. With a gracious smile, she turned to Helen. "Welcome to the Two Lands, Princess. I hope we will be good friends." She curtsied to the queen and left the portico. />
  Helen exhaled deeply, trying desperately to relax. As Great Wife of Egypt, Nefertari was quiet possibly the most powerful woman in the world. She did not inherit that power with the title, she exuded it like one born to rule. As a guest in her house, Helen owed her courtesy and respect.

  Instead I offer falsehoods and lies.

  Though the shame of those lies bore down on her with the weight of a mountain, Helen mustered her courage. She needed this instruction more than ever. She could not rely on Paris to fight all her battles. Where they were going, Helen needed to be stronger than she ever thought possible.

  "I am ready when you are, Lady of Grace."

  "Then let us begin." The queen leaned forward, her dark eyes seeming to glean as much information from Helen as she promised to impart. "A king may rule with iron fist, but a queen's power is like the desert wind. Gentle when occasion calls, and scouring when events deem necessary..."

  Chapter 16

  The Royal Heir

  "YOU HAVE CHOSEN the perfect time to visit the Two Lands." Setnakhte informed Paris and his guards as they strode down the long and empty corridors of the palace. "The river will soon inundate, and the Temple will host the annual fertility festival." The general had warmed to him considerably after their audience in the royal hall. His behavior morphed from guard into guide as he lead them towards the guest quarters, his confident step pulling the Trojans deeper into the labyrinth of halls and courtyards.

  Paris feigned interest; there was no way he was going to still be in Egypt when the Nile flooded. As they walked, he secretly studied every junction, memorizing landmarks that would assist him in retracing his steps. He swore to Helen he would keep her safe, and he was not going to leave her unprotected, even if Nefertari was near to look after her. An unwary man was a dead man in the Two Lands, and Paris hadn't survived this long by not crafting an exit strategy.

  The Egyptian guards marched alongside his own, the butts of their sickle-tipped staves beating a rhythmic tempo as they marched. He knew the guards were meant as a display of honor, but when they enclosed around him in rigid formation, he felt more their prisoner than guest.