The Princess of Prophecy

by Aria Cunningham

  If I fail now, I will never get another chance.

  The owl let loose another forlorn cry as though in agreement. Menelaus crossed himself to ward off the bad omen.

  The chamber door to his apartments slammed open with an ominous thud. Menelaus jolted upright, his hand instantly searching for the dagger alongside his bed. The barest hint of morning light filtered in from the balcony, just enough to make out the hulking figure of his brother, the king.

  "Get out here, Menelaus! Lest you want the world to know you are as depraved as you are useless," Agamemnon hissed.

  Menelaus inched toward the edge of the bed, watching his brother as closely as he would a buck that was about to bolt before the arrow. It was impossible to predict the king's moods, and Menelaus had long learned to approach his brother with caution.

  "'Laus?" Sabineus stirred awake, the linger of sleep doing little to affect his alertness. The raven-haired warrior was always quick to recover, a trait born from the many campaigns he had survived in the Mycenae blood-guard.

  Menelaus placed a calming hand on his lover. "I know what to do," he grunted softly between clenched teeth. He didn't bother to dress. Naked as a newborn babe, and with one eye locked on the king, he rose to his feet and crossed the distance to the main chamber.

  Agamemnon glared at him. Though the king made a pointed effort to not look into the darkened chamber, a sneer of disapproval still crossed his face as Menelaus joined him.

  "What do you want, Brother?" Menelaus returned the glare with equal disgust. He detested when his brother barged into his private space.

  Agamemnon towered over him, using the few extra inches of height he possessed like a platform of superiority. "Your wife is missing, and you spend your first night home in the arms of another? If our liegemen knew of this depravity, they'd mock us in the streets."

  You wouldn't dare... Menelaus' stomach rolled as the sour scent of beer wafted over him from Agamemnon's spittle. He puffed up his chest, his pulse hammering against his throat. Though his pride flared, he forced his fist to unclench. He would not let Agamemnon provoke him to violence again. Taking a deep breath, he reached back and resolutely closed the inner door, blocking Sabineus from sight, a line in the sand his brother had best not cross.

  "No one will mock me." Menelaus simmered with that threat, eager to crush any man who dared mock him, even his regal brother. He was careful in his nocturnal activities and quick to give injury to any who sought to snoop into his private affairs. There were only a few souls who knew about his... preferences, and that was how he was going to keep it. "No one."

  He pushed past his brother, strutting across the room towards his chamber pot, showcasing his muscular physique. Though Agamemnon had inherited the right to rule, there was no question which brother was superior in terms of battle. Menelaus shot his brother a steely glare as he pissed.

  The king's face flushed from angry-red to a vivid-purple as Menelaus continued to relieve himself. These small disrespects were petty, far beneath a prince who should be king in his own right, but it was all Menelaus had. They were sons of Atreus, and a long and tragic family history bemoaned the dangers of taking the life of a sibling. Neither Menelaus nor his brother, though they detested each other, wished to invoke the wrath of the Furies. He shook himself dry and pressed past Agamemnon, grabbing a wrap off the stone floor to cover himself as he took a seat in the antechamber.

  The main chamber was in a state of distress. The scattered remains of Sabineus' and his nightly meal lay about the small table, along with several empty skins of wine. The implication was not lost on Agamemnon. Menelaus had not seen his bed until late into the night and the thought of his activities twisted his brother's face with disapproval. "The keys to the Golden City lie with a stupid, lecherous fool." He groaned with frustration. "How the Gods punished our House when they allowed such a baseborn cur to be born to the royal line!"

  Menelaus reclined against the embroidered cushions of his bench and grabbed a half-filled goblet of spiced wine, lifting the vessel to hide the frown tugging at his lips. He had stopped trying to curry favor with his sibling years past, but still the insult hurt. How many years had he looked up to the man on the throne, trying desperately to do as he pleased, only to be met with those black eyes of disapproval? "Aberration," those eyes shouted. "Perversion." After years of hearing such barbs, he almost believed it true.

  But Sabineus' sage words buoyed his spirits. He cannot make you less than the man you are simply by opinion alone. Your legacy is determined by you, and you alone.

  "Which is worse, Brother? The love of one's subjects, or the love of one's Self?" He gripped his goblet tight, the jeweled facets cutting into the flesh of his palm. "Look to your own sins. The Gods do not humor a mortal whose hubris rivals their own."

  "Do not lecture me on how I choose to rule. It is a sacred duty that I, at least, give its proper respect." The king struggled unsuccessfully to school his face back to a place of calm. "If your lust for male flesh distracts you from your duty to your family, I will remove the temptation from you once and for all."

  Something snapped within Menelaus, and the goblet slowly bent beneath his crushing grip. He launched himself to Agamemnon's side faster than his brother could anticipate. Standing toe-to-toe, they seemed like dark reflections of one another. "Try it," he growled, "and we'll see how Mycenae likes a new king."

  A wicked grin crept across Agamemnon's face. "Watch yourself, Baby Brother." The king held his ground, unfazed by the display. "If you become too attached to your toys others will use them to hurt you." There was no mistaking which "others" he meant.

  Menelaus cursed his weakness. It was not the first time Agamemnon threatened the life of his lover, nor would it be the last. Had Sabineus not been the most feared soldier in the Mycenaean ranks, Menelaus would have more cause for concern. Sooner or later, however, the king would make good on his threats, and not just with taunts and jabs. The nearing certainty of that moment exposed something raw within Menelaus, something primal, and his inability to control it shamed him. It took several, terrifying moments for him to take hold of himself.

  "What do you want, Agamemnon?" He grabbed another goblet, pouring himself a healthy dram of spiced wine. The tart fluid burned against the acid in his throat. "Say it plain."

  "What do I want?" Agamemnon nearly choked on the words. "It is what you should want. That bastard prince has shamed you. And through you, he has shamed Mycenae. Is it your intent to sit by and do nothing? Shall I tell our banner men that Prince Menelaus would prefer to live out his days a cuckold, too fat and lazy to protect what is rightfully his? That Trojan has taken your wife!"

  A low growl escaped Menelaus' lips. He fought to control himself. Do not let him bait you. The Trojan will pay... in time. Turning to his brother, he shrugged, feigning disinterest, knowing he was driving Agamemnon near mad. He retook his seat, letting his brother bellow on. If he waited long enough, the king usually ran out of steam.

  "You need to rally the kingdoms." Agamemnon began pacing, spittle collecting at the corners of his mouth. "Make the men who swore before Tyndareus to honor their oath, and then go after Helen. We unite the Hellas and storm the gates of Troy in force!"

  Menelaus drank deep from his goblet. When he was sure Agamemnon's patience was threadbare, he delivered his response precisely the way he had practiced the night before. "What is Helen to me but a barren wench with no dowry I can claim? If you want her back so badly, you go get her."

  Agamemnon smoldered at his defiance, the spark in his jet-black eyes the first indication that Menelaus was finally breaking through. "You know it has to be you."

  And there it was, the linchpin in his precious brother's designs. Agamemnon had spent years manipulating every event in the Hellas to secure his seat of power over the other Grecian kings. That "Grand Destiny" was all that mattered to him. In that pursuit, his brother trusted the spineless bootlickers at his side but not his own flesh and blood. Menelaus was a knife to
be feared, a nascent threat that must be subdued. Never his equal.

  Until now...

  "You are right." Menelaus grit his teeth in a wicked grin, knowing he held his brother by the stones. "The oath they swore was to ME. The kings of the Hellas will unite in my defense, not yours." He rose to his feet. "The war you have long desired is within reach, but not without my say!"

  Agamemnon paused, his shock writ large on his face. Menelaus nearly laughed, his brother's thoughts all-too-apparent. Menelaus, the derelict prince, displaying guile? The boy he called a "wild rampaging animal" who wrecked everything in his path? That man gave no thought to strategy and command. This was a calculating side to Menelaus that Agamemnon had not thought possible.

  "You have terms." It was not a question, but a realization, and the king approached him with the same cool wariness he did when probing an uncertain ally.

  "I do." Menelaus nodded. "Many kings and princes swore that oath, but not all. Tyndareus and his Spartan hoplites remain unencumbered. Only a Spartan king can rally that army, a title I do not hold because of you."

  Agamemnon had no answer for that. It was true Tyndareus bore the House of Atreus no love. The Spartan king turned his back on Mycenae after the bad blood of Clytemnestra's courtship. Agamemnon preached patience to Menelaus, his strategy was to wait until the old man passed to the next world before allowing Menelaus to pursue his familial claim to the throne. That cowardly plan was the source of their most heated arguments. Menelaus could not afford to wait until that distant day, and now, neither could Agamemnon. No Grecian army was complete without Spartan warriors.

  "You would have me sue for peace with Tyndareus." A flare of resentment flashed on Agamemnon's face confirming all the worst Menelaus suspected. It was pride, not strategy, that kept him from his Spartan throne. Agamemnon would never debase himself before Tyndareus, the self-righteous King of Sparta, least of all for Menelaus' benefit.

  But if placing his pride aside aligned with his own self-interests?

  "The Oathmakers' army for a throne." Menelaus' lips pressed into a grin as he savored this small victory. "Secure Sparta for me, Brother, and I promise you a war for the Ages. I will kill every last man, woman and child in Troy. Women shall weep over their fate long after our bones turn to dust." A darkness took hold of him, that shroud of anger that made Menelaus so terrifying in battle. "For the honor of our house and the glory of Greece, I will make the Trojans suffer. Zeus strike me blind if I prove false."

  Agamemnon paused as he considered the offer. There was very little to consider. Menelaus had effectively backed his brother into a corner. He studied the king carefully. Experience had taught the Mycenaean prince this was when he should be the most wary.

  "Done." Agamemnon nodded to himself, the eager look emblazoned on his face stealing away Menelaus' thrill of victory. "Deliver me the Oathmakers' army, and I will see you sit Tyndareus' throne. Together, we will crush Troy."

  They shook hands on the unlikely alliance, the moment of accord a miracle itself. The sons of Atreus, who had made a life's mission to undermine one another, had found common purpose.

  Agamemnon turned to go, but before he exited the chamber he paused, his hand hovering over the latch. "You best not fail me, Little Brother." He turned back to Menelaus, madness lighting up his stress-lined face. "Or Hades himself will envy the tortures I devise for all that you love."

  "He is gone." A sour grip of bile grew in Menelaus' throat as his chamber door slammed shut.

  Sabineus slid out of the second chamber, quiet as a ghost. "You played that well, 'Laus. Every day you prove to be a finer king than he." Pride shone on his lover's face. Though Sabineus had heard every word of Agamemnon's threats, it was characteristic of the raven-haired warrior to spare no thought for his own safety, to waste no time on hurt feelings.

  "Are you sure this is the best way to handle it? That Trojan..." Again Menelaus struggled for control.

  "Absolutely." Sabineus nodded with iron-clad certainty. "If you are of one mind about this transgression, you lose your leverage. This war is what Agamemnon desires. Use it against him and you will have all that you desire."

  "And if he comes after you?"

  Sabineus frowned, the dark specter of violence shimmering in his eyes. "Then let him come. A king who attacks his own protectors will soon find no shields to guard his back." When those words were not enough to sooth his misgivings, the soldier took hold of Menelaus' hand, the only form of contact they allowed in daylight hours. "Do not worry about me. I will be fine. You must focus on securing your crown."

  Menelaus shook off his doubts. Sabineus was right. Risk was inevitable. They were soldiers and their battle was just beginning. It would take a king to make sure Troy fully paid for this crime, and he would never secure the Spartan crown if he did not first emerge from the abnormally large shadow Agamemnon cast. For the promise of that freedom, he could put his pride aside.

  But still he shivered, sick with the pressures of deceit. "I just want to be free of him."

  "Follow the plan, and we will be."

  Chapter 18

  The High Priest of Amun-Re

  "HOLD STILL!"

  MERIT slapped Helen's hands away as she continued her ministrations. Helen, surrounded by the most important women of the harem, had been sitting for hours as the young queen toiled to make her presentable to the High Priest. After two days of anxious waiting, Meryatum was finally leaving the care of his idols to others to make time to meet with her.

  "Take heart, Helen." Twosret advised from the corner where she stood attentively over Nefertari. "She is nearly finished. You will see why all the other wives treasure Merit for her skill." She leaned back against the cool stone of the wall, the charismatic princess exuding the timeless elegance of the statues surrounding the palace, clearly a recipient of Merit's talent, herself.

  Normally Helen hated the fuss her chambermaids made over her when dressing her for royal functions, but for some reason, on the arid banks of the Nile, she felt differently. The primping and efforts of beauty were not a tedious affair here but some form of magic whose secrets these women, and Twosret in particular, possessed. She wanted to learn it all. Unfortunately, as Aethra loved to remind her, she was a slow learner.

  Helen squirmed again, uncomfortable in her new garb. After one look at the sorry state of her Grecian dresses, Twosret insisted she accept a new garment. Helen tried to refuse, imagining the scandalous gowns the other wives favored, but the princess persisted, and when Twosret revealed the dress Helen now wore, she was grateful she did.

  The pleated gown was covered in strands of multicolored faience, the glazed ceramic beads sparkling iridescent in the torch light. The light linen fabric fell perfectly over her curves, neither too snug nor too loose. The final touch was the jewelry. Bands of electrum, sculpted into the shape of serpents, wove around her upper arms, and a golden sun disk with two wings spread wide sat across her chest, the necklace decorated with beads of turquoise, garnet and malachite. The wealth of a minor household rested on her body, a fact that made her skin itch.

  Merit plucked a hair loose from Helen's brow and she let fly a curse. It was a particularly fowl utterance, one she had picked up from the Trojan sailors. Helen did not need to see Aethra's stern glare of disapproval to know how inappropriate those words were in a royal palace.

  While Merit blushed, Twosret laughed a throaty chuckle that shook her amble bosom. Helen resisted the urge to join her. The two princesses had become fast friends over the past few days. Their late night conversations often outlasted the banked coals of the harem's braziers. But friend or not, Helen swore Twosret was enjoying this painful beauty routine. The twisted smile on her lips reminded Helen painfully of her youth when her twin gloated her superior knowledge over Helen's naiveté.

  "Discomfort is fleeting," Nefertari commented from her cushioned stool. "A first impression, however, lasts forever." She stroked a large, spotted cat that reclined on her lap. The feline was one of
several that called the royal harem home. The women doted on the furry creatures, and the most social cats were granted greater privileges than the servants who clean up after them.

  "Another lesson, Grandmare?" Twosret raised a delicately pained brow.

  "That's logic," the queen stated point-of-fact.

  Helen sighed and readjusted herself with regal poise. Of the many hours she had spent with the aged monarch, Nefertari had still not warmed to her. She used every moment to instruct, a rigid taskmistress hellbent on shaping Helen into a model of Egyptian nobility. Twosret glanced discreetly to Helen, her dark green eyes sparkling with sympathy. In their nightly conversations the princess confided it had been the same for her.

  "Meryatum is not a man easily moved to favors," the queen added. "He has an affinity for cleanliness and order, and any efforts you make on that behalf cannot hurt your chances."

  Nefertari had been dropping several pearls of wisdom on dealing with the infamous priest. Half the time, the queen spoke with deep affection, the likes of which she reserved only for the capricious felines she so loved. The other half, she spoke with caution, giving light to how powerful the high priest truly was. If queens stepped lightly in his presence, how could a foreign royal expect to win his favor?

  Which was why Helen accepted Merit's offer to help her appear more Egyptian. She fidgeted again, dying to see the results of the young queen's efforts. "May I see?" she asked eagerly. After this much time with paints and dyes, Pharaoh himself would surely be impressed. Nefertari smiled and motioned over a servant with a bronze mirror.

  "Patience is the root of serenity, Princess." Aethra murmured quietly to her as she passed. "Heated blood is the fire that has caused empires to topple. A wise queen strives for calm."

  Helen didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Nefertari was one of many queens trying to shape her into their image. She decided to show her matron—and Nefertari—that she was not a hopeless pupil. She took her time rising to her feet before inspecting Merit's work.