Entertaining Seti
"SHE SPENDS HER mornings in the temple cloistered away with the high priest," Ariston reported to Paris.
Seti and a pack of his supporters enjoyed a leisurely afternoon of sport in the field behind them. Paris had spent the whole morning, and the six before that, in the company of the crown prince. Only during the cool hours of twilight, when Seti was forced to attend to his father, did Paris get a moment's rest.
Each day passed much like the others, with sunshine, frivolity and hours of empty conversation. Seti was a man who enjoyed his entertainments, and Paris was quickly coming to realize that included him. If he was forced to play another frivolous game of Jackal and Hounds or another temple servant tried to press a date or fig upon him, he was likely to scream. When he spotted Ariston returning from his rendezvous with Iamus, Paris quickly took advantage of the distraction and begged leave from the crown prince.
"Has he set a date for the purification ritual?"
Ariston shook his head. "Not yet. But the princess says to be patient. She is certain he will declare it soon."
Paris began to pace. Patience was a luxury they couldn't afford. An entire week had passed while they waited for Meryatum to 'prepare' for the ritual, which was more than enough time for a Mycenaean response to follow them to the Two Lands. The only thought that gave him relief was that no one, not even Paris himself, had reason to believe they'd travel to Egypt.
"Anything else?"
"She sends more warnings about the Canaanite princess." Paris nodded, having heard those warnings before. Shoteraja was an angry tribute-bride stirring up trouble, but her influence paled in comparison with the children of Rameses' Hittite bride. Twosret and her brother, Amenmesse, were the bigger threat. The young prince had been hounding Paris' steps, keen to secure Troy's alliance for his imaginary war.
"Oh, and one more thing," Ariston added, blushing a furious red.
Paris missed the young soldier's discomfort and waved him on impatiently. "And that is?"
"...Her love. She wants you to know she misses you."
Paris stopped mid-step, a pervasive guilt flooding him that he had not sent her similar sentiments. "Did you see her this time, Ariston?"
"Yes, My Lord. She was a distance away, by the Nile, but I could see her."
He didn't need to ask; Ariston's softened expression spoke volumes. Even at a distance, Helen captured the hearts of those who had come to adore her. For Paris the loss of her presence was felt ten fold. Their first night apart, he had felt as though a piece of his soul had gone missing, and he spent the remaining time from that day forth on the edge of civility, desperate for even one glimpse of her lovely face.
But he would never risk exposing her for his own selfish desires. He kept his distance. "Thank you, Ariston.Report back to Glaucus. Make sure he knows all that you know." He waved over one of his meshwesh servants to show the soldier where Glaucus had set up the Trojan field drills for today. The captain changed the location every morning as a general precaution.
Jason was the closest. The sandy-haired servant was typically the most alert whenever Paris required service, but when Paris made his request, Jason relayed the message to one of his brethren in a guttural language that Paris was not familiar with. A short and curly haired man with only one hand stepped forward and led Ariston onward while Jason elected to remain by his side.
Paris had made a concentrated effort to get to know his meshwesh servants. Though Greek was their common tongue, they were a diverse lot. Their members were comprised of Shardans from Sardinia, men renowned for their tactical skill in battle; Tusci from the Thracian steppes north of Troy, whose endurance bards praised in song; Sikels from the western isle of Syracusa, men so coarse of hair and manner they resembled the beasts that roamed their homeland; and Achaeans from the mainland of Greece. Jason was one of the latter, a privileged ranking among his fellow pirates. The Achaeans were the ringleaders of their failed attack, a position of leadership Jason apparently did not lose in captivity.
"Can you see what other nonsense Seti has in store for the rest of the afternoon?" Paris struck up conversation as they headed back to the courtiers.
"Hoops and Reeds, Your Highness." Jason shielded his eyes against the glaring light of the midday sun. "Unless I am mistaken, that is a game best played drunk. I suppose the nobles will have been well watered by the time we return."
For someone held in captivity for years, Jason a was surprisingly likable man. He had a sharp sense of humor and his piercing ice-blue eyes never missed a detail. Paris could only surmise what his skill on a ship might be—certainly enough to cow his fellow prisoners.
"If they're drunk, I might stand a decent chance this time. Do you have any pointers?"
The Achaean smirked. "I am hopeless, Your Highness. The only sport of Hoop and Reed I excelled at was between the sheets."
Paris laughed, very much in agreement. "A much better sport than wasting away in this heat."
A breeze picked up along the Nile, helping to remedy the powerful rays of the desert sun. The relief was fleeting, however. Heat waves radiated from the sun-scorched earth, and even the oasis where Seti's pavilion was stationed shimmered.
Paris had to adopt Egyptian dress to manage the long afternoons of the crown prince's entertainments. He was stripped to the waist and wore a similar pleated shendyt as Seti. It was important for a diplomat to never go fully native. Paris' power came from the unique stature of being foreign. Assimilating into the local culture put him under its rules and obligations. His host, however, seemed to feel anything foreign was akin to barbary, and persuading Paris to appear more Egyptian was an attempt to 'civilize' him.
"How fare you, Trojan? Are you enjoying Seti's little distractions?" Amenmesse emerged from the shaded portico behind them, nearly causing Paris to jump out of his skin. How long had the prince been nearby and listening to his words?
"Ah, Amenmesse. Good to see you again. Have you come to join the festivities?" He paused to let the prince step in pace beside them. Amenmesse cast a scornful glare at Jason until the man receded to a respectful distance. Over the past week, the Egyptian prince had made his hatred for the meshwesh invaders abundantly clear.
"Since our father fell ill, Seti has held three score of these absurd gatherings," Amenmesse scoffed. "He has become very popular with the local governors and noble houses."
While Paris agreed with the disdain Amenmesse effused, he could never admit it to the young prince. No king, or king-in-waiting, was ever all he claimed, but power dynamics and jealousy inevitably swayed public opinion on a ruler. In Paris' experience, the truth was usually somewhere in-between. Plus, some of the prince's complaints about his brother bordered on gossip that would have made a ribald chambermaid blush.
"Seti is fortunate to enjoy a secure land." Paris fell into a comfortable pace with him. "Peace promotes pleasure. In Troy we are often preoccupied with the safety of our realm and those of our sworn vassals. I wish we could devote more time to leisure like you do here in Egypt."
Amenmesse rolled his eyes, frustrated again that Paris evaded giving a real answer. "If you lack pleasure in your life, I am sure Seti will see you have your fill," he arched a brow, a hint of challenge in his dark green eyes, "but when you tire of these boyish games, perhaps you would like some real sport?"
Paris could not help but mirror Amenmesse's eager grin, praying for any excuse to recuse himself from Seti's tedium. "Such as?"
"Do you fancy a bit of archery?"
Seti immediately agreed to Amenmesse's request for a change of venue. The young prince rounded up a pair of chariots while Paris retrieved his bow from his apartments. Word spread throughout the palace, and the archery court quickly filled with royal administrators and staff. Even the wives of Pharaoh left their garden paradise to watch a sporting challenge between princes.
"Where is your bow, Seti?" Paris asked as he strung his own. "Are you not joining us?" Sitting below the filling arena, he tri
ed his best to concentrate, but with the women so near, his eyes constantly scoured the crowds for any sign of Helen.
Seti preened before his guests, as though to let the multitudes bask in his regal presence. The leather pleats of his kilt were studded with gold filigree, and his skin shone with a scented ointment that surely had gold foil blended into the mixture. His smile was one of utter indulgence as he soaked in their whispers of awe and admiration. Though he was not yet Pharaoh, he certainly conducted himself as though he were already a God.
"This is my brother's sport." Seti sniffed, his words coming with a bit of a slur. He gestured wide with the goblet in his hand, wine sloshing dangerously over its sides. "I'll act as judge and arbiter in the event of a tie."
Paris inclined his head. "As you wish."
The crown prince, unsurprisingly, was more spectator than player. Not so his brother. Amenmesse had stripped down to the waist and was performing stretching exercises in the section partitioned off for the competitors. The prince was incredibly lean, and though he was small in stature, his frame was limber. Paris suspected he dedicated himself daily to the strengthening and toning of the body he was born to.
"Your bow is too small, Trojan." Amenmesse teased him as he completed his set of stretches. "You'll never hit a flying target with a bow meant for a child."
Paris took the taunt in stride. Amenmesse did not seek to belittle him but jested in good spirit. Though his ego made him overconfident, the prince nevertheless behaved with the regal decorum expected of one of noble birth. After the madness of Agamemnon's court, it was a welcome relief to Paris.
"I'll take my chances," Paris quipped back. "Besides, I prefer this bow. It has the familiar grip of an old lover." The bow, like Paris himself, had several surprises in store for the Egyptian prince. The bone handle at its center had molded over time to Paris' hand. Supple lengths of yew made up the core, and the ends were tipped with sinew that bent away from the archer. It was an elegant design he had picked up in Assyria, one that allowed his arrows to fly with greater power than those fired from larger, more cumbersome bows.
Glaucus paced the perimeter of the practice grounds, his arms clasped behind his back. As he passed Paris on his return he muttered down to him, "You should let him win."
Paris bristled, "I hardly think that's necessary."
"Whomever you are trying to impress will understand," the captain persisted. "We hardly need the irate attention of a sore-losing prince."
He cursed softly, knowing Glaucus was correct. Paris had been looking forward to a fair game with Amenmesse and the chance to compete with his full skill. A lifetime of deferring to others, of being told his life was without value and worse, had built up like acid eating away at his soul. Perhaps Helen's faith had gotten to his head, but he wanted to prove he was more, that he could be all that she imagined.
"Understood." He nodded to his old friend. He knew the folly of overreaching. Now was not the time to step on toes. The last thing he needed was for Amenmesse to consider him a threat. Paris finished the final knot on his now strung bow and gave it a practice pull, the gut-string releasing with a vigorous twang. Inside, he was as taut as the weapon. He turned to Amenmesse, his joy of the upcoming event evaporating.
"Shall we begin?"
Helen and Aethra walked back to the palace after another morning spent in study at the Temple of Amun-Re. The standard her matron hoisted blocked out the most intense rays of the unforgiving Egyptian sun but did little to cool the pair as they journeyed across the desert plain towards the acropolis.
"You must press the high priest for a swift answer." Aethra stressed to Helen, the urgency of her matron's tone increasing each day they lingered in the Two Lands.
"I'm trying." Helen grimaced, the pressure of the delay adding to her sensation of being smothered. "But Meryatum is not a normal man. One does not press a priest of his stature for anything."
Under constant scrutiny, and judged by queen and priest alike, Helen was having difficulty holding up under the strain. For every question the elites asked her, her answers created a dozen more. At times, she had become dizzy with her efforts to satisfy them without revealing too much. If only she could see Paris—simply talk with him—a few words would buoy her spirits more than a week of rest would.
As they neared the palace walls, a throng of minor nobles and royal staff exited the gates heading west toward the river. By their excited chatter, something big was underway. Helen paused to let them pass, taking advantage of this last opportunity to speak candidly with her matron.
"Is it selfish of me?" Helen voiced the guilty thought that kept her awake at night. "Am I putting us in greater danger by hoping for this ritual?"
Aethra lowered the standard, her hard eyes softening as she turned to her. "Danger is a fickle mistress, child. It follows no matter how well you safeguard against it." She sighed heavily. Raising a hand to her brow, she gazed across the desert to the north towards their former home. "The stain of the crimes against us lingers far longer than the crime itself. I know why you seek this ritual. Purity is a blessing the Gods grant to children. If it frees you to follow your heart, for my part, it is worth the risk."
Helen placed a hand on Aethra's arm, touched by the woman's loyalty. "Thank you."
The stodgy matron shifted under Helen's heartfelt gaze, uncomfortable with the attention. "Yes, well, that does not mean we should dally. The sooner you get that priest to commit, the better."
Helen suppressed a laugh and smiled. Ever since their arrival in Egypt, her world seemed in a constant state of flux. With so many personalities and intrigues at hand, she had no idea whom to trust. In that whirlwind, Aethra, was an anchor. "I miss our talks."
"As do I."
As the last courtiers disappeared down the western bank, Helen motioned to Iamus to continue onward. The Trojan guard stood a good ten paces ahead, his hawkish eyes scouring the terrain as though they walked in the midst of a battleground. Helen often wondered what possessed the man to remain so vigilant. Surely they were safe from attack in Heliopolis, a high seat of power in an internationally feared empire, but Iamus remained as disciplined as ever, hand on sword and shield in position, approaching each junction as though an army waited on the other side.
They did not make it past the first pylon, however, before being surrounded by a massive force. Two dozen wives of Pharaoh, and their collection of royal guard chaperones, crowded the gates, their eager chatter and rushed footfalls a practical stampede. Iamus pressed Helen and Aethra to the ramparts to avoid getting separated in the mix.
"Helen!" Twosret hailed her, a graceful weave to her steps as she walked down the stone rampart. "I'm so pleased I found you." The princess hooked an arm through hers, pulling Helen outside the palace grounds and joining the other wives.
"Where are we going?" Helen craned her neck over Twosret's shoulder, making sure Aethra and Iamus followed after.
"To the archery fields!" Merit clapped her hands together excitedly, her eager expression shared with the other wives.
Twosret quickly informed her about the princes' competition, a less-than-amused roll to her eyes as she spoke, "Your Trojan protector against Prince Amenmesse. A proper use of their regal vigor, wouldn't you say?"
Perhaps it was the way Twosret phrased her comment, but Helen found herself at a loss on how to respond. It felt like a question worthy of Nefertari, laced with double meaning. Helen scanned the crowd, looking for the elder monarch. "Where is the queen?"
"Resting, the poor dear." A crease of sadness marred Twosret's pale brow. "It's amazing she can rise at all most days. Traveling outside the palace grounds taxes her strength. It's best she stays behind. Our dear matriarch won't last forever."
That thought made Helen's blood run cold. She could not imagine Egypt without Nefertari. Her aloof but calming presence was the glue that held the royal women together. If something were to happen to her, Helen feared the fallout would be immense. She hoped that whatever ailed the quee
n was not serious.
Twosret set a good pace. Her hand was painfully tight around Helen's arm as though she thought her guest might escape. So it was, half-dragged and surrounded by giggling young wives, that Helen arrived at the practice grounds.
The yard teemed with courtiers and palace officials. There was a strum of excitement in the air. Everywhere Helen turned, painted faces stretched wide with eager grins. The nobles chatted gaily in Egyptian about the coming match. Their dress was elegant, and man and woman alike wore carefully tailored wigs with a cone of scented wax atop the crown, a perfume that would mask their body odor as it melted in the heat of the day.
After spending the morning in the austere halls of the temple, surrounded by those devoted to understanding the Mysteries of the Gods, these giggling nobles seemed empty vessels to Helen, garish in their self-indulgences. Thankfully, Twosret ignored them all, weaving between many well-wishers and not stopping until she reached the raised pavilion where her husband waited.
The crown prince was a shimmering sight, so covered in gold that it hurt Helen's eyes to stare directly at him. She dipped into a curtsey, thankful for the excuse to lower her gaze.
"You are looking well, Wife." Seti wrapped his arm around Twosret's waist. Even at a distance the prince's wine-soaked breath washed over Helen. She covered her nose with her shawl, pretending to ward off the heat.
Twosret also grimaced but did not pull away from her husband's touch. "The occasion calls for it, My Prince."
"It does indeed." Seti caressed her hip in a suggestive manner, a man lording over his prize. Soon his lusty gaze slipped from his wife and over to Helen. "You have blossomed before our eyes, Princess." He pulled Helen's hand to his lips, his hot breath raising the hairs along her arm. "The clime and garb of the Two Lands suits you. Are you sure you must travel to Troy?"
"I am expected, Your Grace." She pulled her hand back as soon as was socially acceptable. "We can scarcely afford the delay as it is."
He stepped aside, helping both Twosret and her onto the pavilion. The four-pillared structure, with its rose colored canvas draped from each corner, was the only bit of shade in several hundred yards. It also boasted the best view of the practice grounds, a massive open field half reclaimed by the desert. The spectators faced west where the sun glinted off the distant waters of the Nile. Helen took her seat, searching instantly for Paris.
The Princess of Prophecy Page 23
