The Princess of Prophecy

by Aria Cunningham

  Her Trojan was some distance away. He stood beside a chariot, stroking the neck of his lead horse. Naked to the waist, his lean chest was bronzed from the sun, his hard muscles glistening with sweat. She could just imagine him whispering to the animal in a soothing tone, cajoling the beast to perform as he commanded.

  Helen sighed with longing. She wanted those hands on her body with a power that frightened her. As though he could sense that, Paris looked up, his eyes riveted on her. The space separating them did little to dampen the passion she felt pouring in her direction.

  "Wine!" Seti bellowed to a passing servant.

  Helen politely refused when the woman offered her a bowl of the ruby dark fluid.

  "Are you not thirsty?" Seti prodded, taking a generous swallow from his own vessel.

  "I am fasting," she replied with a note of apology, giving the prince a sweet smile. Helen had been around enough men possessed by spirits to know almost anything could set them off. It was best to give them no provocation.

  "It seems a ridiculous tradition." Seti gestured as he spoke, his wine sloshing dangerously close to the rim of his bowl. "Why should one purify herself before a purification ritual? Isn't that the point of it all?"

  "I... never thought about that." She turned back to the field, hoping to draw Seti's attention elsewhere than on her.

  The crown prince was not to be deterred. He laughed, a wicked grin spreading across his inebriated face. "In fact, this would be the perfect time to indulge in all manner of devious behaviors, Princess. You could embrace your darkest fantasies and have them wiped clean before leaving the Two Lands." It was apparently clear that was not an observation but an invitation.

  Helen blushed furiously. She and Paris might have come to Egypt requesting favors, but that did not mean she would grovel before distasteful behavior. Fortunately, an unlikely defender was not far away.

  "Seti," Shoteraja purred with disapproval, taking a seat behind them. "You should not jest. You know Meryatum would never allow that manner of person to abuse the mercies of the Gods." Her eyes narrowed and she gave Helen a knowing stare. "His wrath would be unimaginable if someone came to him under false pretenses."

  She is trying to provoke you. Helen schooled herself to calmness. She doesn't know anything. If she did, we'd all be in chains.

  A horn blast rang out, and soon Shoteraja and her troubles were far from Helen's mind. The crowd erupted into cheers as the princes mounted their chariots and began a short practice lap around the grounds. Dust rose in small clouds from their wheels as they spun around each other, each man showcasing his deft skill in maneuvering their carts.

  The targets were somewhat large: clay plates three hands across. A vaulter launched the disks into the sky and the princes had to aim and shoot while their chariots were in motion.

  Paris went first. He moved with a fluid grace, his tactic of releasing his arrow almost as soon as he drew made his skill seem effortless. The plates he fired upon shattered with a loud crack from the impact, and an excited audience rewarded him with massive applause. By the time he finished, he had not missed a single target.

  As they waited for the dust cloud to settle before Amenmesse would start, Helen could not help but long for her prince, to tell him how proud she was. She could show him no special favor, though, not if she hoped to uphold the fiction that circumstance had forced them to adopt.

  Helen turned from the pavilion, the falseness of that pretense eating at her like a parasite. Stuck with a woman who despised her and a prince half-crazed with drink, she longed for just one person she could share her true feelings with. Catching a slight movement from the corner of her eye, she realized relief was near. She had Iamus.

  "He's amazing," she whispered down to the Trojan from the pavilion. "Did you know?"

  Iamus glanced out to where Paris parked his chariot, a hint of pride on his usually somber face. "He is like Apollo, Himself." Iamus nodded. "There are none in Troy who can match him with a bow."

  Helen settled back into her seat as Amenmesse took to the field. He carried an elegant longbow, and when the string was taut, he presented a regal profile much like the hieroglyphics lining the temple walls. His skill was equally impressive, and measure for measure, he matched Paris' score.

  "Your brother is quite talented," Helen offered to Seti, the prince's face red from alternating cheers and jeers for his sibling.

  "Yes, he is," Twosret answered for him, frowning at her husband. "He brings much honor to our house."

  "You mean to himself." Seti's lips twisted into a growl. He raised a white flag, signaling the vaulter to change targets. They began another round with smaller disks, again with the same, tied results.

  "Oh, get on with it," Seti grumbled, the mixture of wine and sun making him cross. "Bring out the swifts!"

  Palace servants ran across the field carrying several large crates, the flurry of wings against the reed slats indicating the next targets would be live.

  "Amenmesse, you go first," Seti commanded imperiously. "The first unanswered hit wins." He reclined in his stool, wrapping his arm around Twosret and fondling her breast. He leaned in to her ear and spoke in a husky whisper, "Your brother always did have trouble following a fowl. Let's see how he does before the entire court." He lowered his lips to nuzzle at her neck, groaning as his erection grew noticeably beneath his kilt.

  Twosret stiffened like a plank. She made no move to counter her husband as Seti continued to make free with her body. Only the dark spark of hate in her eyes gave light to her true feelings beneath.

  Helen watched the exchange with growing unease. She had known the matrimonial ties in Egypt were complicated, but if what Seti had said was true, then Amenmesse was brother to both the crown prince and Twosret. Which meant Seti was equally Twosret's brother as he was her husband.

  Helen's stomach rolled. What horrors the woman must have endured! Like she with Menelaus, or Clytemnestra with Agamemnon, Twosret had no choice but to suffer her husband's abuse. A wave of sympathy washed over her for the Egyptian princess, and Helen could not help but feel sorry for another woman forced to deal with an amoral husband.

  She must have made some sound. Twosret's eyes snapped to Helen, the dark hate the princess reserved for her husband unleashed on her. This woman was not helpless. This woman had no need for pity. Helen shirked back in her seat.

  "Later, Seti," Twosret purred, shifting her body further into his embrace, her face ablaze as though daring the man take his depravations deeper. "We'll miss the winning shot."

  That factor seemed to sober Seti a bit. He resettled back in his stool and raised another flag to signal the contestants. The first bird took to air and Amenmesse whipped his chariot in pursuit.

  The swift was an amazingly fast bird with great dexterity. Its crooked wings allowed it to make sudden changes in mid-flight. If Seti had planned to challenge his brother, he could not have picked a more troublesome bird.

  Amenmesse whipped his chariot around and nocked an arrow. The swift folded its wings alongside its body, setting into a dive. The prince tried to readjust, but his bow was too long, and the butt end hit the edge of his chariot as he let loose his arrow. It flew harmlessly wide, and a stunned gasp went through the crowd.

  "One point down!" Seti shouted, a malicious glee lighting up his face as he signaled for the next release.

  Helen turned to where Paris mounted his chariot. Glaucus was beside him and they seemed to be in the middle of a heated exchange. When the horn rang out, the captain walked off, his rigid stance one Helen had come to recognize for when he thought Paris was being overly unreasonable.

  The second bird took to the air. It made a meandering path across the sky, dipping into free-fall then darting forward as quickly as any horse. Paris gave chase, setting his chariot on an intersecting course before he dropped the reigns and reached for his bow.

  It should have been quick work for him. In every other volley, he nocked an arrow and immediately released. But not this
time. He held his bow, arrow taut, for agonizing moments. When his chariot hit a rut in the road, his arrow shot forward. It came close to the panic-driven bird but did not hit. The crowd howled with displeasure, and none so much as the crown prince.

  Seti held up a new flag, one that signaled the riders to return. Both Paris and Amenmesse guided their chariots before the royal pavilion, each man short of breath with chests covered in dirt-tinged sweat.

  "Marvelous!" Seti hailed them both. "Truly marvelous. You are a born marksman, Trojan!"

  "It was not exactly perfect," Paris offered an embarrassed glance to Amenmesse. "I missed the last mark. Perhaps we should call it a day? I think both the prince and I are feeling the affects of your Egyptian sun."

  Amenmesse remained silent in his chariot, but his face spoke of welcome relief. He nodded his consent to Seti.

  The crown prince, however, was not quite so content to call the match a truce. "I have yet to declare a victor."

  "But neither one of us—" Paris began.

  "Your arrow was nearer the mark." Seti spun to the waiting crowd. "The Trojan wins!"

  As expected, the courtiers exploded with applause. Ironically, neither contestant seemed pleased. Amenmesse, in particular, took the news poorly, his face twisted with the bitter taste of defeat.

  "Do not look so sour, Brother," Seti crowed, raising another bowl of wine in salute to the winner. "You can redeem yourself on the morrow. We'll have a rematch in the marshlands."

  Paris shot a wary glance to Glaucus, this revelation settling over him with deep unease. "The marshlands? Why do we have to travel so far?"

  "Because," a wicked grin spread across Seti's face, "I wish to hunt bigger game."

  Bigger game? Helen swallowed nervously, wondering what greater danger the crown prince would demand in pursuit of his entertainment. She waited breathless for Seti to continue.

  "Hippo..."

  Chapter 21

  Lessons of the Vanquished Foe

  PARIS STORMED OFF the field after Seti's announcement.

  A bloody hunt. What next? Am I to perform like a monkey in his court?

  The crown prince was establishing a suffocating hold over his life. He needed to get away, even if for only a moment. Giving no thought to the direction, he let his feet carry him where they saw fit, and soon Paris left the palace grounds and headed into the less populated terrain to the south. Ahead of him, the enormous limestone walls of the Temple of Amun-Re dominated the horizon.

  Jason rushed to keep pace, though he remained a respectful distance behind Paris. Glaucus, too, tried to join, but the furious look on his face was enough to keep the Trojan captain with his troops. Paris did not fancy another of Glaucus' lectures on the wisdom of winning and losing. Not now.

  Seti was making good on his promise that the Trojans would provide him a much needed distraction. The crown prince demanded his entertainments like a child glutting itself on sweetmeats. Wasting Paris' time with foppish games and drink was not enough for the God-king-in-waiting. Now he thought to use Paris as a tool to humiliate his brother.

  Amenmesse was an arrogant toe-rag as well, but, as a second son who strove to do something more with his life than sit on the sidelines, Paris could not help but sympathize with the man. He did not relish being used in the petty feud emerging between the princes.

  He kicked a pebble out of his path, venting his frustrations on the innocent rock. He should have lost outright to Amenmesse, as Glaucus suggested. His foolish pride had gotten in the way, and now that he had proven himself capable, Seti was not going to give his shiny new toy a moment's rest.

  A bloody hunt!

  It was abundantly clear that Seti didn't give two shekels about the urgency of the Trojan quest. He cared only for himself and his pleasure, and Paris wouldn't put it past the prince to assert pressure on the Temple to delay their departure.

  There was only one way to know for sure, and Paris had subconsciously chosen this path wisely. He needed to speak with the high priest.

  A long ramp led to the temple gates where square pylons rose into the sky. The processional walk was lined with seated rams, carved of stone. At the entrance, two guards stood, their sickle-tipped staves crossed.

  Paris paused, allowing Jason to fully catch up with him. The poor Grecian was trying not to show how the heat taxed him. The collar around his throat was of thick leather, and the metal ring in the center looked equally heavy. In this heat, it would have made the man struggle for every breath, and yet he uttered not one word of complaint. Jason watched Paris with alert, ice-blue eyes, ready as ever to serve.

  "Have you been inside the temple before?"

  Jason shook his head. "They do not let profaners on sacred ground."

  Paris expected as much, but now that they had come all this way, he was not going to send the man back. "Keep your head down. Try not to look too closely at any of their artifacts. If they catch you staring at an idol, they'll probably execute you. I won't be able to stop them."

  Jason seemed surprised by the warning. It was probably more consideration than the slave had ever received from a royal. But Paris wasn't trying to win the man's loyalty; he did not want a dead man's spirit weighing down on his conscious.

  He marched up to the temple guards. They were hairless, like the priests, but the similarities ended there. These men were born warriors, their pectoral muscles clenched tight as they glared down on him from their higher position. Behind them lay a long corridor, its inky blackness magnified by the brilliant speck of light at the far end of the tunnel.

  "Who dares to enter the House of Amun-Re?" said the guard nearest him.

  "I am Paris of the royal house of Troy. I have come to speak with the high priest."

  The guards exchanged a quick look, but were otherwise expressionless. "He is not expecting you, Prince of Troy. You should wait for his invitation."

  Paris grimaced. He was not going to be deflected again. Every day, every minute, he wasted waiting on Egyptian pleasure, was another opportunity for Agamemnon's wrath to catch up with them. "Then I will wait, but inside. You can at least extend me the courtesy of the shade of your court."

  The two guards conversed in urgent whispers before the first came back with a rueful expression. "You may enter. But the court only. One of the pastophoroi will see to your request."

  Paris nodded his agreement and stepped into the dark corridor, the sudden drop in temperature making the hair rise on his neck. The tunnel seemed to radiate a celestial cool from its thick blocks of perfectly shaped stone. Raising his hand against the blinding light at the opposite end, he stepped out into the main court of the temple.

  The grounds were enormous, the outer gates encompassing over 150 acres of land. The paved court where he now stood was some 500 feet long by 350 feet wide. It was lined on each side by colonnaded stoas, long walkways with roofs that reached only halfway up the massive perimeter wall. Ahead of him sat an enormous rectangular building that sloped up to a flat roof. At the very center of that roof, a squat, square-based obelisk made of red-granite stretched into the sky like the finger of a God. A capstone of electrum decorated its tip, the silver/gold metal catching sunlight with a gleaming spark. A second set of pylon gates framed the building, hiding the rest of the temple, and its secrets, beyond.

  Paris watched as one of the guards sprinted across the court and into that inner sanctum. He suppressed the urge to follow the man. Now was the time for patience. Turning to the shade of the walkways, he began a perimeter stroll, Jason trailing behind him.

  Every inch of temple wall was decorated with hieroglyphs. From what Paris remembered of his education in Egyptian religion, the pictures dealt mostly with the Ennead, the Egyptian origin myth where the creator god, Atum, emerged from the primordial waters of nonexistence and begat the nine other deities who made up the core of the Egyptian pantheon. The temple at Heliopolis was dedicated to Re, God of the Midday Sun, the most influential deity in the Two Lands. The temple artisans had outd
one themselves in their many colorful representations of the powerful god.

  He continued down the path, refreshing his skill of reading the Egyptian script. It was not until he was halfway down the length of the court that he realized Jason was no longer with him.

  "Jason?" He raced back down the walkway, searching the open court for any hint of the sandy-haired man. The open-air space was not devoid of activity. Several temple workers went about their business scrubbing floors and refreshing paint on the western wall. Many cast him disapproving looks as he raised his voice.

  He took a sharp corner that lead back to the temple gates and almost tripped over the man. If not for the steady rise and fall of his chest, Paris would have sworn Jason was a dead man standing, his face was that pale. His eyes, however, sparked of life, staring daggers into a freshly cut black granite stele before him. At nearly ten feet tall, it was an imposing sight, and Paris was amazed he had missed it.

  "Are you all right?" He approached Jason cautiously, but the man did not stir. What was it about this object that had possessed the man so?

  Atop the stele, King Merneptah—shown as a vigorous Pharaoh—received a sword of power from Amun-Re. The inscription beneath read:

  "In regnal year five, on the third day of the third month of the period of Inundation, under the Majesty of Horus Re, King Merneptah, the Strong Bull, the King of Upper and Lower Egypt raised the victorious sword of power, smiting the Nine Bows until their seed was no more.

  "Great fear of Egypt was in their hearts. Their legs did not stay firm, but fled. Their archers threw their bows away. The wretched conquered Prince of Libya fled, his brothers plotted his murder, his officers fought with one another, their camp was burned and made to ashes."