The Princess of Sparta: Heroes of the Trojan War (17 page)

“Probably.” He grinned. “But if they do exist, it would have to be in the
terra incognita
. The western wilds are some of the last places unmapped. It’s bound to hold some secrets.” Paris’ eyes lit up with the prospect. “I’d give anything to walk those lands.”

“And that land would grind a soft prince to mincemeat if he tried,” she added playfully, enjoying the banter. There was something irresistible in his excitement. How many frontiers had Paris travelled? How many new cultures had he explored? As an ambassador, the prince lived a life of adventure that she could only imagine.

“Were the Spartans the first to conquer the wilds?”

“Some of the first.” She stated proudly. “But certainly the best. The barbarian hordes fought harder in our region than in any other.” She tried not to boast, but she was proud of her ancestors’ achievements. They deserved the respect of Troy.

“So Sparta claimed those lands, but not Mycenae?” Thus far, Paris was having trouble understanding the complex alliances of the Helladic peoples. If they were back in the Old World, and Sparta was the premier military force, it would hold suzerainty over the other kingdoms.

“Well, no...” Helen stumbled, realizing her mistake. Agamemnon was his host, not Tyndareus. “Mycenae is a port city. Her strength comes from trade.” But her explanation only made her adopted home sound weak.

“Ah, traders.” Paris laughed. “Merchants have taken hold of Troy as well. One day I swear they will rule the world.”

“
Traders
ruling instead of kings?” It took her a moment to realize he was joking, and she joined his hearty laugh. “I did not take you for a comedian.”

“My brothers say I am more a fool than a diplomat.” He readily agreed, only his self-assured smile belying the comment.

They were forced to wait at the royal stockyard while a shepherd crossed his herd of goats. It was an abnormally large flock, and the shepherd shot her an apologetic glance as they waited. Helen counted the dams, each with a pair of billies. The kidding had been a great success this year.

“How many brothers do you have?” she asked, trying to imagine what a brood of Trojan princes would be like.

“Too many.” His brow creased. “There are five of us legitimate, another twenty that are not, and equally so for my sisters.”

Helen’s eyes shot wide. “
Fifty?
” It was hard to imagine. She always dreamed of having brothers. In her nocturnal imagination, they were twins, like her and Clytemnestra, and they lived to protect the girls from harm. But to have fifty brothers and sisters? “How do you tell them all apart?”

“You don’t.” Paris grimaced. “At least not the ones who don’t matter.” He didn’t bother to add that he spent so little time at the capital he didn’t find that lack of familiarity inconvenient. He could only wish for that same anonymity from his siblings. But it was a vain wish. Everyone knew his name.

The herd finished crossing, a young kid bleating as it raced to catch up to its dam. Helen watched as the doe nicked the babe’s heels and they disappeared into the thick of the herd. “Every child matters,” she calmly disagreed, “to their mother if no one else.”

The effect on the prince was startling. A haunted look crossed over Paris’ face and he turned away from her. “Yes, I suppose that’s true.” When he did not turn back, Helen gingerly started back on the path, hoping she had not inadvertently said something to upset him.

A waft of manure and fresh hay greeted them as they approached the royal stables. The braying of expectant mares echoed through the rafters. The sound was deafening and Helen had to cover her ears as she called out for the stable master.

“I don’t mind walking.” Paris offered as groomsmen rushed to tackle two chariots for them. He always found it impossible to get the feel of a new city from on high. It was better to walk amongst the citizens and engage in conversation where possible, a prospect much easier when you met them on eye level.

Haemon, the slightly hunched Horse Master, led over two chestnut mares and cast him a puzzled look at the unusual request. Even Helen frowned. “We could, if you insist,” she began, “but there is a lot of ground to cover.”

He was about to when Glaucus leaned forward and whispered in his ear. “Princes don’t
walk
.”

Paris quickly took the reigns from Haemon, trying to hide his slip. “No, this is fine.” He swept his cape aside and tried for a dignified half-bow to allow Helen to mount the chariot first.

He had one duty to complete today: to represent Troy with dignity. And instead he was acting like a wide-eyed farmhand catching his first glimpse of a city. Paris cursed at himself. He had travelled across the civilized world on behalf of Troy, and not once had he met someone who could put him at ease as easily as this princess. Conversing with her was as calming as spending an evening with Hector, as heartwarming as Troilus’ hugs. She felt like family. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he knew her somehow.

He watched as Helen stepped to the front of the cab. A glance over his shoulder alerted him that Glaucus and Aethra had done the same, his captain waiting stoically for Paris to lead. Paris murmured a quick thanks to Haemon and leapt up into the cab, taking his place beside the princess.

The cab was designed small, forcing him to stand sideways to avoid touching Helen in a too familiar manner. It was an awkward position. He was about to signal the horse when he realized he had no idea where they were headed. He turned to the princess, offering her the reigns instead. “Perhaps you’d like to drive?”

Helen gingerly reached for his hand. That was twice in the space of a few breaths that Paris had surprised her. No highborn man of the Hellas would let himself be chauffeured in public by a woman. Save her father, that was. Tyndareus supervised her equestrian training himself. But a decade of following Mycenaean rules gave her pause.

“You might want to hold on to something.” She warned him, taking the point position in the cab. “It’s been a while since I’ve managed a horse.”

“Don’t worry, it comes right back to you.” He coached. “Once learned, you never really forget.”

She eyed him suspiciously. “And how would you know?”

“I spend a lot of time at sea.” Paris confessed, still grabbing a handrail, nonetheless. “Sometimes it’s months before I travel by horse. It takes a moment to get used to the rhythms, but provided you’re not battling a headstrong filly, you should be fine.” He leaned across her to take a better look at their mare. “This one seems docile enough.”

Helen waited for a frown of disapproval, or some sign of mock. But Paris wasn’t playing her a fool. He waited patiently for her to set off, a pleasant smile on his face. If he thought to challenge her, he was in for a surprise. She whipped the reigns down sharp and the chariot leapt forward.

She had forgotten the feel of air brushing past her cheeks, of how it lifted her hair and made her feel like she was flying. In Sparta, Helen would roam the countryside, the remote ravines begging for long rides taken bareback. But in Mycenae, she was grounded, her duties forbidding her the time to take any sort of selfish joyride. Unfettered, she forgot to play host and simply luxuriated in the brisk ride down into the western holdings.

Paris instantly regretted handing over the reigns. Not that Helen was a bad driver—quite the contrary—she handled the chariot over roughly shod roads and loose gravel, leading them expertly down the steep rampart and away from the palace grounds. But placing the princess at the head of the cab forced Paris to stand behind her. Every jolt of the cab pressed her into his pelvis—and there were many jolts in their ride down the hillside. The constant rubbing kindled a fire in his loins. He put a death grip on the rail and tried desperately to regain his focus.

Just outside the palatial wall, Helen pulled the chariot to a stop beside a series of residences surrounding a central courtyard. Paris stiffly stepped off the cab just as a group of workers spread out into the court to greet them. It was a mixed lot, perhaps a dozen men and women in well-kept homespun tunics of wool. One man, clearly an overseer, wore an off-white linen robe. He bowed low to Helen, showing a bald spot on the crown of his skull.

"Princess, what an honor it is to see you again.” His smile was genuine, even though his eyes continually darted Paris’ way. In fact, all the workers were staring at him, a nervous titter spreading amongst the crowd, each worker equally curious about his foreign presence in their shop.

“The honor is mine, Bacis.” Helen greeted the man, taking his rough hands in a familial grip. “Bacis is the head of the Potter’s Guild in Mycenae. Examples of his skill have been traded as far south as Egypt, and east to your homelands.” She turned back to the blushing artisan. “And this is Prince Paris of the royal house of Troy, a favored son of King Priam.” The honorifics rolled melodically off her tongue.

Paris forced a grin. Her words were innocent, but she could not understand the irony of their choice. He gave the man a curt nod, and inspected his surroundings in an appreciative manner. “You are the master of this shop?”

“Yes, Your Highness. I was formally trained at Knossos before King Agamemnon hired me. Now the best potters come here to train.” Bacis nodded proudly. His workers parroted his movements, as proud as their master of his esteemed background. “Would you like to see inside?”

“I’d be delighted.”

Bacis waved his craftsmen into motion with a sharp cry, and they fled back to their stations. Each building had two stories, the bottom dedicated to varying workshops, the upper level set aside as living quarters for privileged artisans and palace officials. Paris followed Bacis inside the largest.

The expansive room had two dozen potter’s stations, each with a stone wheel the artisan could kick counter-clockwise while shaping their pieces. Helen moved between them, greeting many artisans by name, and inspecting several pieces that caught her eye. She stopped beside a four-foot amphora, where a middle-aged woman with careworn wrinkles around her eyes put the finishing touches on the black-figure vase.

“Melete! What are you doing here? You should be at home resting.” Helen swooped down on the worker.

"Princess!” Melete set down her wooden stylus and quickly dropped into a respectful curtsey. Either age or hours spent at the wheel made the move as stiff as a two-day corpse, and she nearly fell over.

Helen pulled Melete up immediately, forcing the woman to retake her seat. “You were so ill the last I saw you. I thought you’d never recover.”

Melete smiled graciously, rubbing her clay-coated hands on the small of her back. “Delia brought back the syrup you gave her, Your Grace. It worked miracles. The cough is almost completely gone.”

As the two women conversed, Paris took a moment to get a better look at the workshop. Every station was in use, and the back wall was lined with completed amphorae and stir-up jars ready for the kiln. The whirling of the potters wheels gave the room a light hum that welcomed quiet conversations to be indulged without fear of disrupting any worker’s concentration. The senior artisans, like Melete, had assistants who collected discarded clay, refilled dipping bowls, and attended to any need the artist might have.

Melete’s work was by far the finest in the shop. The rich red clay of her amphora was coated with a veneer of black in which the artist scraped off layers to create silhouetted characters. A geometric pattern ran along the top and bottom of the vase’s oval swell. In the center, Melete had carved out a regal head of the eagle owl of Ares. It was masterful work. Paris could easily imagine it displayed in many palaces he had visited across the world.

“Do you like it?” Melete asked softly, a slight hesitation in her voice as she addressed him directly. There was so much hope in her eyes as she spun the piece around to show the opposite face. It was Ares again, this time in his human form, astride a chariot led by twin griffins. The beasts reared in fury, their eyes and nostrils wide. The God was fierce and divine all at once. The detail was exquisite.

Paris sighed. It was a delicate business negotiating power relations. He could not appear to be wooed by Mycenae. “It is a decent example.” He used his reserved tone, careful to not show his admiration visibly.

Melete frowned, the disappointment written on her careworn face. She turned to Helen, “I meant it as a gift for you, Princess. To show my appreciation for the medicine, and all the care you’ve shown.”

“It’s lovely.” Helen praised the woman while watching Paris closely, puzzled by his reaction. She had hoped for more, as well. Agamemnon instructed her to impress him, and she thought there was no finer example than Mycenaean pottery. Perhaps if he understood the passion that went into the work? “Melete is a
damos,
a free worker who splits her time between her shop in the town proper and here at the royal workshop.” Helen told him, hoping to pique Paris’ interest.

It worked, and he gave the woman a second appraisal. “You are not bound to the Palace?”

Melete blushed, “No, Sir. I mean, Your Grace.” Her eyes darted away sheepishly from the prince’s direct gaze.

“We don’t have bondsmen here.” Helen intercepted. “All of our workers are free, save for the few captives taken in battle. And both free worker and slave has the right to own and sell their own work.” Melete nodded beside her, pleased to have Helen explain her situation.

“It is an honor to work in the royal workshop,” Melete finally found her voice. “Bacis is the best of his craft. Plus my work here lessens the amount I must contribute to the tax collectors.”

Paris was modestly surprised. He had rarely seen such pride in the lay folk. The sense of greatness that was usually restricted to the palace seemed a badge of honor for the workers, both high and low born. And that pride was evident in their craft. These Mycenaeans were not at all what Priam had led him to believe.

But something Melete had said nagged at his ear.
Lessens her tribute...
Paris inspected the workshop again. Every station
was
filled, their quotas well met. The potters worked diligently on their pieces, their hands cracked from the effort, and in some cases, their blood mingled with the thick clay.