The Princess of Sparta: Heroes of the Trojan War (18 page)

“
It’s certainly a creative way to collect taxes,
” he murmured to himself, then turned back to Melete. “Good fortune in your endeavors, Mistress. I am certain you deserve it.” He gave her a courtly bow, deep enough to show his respect, then rushed to join Glaucus outside.

Helen was fast at his side, his stray comment clearly not gone unnoticed. “I’m sure our ways seem strange to you...”

“Not at all.” He responded offhanded. “I’ve visited dozens of kingdoms, and each king has a different method of rule. But strip away the titles and religious customs, they all share the same basic principles. Commerce is sacrosanct. Each land works out a system that works best for them.”

And Agamemnon has learned what system works best for the king
. Paris cast a cursory glance to Glaucus, questioning if the captain had noticed the poor condition of the workers. Glaucus raised a single dark brow in response. Nothing escaped the keen man’s notice.

Helen blinked back her surprise from Paris’ academic response. He sounded so much like Tyndareus, she had an overwhelming feeling of reclining around the central hearth of her father’s megaron receiving another lesson. She studied the prince with renewed interest. It was rare to meet someone who instinctively understood the heart of matters.

“Oh.” She stuttered, that moronic response winning out over a million others that sprang too late to mind. She felt like a prized idiot conversing with a scholar.

The prince waved Glaucus forward to retrieve their chariots. Helen kicked a pebble around with her slippered toe as they waited, using any excuse to keep from looking at her guest. “It is a relief to know we meet the Old World standards,” she began, feeling anything but relief. “We’re a young realm, but given time, we might surprise you with what we can accomplish.”

She hadn’t meant to sound defensive, but she found herself desperately wanting Paris’ approval. Not for Mycenae, not for the king, but for herself. She forced her chin up, daring herself to meet his gaze.

Paris paused, jarred from his thoughts by Helen’s impulsive declaration. “I’ll tell you what surprises me.” He leaned down and whispered in her ear. “Your people love you. Truly love you.”

She was paralyzed by his penetrating gaze, the one that felt like he looked straight into her soul. “Is that so odd?”

Perhaps she imagined it, but a ghost of sorrow crossed his eyes. “More than you know.”

They rode down to the village in silence, Helen humbled by his kind words. So much of her time in Mycenae she had felt like an outsider, a person neither wanted nor needed. She often toyed with the idea of slipping quietly off the southern precipice and into a watery grave. She had little doubt she’d be missed. To hear that the commonwealth held some affection for her was a ray of light in her usually overcast days.

But was it enough? A whole lifetime of public service spread out before her, constantly giving to the people only to return home to a cold bedchamber. It was a loneliness that had no resolution. Honor forbade her to even speak of it.

As they exited the acropolis, they left the rock-hewn streets for wider ones of hard-packed earth. The city spread out in pockets of settlements, the boundaries of Mycenae amorphous, shifting as the city continued to grow.

The villagers were out in numbers, busily preparing for the upcoming festival. Flags of red and orange adorned workshop doors and sounds of industry filled the air. The smiths worked their bellows, the bakers pounded their dough, and merchants lined the streets barking prices to any potential customer. One and all they paused as Helen and Paris passed, eager to catch a glimpse of the foreign prince.

She looked over her shoulder at Paris. He seemed lost in thought as well. His eyes were furrowed as he stared off into the horizon at some distant point. The man was such a mystery. He wasn’t like any man she had ever met. He was thoughtful, forthright, but guarded just the same.

They visited the goldsmiths, the ivory carvers and finally the shipyard. Each time, Paris was respectful but aloof, showing no great interest in any one industry. She found herself stretching her memory to pull out facts that would dazzle the man. But no number would impress, no detail was unique. He was far more interested in the people themselves, asking them questions about their life and livelihood. If the man was a spy she’d swallow her slipper.

Towards sunset they walked along the wharf, the prince deep in conversation with the harbor master, when she spotted a ship she hadn’t seen in several months. Heedless of the scolding she was sure Aethra would administer, she raced to the dock, greeting the captain as he tied off at the pier.

“Lukos!” Helen shouted, wrapping her arms around the stern faced man. The captain’s scowl melted to joy, and he spun her around in a circle.

“The Golden Girl returns! Mark my words boys, our fortune’s favored this tide.” He tousled Helen’s hair.

She grinned at the man, making a playful attempt to bat his hands away. Lukos was of an age with her father, a grizzled veteran of many Spartan campaigns. As he approached his silver years, he opted for the “quiet” life of the sea. It was a paltry excuse. No Spartan dreamed of a dying of old age in their beds. Lukos defied the odds by surviving so long. He hoped one day the capricious sea would remedy that poor luck.

“You are looking fit.” He grunted after a sour-faced inspection. “I expected a soft life in Mycenae would have fattened you up by now.”

“Do you think so little of me?” Helen pouted, soothing her chiton down over her round hips to further prove him wrong.

He laughed heartily. “True blood will always rule out.
Spartana Aeterna.
”

She kissed her fingers and lifted them towards Olympus. “Sparta Eternal.” She repeated.

Lukos’ galley was a small vessel. When the trade winds blew, he boasted there was no ship as swift. A quick glance confirmed he had a light crew of six sailors, none of which Helen recognized. “Did you come from the homeland?”

“Aye. I’ve got four talents of olives to unload before we sail to the southern continent.”

She almost didn’t have the courage to ask, but the man before her would never shy away from the truth, no matter how unpleasant. Besides, she was
not
soft. She could handle the answer like a Spartan.

“Any messages from the palace?”

His dour expression returned. “I’m sorry, Princess. Tyndareus did not send any.”

“Oh.” She buried the hurt deep inside. For the past ten years she had asked after her father and was always met with silence. With every new tide, she hoped the passage of time would soften his heart. But Tyndareus was a man of stone, and Helen was too far away to crack the shell that protected him.

“Will you send him my love when next you see him?” She forced a tender smile.

“I can do that,” he promised.

Paris, having finished his discussion with the harbor master, strode toward them. Lukos’ eyes widened with recognition as the prince stepped onto the dock.

“Trojan.” He grunted the word, the Spartan equivalent of a gasp of surprise.

Paris also studied the captain, a perplexed expression on his face.

“Lukos, this is Prince Paris of the royal house of Troy, a guest of Mycenae.” But the men already shook hands, ignoring her words.

“Jaffa, right?” Paris asked with a pleasantly surprised grin. “The Boar’s Tusk tavern?”

Lukos grunted again, a slight shade of embarrassment on his face. “What little I remember of it, aye. You should never offer a sailor a bottomless cup.”

Paris turned to her. “If you are wondering where my outlandish ideas about the frontier came from, Princess, you have to look no further. Lukos is quite adept at spinning a yarn.”

“Only when it buys me trading rights along the Sidonian coast.” He nodded to the prince. “Many thanks for that, Your Grace.”

Helen watched in amazement. Lukos was not a man who warmed to a person lightly. Yet here he was, addressing her mysterious prince like an old comrade in arms.

“Perhaps you can return the favor?” Paris suggested. “My Trade Master is in the market. I’m sure he’d be interested to know the current rates you’ve encountered in your travels, both near and far. If you don’t mind?”

“Done.” Lukos readily accepted. “Forgive me, Princess. But I best see about my cargo.”

“Of course.” She stepped out of Lukos’ way.

“I will deliver your message.” He promised again, then picked up his register and marched into town.

Helen watched him go, a pang of homesickness flooding her heart. She envied Lukos, that he could board a ship and sail wherever he pleased. If she had that luxury, she’d be back on Spartan soil.

“Were you expecting some news?” Paris asked her softly.

“No, but I was hoping.”

“From your father?” The question popped out of Paris’ mouth before he could censor himself. “I’m sorry, that’s none of my business.” But something inside him told him he was right. Helen had seemed so happy a moment ago. To watch the sorrow creep over her joyful face was daunting. He wanted to help her, if he could. That urge was almost overpowering.

Helen tensed. So many conflicting emotions battled inside her. It had been too long since anyone asked her about her father. Even Nestra, who shared her estranged status, never spoke of him. Giving these emotions voice would stir a pot of resentment that would only fester, Nestra said. But it
was
festering. Unable to share, those unspoken feelings boiled within Helen, unable to escape. Paris was a foreigner. He had no stake in her current predicament. She felt an overwhelming urge to confide in him.

“I made a mistake, a long time ago. I’m waiting for him to forgive me.” She tried to smile through the tears swelling in her eyes, but her traitorous mouth wouldn’t cooperate. A moment of respectful silence followed her words.

“I don’t know if this helps,” the prince finally spoke after a weighted hesitation, “but you should know you can’t change him, or how he feels about you. You can only be the best person you know how. The rest is up to the Gods.”

So many times during the day, she had seen a dark presence take hold of the prince, as though he were haunted by some dire purpose or secret too terrible to bear. As she stared up into his almond eyes, she saw it again, this time recognizing the darkness for what it was: the same abandonment she felt ripping her heart in pieces.

“Thank you.” She wiped away her tears, finally finding the will to smile. The one she received in turn made all her previous heartache vanish.

“I guess we should head back to the palace.” Paris added reluctantly, never taking his eyes from hers. The sun was dipping low on the horizon.

Helen turned to the fortress towering high on the acropolis. Reality, and the crushing weight of all the things she could not change, returned in force. She wished she could stay in the village and enjoy a simple life like the common folk she so loved. But she was a princess. The Fates had a different future in store for her.

Paris held out his arm for her and she readily accepted it. It wasn’t until they had left the village behind and rode up the Grand Walkway that she realized he no longer pulled away from her touch. She leaned back against him as they continued up the ramp, feeling comforted for the first time since she left her homeland behind.

Chapter 12

A Conflict of Interests

“HE IS well travelled.” Helen reported back to Agamemnon and her sister later that evening. “He has treated with a half dozen of our southeastern allies, and some of those unknown to us as well.”

“I knew that already.” Agamemnon shouted testily at her. “Details! Give me details, Helen.” He paced the space of his private antechamber completing the circuit in three giant strides. It made the room feel more cramped than usual. Helen couldn’t take two steps without the tall man glowering down on her.

At Clytemnestra’s insistence, they held this meeting behind closed doors. There were too many toadies at court who couldn’t be trusted, she said. And right now discretion was their biggest asset. Against what, Helen couldn’t fathom.