The Princess of Sparta: Heroes of the Trojan War (21 page)

“I thought we would walk.” She suggested. “It’s such a lovely day. And some of the best views from the acropolis can only be reached on foot.” She turned to the southern precipice away from the bustling palace grounds.

Aethra walked stately beside her holding aloft a small standard to provide shade. “My Lady? Shouldn’t we go—“ Aethra croaked in Helen’s ear as she tried to redirect them toward the Lion Gates. Aethra knew the queen’s commands—Helen had fretted her concerns to the cantankerous woman all night with little sympathy in return. Aethra was unforgiving about matters of duty. In her opinion, Helen’s task was clear. She must do as she was told.

A spike of rebellion festered in Helen’s heart. She promised she would go to the armory, but she didn’t say
when
she’d go. “Let’s start with the temples. They aren’t far.” She pressed past her frowning matron.

They travelled down a meandering staircase hewn from the bedrock of the palace summit. The staircase was steep, dropping quickly down the terraced hillside. Whenever the rock looked unstable, Paris would dart ahead and hold his arm out in support for her. She laughed on several occasions.

“Do you think me so fragile?” she jested, refusing his arm and picking her own path. “I know this path better than the halls of the palace.” It wasn’t a boast. She could find her way in the dark to the southern summit if need be.

Paris tucked his hands behind his back, a mock show of withdrawing his unneeded aid. “Ah, are you very religious, then?” His jaw clenched as he asked the question.

It was an innocent question, but one that stumped her nonetheless. Her trust in the Gods led her to the biggest mistake of her life. She honored them, as all mortals must, but no longer trusted in their protection. A guarded respect was the best course when dealing with capricious immortals.

“I’m no more religious than any other person.” She replied truthfully, watching the tension drain from Paris’ shoulders. She wondered why the answer seemed to ease him.

“The Princess is favored of Aphrodite.” Aethra interjected with a sniff, her devout sensibilities offended. The mere hint of blasphemy and Helen’s maid would harangue her for hours.

“I do not doubt it, Mistress.” Paris gave the woman a respectful nod.

Aethra patted down her dress like a bird ruffling her feathers. Helen could tell the prince’s manners had yet to pass the matron’s strict standards.

They turned south on the frontage road leading up to the temple plateau. The road was empty save for the few guards patrolling the perimeter wall. Helen delighted in the solitude. There was a peaceful quiet in this corner of the palatial grounds. It was a welcome change from the prying eyes of the court.

Paris seemed to enjoy the privacy as well. He lacked the strained focus that dominated his behavior in the megaron and at supper. He looked truly at ease.

“And what of you, Trojan? Do you have a patron God?” Helen asked pleasantly as a lone egret took flight from the brush beside her.

It was Paris’ turn to flush. “None that I am aware of. But Troy is protected by Athena, and our Apollian temple has more prophets than any I’ve ever visited.”

“You have the same Gods as us?” Helen brightened from the news. For some reason she thought Troy would be more foreign, the divides between their cultures as vast as the distance that separated them.

“And the same language,” he added with a nod. “I can’t tell you how relieved I am to converse in my native tongue. Learning a new dialect can take years.”

Years?
She couldn’t fathom spending so much time away from her home and the people she loved. But some part of that prospect thrilled her. What adventures he must have had!

“How many do you speak?” she asked eagerly.

Paris shot Glaucus an inquisitive look. The captain had been with him on many of those trips. “Seven?”

“That sounds about right.” Glaucus agreed.

“Now you’re teasing me.” No one could possibly learn so many. But Paris looked insistent. “All right, name them.” She tucked her arms on her hips, refusing to walk another step.

Her petulant glare was delightful. Paris considered dancing around an answer just to prolong that glare, but he recognized the stubborn glint in Helen’s eyes. Hector would stand just so when he would not be denied. She would get her way eventually. He decided to spare himself the struggle.

“Phrygian, Assyrian, Babylonian, Egyptian, Hebrew, Amorite and Hittite. Oh, and Phoenician if you count their alphabet. It’s similar to the Amorite dialect with subtle variations.”

“That would be eight.” Glaucus corrected him, earning another harrumph from the matron.

Of course, Helen didn’t believe him. He wouldn’t believe him either, if he hadn’t lived those long journeys. Apparently she needed a demonstration. On impulse, he lifted her hand to his lips, breathing in deep her perfume of rose and lilac.

The words came instantly to him, rolling off his tongue with a husky guttural accent. “ז. כֻּלָּךְ יָפָה רַעְיָתִי וּמוּם אֵין בָּךְ:”

Both Glaucus and Aethra gasped, the latter for his impropriety, the former because the captain knew what he said.

Why those words?

But staring into Helen’s radiant smile, Paris knew why. Ever since he saw her on that rocky cliff, it was all he could think about.

Helen was stunned, her hand forgotten in his. “What does it mean?” she asked, breathless.

“It’s from a song, from the pastoral tribes in Canaan.” He swooped her hand onto his arm, covering his slip with a nervous cough as they trekked up the remainder of the hill. “It means, ‘You are flawless’.”

“Oh.” Helen tried to still her beating heart. She had spent her entire childhood hearing nonsensical flattery of her beauty. She learned long ago to turn a deaf ear to that praise. But when Paris spoke, his words vibrated something deep inside her. For the first time in her life, a man complimented her, and she whole-heartedly believed him. She felt undeniably beautiful.

Another snort from Aethra jolted her back to the earth. She yanked her hand away from Paris like a person touching burning coals. “...Thank you.” She cleared her clenched throat. “The temple... uh, is this way.” She spun and began a hurried walk to the plateau, her maid closing ranks behind her protectively.

Glaucus grunted. Paris refused to look in his direction. He didn’t need a lecture. Besides, he had told her the truth. ‘Flawless’ was the gist of the lyric; the actual words were
‘You are all fair, my beloved, and there is no blemish in you.’

Helen refused to meet Aethra’s disapproving glare as she walked and shielded her face with a veil of loose hair. She raced past a cluster of buildings grouped together along the perimeter wall without stopping, a sweet confusion building inside her. His lips on her hand... it was an act a thousand courtiers had done before, but when Paris touched her, time stood still. Every nerve in her body came to life and she wanted nothing more than to explore his touch with some of her own.

She cursed herself and her lewd behavior. She was a married woman and a princess! She could not give in to these feelings. These... urges... were fleeting, a moment of weakness in her traitorous heart. She was tasked with showing him the capital, and that was all. She picked up her pace.

A handful of goldsmiths worked along the porticos, taking advantage of the soft light of the mid-morning sun while they hammered plates of the precious metal into intricate designs. Some of the artisans waved to her, but Helen rushed past them, too agitated to stop for a friendly hello. She climbed further up the summit, increasing her speed as if she meant to outpace her unfaithful thoughts. It wasn’t until she reached the top of the acropolis that she realized where her feet had unconsciously taken them.

A hundred feet ahead the hillside came to an abrupt end, the rocky precipice jutting dangerously over the vast Khavos Ravine to the south and the violent Argolic Gulf waters to the east. It was the place she found solace when her thoughts grew dark, when she needed to escape the pressures of the life she had chosen... the place she had first seen Paris.

Helen spun back toward the prince, a sudden realization flooding her. She had prayed that night, begged in fact, for the Goddess to grant her some reprieve from her life. Was it mere coincidence that Paris arrived at that precise moment? Was
he
the answer she asked for?

“Princess?” He approached her, a puzzled look on Paris’ face as he waited for her to pick their path.

She chided her foolishness. Nestra would mock her if she gave ear to this superstitious nonsense. But still, Helen couldn’t shake the uncanny connection she felt with this man.

“This way.” She turned away from the precipice and back toward the temple plateau.

Paris frowned, certain he had said something to upset her. He hadn’t meant to act so familiar before. He prided himself on his reserve, his discipline, but Helen had a bewitching way of putting him at ease. He scarcely felt himself in her presence.

And when she pulled away... he was instantly reminded of his life back in Troy, the cursed child whose presence was to be avoided at all cost. His clumsy attempts to impress her only seemed to make her more uncomfortable.

Paris shook his head. The princess had no use for his friendship. And, as much as he wanted it, his mission did not require earning hers. He needed to stay focused on the task at hand.

The plateau comprised over a furlong of flat open space. At the southern edge an enormous temple dominated the vista. It towered three stories high and was open to the air, a dozen fluted columns stretching to the heavens like fingers of the earth goddess reaching for her mate in the clouds.

“The House of Columns, sacred to Hera.” Helen spoke as four priestesses exited the inner sanctum. They held clay censers filled with smoking incense that they swung from side to side as they sang a light hymn. It was a pleasant tune, one that spoke of the Goddess’ birth waters fertilizing the plains.

Helen paused, watching Paris closely for any sign of awe. Most pilgrims dropped to their knees when they first spied the sacred temple. But Paris was not looking at the House of Columns. Instead, he faced a solitary building sheltered on the corner of the plateau.

“Now there’s a sight,” he whispered.

Helen turned to the direction he was looking. A modest-sized temple sat beneath an orchard of blooming apple trees, its limestone walls covered in ivy and a narrow stream trickled across its portal door. She was glad he noticed the small treasure.

“It’s a shrine to Aphrodite. A gift from Agamemnon to my sister and me. Would you like to see it?” When he nodded, she led him across the plateau.

Once they stepped beneath the shade of the sacred grove, Helen could not help but smile. This small parcel of land, so similar to the temple in Sparta, always made her feel at home. She raised her hand, trailing her fingers across the low-hanging branches, its pink blossoms floated into the air like butterflies on wing.

Helen closed her eyes and let the flowers shower over her, spinning with delight. The clear water from the stream licked at her ankles as she stepped over to the portal door. Pausing at the entrance, she turned to find her guest. Surprisingly, Paris was not at her side. He hung back a safe distance, watching her play.

“Come on.” She beckoned him to the door.

But he balked at the stream. “I shouldn’t. I feel like a trespasser.”

“It’s all right,” she insisted. “Men are allowed.”

“
Noble men
,
”
Aethra placed a firm hand on Glaucus’ chest as he moved to join the prince. “Not the likes of you.” Her sharp tone brokered no argument. “We’ll wait for you outside, Princess.”

The shrine was not large, no more than ten paces wide. Skylights allowed sunbeams to dapple into the small room. Helen walked into the familiar space and past the stone altar covered in wild flowers. A bust of the Goddess rested in a nook, Her serene gaze smiling down on Her offerings.

Helen lit a candle from the other burning votives lining the wall. “At the full moon, they say Artemis guards the grove with a silver bow, keeping away the unwanted eyes of men.” She spoke softly, the quiet nature of the shrine adding to her pensive mood. “Young virgins will dance beneath the trees and beseech the Goddess for her favor. If the girl is pure of heart, Aphrodite will bless her with a life of love and happiness.”

Paris watched her, feeling the sorrow he was not sure she intended to impart. There was something achingly sad about Helen’s tale, as though she said the words but did not believe them. “Now I know I am trespassing.” He forced a laugh, a nervous tremor marring his regal composure. “Didn’t your maid say you were chosen by the Goddess?”

“Yes, or so they tell me.” Helen made efforts to keep her tone light. Chosen of Aphrodite... Her father had sworn it was an honor. His conviction had given Helen faith, and she trusted the temple as naively as a little child. Only Nestra had the wisdom to warn her against such blindness.

“Did you dance once? In a grove like this?”

A vision of her womanhood ritual flooded over Helen, and of all the wonders Tryphosa had promised. “I did.” She clenched her jaw, fighting the bitterness that had become a constant companion once those promises had proven hollow.

She shook off her dark thoughts and managed a bittersweet smile for the prince. Plucking a poppy off the altar, she tucked the blossom into the binding of his cape. “You said no God has claimed you?”

“Not to my knowledge.” Paris tensed as she pressed the stem against his skin.

“Then perhaps you are meant for Aphrodite. Maybe you are one of her chosen ones, too.”

Her chosen fool, perhaps...
Paris’ heart pounded beneath Helen’s gentle touch. Propriety screamed at him to go. He knew he shouldn’t be alone with this intoxicating,
married
, woman. But when she gazed up at him, her jewel-blue eyes framed by black-as-night lashes, he was utterly powerless. He could not take his eyes off her; her rosy lips parted ever-so-slightly as if begging to be kissed. His tongue grew heavy in his mouth.