The Princess of Sparta: Heroes of the Trojan War (22 page)

“I... um, doubt the Goddess would want me.” His muscles finally unclenched, and he backed away from her nervously. He raised his fingers to his lips and pressed them to the altar. Whispering a prayer for self-restraint, he hastily backed out of the temple like an awkward boy.

The hot sun hit him with the force of a tidal wave. He soaked it in, the roar of his heated blood clouding his vision to all but the image of Helen’s breathtaking face. He was within inches of pressing her down on that altar and ravishing her.

What am I doing?

“Paris!” Glaucus hailed him from along the drop-off facing the ravine. Helen’s dour maid was at his side, glaring at Paris as he exited the temple.

Not that Paris blamed her. For all his rigorous discipline and training, he felt control slipping from his fingers. Paris tried to shake off his bewilderment, and sloshed through the stream in Glaucus’ direction.

Helen quickly followed after him, her face flushed with embarrassment. Had she upset him? He moved away so quickly. And then her words struck her. The Goddess was a patron of youth and innocence. She could not claim the prince if he was already claimed...

“Is your wife very beautiful?” Helen swallowed a small lump in her throat as she followed him to the ridge.

“I... don’t have one.”

Helen nearly tripped, she was so stunned. As handsome as Paris was, she suspected he’d have been married ages ago. “Why?”

“That’s... complicated.” He picked up his pace.

Complicated? How could it be complicated? Especially for a royal? Most matches were prearranged before a prince or princess came of age. She pressed him for an answer, mindless of fact that she was prying.

“I haven’t gotten around to it yet.” The words fell like stones from Paris’ mouth. He had no desire to tell her his reasons for bachelorhood, of the burdens of being a man shadowed by a dark fate. That truth would only result in the warmth of her kind affections to grow cold.

But to Helen, his reluctance to speak spoke volumes nonetheless. His reticence in the temple, the pained longing that occasionally tensed his face—she recognized the loneliness that haunted her days. Whether by choice or by fortune, she was certain he was denied the love of the person he sought. Her heart twisted as she imagined a woman of stunning beauty standing along a seashore whispering a prayer for Paris’ safe and swift return.

“...is she waiting for you? This woman that you love?” Helen spoke after a slight hesitation. She had no idea why she asked, but the question felt important, like a missing piece in the puzzle of the man before her.

Paris glanced nervously toward the nearing ridge. Glaucus and Aethra were almost within earshot. “There is no other woman,” he swore, and the haunted shadow returned to his face.

Helen gasped, finally understanding what he meant by “complicated.”

“It is a man, then?”

The prince stumbled, nearly tripping over himself. Apparently Glaucus had excellent hearing. The soldier was beside himself with laughter. Only Aethra wore her same dignified frown.

“That has never been my appetite, Princess,” he asserted as soon as he could speak. “I have been an ambassador for Troy for the past eight years. That lifestyle is not conducive to finding a bride.” He spared an evil glare for Glaucus who had yet to settle down. “Although I know a few men who could use a good buggering.”

“Forgive me, My Prince.” The captain wheezed, still waving them up to the overlook. “But I think there is something you would like to see.”

Aethra immediately stepped between them, hoisting her standard over Helen’s head. “Having an engaging conversation, are you?”

Helen flushed. Ignoring her matron’s glare, she joined the men on the overlook. The ridge rose a hundred feet over the Khavos Ravine where fields of wheat extended far into the horizon. A gentle breeze picked up from the west and set the stalks in motion. The land rolled like a golden sea, an ocean that could feed a nation.

Helen sighed. It
would
feed a nation, but not theirs. Agamemnon had already promised this yield to Crete on the summer tide. Philon was right to be concerned.

“I have to go down there.” Paris declared with surprising urgency.

Helen cast him a puzzled look.
This
gave him pause? No piece of art, no palatial structure could spike his interest, but a wheat field inspired awe? “There is a meadow on the far side of the crop. We can have our afternoon meal down there, if you’d like.”

“Yes, please.” he answered eagerly, his face lit up with childlike glee.

Helen turned to Aethra, a similar eagerness dominating her own face. She could use this distraction to her benefit and rid herself of her disapproving chaperone. “Go back to the palace and gather some refreshments. We’ll be by the laurel tree on the west side.”

Aethra hesitated, her hands twisting with concern. She looked at Glaucus and the prince suspiciously. “I shouldn’t leave you, Princess. It wouldn’t be proper.”

Anger flashed in Helen’s eyes. She was tired of Aethra’s peevish concerns. Helen was not a child any longer; her matron should not question her judgement.

“Fetch the meal, Aethra,” she repeated firmly. The elder woman, albeit reluctant, ducked into a curt bow and retreated without another word.

Helen led the Trojans down a narrow series of switchbacks that cut into the rock face and down to the valley below. It was a dusty affair, this road was normally reserved for beasts of burden, but they reached the valley in a matter of minutes.

It was hotter in the valley. A light sheen of perspiration broke out on Helen’s forehead as she pressed through the crops. She mentally cursed herself for her pride. If Aethra were near, she’d at least have some shade.

After what seemed like an eternity, they entered the far meadow. Helen took off her sandals and cooled her feet in the nearby brook, not caring if the behavior was unbecoming of a princess. The sun was shining, the day was young, and she was enjoying herself far too much for such scruples.

Paris and Glaucus entered behind her, deeply engrossed in conversation. “It must be a hybrid strand. Look how robust the stalks are.” Paris twirled a piece of wheat in his fingers.

The curiosity was killing her. “Wheat?” she laughed. “Truly? Are you that enamored by a silly plant?”

Paris crossed to her rock, amused by her playful ignorance. He attempted a serious tone as he spoke. “Whenkingdoms go to war, they salt their enemy’s fields. Nothing will grow for seasons and people starve.” A haunted memory pulled at him. It was a cruel fate that the people suffered the sins of their rulers. He had seen too many children dying of starvation, images he could never forget. “But a hardy plant,” he continued, twirling the stalk in front of Helen’s face, “like this one here, might have a better chance to survive. It could save lives.” He tapped her on the nose with the stalk. “Now what where you saying about silly plants?”

“Silly?” she feigned innocence. “Did I say silly? I meant special, of course.”

It was special.
Helen had never seen a ruler show concern for the commonwealth the way Paris espoused. Agamemnon cared only for his own greatness, the plight of his subjects be damned. But Helen knew it was the people who made a land great, and the might of a king was only a reflection of theirs.

Glaucus circled around the clearing, his eyes darting over the tall crop. “There’s too much cover here, Paris.” he grimaced, gripping his spear tight. “I’m going to scout the perimeter.” Paris waved him on, but the captain hesitated at the edge of the clearing. “I’ll just be gone a moment.”

Paris suppressed the urge to toss a rock at the man. It was one thing for Glaucus to watch his back, but he didn’t want the man’s prudish nature alarm the princess. He turned back to Helen, relieved to see she paid the guard no attention. She was splashing her feet in the stream, her chiton gathered about her knees exposing two perfect ivory-toned legs. Her hair was unpinned, and the golden tresses dangled loosely around her breasts.

A small wave of panic gripped Paris as he realized they were completely alone. But even knowing that, he could not help but ask, “May I join you?”

“Of course.” She scooted over on her rock.

Paris unlaced his sandals and dipped his feet alongside hers. The water was refreshingly crisp, the product of spring thaws on the mountain rages above. “That feels blessedly good.” he groaned. Closing his eyes, he leaned back on the ground, soaking in the warm sunlight.

Helen leaned over Paris, watching him breathe. His chest fell in even rhythms. It was a muscular chest, not brawny like the Greek men she was accustomed to, but lean. As he exhaled, a tiny smile crept over his face. He looked absolutely content laying in the dirt.

A pang of guilt twisted in her heart. She could not imagine sharing a day like this with Menelaus. He would never allow her to speak as freely as she did with Paris. He would never surprise her with an act of kindness or compassion.   

Paris’ eyes shot open, and he gasped, utterly surprised to find her so near.

“I...” Helen stammered, an inexplicable guilt washing over her. She hadn’t meant to sit so close... she was only curious. But that was a lie, and she knew it. She was drawn to this prince as powerfully as two magnets pulled by some inexplicable force.

Paris swallowed nervously, trying hard to reclaim his composure. But at this proximity, he couldn’t think straight. He wanted this mysterious beauty with a desperation that burned out reason. His pupils constricted as he stared hopelessly into her eyes. No wall of propriety, no mask of humor barred its way. His look was one of pure unadulterated adoration.

Helen could scarcely breathe, mesmerized by his powerful gaze. Her head felt woozy. She felt herself sinking towards him and planted a hand on his chest to steady herself. But that touch only intensified the feeling.

“I am a twice-damned fool.” Paris moaned, and reaching up he pulled her lips to his.

Shock waves ran through Helen’s body. Paris’ kiss ignited her in ways she couldn’t describe. The hot steam of his breath, the rough stubble on his jaw, the salty taste of his tongue... she reeled from it. She opened her mouth for more, inviting him to continue.

But when he reached his other hand to cradle her neck, the moment snapped. She pulled back sharply, eyes wild, panic flooding her.

What am I doing?

Paris sat up, reaching for her. “Wait, Helen...”

But she leapt to her feet, shame lending her strength. She couldn’t stay here, she had to get away. She turned and ran into the field.

“Helen!” his panicked voice followed after her.

The thick stalks slapped at her face, the bristles scratching at her bare skin. In her mad rush, she had left her sandals at the brook, and the dried husks littering the ground bit into her soft feet. Helen ignored the pain, and continued to run as fast as she could.

She was outside the main field at the edges of the tilled land when a root snagged her foot and she fell heavily to the ground. The fall knocked the air from her lungs. She lay on the ground gasping, too ashamed to pull herself to her feet.

Guilt riddled her. She was a married woman, and yet she knowingly, willingly, placed herself in this situation. Her wicked mind tried to make an excuse. It was an accident. It wouldn’t happen again. Not if she was careful. But her mind was a liar. Her traitor heart knew better. She asked Aphrodite for this man, and the fickle Goddess didn’t care what misery Eros’ arrow wrought.

Paris continued to call her name. He was making a terrible racket searching for her. Helen knew she should call to him, let him know she was all right, but she was too scared. Instead, she lay in the turf, crying softly to herself.

A deep grunt jolted Helen from her misery. That sound was too near to be Paris, too brute to be human. She raised her head and found herself staring into the malevolent glare of a massive bull.

You stupid reckless girl.

Philon had warned her the beast was about, and she ran right into its territory. Helen had never seen such a baleful creature. Enormous horns, each five feet long, protruded from its skull. The bull snorted. Its eyes gleamed red as it kicked dirt behind it with thick hooves the size of mallets. The monstrosity bellowed angrily and charged at her.

Helen screamed.

Suddenly, Paris was there. He leapt over her fallen body and dropped to the ground in a roll right into the path of the charging beast. The bull reared, falling sideways into a patch of wheat.

Paris leapt to his feet, pulling his cape up high in front of him. He had no sword, no weapon at all, but still stood protectively between her and the animal with nothing but that deep red fabric. Helen knew she should move, run for help, but her muscles wouldn’t work. She clung to the ground, helpless.

The bull strained to get back up, rolling over and taking out a bushel of wheat in the process. Now back on its hooves, it shied away from the prince’s cape, balking at the bright foreign object.

Paris pressed his advantage, using his cape to wave the animal back. “Tut, Tut, Tut.” he shouted, flapping the material with each cry.

The bull was clearly confused, unsure of what to make of the strange man who barred its path. It pivoted, trying to find a way around Paris, a way back at her.

But Paris refused to give ground. When the bull shifted, he grabbed its horns, yanking its head back to him. “NO.” he shouted. “Not her. Me.”

It bellowed again, kicking up sod as the prince held it in place.

Tears flooded down Helen’s face. Any moment that bull was going to swipe its head and impale Paris on those vicious horns. He was going to die, and it was all her fault.

“
No
,” she gasped, her arm reaching for Paris, certain she was about to watch his end.

But then Paris did something unexpected. He lowered his cape and held his hands out in front of him in a nonthreatening manner. He started making soft noises, cooing like a baby calf. His imitation was superb. The bull stopped moving, its eyes darting to and fro in confusion.

Then Paris spoke in a tongue she did not recognize, different than the poetry he quoted before. The words had a melodic soothing tone. Slowly, the beast began to calm and Paris stepped in closer, his hands within inches of the bull’s wide snout.