The Princess of Sparta: Heroes of the Trojan War (24 page)

Glaucus stepped protectively behind him, helping Paris to relax a notch. This was not a man he wanted to face unarmed.

“Your Highness.” He gave Menelaus a sharp nod of his head. They were technically equals after all.

The Mycenaean grimaced uncomfortably. “I hear you saved my woman.” He grunted, disbelief written all over him. “I owe you a debt.”

Paris was taken aback. Of all the things he expected this man to say to him, thank you was at the bottom of the list. “Think nothing of it. I did nothing any other man wouldn’t have done.”

Menelaus snorted. “Doubtful. I’ve been tracking that bull. Half the villagers have lost their stones at its mere mention.” There was a ripple of agreement in his men.

“Then I was fortunate,” Paris added. “The bull was not used to human confrontation. I had the element of surprise working in my favor.” He hated debasing himself, especially to this man, but if Menelaus was anything like his brother, he wouldn’t stomach a powerful rival at arms.

But Paris’ modesty only made Menelaus more cross. “Stop that nanny nonsense. You bested the beast. Take the compliment as it’s given.”

It was no wonder Agamemnon kept his brother away from court affairs. He was as blunt as a rusty blade. Paris had to shut his jaw.

A raven-haired hunter cleared his throat. Menelaus cast the man an irritated glare, but then corrected himself. “What I meant to say is, it was impressive, taking on a bull with your bare hands. I’d like to see what you are capable of with a spear in your hand.”

Paris blinked, “I beg your pardon?”

Menelaus chewed his lip, his attempt at court decorum puckering him like a sour grape. “A hunt!” he bellowed. “Tomorrow. The spears are gathering in the stables at the hour of the wolf. Come enjoy some real sport.” He hefted the sword holstered at his hip, a thick broadsword that could cleave Paris in two.

An entire day alone with this brute? Paris hesitated, shooting a quick glance to Glaucus. The captain looked similarly undecided.

“That is, unless, you prefer the company of women...” A wicked grin spread across Menelaus’ broad face. He shared a crude laugh with his hunters.

It was a familiar laugh for Paris. Their mocking tone cut right to his core. They saw his smaller frame, his preference for civility and respect, as a source of weakness. With one glance they presumed to know the measure of his worth. And like Hecuba and her minions, they found him lacking.

Glaucus gave a tiny shake of his head.
Don’t let them bait you
, that motion warned. But Paris didn’t care. He felt the slap of that challenge. He didn’t want to back down anymore. This crude man had
no idea
the world of hurt Paris could inflict.

“I
could
use some good sport.” Paris slapped Menelaus on his thick arm, meeting the prince glare for glare. “Count me in.”

Clytemnestra jostled Orestes on her lap, trying to find a comfortable position on her throne as she nursed her infant son. The stiff replica of Agamemnon’s lofty chair cut into her tender hips. She longed for the cushions of her apartments, at least until she healed from the birthing, but such laxity was forbidden to her. A queen of Mycenae did not show that sort of weakness.

The hall was filled with various courtiers and administrative toadies, whispering in shadowed corners.
The Buzzard’s Bay
, she’d dubbed them. Those cowardly men who waited till their betters showed some sign of frailty, and then they’d descend with their vicious gossip, pecking apart their beleaguered prey until there was nothing but bones and a shattered reputation.

And today they waited for Helen to arrive, to hear her tale of danger and rescue. Not because they were concerned for the princess. No, they only cared how these new events would affect their standing. They waited, hoping for some slip of honor or duty, something they could exploit for their own benefit.

Clytemnestra sneered. Ever since she arrived on Argive soil, a child bride alone and untrusted, they had tried to find a way to challenge her authority, desperate to discover a hole in her armor. They found none, and never would. So now they tried to strike at her through her sister.

Pigs.
She jostled her babe again, trying to still his constant kicking. Orestes bit down on her nipple, latching on with manic strength.

“Hades Hounds!” she cursed, pulling the writhing babe from her breast. He wailed with powerful lungs, filling the megaron with his racket. “Take him.” She shoved the child to his wet-nurse.

Orestes was becoming impossible to handle. He cried night and day. Cursed with the colic, her midwives informed her. Flesh of her flesh, she should have greater patience with the babe, but a growing resentment was festering in her heart. When she saw his swollen face red from crying, or his chubby hands grasping for her breasts, she wanted no part of him. He was his father’s son. Bit by bit, she left Orestes care to his nurses.

Helen entered the hall trailed, as usual, by a flock of noble maidens. The women were as bad as the men, but instead of grasping for power, they traded in secrets. Fortunately, they were easier to manipulate, and this flock belonged to the queen.

Nestra caught the eye of one of Helen’s handmaidens, Astyanassa. The girl had fleshed out into an alluring vixen in her time at Mycenae, her long black hair a veil to hide a naughty nature that would make even Aphrodite blush.

Astyanassa smiled seductively, a telling sign to Clytemnestra that her mission was a success. These Trojans were no different than other men. Spill their seed and their secrets would follow.

Nestra descended from the throne and rushed to her sister’s side. Helen’s sudden arrival this afternoon, trembling like a leaf and pale as a ghost, had taken the palace by surprise. Her matron refused to let anyone near her. Clytemnestra almost had the Trojan prince seized, certain her condition was somehow Paris’ fault. But Aethra and the unflinching Trojan captain immediately revealed the circumstance of Helen’s shock. And their tales spread like wildfire throughout the palace.

The heroic Prince Paris... Nestra hated when events moved beyond her control. This information should have come to the king first, and then revealed to the court in the manner he deemed fit. Now every noble wanted a piece of this foreign prince, the girls to woo him and the men to garner favor. It could all be lies for all Clytemnestra knew.

But a well told lie was as good as truth for these toadies.
Let them suck up to the prince. He’ll probably enjoy it. What do I care so long as Helen is safe
?

“Sister.” Nestra wrapped her warm arms around her twin and pressed her lips to Helen’s cheeks.

This is flesh of my flesh.
She clung to Helen tightly, her twin’s love fulfilling her in ways Agamemnon, and even Orestes, never could. She pulled back from the embrace, and inspected her sister. The color had returned to Helen’s cheeks. Nestra insisted she soak away her trauma in a hot bath before presenting herself to the throne. It appeared to have done wonders.

“Leave us. All of you.” Nestra glowered at the court. “My sister has endured enough today without you buzzing around like harpies.”

The hall emptied, but that hardly meant there weren’t lurkers in the eaves. Nestra took Helen’s arm in hers, and led her to the private antechamber behind the throne. It was the only place she was modestly sure they wouldn’t be overheard.

“Where is Agamemnon?” Helen asked.

“Finishing his afternoon repast.” Nestra answered with a sniff.

Helen watched her with a concerned eye. The sisters showed the world a brave face; their Spartan dignity demanded it. But to each other, those defenses were unnecessary. They shared their hurts freely. “Which one?”

“Chimera, a kitchen wench. He’s been favoring that one lately.”

There was no illusion what her husband was up to. He began taking his meals alone in their apartments as soon as she grew too round to be mounted. Normally Agamemnon would cast off his harlots by this stage in her recovery, but not this time. Not that Clytemnestra minded. Severing the physical side of their relationship had strengthened their ability to work together as King and Queen.

Mistresses were an unfortunate reality of palace life. Clytemnestra was too smart to acknowledge the dishonor publicly. But she had ways of making the lives of those brazen bitches miserable. Catching the eye of the king was not the honor they thought.

Helen curled her lip, as disgusted with the king’s behavior as she was. It was a shame Agamemnon had not learned the art of discretion as Menelaus had. There were only a handful of people who knew of the prince’s particular appetites.

Helen crossed the antechamber to warm herself by the hearth, a distant look in her eyes as she stared into the glowing coals. Nestra made sure the chamber door was secure before joining her. “What happened, Helen? Tell me everything.”

“I... I lost my way.” Helen wrung her hands, her knuckles turning white under the pressure. “I got too far ahead of Paris and his guard. I thought the sounds up ahead belonged to them and I walked right into the bull’s territory.”

Nestra sucked her breath between clenched teeth. Helen was
lying
. She could always tell. There was a slight tremor to her voice, and her eyes would shift nervously. Why would she lie?

“Is that all?” Nestra pressed. “You weren’t trying to escape the Trojans? Paris didn’t do anything to upset you?”

Her sister went frigid, her eyes as round as saucers. “Of course not!”

But there
was
something hidden behind her terse reply. Clytemnestra grabbed Helen’s icy hands, forcing her sister to meet her gaze. “Whatever it is, I won’t breathe a word to Agamemnon, I swear. You can trust me.”

Helen’s silence slammed into Nestra with the force of a hammer. There were no secrets between them.

“
What happened?
” she demanded again.

The change was subtle, invisible to someone who did not know this woman as intimately as she. Helen softened. A wave of relief flooded over Nestra. She could suffer terrible insult and injury, but the thought of estrangement from her twin was beyond agony.

“I—“ Helen began.

That was when her idiot husband chose to join them. Helen clenched her jaw shut and instantly regained her armor of disaffected coolness.

“Ah, there are my ladies.” Agamemnon strode across the chamber to place a lusty kiss on her. He had the decency to make Helen’s more chaste. “Now what is this nonsense I hear about a bull?”

Clytemnestra retreated beyond the hearth, tightening her shawl around her shoulders as Helen recounted her story. It was a terse description, action with no embellishment, a retelling so colorless it would make a number-loving scribe envious. Agamemnon listened intently, missing the salient fact that Helen gave no indication of her personal feelings in the encounter.

“He wove a spell over the creature with his words.” Helen finished her tale. “I would not believe it had I not witnessed the event with my own eyes.”

Agamemnon slapped his knee and let fly a harsh laugh. “He is no wizard, Little Sister. He’s a tauromancer.”

Nestra looked sharply to her husband.
A what?

“I forget how stunted your Spartan upbringing was.” His laugh died off derisively. “Bull fighting. In Crete, the practice is common. I was first introduced to the sport when visiting my grandsire’s court. But its origin is further east, from Cyprus and beyond.”

“Sport?” Helen recoiled, a flash of annoyance in her hard stance. “I hardly think the bull was playing.”

Her annoyance amused the king. He always lorded his superior knowledge over Helen’s innocence—schooling her, he said. Nestra stepped protectively between them and watched her husband’s lusty grin morph into a leer.

“You’re supposed to kill the bull, not tame it. Only the acrobats confront the beasts unarmed.” He pulled his fingers through his thick beard. “It’s a devilishly tricky sport to master, leaping bulls. Perhaps I’ve underestimated our little princeling.”

Nestra sniffed.
A prince leaping bulls!
That was behavior for jesters and entertainers, hardly the province of royalty. This piece of information did little to impress her. But Agamemnon laughed again, clearly of a different opinion.

“This should make tomorrow interesting.” He muttered.

She felt Helen tense behind her. “Tomorrow?” Nestra turned to her husband. “What’s happening tomorrow?”

“Menelaus has arranged a hunt.” Agamemnon’s expression turned sour as it always did when his little brother was mentioned.

Nestra studied her twin from the corner of her eye. Helen was trembling. Was she
worried
for this prince? A spike of jealousy lodged itself in Nestra’s heart.

The Trojan is not worthy of her concern.

Clytemnestra took a deep breath, burrowing that spike away. She reminded herself that Helen had just been saved by the man. Some leniency was merited. And considering Menelaus’ fierce temper, perhaps concern was in order, tauromancer or not.

“We should accompany them.” she declared to the surprise of her husband and Helen alike. “The court could use a demonstration of their leader’s prowess. They’ve been holed up in the palace all winter like rats in a den.”