The Princess of Sparta: Heroes of the Trojan War (35 page)

“Will he?” Aethra asked, watching her with an arched brow as she downed the entire cup.

“What?”

“Be challenging your husband?”

Helen froze, a new danger paralyzing her. “Am I so obvious?”

Aethra took the cup from her trembling hand. “To others? No. But I raised you child. I can tell when a woman has been properly bedded. She glows, the essence of Aphrodite flowing through her veins. It is not a thing men can see.”

Aethra led her down the hall to a secluded alcove, forcing Helen down on a bench. She all but collapsed, her knees were so weak. “I am a dead woman,” Helen moaned. “Menelaus will kill us both.”

But Aethra snorted, a distinctly unfeminine sound. “You don’t know that. Maybe your Trojan will kill Menelaus. Have you ever thought of that possibility?”

Helen gasped, shocked by her blunt words. “
That’s treason.
I’d never—”

“You wouldn’t have to.” Aethra interjected. “Kingdoms change hands as easily as water flows down the riverbank. Men have always killed each other for land and spoils. It is a woman’s lot to wait and see who rises the victor. Better you be prepared for when that river changes direction.”

More nobles were entering the megaron, lulled in by the fresh aroma of hot buns laced with honey that the kitchen staff carried in. Helen watched them all nervously, her stomach dipping, any trace of appetite gone. Open war? Was this what she started by giving herself to Paris?

Helen lowered her voice, speaking barely over a whisper. “I don’t want to hurt anyone. Not even Menelaus... I... I just want to be happy.” Tears leaked down her cheeks.

Aethra raised a gentle hand and soothed them away, her back held rigid, protecting Helen from any courtier who’d dare to come too close. “My poor, sweet, naive little princess. The world does not care how good your intentions are,” her calm voice belying the harshness of her words. “You are a royal. Your actions determine the lives of thousands. You cannot afford to walk this gauntlet with your eyes shut.”

Helen pulled back sharply, shoving her hand away. “Aethra! You dare—“

“Yes, I dare!” Aethra silenced her with a harsh whisper. “I was a queen once before your father killed my son and took me for a slave. Do you remember none of that?”

Helen gasped, her matron’s confession tugging at the hidden corners of her memory. Something lay in those dark recesses, but she could not access it, a formidable wall blocking her.

“No?” Aethra sighed, straightening her skirts fastidiously though they showed no sign of wear. “It’s for the best, then. Some horrors are too terrible to carry in our hearts and minds.”

A murmur ran through the megaron as Paris stepped into the hall. His eyes quickly found her. He had the uncanny ability to sense when she was near. He was troubled, she could tell by the bend of his shoulders and the heavy furrow of his brow. But when he saw her, he brightened. Paris did his best to be circumspect, greeting the few courtiers who crossed his path, but he was steadily making his way in her direction.

Aethra watched the prince like a lioness protecting her cub. “You lost your mother when you were too young, but the Gods saw fit to send you another one.” She turned to Helen, her knowing eyes filled with sorrow. “Trust me, as you would the woman who bore you. Your fate can change in a heartbeat. Grasp what happiness you can while it is still in your power to take it.”

Helen’s eyes widened in surprise. Was Aethra giving her
blessing
?

The matron spun and raised a hand toward Paris’s guard. “Trojan. A word with you?” she waved Glaucus over, and, by default, Paris. Once in reach, she grabbed the tall captain by the arm and steered him away, whispering fiercely in his ear.

Aethra’s warnings were but a buzzing in Helen’s ears now that Paris stood before her. She had no ability to mask her feelings. Her heart leapt into her eyes. She wanted nothing more than to throw herself into Paris’ arms. It took all her willpower to lower herself into a formal curtsey, the dutiful respect of a princess to a prince.

“I can’t stop thinking of you.” She adopted an innocent smile, seemingly—for the rest of the court—talking of pleasantries. “I need to see you again,
soon
.”

Paris flushed, an inner heat threatening to burn out his reason. He clenched his sword pommel to keep his hands from reaching for her. “I know. We need to talk. Before... this... gets out of hand.”

But it was already out of hand. One look at Helen, and he could barely control himself. His nerves were taut, like a soldier on the eve of a battle, his whole body aware he was surrounded by danger.

A herald blasted out a note on his horn, announcing the king to the court. Agamemnon rushed past the man and traversed down the hall with long forceful steps. Menelaus and his horsemen surrounded the king, the brothers thick in argument. Menelaus raised his head ever so slightly as he passed them, the unveiled hatred in his eyes making Paris’ blood run cold. That baleful gaze was for Paris and Helen alike, and potentially the king as well. The whole world could burn under the rage of that man.

“What are we going to do?” Helen quivered. In her moment of terror she had grabbed hold of Paris’ arm. She quickly dropped it like it was a poisonous snake.

Paris craned his neck, straining to hear Agamemnon’s heated words. “Just relax.” He tried to soothe her. “I’ll think of something.” But one warning glance from Glaucus and Paris knew his options were limited. They were running out of time.

He looked down at Helen, a wave of protectiveness for his love stronger than his own self-preservation. He couldn’t let her spend another day in this uncertainty. They were both in danger so long as Agamemnon held all the cards. Paris had to act now, and swift, before anything more could happen to her. It was time to teach Agamemnon Priam’s lesson.

“Do you remember when I told you I was not your enemy?” Paris swallowed a lump of dread, steeling himself to become the “Fist in the Silk Glove”.

“Yes...” Helen wrapped her arms around herself, feeling a chill that did not come from the air.

“I spoke the truth. I’m not your enemy. But my father might be depending on how Agamemnon chooses to act. I’m sorry, Helen. But I came here for a reason. I have to do as my father commanded me.” He started off toward the throne.

“
Paris
.” Helen gasped as loud as she dared, the note of finality in Paris’ words frightening her.

“If anything should happen to me, go to Glaucus.” Paris told her without turning. If he looked back now, he might never leave. “He will help you, if he can.”

“Can I not have a day without you pestering me with your petty squabbles, Brother? You whine like a mule.” Agamemnon was ready to toss Menelaus out in the fields and teach him a lesson with his sword. “Do as you are bid!”

“There is no reason to delay the games. The best horseman will still rule the field.” Menelaus protested.

The storm had deluged the hippodrome. The runoff had made the racecourse unusable. But Menelaus did not care about conditions. He fancied himself another victory, and would not put off the race for better weather. It was hubris gone sour.

“You would ruin my best race track in your mindless pursuit of self glory!” Agamemnon slammed his fist on his throne, letting his irritation get the best of him. “Get back in the stables. Leave ruling the kingdom to me.”

“A win for the House of Atreus is a win for Mycenae.” Menelaus pressed on, as ignorant of a lost cause as a turtle struggling in vain when flipped on its back. “I will fix your pretty field if you are so worried about it.”

Paris approached the throne, his eyes glued on Menelaus. The Trojan’s appearance could not have been more timely. The two princes glared at each other like cocks set loose in a hen house.

“You should tend your own fields, Menelaus.” Agamemnon smirked, enjoying the crease of outrage on his brother’s face. “Lest another man plant them for you.”

The Trojan raised his brow, and Agamemnon savored the confusion his barb imparted on the prince. It was always a good lesson for a petitioner to see how he dealt with his insubordinate brother. If the king was willing to punish his own family, what might he do to those not afforded the same protection of blood?

“Trojan.” Agamemnon nodded at the man. “It seems the Gods have decided we’ve had our fill of play. You’ve tickled my cock with hints and stories long enough. Foreplay is dull. Let’s attend to business.”

His crude words seemed to embolden the prince, and a shrewd grin spread across the foreigner’s face as he ducked into a short bow. “Stories are for children and old men,” the Trojan agreed. “Is there a place where we can have a word in private?”

“Of course.” Agamemnon waved away his attendants, happy for the excuse to shut off their constant demands. But, when Menelaus stayed, the Trojan refused to speak and stared at Agamemnon’s unruly brother with a blank expression.

“Oh, for the love of Gaia. Follow me.” Agamemnon leapt off his throne and headed for his private antechamber, Paris swiftly following after.

Agamemnon crossed the cramped room in three quick strides.Tossing his cape down on a padded bench, he plucked his gloves off finger by finger and warmed himself beside the central hearth as the door closed shut behind them with a solid boom.

“I hope you aren’t here to protest your treatment last night,” he grimaced. “I can no more understand the wiles of women than the secrets of the Gods. They say and do as they please.”

The effeminate prince had been suspiciously put off by his wife’s careless words. It surprised Agamemnon that a familial death threat could offend the Trojan so deeply. Any Greek worthy of their title knew to sleep with a dagger by his side for brother and uncle alike. If half the kingdom did not want you dead, then you were too weak to rule.

The prince hadn’t moved from the door. He watched as Agamemnon settled down in his seat, taking his sweet time to answer. “The time for pretenses between us has past, Agamemnon. I know what you are doing here, and it’s time you knew why Priam sent me.”

Agamemnon grinned, pleasantly surprised by the prince’s candor. He was as sick of the court maneuvering as Menelaus. “Have I offended the perfumed lords of the east?” he mocked. “Is this where you chastise me for poor behavior? Or insist I pay taxes to a man whom I’ve never met?”

The affect on the Trojan was powerful. He froze in mid step, his eyes wide with surprise. The prince, like many men before him, underestimated Agamemnon, believing his wits were as thick as his muscular frame. But Agamemnon was no dullard. He had a talent for strategy and command, and he pressed his advantage.

“You wouldn’t have come to Mycenae over a matter as petty as that, Trojan. I have something Priam wants. And I’m prepared to give it to him... for a price.”

“You have an offer for Priam?” Disbelief was plastered over Paris’ face.

“Troy is bogged down in a war with the Hatti.” Agamemnon set his boots on the hearth and reclined on his cushioned bench, conversations of war as commonplace for the king as talk of the harvest. “Priam’s vassals fall like leaves before the blades from the East. Your enemy does not fear you. But they would fear
me
. You’ve seen my armory. I can lead a legion of Greek warriors and give these Hatti a bloodletting they’ll soon not forget. One taste of Grecian Rage and those horse lords will never trouble you again.”

The lust was heavy in his voice. Since he had heard of the campaigns in the east, Agamemnon had dreamt nightly of riding forth with an army at his back.

But the prince was a blank slate, his his face devoid of emotion. When he spoke it was through clenched teeth. “And the price...?”

Agamemnon plucked a dagger from his belt and started to shave his nails. The next part of his offer was genius. His fellow kings of the Hellas would never agree to fight a foreign war. But for
familia
, they would cross the black sea and sail down the River Styx itself. “Seal our alliance with a marriage. Tell Priam I would wed my daughter to his heir. Do this and my men are his.”

“Priam’s heir is already wed.” Paris stared at him, speaking again without a trace of emotion. “To a princess of Phrygia, a kingdom both ancient and powerful. My father will not accept your offer.”

Agamemnon cursed his foul luck. He needed to find a way to seize this opportunity without losing stature, and a royal match was the best solution. The prestige of uniting Mycenae with an ancient line would cement his rise to Overlord. But if he could not have Priam’s heir, he’d settle for the next best thing. “Then it will be you. No exceptions. My men for a royal wedding. Carry that message to your king.”

“Iphigenia is a child!” Paris choked, his delicate sensibilities deliciously offended.

Agamemnon knew he had the beardless boy by the stones, and delighted in watching him squirm. This... arrangement... was a twist for which the prince had not been prepared, and he shook with barely contained anger.

“Wed her now, bed her later, I do not care.” Agamemnon laughed at the prince’s foibles. “Her mother bled early, this one will as well. I assure you, she is bred from fine stock.”