The Princess of Sparta: Heroes of the Trojan War (12 page)

But there was no reason for them both to suffer. Helen lifted her shoulders back and walked into the throne room at a regal pace.

“
Are you crazy?”
Nestra whispered after her. Helen’s heart fluttered, secretly agreeing with her sister. But crazed or not, she would not let Nestra suffer. Not when she could do something to help. She entered the megaron behind her husband, quiet as a mouse.

“I will not go.” Menelaus glared at the king, his foot on the raised dais that led to the throne. He taunted Agamemnon, standing just outside the king’s striking distance. “The foaling season is about to begin. I won’t abandon the herd to collect your tribute. Send someone else.”

Agamemnon’s eyes blazed with anger, raising his scepter threateningly. But when Helen crossed his line of sight, those eyes turned to unveiled hunger. She bowed low, sure to accentuate her near exposed bosom. He had designed the dress with a purpose. Agamemnon could not claim her outright—especially in public—but his eyes had no qualms marking her as prey.

“Sire.” She lowered her head and voice respectfully. “If I may be of service?”

Agamemnon relaxed immediately. He retook his seat, casting his brother a mocking grin. “You spend too much time with your ponies, Menelaus, and not enough with your own mare. Be careful another stallion does not tend to your flock.”

Helen blushed furiously. She tried to shield her face from her husband in her golden tresses. The audacity of the man... he knew well enough what other “stallions” were braying at her door.

“Rise, Sweet Sister. What would you have from your king.” He said the words as though they were an invitation. Menelaus stiffened, his evil glare equally for her as for his brother.

“The farmhands complain of a great bull harassing the wheat fields.” She rose to her feet, adopting a mask of indifference. “I told them I would petition you for a hunt.”

“Bah.” He spat. “I have no time to dispatch every animal that ranges near our fields. Not when we have so many outstanding debts to collect.” He cast another glare at Menelaus, his potent ire simmering again.

“Of course, My King.” She added quickly, trying to draw his attention back to her. “If it is conflict of circumstance, perhaps I can tend to the foals and free my husband to the task?”

Menelaus grabbed her arm roughly, spinning her to look at him directly. “And what would a woman know of horse husbandry? You presume much, Wife.”

She grit her teeth, knowing she was crossing into danger. “I know nothing, My Lord, save the troubles of giving birth. That, it seems, is a province of women.” She planted the barb with just enough defiance that Menelaus would redirect his anger and stop this futile fight with his brother.

“Some women, perhaps.” He responded, taking her bait. “But not you, Wife. In that regard you are just as useless as a crone.”

Agamemnon’s cruel laugh mocked them both. It struck a sliver of fear in Helen’s heart as it shamed her husband. “I will consider your offer, Sister. Now go. Both of you. I sense my brother is keen to give you a lesson in husbandry.”

Menelaus didn’t bother to respond but towed her roughly out the hall. She barely caught Clytemnestra’s eye before she was tossed into the outer chamber. Her sacrifice was not lost on the queen.

“You need to learn your place, woman.” Menelaus growled in her ear as they neared their apartments.

“Yes, My Lord.” Helen’s reply was automatic now, devoid of emotion. He would hit her if she ignored him, he would hit her if she shouted back. There was no reason to fight back, not when it only made her situation worse.

He tossed the doors to their apartments open, scaring the chambermaids near to death. “Out!” he shouted as they scattered.

He tossed Helen down on the bed, pushing the skirt of her chiton over her back. He lifted her hips, spreading her legs roughly as he fumbled at his breeches.

“I am your lord.” He growled into her ear. “And You. Will. Mind. Me.” With each word he shoved himself violently into her, mounting her from behind. His engorged phallus was a sword that ripped her apart.

She grasped the furs on her bed, trying to stabilize herself. It was difficult to stay balanced. Menelaus was a powerful man and he never held back when he took her. She thanked the gods how rare those events were.

When he had spent himself, he collapsed on top of her, the weight of his body crushing the air from her lungs. “I will put a son in your belly. That should teach you to mind your mouth.”

“Yes, My Lord.” She struggled to breathe. He rolled off her, and she pulled her legs up onto the bed, tucking into a small ball. She wished she had the fortitude to sit up, to shout her defiance at him from the rooftops. But everything inside her hurt. It took all her strength to not cry.

“Get back to your duties.” He sneered, lacing himself back up and storming out of the room.

The room was eerily quiet when he left. Helen sat unmoving for a time beyond her counting. The silence flooded through her, allowing her a brief moment where nothing existed. Not Menelaus, not Mycenae, and not her broken dreams.

You should not provoke him
, a little voice inside her warned.
Agamemnon treats him like a child. How should he react when his wife affords him no respect either?

She propped herself up onto the embroidered pillows covering her bed, but that only served to give her a better view to the door of the adjoining servant’s quarters. She glared at it, pouring all her hurt into that mournful stare.

If you loved him better, he would not seek comfort in the arms of another.

That room had never housed a servant. She learned quickly why Menelaus spent all his time in the stables. He liked to keep his lover close. He spent their wedding night in that room, rutting another man. Even now, ten years later, he preferred to sleep in Sabineus’ bed than in hers.

She moved in a daze. Her dress was torn. It would never do to be seen in court in such a state. She let the garment drop to the ground and selected another. Without conscious thought, she grabbed her wedding robes, the soft linen caressing her skin as she tied her belt in place. Her hair came next. She began to pleat her golden locks, but when she was half done she caught a glimpse of herself in the bronze mirror by her bed. Her hands dropped uselessly at her side.

What was the point of it all? Why replace the damage Menelaus caused? Her beauty only caused her more troubles. If it was not her brute husband, then it was Agamemnon who visited her bed, eager to possess his brother’s prize. She could not believe Nestra said coupling could be pleasurable. It only filled her with pain and loathing.

She tore at her braids, a wild cry escaping her lips. Her hair fell loose around her shoulders.

“Princess?” A timid knock came from the door. Aethra had returned. Helen ignored her, staring at her reflection in a daze. The woman in the mirror was a wild thing, not a princess at all. When the knocking became more insistent, she grabbed her crimson cloak and fled through the back door.

The wind had picked up, ushering in a great mist from the sea. She raced into it, running down the steep hillside, past the royal gardens and out to the easternmost precipice of the palace walls. It was an isolated vista, a rocky outcrop that hung above the crashing waves of the Argolian Gulf. She ran to its very edge, completely enshrouded in mist. Finally, with this cloak of solitude, the tears came. They flooded her cheeks, spilling down to the thundering waves below.

“Why?” She demanded of the Gods. “I’ve done all you asked of me. I cannot take it any longer.” How had her life gone so terribly wrong? Bound to a husband that neither needed nor wanted her, and with no home to return to... where was her great destiny now?

Her slippered foot traced the edge of the precipice, sending loose limestone tumbling down to the jagged rocks below. It would be so easy to step over the ledge. With one step, she’d no longer be anyone’s disappointment. She’d lost count how many times she considered it.

“Please,” she begged the Gods. “Make it stop. End my torment.” The desperate prayer gripped at her heart. “Blessed Hera, Gentle Aphrodite, please... just give me a sign.”

A loud horn reverberated off the cliffs, cutting through the fog. At first she thought she dreamt it, but it blasted again, gaining in volume with each peal. Like the hand of Zeus, the sun broke through the clouds. The mist parted.

And then she saw him.

He stood at the prow of a ship, a phantom encased in silver fog. He was unlike any man she had ever seen: tall, like the Thracians from the north, but svelte like the strapping island men of Crete. When he turned to her, lowering the horn from his lips and reaching a hand in her direction, she had the uncanny feeling he was important.

The mist reclaimed him and the moment was broken.

Helen shook off her vapid thoughts and pulled her cloak securely around her shoulders to ward off the chill. The Gods had never answered her prayers before, and Helen knew better than to trust to hope. No divine intervention was coming to save her. She was alone.

She walked back to the Palace, the hole in her heart growing larger with each step.

The oars of the Trojan longship dipped into the frothy waters of the Aegean. Paris’ crew had left Troy’s golden shores ten days hence. What should have been a simple journey erupted into chaos as the rough winds and unpredictable currents tossed his ship in circles. But, if their maps were correct, they were nearing their destination.

The coastline of the Greek isles should have been visible on the horizon. But when the sun stirred from her nightly rest, a sea-born mist, heavy like the breath of a dragon, obscured their line of sight.

“Bring out the sounding horn!” Glaucus shouted to his bosun. The captain was a venerated sea dog. He often boasted there was no squall strong enough to keel a vessel in his charge, but even Glaucus took notice when they sailed into the western Aegean. He swore any man who braved these waters must have the courage of Herakles and Poseidon combined. Paris heartily agreed.

Paris grabbed the instrument and took a vantage position at the bow of the ship. Any manner of danger could be hidden in a fog. They could run aground on jagged rock, or crash unknowingly into a cliff. He blasted a note into the sky and waited for its echo to return if solid mass lay before them. If there was danger ahead, he’d be the first to hear it.

Paris inhaled deeply as he waited. The tang of salt air filled his nostrils and the crisp bite of the western winds numbed his bones. The great expanse of unknown lands lay before him. He lived for moments like these.

Glaucus joined him at the bow, the captain’s pale-grey eyes narrowed as he searched for hidden dangers. “Give me a feisty squall or maelstrom any day, but the Gods curse this bloody fog.”

Most sailors were a superstitious lot, but Paris’ captain delighted in finding ways to thumb his nose at the Immortals. The priests called it blasphemy, but thus far Glaucus had never lost a ship.

“Don’t fret, old friend.” Paris laughed, slapping him on the back. “We’ll land in one piece. Your reputation is well deserved.”

“As is yours.” Glaucus eyed the short staff tightly secured at Paris’ belt. Twin serpents encircled a rod capped with winged tips. Only diplomats of the highest order were given the
kerykeion
. It afforded the bearer protection in hostile lands, assuming of course, that the visiting realm was civilized enough to honor it.

Wearing the
kerykeion
reminded Paris of the unpleasantness he was walking into. Priam was trusting him to quell this rebellious king. Failure was not an option. “I hope you know what you signed on for.” Paris sighed, feeling the weight of that scepter as heavily as the duty that lay ahead of him.

The captain grinned, and ran his hand through his salt-crusted hair. “I’ve sailed rough waters with you before, Paris. I eagerly sail for the next. Better a life filled with adventure than a quiet death of old age.” With a curt bow, he turned to his crew, barking orders to trim the sail. Paris was left to his musing.

A quiet death of old age... Paris had never considered that an option. The majority of his youth had been spent on ships like this one, his life carried in the winds never finding a port to call home. As he sent out another horn blast, his last conversation with Hector haunted his thoughts. If he returned to Troy as he promised, what happened next? He imagined taking a wife, settling down in Troy, and he and his brother watching their children grow up.

But some force pulled at his veins, denying that future. He was meant for something different. For what, he could not say, and that unknown fate was playing havoc with his head. He found himself in an existential crisis, questioning everything he thought he wanted.

As the zephyrs pushed him closer to his destination, one thing became clear: this would be his last journey in service to the realm. War was brewing in the east, and a clash of empires was on the horizon that could very well determine the fate of the world. If Paris wasn’t careful he’d end his life a pawn in that power tug-of-war, and he wasn’t ready to die before allowing himself to first live. He had this last task to complete for his father, and then he’d be free to live and love as he saw fit. The Gods owed him that much.