The Princess of Sparta: Heroes of the Trojan War (14 page)

Finally, a short horn blast echoed from within the hall. Paris’ soldiers formed ranks in front of him, and Glaucus gave him a curt nod before stepping forward to lead his troops.

Paris took a deep breath, calming himself like the mountain-dwelling Amorites taught him. Agamemnon was what mattered now. He let his mind drain of all else, letting his racing thoughts trickle out of him with each measured exhalation.

The double doors opened wide and light flooded out, momentarily blinding him. The megaron was packed. Highborns, from the look of their fine clothes, lined its walls, each noble craning their necks to get a better look at the Trojan men. A short herald stepped forward, bridging the gap between the entryway and the main hall.

“THE DELEGATION OF TROY NOW APPROACHES!”

Paris motioned to Glaucus that he was ready and the captain relayed the command. Glaucus used small almost unnoticeable hand signals, and the unit responded as one. They joined together in block formation, shielding Paris from view. Another wave from Glaucus brought forth two of their own heralds, each with a rounded trumpet in hand. They lifted the metal instruments to their lips and filled the air with a brazen blast.

The crowd erupted in whispers, murmuring to themselves over the magical quality of the brassy note, a sound so crisp it seemed almost godly. When the final reverberation died off, the Trojan delegation marched forward, the heavy fall of their boots drumming a staccato beat on the stone floor.

Directly before them, in the center of the room, stood a round ceremonial hearth twelve feet in diameter. It was bordered in decorated plaster with an extravagant design of flames and spirals. Surrounding it were four wooden columns sheathed in plates of bronze, resting atop carved base stones shaped to resemble lion paws. Upon reaching it his troops halted and, moving in unison with knees locked, they parted lengthwise, revealing Paris at the aft of the room.

The Mycenaean herald stepped beside him and raised his baritone voice again. “Paris, Son of Priam, Son of Laomedon, Prince of Troy approaches the Throne.”

Paris’ heralds resumed their trumpeting, trilling out a clarion song for his entry. He clenched the
kerykeion
in his right hand, letting the encrusted gemstones bite into the flesh of his palm. The impressive item was the one object of finery on him. He lifted it higher so it would be the first detail his host would see, then strode forward at a stately pace, allowing the throng to satisfy their curiosity of him.

Behind the pressing throng, the walls of the megaron were decorated in a massive frieze, showing an epic battle of the Mycenaean people. Horse-drawn chariots raced across a stylized landscape where Mycenaean warriors dressed in short white kilts fought in hand-to-hand combat with strange enemies: barbarians coarse of feature with wild shaggy hair. A retelling of the taming of the wild lands, Paris surmised.

As he passed his troops, the squad closed ranks behind him, pounding the butts of their spears in tempo with the renewed trumpeting. Once he reached the hearth, he took a sharp right turn, facing the throne for the first time since entering.

Agamemnon sat atop a backless throne, its rectangular legs plated with ivory tusks carved to resemble the haunches of a lion. The man himself wore a pelt of the regal cat, its reddish-orange mane lining the cape and imbuing the large king with the creature’s fierce aura. Paris marched forward, keeping his eyes locked on the massive man before him. And Agamemnon studied Paris as Paris studied him. There was a distinctively smug twist to the king’s broad face.

Paris heard his father’s voice whispering in his ear,
“This Agamemnon thinks himself far grander than he be... Go, educate him otherwise.”
Paris stiffened his back, pausing before the throne, and lowered himself into a respectful bow—a mark of respect but not of reverence.

The Mycenaean herald returned. He bellowed a solid note from the bone horn strapped to his waist, a brutish sound following the elegant instrument from Troy. A flash of irritation creased the face of the king.

“You approach the throne of Agamemnon, Son of Atreus, Son of Pelops, Sacker of Lydia, Slayer of False Brothers, favored Son of the Hellas, Ruler of the Argive and High King of Mycenae. All Hail the King!” The herald was nearly out of breath by the time he finished.

“ALL HAIL THE KING!” the assembled Mycenaeans repeated.

Paris righted himself, prepared to launch into his prearranged speech, but the tingling sensation had returned. His eyes darted to the left of the throne.

And he saw her. A vision of elegance and grace. Their eyes locked and breath escaped him. He would not have been more stunned if Zeus had struck him with a thunderbolt.

Oh, fuck me.

For the moment the Trojan delegation entered the room, reality shifted for Helen and she felt like she had slipped into a dream. The Trojan guard reminded her so forcibly of her father’s Spartan Hoplites, with their crested helms and rigid formations, that a small cry escaped her lips, earning her a stern glare of disapproval from her husband.

And the prince himself!

She soaked in every detail. His skin was a tanned olive with the healthy glow of a man who spent a good deal of time beneath the sun. His eyes were almond in shape and framed by dark lashes. His hair was a dark brown, the color of rich earth, and it fell in thick waves about his wide-set shoulders. His muscles rippled beneath the tight linen of his cream colored tunic.

Helen had never seen a more handsome man. He lacked whiskers on his chin, a style uncommon in Mycenae. And though his features seem youthful, only a fool would say he was less man than the hairy warriors of Mycenae. His beauty was exotic, strange and undeniable. She was woozy by the time he bowed before the king. He was so close she could almost smell the scent of his oiled hair. She could not keep her eyes off him.

And then he turned to her, his dark penetrating eyes seeming to see
into
her. Helen’s heart hammered against her ribs like a war drum, she had never felt so exposed. She was paralyzed in that gaze. It was fortuitous the prince tore his eyes away to turn back to the king. She doubted she had the fortitude.

She cast the king a furtive look, careful to not look in the prince’s direction. Agamemnon was not pleased. Helen recognized the hard expression he reserved for dealing with men whose loyalty he questioned. The silence lasted longer than would seem proper, both men studying one another, waiting for the other man to speak first.

Agamemnon finally relented, albeit with a note of irritation. “Rise, Son of Troy, and state your business with Mycenae.”

Helen shifted nervously. It was no accident their visitor’s titles were so brief, and Agamemnon’s so long. He meant to intimidate this prince.

Paris recognized the clumsy tactic as well. He adopted a mask of pleasant indifference, neither responding nor acknowledging Agamemnon’s slight. He kept his focus on the king, refusing to look towards the mysterious beauty on his left. But now that he knew she was near, his senses were heightened, as if he could feel her movements instinctively.

“Noble Agamemnon,” he steadied himself. “It is with great joy that I travel to Mycenae to cement the bonds of friendship between your realm and that of my father, King Priam of Troy. The prosperity of that friendship is one Priam treasures. Mycenae’s influence grows in the Old World as your trade passes through our borders. The kingdoms of the East clamor to know you. And as neighbors who share a common tongue and ancestry, we have been amiss to not visit you sooner and greet you as brothers.”

He watched Agamemnon’s face closely, searching for any hint of his desires. Was it pride that would move this man? Greed? A mixture of both? It was Paris’ task to discover the Mycenaean’s weakness, and his every word, his every movement was designed to unveil it.

Agamemnon seemed mollified by his declaration of friendship, but there was still a question in his hawkish eyes.
Am I friend or foe?
Paris cast him a benign smile that gave no indication either way.

Helen knew the prince’s elegant words were meant to soothe Agamemnon. And while the king seemed pleased from what he was hearing, her sister appeared less convinced. Clytemnestra’s face was pinched as though she caught the scent of insult.

“You are welcome here, Paris, Son of Priam.” Agamemnon straightened on his throne. “We
are
past due acquainting our two kingdoms. But may I assume this is a visit of profit and pleasure?”

Helen almost choked. The hint was obvious. It was no secret that Agamemnon hungered for riches. And the bards delighted in singing tales about the golden wealth of Troy.

Paris also picked up on the slip. So it was greed that unlocked this man. “Our ship holds are full. I will leave the details of our barter to my Trade Master. But I do have one item to impart, a small token of Priam’s regard.” He turned to Glaucus. The captain pulled a long dagger stowed at the small of his back, handing it to the prince.

The weapon was sheathed in a decorative cover, depicting a great hero in the act of slaying a Minotaur. The hilt ended in a golden head of a bull, its horns encircling the holder’s hand. Agamemnon took it from Paris’ hands eagerly, pulling the bronze blade free with a ringing chime.

Helen pressed forward to get a better view just as the prince pulled back from his offering. His furtive eyes darted past her again, and being so close, she could hear his sharp intake of breath. He took an involuntary step back, stumbling to regain his balance. It was the first break in his elegant poise.

Agamemnon, however, paid little attention to the prince, his razor-sharp focus on the tribute before him. “Excellent.” The king crowed, sheathing the blade and tucking the weapon into his belt. “My Steward will see you are housed.” He waved Nextus forward. The thin man gave a curt nod and quickly disappeared down the hall.

“Menelaus!” Agamemnon called out sharply behind him.

Her husband stepped forward. He shared a similar glare of disapproval as Clytemnestra, whether for the prince or his brother’s curt summons, Helen could not tell. “My brother will arrange entertainment for your visit.” Agamemnon continued. “Something involving sport and horse should suffice. You can manage that, can’t you Little Brother?”

Menelaus stiffened, trying unsuccessfully not to register the barb. “Perhaps a hunt?” he grimaced. “If we can rouse the banner men, we can put the chariots to field as well.”

“Done!” Agamemnon announced. “And a feast for the
Mounichia
. Let it not be said that Agamemnon broke the bonds of
xenia
.”

The prince bowed again, his hand over his heart. “You honor me, Great King. I look forward to the festivities. But if I may ask one more boon?”

A small crease of irritation crossed the king’s face. Helen knew what Agamemnon was thinking.
What more could he want after feasting and games?
The prince could ask for anything right now and the king would be honor pressed to provide.

She recognized Agamemnon’s conflicting interests immediately. Their silos were running low. They could scarcely afford such festivities as it was, and this unexpected visit would bring additional hardship to his already beleaguered people. But a chance to display the might of Mycenae? She feared this request would not bode well for their people.

“Ask and I will do as I can,” Agamemnon conceded.

Paris smiled, knowing he was playing his part superbly. He waited a few moments longer to allow the king to fret over what greater cost Paris could extract, then spoke. “My father requested I make efforts to know the customs and cultures of this land. Long have we heard of the wild spirit of the Hellas and the independent men and women who tamed its shores. I would be honored to see your city and meet its inhabitants.”

It was a simple request, one Agamemnon should have no trouble meeting. But the king groaned irritably. “That’s women’s work.” He rolled his eyes dismissively. “But if you insist, I will put my queen at your disposal.”

Helen studied the Trojan as he frowned. The man was unsettled by Agamemnon’s suggestion. After a slight hesitation he turned to her and bowed deeply, far deeper than he had for Agamemnon. “Your Grace, I would be honored by your assistance.”

Helen looked over the assembled court nervously. A stunned silence followed the prince’s words. No one knew how to respond. But her sister registered the insult. Clytemnestra glared at the Trojan, her teeth clenched tight.

The prince, however, was blissfully unaware, his head bowed before her.

“
Get up.”
She whispered fervently, hoping he didn’t shame himself too long.

Agamemnon’s mocking laughed filled the hall. It was a bitter laugh, one that insulted his guest and his wife alike. “That is my brother’s wife you address, Trojan. But I understand how you might be fooled since the women shared a womb.”

Paris stood quickly, completely off-guard. He did a double take between the princess and queen. Identical twins? They couldn’t be more different in his eyes. He collected himself, and turned to the queen, bowing even deeper. “Forgive me, Your Grace.”