The Princess of Sparta: Heroes of the Trojan War (4 page)

Helen soothed her hurt pride and gave the man a second look. He was one Astyanassa spoke of frequently. She claimed he was favored of Athena.

“Beside him is Diomedes, son of Tydeus, King of Argos.” Her father continued. The man in mention was well built with dark curly hair on his head and chest. He greeted Odysseus with an affectionate embrace, refusing the offer to wager on the next match. “He is a well respected man, one who inspires great loyalty.”

A man of cunning, and one of respect. And both seemingly participating in the brutish activities, but politely not when pressed. She made note of their inherent skill in politicking. They could be great allies or dangerous adversaries for Sparta.

“Would you have me look favorably on them?” she asked, hoping her father would give some hint towards his decision.

“Perhaps,” he frowned, studying the men intently. “And perhaps not. There are many kingdoms, but only few
great kings
. I would see you wed to the greatest.” His eyes burned with that promise.

Helen blushed. She knew her father dreamed of rising Sparta to greater prominence. Like all the people who called the Greek isles home, he believed his actions in life would dictate his standing in death. Glory, above all else, was sought. And her marriage could help him achieve it. But what he said next surprised her.

“Most of all, I want to know what
you
hope to find in this match, Dearest. I would see you happy in your union.” His forlorn expression pierced her heart, and for a moment the devastation of his imminent loss was laid bare.

Her breath caught. It was uncommon that the bride be given any choice in her bridegroom. A marriage contract was precisely that, a business contract between families. More so for nobility. Her sister was given no choice. Neither had their mother, although Helen suspected Leda’s suggestion might have swayed her grandfather’s favor. Helen held her father’s gaze, hoping he understood how much she treasured him.

“I only hope he is a good man.” She told him fervently, blinking back the tears swelling in her eyes. “Like you.”

Tyndareus was a man of stone. He once faced down a pack of wolves without an ounce of fear. But standing there, hearing her heartfelt words, the stone cracked. Helen watched in awe as her father cried. Only a few tears strayed down his grizzled cheeks, but for Tyndareus, that was an ocean.

She wished she could stay here forever, to love him dutifully as her father deserved, but as strong as that impulse was, another feeling pulled her forward. There was something waiting for her. Something powerful. She didn’t know where it would lead her, she only knew she needed the courage to follow it.

A horn blast shattered their peaceful moment. The resonate note echoed down from the palace walls, bouncing off the stone foundation of the court, demanding one and all to pay heed. Servants froze mid step in response to its shrill call. Even her quarrelsome suitors shushed to a man.

Tyndareus stepped forward onto the balcony, surveying the yard for the cause of the blast. One sounding was meant to call attention, and two were blown for danger. When the second blast did not fall, Tyndareus unclenched his jaw and he flagged down the nearest servant.

“Asclepius,” he called out to his royal steward from across the court. “What is the meaning of this?”

The thin man bowed, snapping his heels together with the readiness all Spartan officials effused. “Another ship approaches, Your Grace,” he answered curtly. “Bearing the Lion mast of Mycenae.”

Chapter 3

Alliances of Blood

THERE WAS no king more greatly admired nor greatly feared than Agamemnon, son of Atreus, ruler of Mycenae. A warrior of incredible prowess, he had brought the majority of the Hellas into his fold, either with the promise of friendship or the boot of his heel. Helen’s father was right. There were many kings in Greece, but not many
great kings
. Tyndareus might wish Helen the greatest king for her match, but it could never be, for her sister had already married him.

Helen raced down the long halls of the palace toward the eastern gates that faced the harbor. After one look at her eager face, Tyndareus had dismissed her. It had been two years since she’d seen her sister last, far too long for twins to be separated. Helen’s feet couldn’t carry her fast enough to the dock.

Aethra trailed behind her, the poor matron failing to keep up with her youthful speed. “Dignity, Princess! Dignity!” she shouted as Helen almost ran over a maid.

But Helen did not care of such scruples. Not when Clytemnestra was near. Propriety be damned. Her hair had already come free from Aethra’s pins, falling wildly around her ears. She ran through the courtyard, barely heeding the admiring looks of her newly gathered suitors. Each tried to turn her head, their heated calls echoing throughout the courtyard. Those cries of affection turned to shouts of bravado as they turned on one another when she passed. Their crude behavior was a mild annoyance now. She didn’t have time for their nonsense.

She continued out the gates and down the cobblestone path toward the harbor, Aethra hopelessly left behind. Several shop workers called out greetings and well-wishes. She knew she should stop and acknowledge them, but she reasoned they’d understand. Many of those citizens shared her grin, her enthusiasm so intense it couldn’t help but be infectious.

She leapt onto the weathered dock with a graceful leap just as the giant galley tied off. This longship was larger than any other that made berth in the harbor. Fifty free men pulled at its rigging, furling an ivory sail with the baleful face of a gorgon stitched into its center. Carved into the mast was the head of a lion, the sigil of House Atreus. The ship’s sleek hull was curved, like the belly of the great beast, and at the stern a large post rose ten feet above the deck like a rigid tail. Beneath that tail stood the king himself, a massive man thick of chest and hair. And seated demurely by his side was Helen’s sister, Clytemnestra, Queen of Mycenae.

Helen didn’t wait for Nestra to disembark. She leapt right onto the ship and wrapped her sister in an enthused embrace, showering her face with kisses. The royal attendants cast her shocked looks, and even the king smirked at her behavior, but Helen didn’t care. She clung to her sister with a fierceness that shocked even herself. Nestra held her just as tightly, and they dissolved into tears and giggles.

Holding her twin, Helen realized how hollow life had become without her. Now that they were reunited Helen’s angst-ridden world seemed much calmer.

“Sweet Sister, how I’ve missed you!” she exclaimed, pulling back to study Clytemnestra proper. The queen was regal in a thick gold pleated chiton. The shawl draped over her shoulders was intricately embroidered, clearly the work of a craftsman. Her hair was piled atop her head in tight braided coils, a style that lifted her scalp high and angled her eyes. As she gazed back at Helen, those eyes filled with love, and for a moment, the sisters were mirrored images of each other.

“Ahem.” Agamemnon cleared his throat, discontent to be ignored any longer.

Nestra immediately pulled back and adopted a more queenly manner. After a slight hesitation, she responded formally, “I am pleased to see you, too, Helen.”

The effect was startling. Clytemnestra appeared to age right before Helen’s eyes. Her lips pinched together, her brow furrowed, and she seemed altogether tense. Though she was born only 20 minutes before Helen, she seemed half a dozen years her senior. Helen dropped her eyes to the deck, trying to hide her astonishment from her sister.

Agamemnon grunted again and Helen quickly collected herself, forcing her face to adopt a pleasant smile as she turned to the man. “King Agamemnon.” She hailed him sweetly, dropping into a graceful curtesy. Only the dark shade of her eyes indicated the emotions simmering beneath her calm surface.

"Princess.” He spoke with a heavy drawl, savoring the word as his eyes savored his view of her. “We have come to bear witness to your betrothal. A union Mycenae looks forward to with great interest.” She held her head down demurely, her face flushed from the heat of his lustful gaze. Behind her, Nestra stiffened but held her tongue.

“I am honored by your interest.” Helen replied with the same formality. Her eyes darted to Nestra, wishing she could erase the hurt on her sister’s face. It seemed it was not Mycenae who watched Helen’s union with interest, but Agamemnon himself. She tried to hide the spike of hate flaring in her heart. This man took her sister from her, and now he shamed Nestra with little afterthought.

He should not lust for me
, she scorned the man for his greed. Clytemnestra was her identical twin.

But one stray glance at Nestra’s twisted face belied that fact. It was commonly rumored amongst the palace staff that Aphrodite blessed both of Tyndareus’ daughters with her beauty, but only one with her grace. It was an unfair comparison, but one Nestra never fully forgave.

Agamemnon tossed his cape over his shoulder and strode down the dock to the gathering nobles. Tyndareus had arrived accompanied by his advisors and liegemen. The men greeted each other stiffly and set off for the palace. Nestra’s eyes followed their father as he left without a single sign of welcome for her.

Helen slid her hand into her sister’s, giving it a gentle squeeze. This awkwardness was her fault—she insisted Mycenae be present for her courtship. Matters between the two kingdoms had been tense over the past three years. Agamemnon had demanded a Spartan bride as recompense for some squabble Helen could not recall. As eldest, Clytemnestra was offered. But the greedy king chose not to wait until her sister came of age and married Nestra at the tender age of 13.

A year later, when he needed help quelling an uprising in the north, Agamemnon came courting again, this time for Sparta’s fearsome Hoplite soldiers. He thought to soften Tyndareus with an impromptu visit from his daughter. But when Tyndareus saw Clytemnestra was with child, and her barely more than a child herself, Agamemnon’s plan backfired. Tyndareus steadfastly refused aid. The Mycenaean king left in a hurry, and the two sisters hadn’t seen each other since.

Helen begged her father to make amends, but he refused to relent. Finally, when her courtship was announced, he had no further excuses. Agamemnon was too powerful to insult in such a manner. The invitation was extended and politely accepted.

The sisters watched the Mycenaean entourage disappear into the city, and only then did Nestra’s hard exterior melt. “Were that it you who was given to the brute instead of me,” she sighed, tucking a loose strand of Helen’s hair behind her ear. “But you were always slower than me, even in birth.” Her sharp laugh gave lie to the jest. Helen took it in stride. Nestra had few people she could truly talk to, and Helen didn’t mind if the words stung.

“Have you ever considered that I waited for your approval first?” Helen asked playfully, her eyes alight as she studied Nestra’s face, still in quiet disbelief her sister was actually here. “Or that I’d follow you into this world and the next? Would you mock such loyalty?”

“Oh, Sister,” Nestra rolled her eyes, hooking Helen’s arm in hers as they started the long trek back up to the palace, “You are
so
dramatic.” Her chiming laughter was like music to Helen’s ears. “It is good to be home.”

Agamemnon warmed himself by the central hearth in Tyndareus’ megaron. It was the Hour of the Wolf, that ominous time when the night was at its darkest. Agamemnon should have sought his bed hours ago. But the hall was quiet as it hadn’t been since his arrival. And his host, the honorable—and seemingly tireless—King Tyndareus still held vigil over his hall. Only at this late hour could Agamemnon command his full attention.

A week had passed since he landed on Spartan soil and the fighting had only grown worse. Courting games were usually conducted with the sacred spirit of sportsmanship, but every suitor wanted Tyndareus’ prize for himself. Blood feuds would soon ensue. And if that happened, the fragile alliance Agamemnon spent the last few years developing would be at risk.