The Princess of Sparta: Heroes of the Trojan War (5 page)

Damn Tyndareus, and his bewitching daughter!

Helen was a great beauty, there was no denying that. She had a sweet innocence his wife lacked. Even the Gods would hunger for a taste from her ruby lips. But these princes and lesser kings hungered for something more than Helen’s honey. In a world where the reigns of power shifted more swiftly than the tides, a king’s reputation was sacrosanct. He must always exude an aura of strength, and any sign of weakness was an invitation for conquest.

Somehow the princess’ union had gotten tied up in that maneuvering of power. Claiming Helen would greatly elevate a new king’s standing, and no suitor wanted to walk away from this realm a step further down on that ladder.

Why did he have to invite so many? There’s no region that will escape this decision untarnished. The Spartan’s pride will bleed our realms.

Agamemnon tightened his cloak around him. The weather was unforgiving in Lacedaemonia, its high elevation forcing even the hardiest men to shiver around a fire at night. The fur lining of his cloak was blessedly warm against that cold. It was a lion’s hide from a beast Agamemnon had slain with his own hands. He made sure his servants told the Spartan staff of that hunt. Relations had been strained between Sparta and Mycenae since his last visit. And if he could not earn Tyndareus’ favor with friendship, Agamemnon would damn well make sure the Spartans feared him.

A draft wafted down from the oculus in the roof. With the raised hearth in the center of the room, the opening was an unfortunate necessity. Agamemnon eyed the gaping hole with a sneer. Black soot stained its edges, and the overlapping tiles, meant to keep out the elements, restricted ventilation. It was a primitive design. In fact, the entire megaron showed a similar lack of sophistication. The firebrick walls were barren, and the pillars supporting the roof—freshly cut beams of pine— stank of sap. If those beams ever caught fire they’d explode as violently as Vulcano himself.

But it was said imitation was the highest form of flattery. Agamemnon smiled. Already the outlying kingdoms aped his advancements. At Mycenae, his megaron was twice this size, its walls adorned with great works of art. Soon, every king would copy the splendors of Mycenae.

“Make sure to double the guard.” Tyndareus instructed as he led his steward to the exit of the megaron. “Stagger the reserves at every junction in the palace. Give no soldier leave until the festivities have ended.”

“As you command, my Liege.” Asclepius gave the ruler a perfunctory bow and exited into the cold night. When the double doors clambered shut, Tyndareus finally acknowledge his presence.

“You wished to speak with me, Agamemnon?” Tyndareus addressed him, the first specter of weariness cracking through the king’s tone. He returned to his throne, electing to speak to his son-in-law from his position of power, a tactic he had not—Agamemnon noted—adopted with his own staff.

“Yes, Father.” Agamemnon inclined his head politely, cursing the necessity for the deference. But he was a guest in Tyndareus’ house, not the other way around. Only a lesser man insulted his host, and Agamemnon was no lesser man. “I am concerned about the fallout of your imminent decision. By choosing one suitor, you risk offending all others,” he warned the king. “And, if you let them fight it out, they might kill each other down to a man.”

“I assure you, precautions are being made.” Tyndareus responded curtly, his harsh tone affording no argument.

Stubborn to the bone.
Such unreasonableness was a failing all Spartan’s ingested with their mother’s milk.

“Blood will be shed, Tyndareus.” Agamemnon paced before the king, his hands clasped tightly behind his back. “I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. Times of peace breed restless men, and right now they are fixated on your daughter. If we were to give them another outlet? Perhaps something guaranteed to sap the virile energy they have pent up?”

Tyndareus’ eyes narrowed, glaring at him like a mastiff who caught the scent of another predator. “Such as?”

“A quest.” Agamemnon spat the word out in eagerness. “Let the men prove their meddle, not by fighting each other, but in some noble pursuit. If the challenge is great enough, no one will deny the victor his right to Helen.”

Agamemnon tried to hide the hunger in his voice, but it was hard. He desperately needed this opportunity. When Menelaus refused to travel to Sparta and participate in the courting games, Agamemnon almost sent his little brother to the whipping post. But Menelaus’ absence presented Agamemnon with a unique situation. By representing his brother’s claim, Agamemnon could compete with the other suitors without the stigma of being
competition
.

Mycenae was the dominant trade force in the region, and Agamemnon already commanded more respect than any other king of the Hellas. But that was the respect of the purse, not of valor in the field. He needed a golden fleece, a divine quest, a regal cause to showcase his superiority. Only then would the headstrong princelings of Greece acknowledge his ascent to Overlord. Only then would he have an Empire to rival those of the Old World.

Tyndareus laughed softly, his eyes never leaving Agamemnon’s face. “And who would lead this quest? How would we decide? No, Agamemnon, we would exchange one potential insult for another. I will not delay Helen’s wedding so needlessly.”

Agamemnon grimaced. The wily old king could see right through him, and he was woefully reminded of the last time the two monarchs had met over similar desires.

The barbarians along Mycenae’s border had swelled in number, a danger Agamemnon could no longer ignore. He wanted to ride forth with an army at his back, but no army was complete without Spartan soldiers. He came to Tyndareus seeking aid, and as his father by vow, he should have granted it.

“I will not start a war to avoid a war.”
Tyndareus had steadfastly refused.
“Ares would never forgive it.”
Agamemnon cursed Tyndareus and his superstitions. The Spartan’s piety might have gained the king great esteem throughout the mainland, but his devotion was peasant nonsense. The Gods did not care of the plight of man, however much the priests and priestesses claimed otherwise. It was an inconvenient truth in a world where prophecy and omens held as much influence as facts.

“And what of Helen’s safety?” Agamemnon wielded his last weapon. “If there is no clear victor, she will forever be in danger. She will
become
the quest, the prize for proving one’s valor against a lesser king. You will doom her to a life of constant war.”

Tyndareus mouth hung open, his will to deny betrayed by his love for his daughter. He
had
to see reason. Helen’s salvation lay in a union with a house no one would dare offend. A stronger union with Mycenae was Tyndareus’ best course.

Agamemnon locked eyes with the Spartan, pouring a command to obey in that gaze.
There is no way out, save through me
.

Tyndareus wilted into his throne. He was on the verge of surrender. The slump of his shoulders declared it louder than any words he could muster to protest. “I... I will consider your suggestion.”

Agamemnon’s blood sang, thrilling in this hard-fought achievement. While these many suitors fought over Helen’s prestige, they did not see her true value. The princess was the key to Lacedaemonia. Tyndareus had no living sons. Helen’s husband could make a valid claim to his throne. And though Sparta boasted no great wealth, the king of this land could summon an army of incredible strength and courage. It would be better to display his dominance in a noble quest, but barring that, Agamemnon would take a Spartan army and make the realms pledge fealty by force.

“Your Grace?” a herald called from the apex of the megaron. “King Odysseus is requesting an audience.”

Agamemnon froze. What in Great Gaia was that man doing up at this hour? He almost told the herald to tell the Ithakian to come back at a more reasonable hour when he realized this was not his megaron.

Tyndareus, eager for a respite from his oppressive company, waved the guard on. “Granted.”

Odysseus entered the hall and strut toward them with a light step that spoke of a carefree manner. He had doffed his regal attire for a simple woolen tunic favored by the Spartan free men. He seemed a likable fellow, neither too handsome to invite jealousy, nor too homely to incite resentment. He bowed low before Tyndareus, careful to give Agamemnon equal respect.

“Your Majesties,” he addressed them both with deference. “I have come to offer counsel, if you wish to accept it.”

Tyndareus looked to Agamemnon, the question apparent in his eyes.
Is this his idea or yours?
those eyes asked. But Agamemnon’s stormy expression was all the answer Tyndareus needed.

“You should hear him out,” Agamemnon muttered reluctantly. “There are many virtues and we cannot be masters of them all. You may recall what Odysseus is renown for?”

Tyndareus nodded, a flicker of understanding settled into his deep blue eyes. Already, the king seemed more in command of his faculties, his brief moment of weakness long forgotten. Agamemnon cursed the Ithakian and his horrible timing.

At two and twenty, Odysseus was quite young to be a ruler. But his father was an Argonaut, and like many of the heroes from that legendary vessel, Laertes did not have the stomach to actually govern his province. Odysseus took on his mantle of kingship when he was barely more than a lad, while Laertes warmed his bones by the fire and recanted tales of his wild youth. Agamemnon scoffed at such idleness, but it seemed Ithaka had benefited from the arrangement. Odysseus held great promise.

Tyndareus came to a similar assessment and waved him on. “Speak, Odysseus. Have no fear of reprisal.”

The Ithakian approached the throne and lowered his voice in a confidential manner. “It is no secret that your daughter’s beauty has stirred great rivalry amongst your guests, Honorable King. Once your decision is set, you needs must worry about Helen’s safety, that the other suitors might seek to steal this prize by conquest even after her vows have been spoken. The blood spilt would be a dark stain on all of our honor.”

“You speak truth.” Tyndareus acknowledged. Thus far, the man had not spoken one word they hadn’t already discussed.

Odysseus leaned forward, emboldened by the warmth in the king’s tone. “What if I were to tell you there was a way these men will leave happily of their own accord? A way to announce a betrothal without shedding a single drop of blood? And for a cost you’d scarce notice?”

“
Cost?
” Agamemnon growled, inserting his bulking frame between his host and the young king. This was one upset too many for his tempered blood. If Odysseus had the audacity to bargain like a crude merchant before the throne, then he had clearly misjudged the quality of this man.

“I ask only for a boon,” Odysseus added quickly, retreating half a step. “A token of gratitude I assure you you’ll consider fair.”

Odysseus quickly divulged his plan, its brilliance matched only by its simplicity. Agamemnon curled his fingers through his oiled beard, studying the worth of the man before them. Odysseus’ wits were unmatched in all of Greece. A cunning man could easily use his skills for devious endeavors. But Ithaka was too far from Mycenae for Agamemnon to consider it a serious threat. Nonetheless, he was glad to count the young king his ally.

The advice was sage, and because it came from Odysseus, Tyndareus would not refuse it. Agamemnon almost laughed, deciding instantly that he liked the young man. Odysseus had stones to match a mighty bull. He let his mind wander, considering the benefits this new arrangement provided. With one sacred vow, Tyndareus’ dilemma would be solved. The Hellas would be a step closer to unification.

And if they make one vow, it is a short measure to make them swear another
.

A lust of a different sort flooded Agamemnon. Mycenae would prosper from this match, by blood or sacred vow. Just like he intended.

Chapter 4

The Love that Binds

THE PAST week had flown by in a blur for Helen. She spent every waking moment with her twin, delighting in Clytemnestra’s tales of her new life at Mycenae. Dominating the northeastern coast of the mainland, Mycenae was the trading center for the rest of Greece. The capital was a bustling port city that rivaled the wonders of ancient Crete itself, so Nestra said, and it abounded with modern advancements. Agamemnon’s palace played host to all manner of exotic guests. To Helen, Nestra’s life seemed a glorious adventure filled with exciting people.

“Hardly.” Nestra snorted when Helen voiced her thoughts. She bounced her daughter on her knee, alternating her attention between Helen and the chubby toddler. “Most of the visitors are glorified merchants, fat on the riches they collected from cheating lesser lords. They’re more likely to make off with the silver than provide company of value.”

Helen laughed at the thought, but after the past week there was no behavior of houseguests that would surprise her. The situation with her suitors had grown steadily worse. Every time she tried to appear in public, their competitive nature got the best of them. They’d start with wild boasts of their accomplishments. Whether they meant to impress her or each other, she could not tell. And if the chest puffing wasn’t enough to get a fellow suitor to stand down, it would come to blows. Helen tried to avoid their gatherings, certain she had witnessed enough of that barbarity, but Tyndareus insisted she attend every event. He was constantly filling her ears with the virtues and weaknesses of each suitor. It was an exhausting endeavor. Only now that the courtship neared its end, was she given a moment for herself.