The Princess of Sparta: Heroes of the Trojan War (8 page)

“Before I continue, if there be any item of concern, I would have my guests speak forthwith. Let each man be at peace before this decision is set.”

Helen distrusted the cunning look on Agamemnon’s face. She turned to her father to see if he had noticed and was shocked to see the same hard look on Tyndareus’ face. She turned back to the crowd just as Odysseus stepped forward.

“Humble Tyndareus,” Odysseus began with a bow. “It has been an honor to court your daughter, the beauty of our Age. And while I swell with pride to be considered alongside such noble and honorable men, I must respectfully withdraw my candidacy.”

A shocked titter ran through the crowd. Odysseus waved down his fellow suitor’s questions. “I beg your forgiveness, dear Princess.” He turned to Helen. His insincerity oozed over her, freezing her in place. “In truth, I would be a poor choice for you compared to these great warriors.”

Many men harrumphed their agreement. Ajax of Salamis, a giant of a man who towered a good head over Odysseus, quickly puffed up his chest and stepped in front of the Ithakian king, casting Helen an eager grin.

“I appreciate your candor, young Odysseus.” Tyndareus acknowledge the request formally. “As consolation for your loss, I will speak with my brother Icarius. I know his daughter Penelope has loved you from afar. May fortune favor you in that match.”

Helen turned to her father, puzzled. Penelope had never laid an eye on Odysseus. What was going on here?

But she had no time to question. Tyndareus raised his hands, gathering the attention of the remaining crowd. “And now the time has come.” He paused, waiting for each man to hang on his words. “Last night, virtuous Artemis visited me in a dream. As patron Goddess of this city and of all chaste and innocent girls, she warned me of the repercussions of this day. Helen, sweet Helen, was soon to be lost to her. She would not let such a joyous event be soiled by jealousy and anger.”

Tyndareus’ words chilled Helen. She had always known her father to be devout, a faithful servant to the Gods. Had he been visited the same as she? Or was this all the posturing of kings and kingdoms, as Nestra insisted? Somehow, her fate was woven into this maneuvering, and she was powerless to stop it.

The men muttered in anticipation. This news, whatever Tyndareus was trying to say, sat no better with them than it did with Helen.

“‘Goddess,’ I swore to Artemis, ‘the friends of Sparta would not dishonor
you
with such vile actions.’ But she was not assured. She then insisted that any man who thought himself worthy to be wed to such beauty abide by a sacred oath. Only then would she allow the matrimony to commence.”

The double doors opened again, this time for a pair of stable hands towing a massive heifer. The poor beast bellowed in fear, sensing her imminent doom. Helen had never heard a more pitiful sound. They led the beast to an altar beside the central hearth.

Tyndareus stepped down from the throne, unsheathing his ornate short sword. “Come all who would be my son. Come and swear this sacred oath. To defend and protect he who is chosen like a brother of your blood. Swear to defend him against any wrong done to him in regard to this union. Swear by the blood of this sacrifice, and share in the protection of Artemis and Her Almighty Father.”

He sliced open the heifer’s neck, a crimson tide of blood spilling into a bronze urn at his feet.

“I will swear that oath,” Diomedes declared, stepping boldly beside Tyndareus and thrusting his hand into the flowing blood.

“As will I!” Protesilaus joined them. Then Patroclus, and Achilles and Ajax. Even Odysseus, caught up in the moment, joined his peers.

Tyndareus studied them all, counting to ensure there was none unaccounted. And then Agamemnon stepped forward, his mighty fist thrust between the others. Helen turned in alarm to her sister who seemed as shocked as she.

“Don’t be greedy, Agamemnon.” Diomedes teased. “You already have a wife to warm your bed.”

“I assure you brothers, one daughter of Sparta is enough for me.” He announced to great laughter while Clytemnestra blushed. “I stand for my brother Menelaus, who, by no fault of his own, was left behind to tend to affairs of state.”

There were forty men, Agamemnon included, who so swore. Helen watched in disbelief as they commingled their bloody hands into an enormous fist.

“All hail the Oath of Tyndareus!” Odysseus proclaimed, his voice ringing out the pact with great finality.

“THE OATH OF TYNDAREUS!” the others shouted in unison.

The voice in her head told Helen this was a momentous event. The men of the Hellas had never made an oath of unity. But here they stood, the mightiest warrior kings of the western world, hands locked in purpose. And she was that purpose! Should some ill fate befall her, all of Greece would unite in her defense. Tyndareus had achieved the impossible, and he had done so in her honor.

But that voice also whispered other words, bitter words her sister had confided just one night ago. It was not respect for Sparta that created this moment, but hubris and ego. Sadly, she understood why her father’s oath was necessary.

“Helen,” Tyndareus startled her from her reflections. “Lay your crown at the foot of your chosen.”

“The choice is mine?” She was so stunned she forgot to address him properly. He smiled at her slip.

“Choose wisely.”

She removed her crown of flowers with a shaky hand, her eyes darting over the men eagerly awaiting her decision. The hunger was written in their faces. They wanted her body, but there was something more. Violent streaks of crimson blood ran down their arms. Red was the color of conquest, of victory. She was nothing but a prize to them. And her choice would elevate the victor over his brothers.

Again she turned to Clytemnestra. Standing alone now, her sister had a sad look on her face. Helen’s heart flooded with remorse, remembering the day Nestra left their home for Mycenae. They were losing each other again as sure as they had three years hence.

But it didn’t have to be. The choice was right before her.

Follow your heart
.

Clytemnestra locked eyes with her and Helen knew what she must do. She stepped forward boldly and placed her crown at Agamemnon’s feet. Menelaus, the man she had never met, would be her husband.

The room erupted in cheers. The Mycenaean king seemed utterly surprised by her choice. Cries of “Huzzah!” rang out while his peers congratulated him. Helen was all but ignored. She worked her way over to her sister, happy to join Nestra in the shadows.

Helen finally understood what the Goddess was trying to tell her. Her great love, the other half of her separated soul was right in front of her. Where Clytemnestra went, Helen knew she must follow. She reached out to her twin, gently wiping away Nestra’s tears. “Sisters forever?”

Clytemnestra was so broken with emotion, she could barely speak. She wrapped her arms around Helen in a fierce embrace. “Helen, you crazy fool!” Her face twisted in horror. “You don’t know Menelaus. You’ve made a terrible mistake.”

Part 2

Ten Years Later

The Cursed Prince

IN THE LANDS across the sea, in the plains of Anatolia and the twin rivers of the Tigris-Euphrates, the Old Empires clung to their seats of power.

Here, the land was different, crueler. Volcanic eruptions, earthquakes, and floods wiped out entire populations. Both high and lowborn fell victim to plague. Death, in its many manifestations, was a familiar threat that struck indiscriminately.

In these times of chaos, the people turned to their spiritual leaders: Seers, Soothsayers, Priests and Priestesses. They were tasked to make sense of a senseless world. As reason gave way to fear, the cold grip of superstition ruled over the masses, and in many realms the king was at the mercy of the temple’s influence. There was no greater example of this phenomenon than in the Royal House of Troy and the sad tale of Paris, second born son of King Priam.

Hecuba, beloved wife to the king, had a vision on the night she gave birth to the prince. She dreamt of a burning torch, the heat from its flame so terrible it burned her very soul. Aesacus, Priest of Apollo and Seer to the Throne, interpreted this dream into a dark omen. The queen, he said, was giving birth to a fire that would consume all of Troy. This child was cursed and must be killed to ensure the safety of the realm.

King Priam refused. He would not give the temple zealots the power of life and death over his son. But Hecuba, blinded by her devotion to the Gods, tried to smother the infant child. Priam stopped her, but it was the first of many attempts on the innocent boy’s life.

The influence of the temple was too great, and though the king did his best to protect his son, he could not denounce the omen outright. Paris was an outcast, rejected before he took his first breath. Priam’s only option to save him from temple knives was to send Paris away to foster abroad.

At the same time that Helen was wedded in Mycenae, Paris came of age and was named an Ambassador of Troy. Normally a prestigious position, this appointment was not given for honor. Its true purpose was to keep the prince away from his homeland, where his presence would not create more turmoil for the king.

And thus, even Priam, the greatest ruler of mighty Troy, was laid low by forces he could not control.

Chapter 6

A Prince of Troy

PARIS STOOD at the prow of his longship as it coasted into the crystal blue waters of Troy. The forlorn cries of a flock of gulls floated across the clear spring sky, a fitting song to herald him home. He took a deep breath, and savored the view of the golden city from afar. It had been too long since he last gazed on the splendors of Troy.

The world was changing. Empire clashed with Empire in feuds that spanned a millennium. And in that chaos, Troy was a shining ray of hope. Nestled along the coast of the Aegean Sea and the river lands of Anatolia, it was the gateway between the aged wisdom of the east, and the youthful vibrance of the west, a perfect blend of the old world and the new. No matter how far afield his duties sent him, no matter what exotic lands he beheld, to Paris, there was no place as special as Troy.

The lowlands that fed into the harbor were densely packed with a thriving market town. Merchants from Cyprus, Babylonia, Crete and the Levant intermingled in the Trojan streets, eager to profit from the bustling commerce of the hub city.

Beyond the plateau and encircled by massive gates of stone, the inner city bloomed like a desert rose. It was an immense complex of interconnecting buildings of limestone and marble that stretched up to a steep acropolis. And at its peak sat the Royal Palace, an elegant structure that rivaled any court in the ancient world.