The Princess of Sparta: Heroes of the Trojan War Read online

  The herd finished crossing, a young kid bleating as it raced to catch up to its dam. Helen watched as the doe nicked the babe’s heels and they disappeared into the thick of the herd. “Every child matters,” she calmly disagreed, “to their mother if no one else.”

  The effect on the prince was startling. A haunted look crossed over Paris’ face and he turned away from her. “Yes, I suppose that’s true.” When he did not turn back, Helen gingerly started back on the path, hoping she had not inadvertently said something to upset him.

  A waft of manure and fresh hay greeted them as they approached the royal stables. The braying of expectant mares echoed through the rafters. The sound was deafening and Helen had to cover her ears as she called out for the stable master.

  “I don’t mind walking.” Paris offered as groomsmen rushed to tackle two chariots for them. He always found it impossible to get the feel of a new city from on high. It was better to walk amongst the citizens and engage in conversation where possible, a prospect much easier when you met them on eye level.

  Haemon, the slightly hunched Horse Master, led over two chestnut mares and cast him a puzzled look at the unusual request. Even Helen frowned. “We could, if you insist,” she began, “but there is a lot of ground to cover.”

  He was about to when Glaucus leaned forward and whispered in his ear. “Princes don’t walk.”

  Paris quickly took the reigns from Haemon, trying to hide his slip. “No, this is fine.” He swept his cape aside and tried for a dignified half-bow to allow Helen to mount the chariot first.

  He had one duty to complete today: to represent Troy with dignity. And instead he was acting like a wide-eyed farmhand catching his first glimpse of a city. Paris cursed at himself. He had travelled across the civilized world on behalf of Troy, and not once had he met someone who could put him at ease as easily as this princess. Conversing with her was as calming as spending an evening with Hector, as heartwarming as Troilus’ hugs. She felt like family. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he knew her somehow.

  He watched as Helen stepped to the front of the cab. A glance over his shoulder alerted him that Glaucus and Aethra had done the same, his captain waiting stoically for Paris to lead. Paris murmured a quick thanks to Haemon and leapt up into the cab, taking his place beside the princess.

  The cab was designed small, forcing him to stand sideways to avoid touching Helen in a too familiar manner. It was an awkward position. He was about to signal the horse when he realized he had no idea where they were headed. He turned to the princess, offering her the reigns instead. “Perhaps you’d like to drive?”

  Helen gingerly reached for his hand. That was twice in the space of a few breaths that Paris had surprised her. No highborn man of the Hellas would let himself be chauffeured in public by a woman. Save her father, that was. Tyndareus supervised her equestrian training himself. But a decade of following Mycenaean rules gave her pause.

  “You might want to hold on to something.” She warned him, taking the point position in the cab. “It’s been a while since I’ve managed a horse.”

  “Don’t worry, it comes right back to you.” He coached. “Once learned, you never really forget.”

  She eyed him suspiciously. “And how would you know?”

  “I spend a lot of time at sea.” Paris confessed, still grabbing a handrail, nonetheless. “Sometimes it’s months before I travel by horse. It takes a moment to get used to the rhythms, but provided you’re not battling a headstrong filly, you should be fine.” He leaned across her to take a better look at their mare. “This one seems docile enough.”

  Helen waited for a frown of disapproval, or some sign of mock. But Paris wasn’t playing her a fool. He waited patiently for her to set off, a pleasant smile on his face. If he thought to challenge her, he was in for a surprise. She whipped the reigns down sharp and the chariot leapt forward.

  She had forgotten the feel of air brushing past her cheeks, of how it lifted her hair and made her feel like she was flying. In Sparta, Helen would roam the countryside, the remote ravines begging for long rides taken bareback. But in Mycenae, she was grounded, her duties forbidding her the time to take any sort of selfish joyride. Unfettered, she forgot to play host and simply luxuriated in the brisk ride down into the western holdings.

  Paris instantly regretted handing over the reigns. Not that Helen was a bad driver—quite the contrary—she handled the chariot over roughly shod roads and loose gravel, leading them expertly down the steep rampart and away from the palace grounds. But placing the princess at the head of the cab forced Paris to stand behind her. Every jolt of the cab pressed her into his pelvis—and there were many jolts in their ride down the hillside. The constant rubbing kindled a fire in his loins. He put a death grip on the rail and tried desperately to regain his focus.

  Just outside the palatial wall, Helen pulled the chariot to a stop beside a series of residences surrounding a central courtyard. Paris stiffly stepped off the cab just as a group of workers spread out into the court to greet them. It was a mixed lot, perhaps a dozen men and women in well-kept homespun tunics of wool. One man, clearly an overseer, wore an off-white linen robe. He bowed low to Helen, showing a bald spot on the crown of his skull.

  "Princess, what an honor it is to see you again.” His smile was genuine, even though his eyes continually darted Paris’ way. In fact, all the workers were staring at him, a nervous titter spreading amongst the crowd, each worker equally curious about his foreign presence in their shop.

  “The honor is mine, Bacis.” Helen greeted the man, taking his rough hands in a familial grip. “Bacis is the head of the Potter’s Guild in Mycenae. Examples of his skill have been traded as far south as Egypt, and east to your homelands.” She turned back to the blushing artisan. “And this is Prince Paris of the royal house of Troy, a favored son of King Priam.” The honorifics rolled melodically off her tongue.

  Paris forced a grin. Her words were innocent, but she could not understand the irony of their choice. He gave the man a curt nod, and inspected his surroundings in an appreciative manner. “You are the master of this shop?”

  “Yes, Your Highness. I was formally trained at Knossos before King Agamemnon hired me. Now the best potters come here to train.” Bacis nodded proudly. His workers parroted his movements, as proud as their master of his esteemed background. “Would you like to see inside?”

  “I’d be delighted.”

  Bacis waved his craftsmen into motion with a sharp cry, and they fled back to their stations. Each building had two stories, the bottom dedicated to varying workshops, the upper level set aside as living quarters for privileged artisans and palace officials. Paris followed Bacis inside the largest.

  The expansive room had two dozen potter’s stations, each with a stone wheel the artisan could kick counter-clockwise while shaping their pieces. Helen moved between them, greeting many artisans by name, and inspecting several pieces that caught her eye. She stopped beside a four-foot amphora, where a middle-aged woman with careworn wrinkles around her eyes put the finishing touches on the black-figure vase.

  “Melete! What are you doing here? You should be at home resting.” Helen swooped down on the worker.

  "Princess!” Melete set down her wooden stylus and quickly dropped into a respectful curtsey. Either age or hours spent at the wheel made the move as stiff as a two-day corpse, and she nearly fell over.

  Helen pulled Melete up immediately, forcing the woman to retake her seat. “You were so ill the last I saw you. I thought you’d never recover.”

  Melete smiled graciously, rubbing her clay-coated hands on the small of her back. “Delia brought back the syrup you gave her, Your Grace. It worked miracles. The cough is almost completely gone.”

  As the two women conversed, Paris took a moment to get a better look at the workshop. Every station was in use, and the back wall was lined with completed amphorae and stir-up jars ready for the kiln. The whirling of the potters wheels gave the room a light hum th
at welcomed quiet conversations to be indulged without fear of disrupting any worker’s concentration. The senior artisans, like Melete, had assistants who collected discarded clay, refilled dipping bowls, and attended to any need the artist might have.

  Melete’s work was by far the finest in the shop. The rich red clay of her amphora was coated with a veneer of black in which the artist scraped off layers to create silhouetted characters. A geometric pattern ran along the top and bottom of the vase’s oval swell. In the center, Melete had carved out a regal head of the eagle owl of Ares. It was masterful work. Paris could easily imagine it displayed in many palaces he had visited across the world.

  “Do you like it?” Melete asked softly, a slight hesitation in her voice as she addressed him directly. There was so much hope in her eyes as she spun the piece around to show the opposite face. It was Ares again, this time in his human form, astride a chariot led by twin griffins. The beasts reared in fury, their eyes and nostrils wide. The God was fierce and divine all at once. The detail was exquisite.

  Paris sighed. It was a delicate business negotiating power relations. He could not appear to be wooed by Mycenae. “It is a decent example.” He used his reserved tone, careful to not show his admiration visibly.

  Melete frowned, the disappointment written on her careworn face. She turned to Helen, “I meant it as a gift for you, Princess. To show my appreciation for the medicine, and all the care you’ve shown.”

  “It’s lovely.” Helen praised the woman while watching Paris closely, puzzled by his reaction. She had hoped for more, as well. Agamemnon instructed her to impress him, and she thought there was no finer example than Mycenaean pottery. Perhaps if he understood the passion that went into the work? “Melete is a damos, a free worker who splits her time between her shop in the town proper and here at the royal workshop.” Helen told him, hoping to pique Paris’ interest.

  It worked, and he gave the woman a second appraisal. “You are not bound to the Palace?”

  Melete blushed, “No, Sir. I mean, Your Grace.” Her eyes darted away sheepishly from the prince’s direct gaze.

  “We don’t have bondsmen here.” Helen intercepted. “All of our workers are free, save for the few captives taken in battle. And both free worker and slave has the right to own and sell their own work.” Melete nodded beside her, pleased to have Helen explain her situation.

  “It is an honor to work in the royal workshop,” Melete finally found her voice. “Bacis is the best of his craft. Plus my work here lessens the amount I must contribute to the tax collectors.”

  Paris was modestly surprised. He had rarely seen such pride in the lay folk. The sense of greatness that was usually restricted to the palace seemed a badge of honor for the workers, both high and low born. And that pride was evident in their craft. These Mycenaeans were not at all what Priam had led him to believe.

  But something Melete had said nagged at his ear. Lessens her tribute... Paris inspected the workshop again. Every station was filled, their quotas well met. The potters worked diligently on their pieces, their hands cracked from the effort, and in some cases, their blood mingled with the thick clay.

  “It’s certainly a creative way to collect taxes,” he murmured to himself, then turned back to Melete. “Good fortune in your endeavors, Mistress. I am certain you deserve it.” He gave her a courtly bow, deep enough to show his respect, then rushed to join Glaucus outside.

  Helen was fast at his side, his stray comment clearly not gone unnoticed. “I’m sure our ways seem strange to you...”

  “Not at all.” He responded offhanded. “I’ve visited dozens of kingdoms, and each king has a different method of rule. But strip away the titles and religious customs, they all share the same basic principles. Commerce is sacrosanct. Each land works out a system that works best for them.”

  And Agamemnon has learned what system works best for the king. Paris cast a cursory glance to Glaucus, questioning if the captain had noticed the poor condition of the workers. Glaucus raised a single dark brow in response. Nothing escaped the keen man’s notice.

  Helen blinked back her surprise from Paris’ academic response. He sounded so much like Tyndareus, she had an overwhelming feeling of reclining around the central hearth of her father’s megaron receiving another lesson. She studied the prince with renewed interest. It was rare to meet someone who instinctively understood the heart of matters.

  “Oh.” She stuttered, that moronic response winning out over a million others that sprang too late to mind. She felt like a prized idiot conversing with a scholar.

  The prince waved Glaucus forward to retrieve their chariots. Helen kicked a pebble around with her slippered toe as they waited, using any excuse to keep from looking at her guest. “It is a relief to know we meet the Old World standards,” she began, feeling anything but relief. “We’re a young realm, but given time, we might surprise you with what we can accomplish.”

  She hadn’t meant to sound defensive, but she found herself desperately wanting Paris’ approval. Not for Mycenae, not for the king, but for herself. She forced her chin up, daring herself to meet his gaze.

  Paris paused, jarred from his thoughts by Helen’s impulsive declaration. “I’ll tell you what surprises me.” He leaned down and whispered in her ear. “Your people love you. Truly love you.”

  She was paralyzed by his penetrating gaze, the one that felt like he looked straight into her soul. “Is that so odd?”

  Perhaps she imagined it, but a ghost of sorrow crossed his eyes. “More than you know.”

  They rode down to the village in silence, Helen humbled by his kind words. So much of her time in Mycenae she had felt like an outsider, a person neither wanted nor needed. She often toyed with the idea of slipping quietly off the southern precipice and into a watery grave. She had little doubt she’d be missed. To hear that the commonwealth held some affection for her was a ray of light in her usually overcast days.

  But was it enough? A whole lifetime of public service spread out before her, constantly giving to the people only to return home to a cold bedchamber. It was a loneliness that had no resolution. Honor forbade her to even speak of it.

  As they exited the acropolis, they left the rock-hewn streets for wider ones of hard-packed earth. The city spread out in pockets of settlements, the boundaries of Mycenae amorphous, shifting as the city continued to grow.

  The villagers were out in numbers, busily preparing for the upcoming festival. Flags of red and orange adorned workshop doors and sounds of industry filled the air. The smiths worked their bellows, the bakers pounded their dough, and merchants lined the streets barking prices to any potential customer. One and all they paused as Helen and Paris passed, eager to catch a glimpse of the foreign prince.

  She looked over her shoulder at Paris. He seemed lost in thought as well. His eyes were furrowed as he stared off into the horizon at some distant point. The man was such a mystery. He wasn’t like any man she had ever met. He was thoughtful, forthright, but guarded just the same.

  They visited the goldsmiths, the ivory carvers and finally the shipyard. Each time, Paris was respectful but aloof, showing no great interest in any one industry. She found herself stretching her memory to pull out facts that would dazzle the man. But no number would impress, no detail was unique. He was far more interested in the people themselves, asking them questions about their life and livelihood. If the man was a spy she’d swallow her slipper.

  Towards sunset they walked along the wharf, the prince deep in conversation with the harbor master, when she spotted a ship she hadn’t seen in several months. Heedless of the scolding she was sure Aethra would administer, she raced to the dock, greeting the captain as he tied off at the pier.

  “Lukos!” Helen shouted, wrapping her arms around the stern faced man. The captain’s scowl melted to joy, and he spun her around in a circle.

  “The Golden Girl returns! Mark my words boys, our fortune’s favored this tide.” He tousled Helen’s hair.


  She grinned at the man, making a playful attempt to bat his hands away. Lukos was of an age with her father, a grizzled veteran of many Spartan campaigns. As he approached his silver years, he opted for the “quiet” life of the sea. It was a paltry excuse. No Spartan dreamed of a dying of old age in their beds. Lukos defied the odds by surviving so long. He hoped one day the capricious sea would remedy that poor luck.

  “You are looking fit.” He grunted after a sour-faced inspection. “I expected a soft life in Mycenae would have fattened you up by now.”

  “Do you think so little of me?” Helen pouted, soothing her chiton down over her round hips to further prove him wrong.

  He laughed heartily. “True blood will always rule out. Spartana Aeterna.”

  She kissed her fingers and lifted them towards Olympus. “Sparta Eternal.” She repeated.

  Lukos’ galley was a small vessel. When the trade winds blew, he boasted there was no ship as swift. A quick glance confirmed he had a light crew of six sailors, none of which Helen recognized. “Did you come from the homeland?”

  “Aye. I’ve got four talents of olives to unload before we sail to the southern continent.”

  She almost didn’t have the courage to ask, but the man before her would never shy away from the truth, no matter how unpleasant. Besides, she was not soft. She could handle the answer like a Spartan.

  “Any messages from the palace?”

  His dour expression returned. “I’m sorry, Princess. Tyndareus did not send any.”

  “Oh.” She buried the hurt deep inside. For the past ten years she had asked after her father and was always met with silence. With every new tide, she hoped the passage of time would soften his heart. But Tyndareus was a man of stone, and Helen was too far away to crack the shell that protected him.

  “Will you send him my love when next you see him?” She forced a tender smile.