The Princess of Sparta: Heroes of the Trojan War Page 2

  Aethra stepped in front of them, blocking out the light like a disapproving Titan staring down from the heavens. “Pah, love. What silly nonsense is this? There are more important things than love. What about respect? Honor? Duty?” she frowned at the handmaiden. “You’ll make her sick with your idle ramblings, girl.”

  Astyanassa winced and looked away, ashamed. A lashing from Aethra’s tongue was second only to that of the paddle at her waist. The girl leapt to her feet and resumed her work.

  Helen accepted Aethra’s hand to rise and dusted off her soiled dress. Her matron was right, of course. Helen was a princess. Her marriage would have little to do with love. Her father would choose the best match for the realm, not the man who would love her most. Still, even knowing how little concerns of her heart mattered, she hoped to share more with her new husband than just his bed.

  Aethra was watching her closely as she muddled through her mixed feelings. Helen learned long ago that her matron’s gruff manner was to instruct, not to intimidate. One day Helen would be a queen and she must learn to see all sides of an issue, not just the one that pleased her most. “What is respect if not love?” Helen countered, her head held high. “What is duty, if not the ultimate expression of a king’s love for his people, or a husband to his wife?” She delighted in the look of approval on Aethra’s face.

  “Aye, that is love,” Aethra conceded. “And the fealty of the people to their ruler is one shade of such affection. But it is earned, Princess, not handed out as simply as a ‘good morrow’.”

  So I must earn my husband’s affection?

  That was the one task that frightened Helen the most. The physical act of love was foreign to her. She had no idea how to please a man. The priestess said a woman gave a piece of her soul in that sacred embrace, a thought that terrified Helen.

  She glanced back down to the harbor and the multitude of ships now berthed at their dock. So many men answered her father’s call. Could she really give her body and soul to one of them?

  Or perhaps the right question was—the one that kept Helen awake at night—would she have any choice?

  Chapter 2

  Courting Helen

  AN HOUR before the supper bell would ring, Helen waited outside her father’s megaron, the rectangular-shaped throne room set aside for matters of state and ritual. She was not scheduled to be introduced to their guests until the banquet, but her father had sent a messenger to her privately.

  “Wait for me outside the hall. There is something I need to show you.”

  She paced the carpeted antechamber nervously. On the other side of the double oak doors were two score of militant men eagerly awaiting her arrival. They had been in their cups for the past hour and were currently making more noise than a whole herd of wild bulls. Her feet itched to race back to the field and far far away from these halls.

  Breathe, Helen. She coached herself while pacing aimlessly.

  The narrow entrance to the hall was lined with tapestries displaying scenes from sacred mythos. Their coarse woolen fibers were faded from time, but the images were still recognizable, seemingly leaping off the textile with vivid energy. She paused before one showing the Garden of Hesperides and the Tree with the Golden Apples. It was her favorite. The weaver had masterfully entwined golden thread into the tapestry, making the apples look real enough to eat.

  She touched a similar pin on her shoulder, tracing its sharp curves with her fingertips. It was an heirloom from her late mother. Leda was a great beauty. It was rumored a dozen men fought for her hand before Tyndareus claimed her. Helen tried to pull forth an image of her mother’s face, but could not. She let her hand drop, a sliver of bitterness threatening to undo her stately composure. Self-pity was not worthy of a Spartan. As much as she wished her mother was present to guide her into womanhood, she’d have to get by on her own.

  “Hello Daughter,” Tyndareus whispered into her ear.

  Helen squeaked and immediately blushed at her childish reaction. Her father had snuck up on her again, a feat he had not managed in quite some time. “You scared me!” she batted his arm away playfully.

  “You weren’t paying attention,” he chided, a spark of merriment in his deep blue eyes. “Dangerous things happen when you don’t pay attention.”

  Had it been any other day he would have chased her through the Palace, enjoying their mock game of cat and mouse. Some of the house staff whispered she was too old for such childishness, but Helen didn’t mind. It brought happiness to her father, a man of many burdens. For Tyndareus, she would always be his little girl.

  “You look lovely, Father.” She smiled graciously at her king.

  Tyndareus beamed under her praise, exuding an aura of quiet strength. He did look quite splendid. His ornamental shin guards and arm bands showed off his well-sculpted muscles. His shoulder-length brown hair was neatly kept, longer in the back than in the front. Even his beard was trimmed and coiled into tight curls. For Helen, the king was a standard of perfection any suitor would be hard-pressed to match.

  Tyndareus stretched out his hand, gently lifting her chin. “Would that I could keep you forever.” His voice cracked with emotion as he placed a solid kiss on her forehead.

  Helen felt her earlier nerves return with force. Once married, she’d be queen of some distant land, no longer a daughter of Sparta. And it wasn’t just the motherland she’d be leaving. What would her father do when she was gone?

  “Father?” she asked hesitantly, unsure how to put all her mixed emotions into words. But his moment of sorrow was brief in tenure. He linked his arm with hers and bestowed his most generous smile upon her.

  “Come, walk with me,” he said, pulling her away from the megaron.

  Helen released a deep breath she had not realized she was holding. It appeared she was not to meet her suitors just yet, and she was grateful to put that introduction off for as long as possible.

  With a few quick steps Tyndareus led her through the palace proper, choosing the narrow corridors used mainly by the household staff. The servants were in full motion. Maids ran down the halls with arms loaded with linens. Scullions bent under the weight of greasy copper pots as they rushed to the wash stations. Heat from the kitchen fires and the pungent scent of roast mutton foretold of a mighty feast tonight. Tyndareus promised an event men would talk about for years to come. It thrilled Helen that he would go to such lengths in her honor.

  “You must prepare yourself, not only for this union, but for the role you will play as a queen.” He instructed as they walked. “In that endeavor, it is crucial you approach negotiations with your eyes wide open, that you see the true nature of the men who would treat with you, not just their honeyed promises.”

  Helen nodded demurely, hanging on his every word. Tyndareus was a great king and she was fortunate he took such efforts to train her. It was a stupid tradition that forbade her from ruling after him. Only a prince could inherit the throne.

  They entered the central court, an expansive clearing framed on four sides by elevated walkways that connected the disparate wings of the palace. Spartan quartermasters were busy setting up weapons in the yard where her suitors would later enjoy some sport. But Tyndareus pulled her away from the activity to a small set of stairs—stairs she knew led up to the eastern facing portico of the megaron.

  So, we are to enter the hall discreetly.

  Tyndareus had chosen a clever route that allowed Helen and him to see their guests before being announced. Her pride in her father surged. He was a peerless tactician.

  As they mounted the balcony, the wild shouts she heard earlier grew louder. As a child, Tyndareus let her watch the first-blood ceremony for a new phalanx of Spartan soldiers. The Hoplites fought in mock battle, under the express order to take any killing blow that presented itself. Thus did the Spartan infantry weed out any weak links. But even that bloody mess had no measure on the ruckus sounding from within.

  Great Gaia, what is going on in there?

  The jarring
clatter of breaking pottery was followed with drunken voices screaming in heated anger, a commotion that shocked Helen to her core. Those sounds had no place in the megaron of a noble king. She turned to her father searching for any sign of alarm, but he continued toward the hall untroubled. They stepped around a set of pillars into the hall’s shadowy recesses, and there the deafening scene unfolded before them.

  This was no battle, but a turbulent sea of man flesh. Helen’s eyes flew wide in shock. Of the forty men come to seek her hand, half were stripped to the waist, the sheen of sweat glistening over their hard-packed muscles.

  The crowd had separated into an informal ring where her suitors were taking turns pummeling each other into a bloody pulp. Currently two unclad men circled one another, fists held high as they darted forward and back in a boxing match. They were youths, by the look of them. One of golden hair and the other of brilliant red.

  Something stirred deep within Helen. She had never seen a naked man in the throes of passion, for that was what battle roused in the Men of the Hellas. Their muscles were taut, ready to pounce on their prey. Their skin, flushed, the intensity of their efforts radiating from their bodies like heat from a kiln. Even their phalluses stood erect, their rock-hard organs another measure of their manliness against their foe. Helen fanned herself, the powerful display igniting a warmth inside her.

  Such strength...

  The golden giant landed a good blow and blood flew from his opponent’s jaw as he was flung into the jeering crowd. Like a wave cresting forward, her suitors tossed the boy back into the ring, accompanied with a string of insults that made Helen blush to her ears. The red-headed youth stumbled on his long legs, woozy from the blow, but unyielding. The circling ensued again.

  Helen tried to rationalize what she was seeing. She studied the nearby men, a crowd of mixed ages and builds. Grizzled veterans with silver hair cheered just as loudly as the stately middle-aged rulers beside them. Most were wearing their courtly finest. But finely clad or stripped to loincloths, they all hollered and jeered with a primal urgency.

  Their bloodlust was as naked as their bodies, and it frightened Helen. She felt like a tender dove in the presence of fearsome raptors. When the next bone-jarring blow landed, she shrunk behind her father. For the first time in her life, she worried for her safety. These men were here to claim her...

  Tyndareus pulled her behind a set of pillars, allowing them some space from the vigorous activities. His eyes seemed to be everywhere, absorbing the movements of each man, even those reclining in corners.

  “Are you paying attention now, Dearest?” He clasped her shaking hand tight, inclining his head toward the fray. “The two in the ring are Patroclus of Lokris and his famed cousin, Achilles. Young, but with great promise of stamina and skill.”

  Helen craned her neck to get a better view. Patroclus, the fire kissed, was on his back by a stiff uppercut from his cousin. Achilles stood triumphantly over him, his arms raised high in victory and pumping to the steady chants of his admiring peers. The clatter of metal exchanging hands rang throughout the room as bets on the match were honored.

  Helen tried to imagine the youth as her intended, but it was hard. Achilles could not be more than a few years older than herself, and he still had soft down upon his cheeks. His beauty was hard to deny, but it was a wild beauty, untempered. And the battle lust in his eyes disgusted her. She squeezed her father’s hand and frowned. Blessedly, he made no comment.

  “Why are they fighting?” she asked, her disapproval leaking through.

  “How else are they to determine who’s worthy to claim you?”

  “But that’s barbaric!” Her shocked words carried into the megaron. Thankfully the men were too busy setting up the next match to notice her less than dulcet tone.

  “Barbaric?” Tyndareus paused, watching her as shrewdly as he watched the suitors before. “A strange assessment coming from a Spartan.”

  Helen stiffened at the intended barb, fire flashing in her clear blue eyes, eyes she inherited from the stoic man standing beside her. “They should save their fighting for the battlefield, not the halls of their host. It’s disgraceful!” Honor and respect were greater virtues than valor. Whatever quality her suitors wished to prove was lost in the manner in which they proved it. Their behavior was no better than the barbarian tribes that roamed the north.

  Tyndareus chuckled softly at her, clearly enjoying her moment of pique. He had raised Helen to voice her opinions, and like a true Spartan, she would not bite her tongue when insulted. But it was for the king to determine what behavior would be tolerated in his court, not a woman, not even a princess.

  “The greatest strength is one you need not display.” Helen quoted him, her eyes flaring. “Only a desperate man pulls a sword without intending to truly use it.”

  “Good.” He gave her a sharp nod, clearly pleased she remembered her lessons. “But don’t let your passions cloud your reason, Daughter.” He turned again to the crowd. “Gathering en masse encourages the worst sort of behavior, especially from those with weak constitutions, but we are fortunate to witness this crudity. It allows us to—”

  “See them as they truly are.” Helen finished for him, finally understanding the purpose of this lesson. “Is this what you wanted me to see?”

  “Yes.” Tyndareus smiled, his pride apparent. “So that this decision will be based on fact, not the convenient fiction your suitor has adopted to impress.”

  Helen nodded, hearing the wisdom in his words. She hoped he could see past all this nonsense and find her a worthy husband. Still, her sense of propriety was deeply offended. These were noble men, favored by the Gods. They should be held to a higher standard than the vagaries of pack behavior. A Spartan would slit his wrists before abusing the hospitality of his host.

  “Do not judge them all by the same stroke.” Her father whispered in her ear. “Look, that one is from Ithaka.” He pointed to a sandy-haired man conversing quietly in the eaves of the hall. “Odysseus, son of Laertes. He is a cunning man, one of great promise. His weapon is that of wit, not of bronze.” Tyndareus nodded, the small motion indicating he approved of this suitor.

  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. Hel
en 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.