The Princess of Sparta: Heroes of the Trojan War Page 3

  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.

  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 to
o 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.”