Song of Princes (Homeric Chronicles #1) (33 page)

PARIS WOKE WITH
a headache, rubbing the slumber from his eyes. His body felt stiff as if he’d been asleep for days. He tried to bend his legs to curl them over the bedside and they were slow to respond. He glanced over his arm at Helen. She was pale against the linen, peaceful like death. Paris set his hearing to the sailors. Odd that the loudest sound came from the hull cutting through the sea at a steady clip. He shook his lover’s shoulder gently. “Helen...Helen, wake up.” She turned on her side with a moan. “Helen,” he said a bit more sternly. “You must wake up.”

Helen’s eyes fluttered open. “Good morning, my love.” She propped herself up in the bed. “I am so tired? I feel as if I have been asleep—”

“For days?” Paris asked.

Helen smiled. “Yes, how did you know?”

“I woke with the same feeling.” Paris ran his hands through his black curly hair. “Do you recall a face or voice before you slept?”

Helen thought and shrugged her shoulder slightly. “A silver light. I saw a silver light, but I have no memory after...I am no longer ill.” She sat all the way up now.

“That is indeed good news. I must see to the crew. I believe we have been aided by Aphrodite. She came to me last eve...before we slept...if I am correct, we will be home soon.”

Helen got up out of bed and stretched her arms over her head. “The goddess? Why would she wish to help us? Why would any of the gods wish to help us?” She rubbed her stomach. “I am famished. That is strange feeling to be so hungry after food sounding like poison for so long.”

“It is a long tale, one that stretches back before you were born.”

“I should like to hear this tale, I think.”

“I will tell it to you one day, but for now, I must see to the crew.” Paris kissed her dry lips. “I will send some food for you.” He left the sleeping chamber for the deck. He wondered if he should ever tell Helen the story entirely. He wasn’t sure how much of her desire for him was due to Aphrodite’s magic, or her real desire for him as a man. Paris didn’t want to know if she only wanted him out of magic. All men lusted after Helen, but it certainly didn’t work in the reverse.

OENONE COULDN’T BELIEVE
her eyes. The sails of her husband’s ship had pierced the horizon’s line as soon as the sun rose. It felt as if an age had passed since he left for the lands of the Salamis. Each day since his departure, she’d come to this rock waiting for a sign of his return. She’d watched what felt like a thousand sunrises with no sign of Paris. Now, he was here. He’d returned for her. The nymph climbed down the rocks to reach the shore. She intended to swim out to his ship and greet him. His absence had been a constant ache in her chest.

The ship drew closer as it made for the narrow passage leading to the busy royal port. As she touched the water’s edge with her delicate foot, she looked up to see Paris on deck, his hand reaching up gripping the rigging, his eyes focused on the path before the prow. She waved her arms frantically in greeting, trying desperately to catch his attention. She noted the purple robe he wore. Oenone thought it strange that he should be wearing the royal color, as he abhorred it for that reason. Ever since being taken into the royal family’s fold, he’d felt the outsider.

The nymph stepped into the water up to her waist about to dive beneath the choppy cold green, when she saw the woman. Gold hair flying in the wind. Oenone stopped. Her breath caught in her throat, and then her heart pounded painfully in her chest as the woman wrapped her arm around Paris’ waist and he wrapped his arm around her shoulders pulling her close. Oenone watched in horror as Paris kissed the top of the woman’s head. She recognized that dance of his...his love dance. The protective posture and gesture of love, and he was giving it to another. She froze as the ship passed by her, Paris blind to her.

As she walked from the water, her husband’s parting words came to her.
...you have no wish to live in Troy?
She had reminded him her home was in the wood. He had tried to say something...
I am afraid
...Did he know about this woman before he left? Had he planned this all along? Her anguish rose in her throat like a wind howling on a winter night. Her love for Paris ripped itself from her heart and she grasped at its departure. Oenone tore at her garments as she made her way back to her forest and her meadow, knowing now that Paris wouldn’t be returning for her or their son. Not this day, and perhaps not ever. The hollow ache of betrayal laid her heart bare. She didn’t know how she would survive when every breath stung, every tear burned, and every step took her further from the only man she’d ever loved. Her premonition had unfolded into reality, despite Paris’ repeated denials that he could ever love another.

“Who is that wretched woman with my love? Who could take my love from my arms? Take my son’s father?” She screamed into the sky above, “What have I done to deserve this punishment?!” Her tears blurred her vision and she stumbled and fell hard on her knees. She was numb to the rocks digging into her skin. Oenone buried her face in her hands and wept until her eyes could shed not a single tear more. “I am alone again. Why do I desire his arms around me still? What curse is this that the one who has broken me is the only one I need to comfort me?”

Slowly, the nymph rose from the ground and walked solemnly to the nearest river bank. “Father, are you there?”

“Yes, my daughter. Why do you weep so?”

“My husband has found another. Father, why did you not tell me the pain of love is as deeply rooted as the joy?”

“My child,” the river god’s words carried across the water’s bubbling surface. “There is always a darkness that follows the light. It is the way of the universe. If the light never dimmed, how would you know it existed at all?”

“Love is a curse,” Oenone said, misery hanging on each word.

“Love is a poison,” her father responded. “One you grow accustomed to, but does not kill you.”

Oenone knelt on the silky grass. “How long will my heart grieve and ache?”

“Given time, my gentle daughter, it will subside.”

“I curse that woman that one day she will know the pain of losing the one she loves.”

“Beware raising curses to life. The gods have ways of turning them against you.”

HECUBA SAT SILENTLY
next to Priam as Paris recounted the tale of sacking Sparta’s treasury and taking Helen. It was a brave, if not foolish thing to do, she quietly thought. The queen kept Priam’s face in her peripheral view. She watched for any telltale signs of his displeasure, the clenching of his jaw, the slight frown at the corner of his mouth—she worried her husband might deem Paris’ actions too reckless. Worse than that, however, would be if the king judged Paris’ failure to retrieve Hesione as a weakness of character and prowess. Hecuba was well aware of the delicate balance required to maintain steady trade throughout the Troad and beyond, and that Paris had tipped that balance against Troy might be seen as a traitorous act. More than the strange Greeks from far off islands, she worried how Priam would react regarding the Hittites. They were friendly enough, but they were also allies to Egypt. If Paris’ sudden departure against the wishes of their oracle-god and their pharaoh was interpreted as an insult, a threat, then the Hittites might direct their outrage at Troy.

Paris had stopped talking. Priam was nodding, his hands clasped behind his back as he paced the polished marble floor. “I will send an envoy to the Hittite kings, ascertaining and securing our mutual friendship. We have no desire to stir up rivalry and competition with people near the Troad.” He stopped pacing and gave a critical eye in Helen’s direction. “You, young queen of Sparta, have presented me with a conundrum. I am caught between my own guilt and the pride of Troy. I could easily send you back, treasure and all.” He sat heavily on his throne. “It is doubtful your Menelaus will take you back without severely punishing you, perhaps putting you to death for your betrayal.” Helen opened her mouth to speak, but the king silenced her with his hand. “Make no mistake, young queen, that what you have done is a betrayal not only to your king but to your father, Tyndareus and his legacy. Do you think the red king will keep your infant daughter as your heir? Do you think he will not obliterate your name and remarry, remaking Sparta as his alone? He is king.”

“But my brothers—” Helen protested.

“How long have you reigned as queen? Have you experience enough in this world of men and crowns to question me, King of Troy?”

Helen shook her head. “I have not.”

“Menelaus has no kingdom of his own. That is why he agreed to marry you,” Priam said.

Hecuba watched as the truth of Priam’s words struck the young beauty. The queen asked, “How old are you girl?”

Helen visibly bristled. “I have seen nineteen summers.”

Hecuba raised an eyebrow. “Nineteen?” She looked to Paris, who refused to meet her gaze. “Paris, you have allowed a mere slip of a woman to rule you. No matter her beauty, she is but a spoiled dog masquerading as a queen. No true queen would abandon her husband and her people for another land entire.” Hecuba’s disappointment clearly evident with every word she spoke to her beloved son.

“I have made my decision, Paris,” Priam announced. Helen nervously wrung her hands in her lap. “I sent you on a mission to redeem the honor of Troy. To redeem my honor for having lost a Trojan princess to the Greeks. You have accomplished neither task.” Paris hung his head, shamed by his father’s words. “But only the gods could have aided you in this...this abduction of Sparta’s queen. Under that fat red-beard’s nose, impressive. I have no desire to stand against the will of the gods. If Troy cannot have Hesione returned, then Troy will keep its prize in Helen and her gold.”

“Thank you, Father.”

Priam embraced his son. “I welcome your return.”

Hecuba was relieved and embraced her son. “And I also welcome your return to Troy.” Pulling her son aside, she asked gently, “What of the nymph and your son? Have you given thought to them, now that you bring a second to your bed?” She couldn’t help but think that Hektor would never put Andromache aside and neither had Priam cast her aside once their mutual passions cooled.

Paris met his mother’s eyes. “I have not seen her or my son. She does not know I have returned.”

“She will soon enough. Be kind. Be truthful. Anything less will tarnish what you have with her.”

“I will,” Paris said hesitantly.

Hecuba’s tone carried a warning tone. “It is cruel, my son, not to honor her as your first wife.”

“There is only one wife to each husband in Sparta,” Paris said.

The queen shook her head slowly. “You are saying that you will give up the nymph and your son for this Spartan girl?”

“The choice was not mine. Oenone has made it clear the woods and foothills are her home. I do not wish to live forever in a cave among the trees and meadows. I belong here in Troy. I belong with my family, among my brothers and my sisters.”

“Very well, then,” Hecuba said. “Very—” A vision of black smoke and falling ash flashed pierced the veil of her waking mind. Then, she saw, once again, the burning log between her thighs.

Paris caught her as she fell to the ground. “Mother!”

MENELAUS STRODE THROUGH
the halls, his weighty footsteps ringing against the stone, as servants scurried away from him. The palace was conspicuously void of its usual market place sounds. He thought it odd that Helen had not greeted him in the hall, as he’d sent a messenger ahead with word of his return. Menelaus took the corridor leading to the queen’s chambers. He reached her door, opened it, a tingle of fear wormed its way into his gut. It hadn’t occurred to him until this moment that there could be something within he’d no wish to discover. His eyes found Helen’s bed, and he let out a sigh of relief as he’d half expected to see a man bedding his wife. He looked around the chamber.

It was then that he realized it was cold, signally no fire had been lit to warm it, meaning Helen had not been in this chamber at all last night. The thin thread of fear grew. He thought of their daughter, Hermione, perhaps she’d taken ill and the queen had spent the night in vigil over the girl. The king made his way to the nursemaid’s chamber. A single torch lit the doorway. He entered to find the nursemaid rocking the child at her breast. He scanned the room. The queen was not there either. His eyes found the woman’s stunned face. The fear now gripped his bowels, twisting itself painfully...