For the Most Beautiful (5 page)

If Briseis thought the gods were watching over her as she stood in the herb garden, she was wrong.

On Mount Olympus, where the seven peaks stretch to the sky and the gods make their homes in the clouds, the fragrant gardens of heaven are dotted with eternal beings enjoying the evening sunshine, with not a thought for the mortals below. The sky is a deep forget-me-not blue, making the view on earth from the clouds particularly spectacular. The fountains in the gardens of the gold and ivory palaces are glinting and sparkling in the light of the setting sun, the peonies and poppies in the flowerbeds bending their delicate dewed heads, black swallows spiralling through the lines of cypress trees. Hera and Zeus are engaged in one of their favourite pastimes, arguing fiercely about nothing in particular as they pace the stone paths of Poseidon's apple orchard, past Poseidon himself, who is napping on a hammock strung between two apple trees. Athena is polishing her armour in an alcove shaded by a large oak. Hephaestus is sitting next to her, whittling at a figure of a wooden horse and humming to himself. Artemis and Aphrodite are taking a cooling bath in the pool before Artemis' palace, surrounded by pomegranate trees and jasmine blossoms, and Apollo is sitting on a bench nearby, surrounded by fragrant roses, snatching glimpses of the two goddesses while trying to pretend to be occupied with the piece of ambrosia in his hand.

The only one of the gods who is looking at the mortals at all, in fact, is Hermes. ‘There,' he says to the youngest of the cupids who is sitting at his feet, and he points through the clouds towards the distant garden in Pedasus where Briseis stands. ‘The one with the dark hair and …' he allows himself a grin ‘… that ravishingly captivating smile. Can you see her now?'

The cupid nods and settles back upon the grass. Hermes adjusts his lyre, made from a hollowed-out tortoiseshell with four strings and inlaid with ivory, on his lap. He is seated in the fragrant garden of his father Zeus' palace. Around him are gathered several young cupids, staring up at him wide-eyed, their little wings fluttering like those of the butterflies on the box hedges. Nearby, a fountain tinkles as it sprays nectar from a golden dolphin's snout. Pure white roses nod in the breeze, sending wafts of scent over the young cupids, but they have eyes only for Hermes for they love to hear his tales.

Hermes looks around to make sure he has his audience captivated. ‘Where was I? Oh, yes. We move now from Briseis, in Pedasus,' he waves a hand again towards the gap in the clouds, ‘to the tale of Helen, who is about to enter our story and who needs – how shall I put it? – a little explanation.' He clears his throat. ‘Helen is a princess of Sparta, the daughter of Lord Tyndareus – and she is also, if we are to believe the mortal bards, the most beautiful woman in the world.'

At once the cupids twist around to look through the clouds towards Sparta, the older ones elbowing the younger out of the way. Hermes chuckles. ‘A few years ago, when Helen reached marriageable age, suitors began to flock from every corner of Greece to try to win her hand. More and more lords arrived in the palace, desperate to take Helen as their wife, and as their numbers increased their gifts became wilder and more extravagant. One brought a whole herd of calves, a year old and prime for sacrifice, another a chariot built of polished olive-wood from the slopes of Mount Taygetus. Lord Menelaus of Mycenae, trying, so the more outspoken of the suitors claimed, to compensate for his ugly red face and pot belly, brought with him a chest filled to the brim with precious stones and a whole harem of young Nubian slave-girls, each weighed down with necklaces of gold and bearing heavy golden tripods in their arms. The atmosphere in the palace of Sparta grew heated as calves jostled nubile young women, and hostile lords, set on proving their manhood, rubbed shoulders in the packed Great Hall.

‘It was Lord Odysseus – he had come all the way from rocky Ithaca – who stepped in to calm things down. What he offered was a simple proposition. Let Helen decide whom she wished to marry – what plan ever went well that didn't keep the women happy, after all? But, first, all had to swear a solemn pact to defend Helen's chosen husband, in case,' his eyes glitter, ‘anyone should try to steal her for their own.

‘It was an elegant solution. The lords, each short-sighted enough to believe that they would be Helen's choice, rushed to make the oath. Then came the decision.'

The cupids gaze at Hermes, their eyes as round as libation bowls.

‘Helen, her grey-blue eyes sparkling with the reflection of the jewels laid before her, was beguiled by the extravagant gifts and wealth of the greatest of Greece's kingdoms, Mycenae. She chose Menelaus. They were married within the month, nearly two years ago to this day.

‘Unfortunately for Helen and for Troy, however, Menelaus really was as ugly as the other suitors said.'

There is a pause as the cupids take this in. Then—

‘I can't see Helen anywhere,' one of the older cupids says impatiently, craning his neck. ‘And,' he shoots back at Hermes, frowning, ‘I don't understand how this has anything to do with Troy.'

Hermes grins. ‘It has everything to do with Troy, my dear cupid, because when a young Trojan prince with scented golden hair turned up in the palace on an embassy to Menelaus a few weeks ago, well …' He glances through the clouds. A single white-sailed royal ship is ploughing the seas from Sparta towards Troy, its prow just rounding the headland of the isle of Cranae.

‘Hector and Paris,' Hermes says casually, and the cupids lean over the clouds, wings fluttering, trying to get a look, ‘returning to Troy after their visit to Menelaus, an embassy of peace between the two wealthiest kingdoms in the world.'

‘But what of Helen?' the cupid insists, crossing his arms, still frowning.

‘Yes,' says another, ‘what has Helen to do with it?'

Hermes looks around to make sure no one else is listening. Then he leans forwards to the cupids and lowers his voice, a mischievous glint in his eyes. ‘Something tells me they're bringing back more than just gold.'

Fifty-four days left until my sixteenth birthday.

I rolled over on the thick, soft woollen covers of my bed, so much richer and more comfortable than those of my father's home in Larisa had been, and into Troilus' arms.

Fifty-four days left to determine my destiny.

I moved closer to him, drawing the covers with me and pressing my cheek against his chest, letting my hair flow loose down my back as I knew he liked. He gave a muffled snore and drew me towards him, wrapping me around with one arm, his fine black beard grazing the top of my head. I took in the scent of him, like leather and sweet grass.

It had not always been thus. I had lived the early years of my life in Larisa, a small town half a day's ride away, with nothing much to speak of but a temple of Apulunas and a few lowly huts and outbuildings where the priests and farmers lived. My friends had been the children of temple slaves, mostly – Melaina, Heron, Palaemon, Lukia – and we had played together in the sand and longed to go to Troy, where princes ruled and merchants traded and wealthy women learnt to write and read; a world we had made in our imaginations, where we could be who we wished, not who we had been born to be. When a courier had arrived one day in my tenth year, the dust of the Trojan plain hot upon his heels, and had told my father that he was summoned to the city as High Priest of Apulunas, I had gone with him.

In that moment, my world had changed.

But I had never forgotten where I had come from.

I glanced at Troilus, the handsome youngest son of King Priam, sleeping soundly by my side in my bed. He shifted in his sleep on to his back and his eyelids fluttered. My heart leapt at the realization that he had chosen me – me, above all the other women of the city – to take to his bed. And that perhaps, just perhaps, in time, he might desire something more.

That he might wish to take me to his bed always.

I shivered and shook my head. I could not think such things.

But then I paused.
Surely
, a small voice said in the back of my mind,
surely it could not do any harm, just for a moment, to imagine what can almost surely never be: that, even in spite of my low birth, he might choose me to be his wife.

I took a deep breath as visions floated up before my eyes. I would become a wealthy woman, just as I had imagined all those years ago in Larisa, and even more than that: a princess. My father's plans to make me a priestess would be foiled as I rose far higher than he could ever command. We could rule together, Troilus and I, the handsome prince and his beautiful princess, meting out justice to the slaves and poor among whom I had once counted myself.

I smiled, my skin prickling, as I moved closer into the warmth of my lover's embrace. These days, my desire for Troilus and my love for Troy were so closely intertwined that I could hardly separate them.

‘Krisayis?'

It was Cassandra. I heard the door to her chamber, the larger room, the princess's bedroom to which my chamber was only the entrance, open quietly.

‘Are you awake?'

Her footsteps padded noiselessly over the stone-tiled floor as I sat up, one finger to my mouth, then pointed at Troilus.

‘Oh,' she said, stopping and pressing her hand to her mouth to stifle a giggle as her eyes came to rest on my bed. ‘Good morning, brother.'

Troilus started and his eyes flew open. ‘Who's there?' He sat up quickly, drawing an inlaid bronze dagger swiftly from beneath his pillow.

‘Hush,' I said, under my breath. There were guards outside the door, and if they heard a man's voice inside the princess's chambers they were bound to come in, and then what would I do? King Priam might have me thrown out of the palace – or worse – for lying in secret with the handsomest of his royal sons. ‘It's only Cassandra. Go back to sleep.'

Troilus replaced his dagger and fell back on to the pillows.

Cassandra tiptoed over and seated herself carefully at the edge of the bed beside me, lifting her night-robe and placing it gently to the side so it did not crease. She smoothed the beautiful white linen with one hand, then looked at me. ‘Oh, Krisayis,' she said with a sigh, ‘you know how glad I am for you and Troilus, but you
must
be more careful.' She took my hand in hers to show there was no ill-feeling, then lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘You know how many people around the palace already suspect you. Do you really think the slaves have not noticed you and Troilus stealing into each other's chambers every evening these past few weeks? This cannot stay a secret much longer. Nor shall I be able to hide it for you, however much I wish to.'

I lowered my eyes. ‘I know,' I said. ‘I know all you have done for us, Cassandra, and for that I thank you. I cannot say how much—'

I stopped short. Both of us sat suddenly alert and upright, like hares in the field, our eyes turned to the door. We could hear heavy footsteps marching down the corridor outside, growing louder.

‘Who requests permission to enter the chambers of the Princess Cassandra?' I heard one of the guards outside ask in clipped, military tones, as the footsteps halted right outside the door.

‘I come bearing a message from Queen Hecuba for her daughter,' the herald announced, as clearly and loudly as if he were in the room with us.

Cassandra and I looked at each other, wide-eyed.

‘
Quick!
Hide!' Cassandra whispered frantically.

We jumped up from where we were sitting, half scared, half giggling, and prodded Troilus awake as hard as we could. In a moment all three of us were running, stifling our laughter as we pushed him towards the large, hollowed-out oak chest in the corner of the room where I kept my skirts and shifts.