The Princess of Sparta: Heroes of the Trojan War Read Online Free PDF

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,