Read Online The Princess of Sparta: Heroes of the Trojan War by Aria Cunningham - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Aria Cunningham
Tags: Historical Romance
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that stretched up to a steep acropolis. And at its peak sat the Royal Palace, an elegant structure that rivaled any court in the ancient world.
Paris savored this beauty. In these few moments before he set foot on Trojan land, he could admire his home. He could pretend that he actually belonged here.
Fifty men pulled at the oars behind him, gliding the elegant ship through the busy harbor, navigating past fat galleys some sixteen meters long resting at anchor. They coasted past the royal shipyard, where the shells of new vessels rested, timber bones left to dry in the afternoon sun. The oars dipped into the water in unison, pulling his vessel onward to the capital and eventually to dock.
The Harbormaster waited along the wooden landing, a roll of sheepskin and quill in hand. “I’ll need to see your register—“
Paris leapt off the deck in a giant stride and landed beside the middle-aged man, his crimson cape swirling around him in the gentle breeze.
“My Prince! Forgive me.” The harbormaster stammered.
“Good to see you, Eteocles. How fare your daughters?” Paris slapped the man on the back with gusto and stretched out sore muscles cramped from a month at sea.
“Growing, Your Grace. Soon they will tower over me like Amazons.” Eteocles grinned, giving Paris a curt bow. “We were not expecting you for several weeks. Is there news from the South?” His voice tightened with concern.
Paris shrugged, feigning a lack of knowledge. Information was the true currency in a town with open borders, and Eteocles often traded gossip for a cup of mulled wine. Paris enjoyed making the man work to ferret his information out.
“I’d say the negotiations were dismal.” Paris replied with a wink as his crew began unloading copper ingots from the hold. “Their vassals couldn’t hold their drink, and their women were as chaste as a temple initiate. I had to settle for this lot.” He waved nonchalant over the heavy mass now lining the dock.
Eteocles’ eyes spread wide as he counted the raw material. There were well over 300 oxhide-shaped ingots of copper and half as many of tin: a kingly treasure.
“It should suffice.” A fevered glow gleamed in the harbormaster’s eyes. “The Court of Smiths will be celebrating tonight.”
Paris laughed, tossing Eteocles a nugget of copper he had in his pouch. “I’ll meet you there. We’ll toast to your daughters’ good health.” He turned and headed down the dock.
“Shall I marshal the royal guard?” Eteocles called after him, but Paris waved him off. He hated the fanfare that typically accompanied any movement of the royal family. He was not so shallow that he needed trumpets to declare his every footstep.
He made good time despite the growing crowds in the city. When he reached the base of the acropolis, he stopped at the feedlot where visiting shepherds quartered their animals. King Priam would want a report of his expedition right away, but Paris was so rarely at the capital he could not pass up an opportunity to converse with old friends.
“Agelaus! Get out here, old dog!” he hollered to the silver-haired herdsman. With the spring thaw on the horizon, the shepherds would soon take their flocks up Mount Ida. It was fortunate Paris had returned home early, otherwise it would be a full year before he would see his dear friend, and any year might be Agelaus’ last.
“Paris? Is that you?” the old man hobbled out of his yurt. Traces of blue film, the telltale signs of blindness, covered his eyes. “How are you, my son?”
Paris engulfed Agelaus in a stout embrace. Normally, it was forbidden for a commoner to address a royal in such a familiar manner. But unlike his highborn kin, Paris did not stand on tradition. He spent the majority of his youth in the wilds of Mount Ida, and this man had saved his life on more than one occasion. He felt more at home here, amongst common sheepherders and tradesmen, than he ever did at court.
“I’m alive, despite the
Paris savored this beauty. In these few moments before he set foot on Trojan land, he could admire his home. He could pretend that he actually belonged here.
Fifty men pulled at the oars behind him, gliding the elegant ship through the busy harbor, navigating past fat galleys some sixteen meters long resting at anchor. They coasted past the royal shipyard, where the shells of new vessels rested, timber bones left to dry in the afternoon sun. The oars dipped into the water in unison, pulling his vessel onward to the capital and eventually to dock.
The Harbormaster waited along the wooden landing, a roll of sheepskin and quill in hand. “I’ll need to see your register—“
Paris leapt off the deck in a giant stride and landed beside the middle-aged man, his crimson cape swirling around him in the gentle breeze.
“My Prince! Forgive me.” The harbormaster stammered.
“Good to see you, Eteocles. How fare your daughters?” Paris slapped the man on the back with gusto and stretched out sore muscles cramped from a month at sea.
“Growing, Your Grace. Soon they will tower over me like Amazons.” Eteocles grinned, giving Paris a curt bow. “We were not expecting you for several weeks. Is there news from the South?” His voice tightened with concern.
Paris shrugged, feigning a lack of knowledge. Information was the true currency in a town with open borders, and Eteocles often traded gossip for a cup of mulled wine. Paris enjoyed making the man work to ferret his information out.
“I’d say the negotiations were dismal.” Paris replied with a wink as his crew began unloading copper ingots from the hold. “Their vassals couldn’t hold their drink, and their women were as chaste as a temple initiate. I had to settle for this lot.” He waved nonchalant over the heavy mass now lining the dock.
Eteocles’ eyes spread wide as he counted the raw material. There were well over 300 oxhide-shaped ingots of copper and half as many of tin: a kingly treasure.
“It should suffice.” A fevered glow gleamed in the harbormaster’s eyes. “The Court of Smiths will be celebrating tonight.”
Paris laughed, tossing Eteocles a nugget of copper he had in his pouch. “I’ll meet you there. We’ll toast to your daughters’ good health.” He turned and headed down the dock.
“Shall I marshal the royal guard?” Eteocles called after him, but Paris waved him off. He hated the fanfare that typically accompanied any movement of the royal family. He was not so shallow that he needed trumpets to declare his every footstep.
He made good time despite the growing crowds in the city. When he reached the base of the acropolis, he stopped at the feedlot where visiting shepherds quartered their animals. King Priam would want a report of his expedition right away, but Paris was so rarely at the capital he could not pass up an opportunity to converse with old friends.
“Agelaus! Get out here, old dog!” he hollered to the silver-haired herdsman. With the spring thaw on the horizon, the shepherds would soon take their flocks up Mount Ida. It was fortunate Paris had returned home early, otherwise it would be a full year before he would see his dear friend, and any year might be Agelaus’ last.
“Paris? Is that you?” the old man hobbled out of his yurt. Traces of blue film, the telltale signs of blindness, covered his eyes. “How are you, my son?”
Paris engulfed Agelaus in a stout embrace. Normally, it was forbidden for a commoner to address a royal in such a familiar manner. But unlike his highborn kin, Paris did not stand on tradition. He spent the majority of his youth in the wilds of Mount Ida, and this man had saved his life on more than one occasion. He felt more at home here, amongst common sheepherders and tradesmen, than he ever did at court.
“I’m alive, despite the
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