TLT: Right of Inheritance

Amasis whinnied after me as I took a step away from the stable door. Snorting, she tugged on the lead which secured her to her temporary lodgings, as I glanced back at her. She was an old animal, much used to the habits she had kept, back when she was nothing but a shepherd’s horse, grazed well, but unaccustomed to any strenuous travel. My father had kept her for their seasonal migrations, leading the sheep to the plateau in summer, and back to the milder coast in winter. The dim stables of this Trojan inn did not agree with her at all, accustomed as she was to resting in the open air, uninhibited by mud-brick walls and the din of the other horses’ neighing.

“Shh,” I said, knowing well enough that you could say nothing to a horse which would comfort it in strange surroundings. But Amasis would be comfortable enough in this stable: the straw was fresh, and the feed more plentiful than any of the tough grasses she’d been forced to chew on for the most of the journey. “I’ll be back soon enough.” I rubbed her muzzle before stepping away, gathering my travelling cloak around me. It was not mine, actually; it had been my mother’s, or, my foster mother’s, as I should say. It was wool, lined with fur, probably jackal, I’d judged from the look of it. It was a little heavy for summer, but it had been necessary for the journey. At night, central Anatolia was cold no matter the season. The sun was nearing the horizon by the time I’d found lodgings for us, and now, my first experience of Troy would be during a greyish twilight. It felt awkward to have smooth, cool stones beneath my feet, instead of earth and grass, and walking between buildings closely bunched together, as though they had huddled together against a bitter winter. I sighed, and stepped on through the streets.

There were still a number of people around, despite the hour growing late: traders packing up their carts, loading unsold goods upon the backs of weary-legged donkeys, townspeople carrying water to their homes, prostitutes emerging periodically from the dark spaces between houses, calling for customers. I hurried along, not wishing to stay until it was too dark, and finding my way back to the lodgings too difficult.

Presently, there was still enough light to last for a while at least, enough that I could clearly see the faces of the people who passed me by; strange, unfamiliar faces that did not pay me a second glance. I supposed I wasn’t the first scraggly traveller they’d seen, making her way towards the citadel which loomed ahead. But scarcely had I made that observation, it was proved wrong. A tall, pale haired woman’s eyes were fixed on me, the expression on her fair face bewildered. I self-consciously wondered if I had offended some local custom here, and my brow knitted in uncertainty as I discreetly studied the woman’s appearance. She was dressed in a rich tunic that was somehow barbaric in its style and shape, though I only based this assumption on what the townspeople had been wearing, knowing too little about these things to make a solid judgement. It was, however, more luxurious by far than anything I had seen on a commoner’s back. I felt a little ashamed at being seen in my brother’s simple shepherd’s tunic, and increased my pace a little.

“Wait,” called a voice from behind me. I halted and turned warily, to see that it was the fair woman who had addressed me. She approached me, smiling ruefully. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to keep you. But you reminded me of someone, someone who died many years ago. And anyway, you cannot be her...”

I held my breath, as things began to click into place. There was no doubt in my mind now that she was an Amazon; that much was proved by her unusual dress. And she had guessed, or at least had some inkling, as to who I was. Frowning slightly, I wondered if I really looked so much like my mother.

Unable to say anything, I held my silence as she continued to look at me, her eyes betraying none of the thoughts that were clearly rampant in her mind. “No, it couldn’t be,” she repeated again, and I wondered if she meant that I couldn’t be the dead Penthesilea, or her lost child.

“I am sorry to disappoint you,” I said softly, keeping my eyes on the ground.

The tall woman smiled. “No, please. It is just my imagination, it runs away with me sometimes! But I would be grateful if you did tell me who you are, just so I can rest at ease.”

“Meli...Melanippe of Halys,” I answered, remembering to use my full name. The woman’s expression altered again for a moment, taking on some of its previous air of suspicion, before settling back into a smile.

“That is an Amazon name. I am an Amazon, though my name is not,” she responded proudly. “I’m Camane.”

“You are Queen!” I breathed quickly, almost dismayed at my infernal luck at having met the one person who might have recognised my right of inheritance.

“I am one of the Queens, yes.” She seemed thoughtful for a few moments. “The River Halys is a long way from Troy. What brings you here, and alone by the looks of it?”

I bit my lip, deciding to admit a small part of the truth, rather than lying outright to the Queen who had almost discovered that which I would rather keep hidden. “I discovered recently that the man I knew as my father was given me by an Amazon, to raise as his own. It was my family’s wish that I find my true kinswomen and fulfil my...potential.”

Queen Camane looked somewhat doubtful at my words. “We do not normally give away our girl-children, but raise them ourselves. Your mother must have had a good reason to give you to a foster family.”

“I do not even know who my mother is,” I lied back calmly, hoping my nonchalance would disguise the dread of discovery which I kept hidden in my heart. “She did not reveal her name to my family, only her instructions.”

“And these were?”

I sighed. “To find my kin once I have reached maturity.”

She studied my face for a moment, before returning her smile – a knowing smile, I dreaded to think. “You had best come with me, then. I am sure we will solve the mystery of your parentage together.”

Nodding, I accepted her offer, following behind Camane, by rights my co-ruler, towards the palace, where my inheritance awaited me in vain.

TLT: Suspicion

It was of no great surprise to anyone that Helenus, once prince of Troy, rarely attended the lavish banquets which the Mycenaean rulers had made into nightly occurrences. The Trojan seer was known to be somewhat reclusive, and most of the reverence which the Achaeans held for him was borne out of fear, in place of respect. He avoided attendance at court if at all possible.

He strode into the great hall, winged on each side with colossal, gaudily decorated columns, all knowing eyes upon him. Amidst the golden splendour of Mycenae’s noblest and wealthiest, he looked painfully conspicuous in his plain tunic and his startling green eyes. Whispers fluttered around the rectangular room like trapped flies among the crowd, following his deliberate steps to the dais upon which the King’s table was set. Helenus seldom felt awkwardness: he was a foreign prince in Achaean lands, a man who neither looked nor spoke like them; awkwardness was too commonplace to be taken heed of now.

And those few who did not recognise him at sight saw a dark-haired man, his tunic so simple that it was almost rustic, striding purposefully through the hall, and they might have wondered why his green gaze was fixed so unwaveringly on the dowager Queen, seated at the young King’s right. Those who knew did not wonder: they knew of the bloody past that ran between them both.

Helenus lowered himself to his knees before their table, bowing his head. When he rose, he found himself glaring at Clytemnestra in a way that was none too prudent; she did, after all, wield more power than any woman in all the Aegean. Two young women who were unfamiliar to him were seated next to Princess Chrysothemis, both so alike in looks and manner that they could only be sisters. He waited to be addressed.

“Wise Helenus, to what do we owe the pleasure of your attendance? Come, sit with us, and explain.”

Still silent, he ascended the dais, taking his seat on the long bench beside Clytemnestra. She flashed him her crocodile smile, remarking on his non-attendance with marked civility – so marked that Helenus understood at once that it was false. But yet she smiled, and even as she turned to whisper a word to her son, he watched her long, bare neck, thinking how easy it would be to take it in his hands and hold until her breath came no more.

He only really got to his purpose in attending the banquet after the first course had been and gone, and the low murmur of conversation in the hall was amplified as the first and second cups of wine were drained.

“I saw something troubling last night, my Queen.” His words caught and held her attention immediately. Clytemnestra knew first hand that his prophecies had never been proven false – he’d seen Aegisthus’ death long before she had ever thought to imagine it, and when the day came, she could do nothing but watch, knowing what was to come.

Helenus was no great judge of a person’s thoughts, but even he could see the mistrust reflected in her eyes. They were as wary of one another as a lion and a wolf that quarrelled over the same carcass.

Her hand shook as she set her cup down; Helenus revelled in the weakness which that minute gesture betrayed. She closed her eyes, her lips pressed tightly together. “What was it?” Her whisper broke.

“An earthquake in Sparta. All the buildings were destroyed, the palace lying in a pile of rubble.”

She seemed quite relieved as her eyes opened, looking directly into Helenus’ own. Perhaps, he thought, there was more glee in those eyes at this news than he should have expected.

“Such unfortunate tidings,” she said half-heartedly: he could still see the smile hidden at the corners of her eyes. “We must send word to King Menelaus at once.”

“I would advise so,” replied Helenus levelly. “Though by the time a messenger is found, it may be too late.”

Clytemnestra repeated her cold smile as he gazed down at the cedar table, doing his best to keep his arms still.

“Why so tense, Trojan? We are all friends here, and I have much to thank you for. Besides, you might have married my sister, they tell me, and then we would have been brother and sister-in-law.”

He had wondered since what may have happened if he’d accepted marriage to Helen. He still remembered, as though it was a wound only half-healed, the time he had gone to tell his niece, Arynthya, that Deiphobus had won Helen, and not he. The pain he had inflicted on the young woman still stabbed at his conscience from time to time; sometimes her pale, listless body haunted his true dreams. His decision to pass the hand of Helen to his brother had caused her an unfathomable amount of pain. But Helenus had never had a choice in the matter, despite the fact that his father had offered him the Spartan princess first. It was his vision that decided for him: there would be no future for him with Helen of Sparta.

“Had I married Helen, my Queen, I would probably have been dead. Perhaps even by the hand of the King of Sparta.”

“Oh, Helenus. Don’t be so glum.” She batted his shoulder playfully, but this only drew a suspicious look in return.

“I should go,” he said, rising slightly in his seat.

“No.” The Queen stopped him, pinning his hand to the table none too gently. “Stay, enjoy the rest of the meal. Gods know you could use some company.”