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.”