Six

The Spartan agora was even more crowded than anticipated. Paris and Helen slipped through the crowd with ease. It was primarily due to the outfits Helen had taken from her slaves. Paris had grown accustomed to wearing finer silks; the disguise he wore was itchy and stiff. He used to wear a chiton similar to the one he wore. If only his father could see him now, slipping through the alleys in disguise. Not Priam. Paris' adoptive father.

Paris tried not to think about him, almost as much as he tried not to think about Alexis. He missed the farm, and he missed his father. Missed the

Helen had a veil to conceal her face. She'd sworn her slaves to secrecy should Menelaus or Hector ask about their whereabouts, but Paris was still nervous. The exhilaration, however, trumped the nerves. Their escape had ignited something within him, and now a fire of rebelliousness burned.

"This way," Helen said, waving for him to stay close.

They broke out of the side street and into the throngs of people that flooded the agora. The body odour mingled sourly with fruits and freshly baked bread. It was humid, despite the heavy cloud cover and loud. A group of children were clustered near the sidestreet, playing a game where they tried to hit their opponent's knuckles. Soldiers milled among the commoners, some approaching the ladies lingering outside rundown buildings. One lady stretched out and caressed Paris' cheek when Paris and Helen wandered by.

"Are you looking for some company?" she purred.

"N-no, thank you." Paris shook her off and scrambled to catch up to Helen, cheeks burning. When their shoulders bumped, he realized she was laughing.

"What?" he said, sharper than intended.

"Even dressed in poor clothing, you attract all manner of attention," she giggled.

"I do not," he said.

"You do."

She waved a hand around, and it was only then that Paris noticed the way people eyed him, men and women, alike. Lust, curiosity, want. There was also suspicion. Paris was dressed like a Spartan, though his skin and hair were darker. He wondered if their arrival had been announced. The two Trojan princes, whose envoy sank in the Aegean Sea. The two princes sent to maintain what little peace remained between two countries eager for war.

"Too bad I didn't think of placing a veil over your head to hide your beauty." She linked her arm with his and leaned in close. "To keep you all for myself. Imagine if they knew who was with you. Imagine that scandal."

"A scandal about a Trojan Prince and the Queen of Sparta is not what I want," Paris said, shaking her off, "especially given the fragile peace between Troy and Greece. It would mean my death and yours too."

"I did not mean anything by it," Helen sighed. From her tone, Paris knew she was insulted by his reaction. "But let them talk. Menelaus is oblivious to what I do. They could tell him right to his face, and he wouldn't believe it."

"Where are you taking me?" Paris asked, desperate for a topic change.

"Today is the second day of a special festival," she explained. There was mischief in her tone. "It's an important Spartan celebration for our sun, Apollo."

They drifted further from the heart of the agora, and lively music and jovial singing filled the air. As Paris and Helen burst through the crowds, a line of dancers greeted them, throwing flowers in the air. Women twirled, clapping their hands, their skirts billowing out around them as they moved around the statue of a young, handsome, beardless man. He reached for the sun with one hand while holding his kithara in the other. His expression was serene and wise.

Apollo, the youthful god.

At his feet was a tribute of fruits. Next to the statue stood the sacrificial tent. A fire had been erected where a sacrificed goat cooked.

The aromatic smell of the meat and the lively affair was intoxicating. Paris had been to celebrations for Apollo before. He was the god Paris prayed to protect his sheep on the farm. And Apollo was the god who built Troy, along with Poseidon. But the Greeks sang praise for the god and the rebirth of his lover, Hyacinthus. They mourned the death of such a beautiful hero and worshipped Apollo for his loss.

"This is Hyakinthia," Helen said, dragging him forward. Young girls pranced around them, carrying bundles of flowers towards rows of chariots. A few yards away, Paris spotted horses racing around a track. "Apollo lost his lover, Hyacinthus, to the jealous Zephyrus. Hyacinthus was a Spartan prince, and Apollo loved him dearly." On the anniversary of our beloved prince's death, we mourn his death, celebrate his rebirth, and then praise Apollo."

"Is this not something everyone attends?" he asked. Menelaus had never mentioned this celebration.

"We do not celebrate down here with the people. We have our celebrations at the palace later. Apollo is the god for travellers, so of course, it's natural for you to participate."

"Then why bring me here?"

Helen watched the dancers for a moment and then took his hand. She leaned in close enough for him to see her delicate features under the veil. Her eyes were so clear, so sad. "Because this is what freedom feels like. They do not hold back in their celebration. For one day, I want to feel this way again. Don't you?"

The role of prince was still new to Paris. And yet, he did feel a shift in his freedom, especially when he landed in Greece. Hector was determined to keep them both locked away in Menelaus' palace. Even owing to the tension between Greece and Troy, Paris left Troy to see the world. Not to be coped up in a palace, drinking his sorrows away.

Besides, he lost Alexis. He deserved a little fun. This was his chance to mourn her death as Apollo mourned Hyacinthus'.

However, Helen pulled him out of the crowd before he had the chance to say any of that. They fell into line with the dancers, Helen guiding him through the steps, laughing when he fumbled. His cheeks burned from embarrassment, but he found himself laughing with her. Back home, he had been a decent dancer. But in Greece, the steps were foreign, the music lighter.

They celebrated the same gods and goddesses, the cultures between the two kingdoms so similar and yet so different. The wine was more tart in Sparta, stronger. The goat was seasoned with a tangy spice that blended perfectly with the charred woody flavour from the fire. The chiton and peplos were heavier than in Troy and more intricately woven. The women wore shorter chiton and didn't seem bothered by showing their legs. The men were all warriors, trained and disciplined for a life in the military.

The sun sank low, but the celebrations continued, unhindered. If anything, it grew louder and rowdier as people drank. Paris was swept up in the festival, dancing with Helen, watching the horse races, eating the banquets presented. Young girls giggled as they placed purple flowers in his hair, squealing in delight when he presented one to Helen. Though her veil remained firmly over her face, Paris knew she was smiling and enjoying herself. Any thoughts of getting caught or Hector's disappointment had successfully slipped to the back of Paris' mind.

"How are you enjoying your first Spartan celebration?" Helen asked as she dropped onto the bench next to Paris.

"I'm enjoying it immensely," he sighed. He picked at his grapes before biting into one. "I'm sure this celebration is loud enough for the gods to hear on Olympus."

"The Spartans do know how to throw a party."

Helen's laugh was as delicate as she was. The orange glow from the fire cast a warm shimmer around her. Even tucked under the veil, she was still stunning. Despite his resistance, Paris could not deny her beauty. She drew him to her as a flame drew a moth.

"Yes, they do."

They were lulled into silence, the music and drink catching up to them. Paris watched the Spartans who danced, the men who were sloppy drunk, the women who weaved hyacinth flowers in each others' hair. Usually, men and women celebrated separately, but this was an event for both.

"We should probably head back," Paris said. "I'm amazed Hector hasn't sent out a search party yet."

"It just shows how little we mean to them," Helen pointed out. "How about one more drink, and then we go back. It will give us the courage to face the celebration Menelaus has planned as well."

Truthfully, Paris didn't want to leave, so her excuse was perfect. With a nod, he climbed to his feet. "I shall find us some more wine."

Leaving Helen, Paris slipped through the crowd, which was starting to thin. Hector had told him the Greeks could party all night long when given a chance, so he wondered where they were going. Perhaps they were moving the party to their homes.

The banquet table closest to Apollo's statue was still fresh with wine. Paris grabbed two cups and filled both with wine. Then his attention snagged on the statue before him. Alexis would have loved to see the celebrations. She was always so fascinated by the gods.

"She's gone," he muttered to himself.

But, what if she wasn't. What if she was alive and out there in the world? Hector was convinced she was dead, and Paris believed him. There was no way she could have survived the accident. And yet, as he stared at Apollo's serene face, he wasn't so sure. He didn't know what caused the sudden doubt. It squirmed in his stomach like a worm pushing through the dirt.

He had to know if she was alive.

"Please, Apollo, if she is alive, keep her safe until I can find her."

Then he turned his back on the god and made his way back to where he left Helen.

Only she wasn't alone. Two men had approached, sitting on either side of her. They wore bronze chest plates and helmets, indicating they were on duty. Their gestures were exaggerated and sloppy. They had dipped a little too much into the wine.

"Why are you hiding your face?" one of them asked. His helmet sat too low over his face, ironically obscuring his features. "Something to hide?"

"Maybe she's ugly," the other laughed, tugging on her veil. "Either way, you have us curious."

Helen tried to pull away but remained silent. She caught sight of Paris and moved to stand. The guard with the oversized helmet wrapped his hand around her wrist, tugging her down. Paris gripped the goblets tightly, anger flaring through him.

The guard who spoke tilted his head. "What? Too good to answer us?"

"Let me go," Helen ordered, though her voice was clipped with nerves. "You don't know who you are messing with."

"Oh? Then show us."

"She said to let her go." Paris stormed up to them. His hands shook severely wine sloshed over the lip of the cups. "So, why don't you listen to her?"

"Wait your turn, pretty boy," the second guard slurred, climbing to his feet. "Unless you want a little fun with us too? I'm not picky."

Paris moved before he realized what he was doing. He threw one of the cups at the man with all the force he could muster. It hit the guard's helmet, splashing wine over his face and down his breastplate. The prince dropped the other cup and lunged at the man, both toppling over the bench.

"Paris," Helen gasped, leaping to her feet.

"What in the name of Zeus?" the guard with the oversized helmet snapped. He leapt to his friend's aid, yanking Paris off. Paris tried to swing a punch, but the man caught his wrist. "I don't think so."

Pain exploded through Paris as the guard drove his fist into the prince's gut. Helen screamed his name again, and Paris curled over the fist, his breath whooshing out of him. Around them, spectators were crowding in, buzzing with excitement. What was a celebration without a fight? This was Sparta, after all. Any chance to show off strength was too good to miss.

The guard let Paris drop, and the prince wheezed, clutching his abdomen. He felt something solid and painful hit his ribs, throwing him onto his back. Paris landed and curled onto his side. Maybe he'd bit off more than he could handle by picking a fight with two Spartans.

"Get up!" the guard roared. He yanked Paris upright by his hair. "Show us what you're made of, pretty boy."

At that, Paris mustered whatever strength he had left and caught the guard by surprise. The prince's knuckles burned as they connected with the guard's chin. He scrambled to his feet and lunged, catching the guard around his torso. They fell onto the ground in a tangle of limbs. Paris lacked muscles and strength, but he refused to back down. He was tired of everyone seeing him as weak and pathetic. He had just as much to offer as Hector, but because he wasn't a warrior like his brother, he was nothing. The least he could do was defend Helen's honour.

"That is enough," Helen ordered. She stepped forward, her veil lowered. "This is how you would treat foreign guests? Get off him now."

A hush fell over the onlookers as they registered who stood before them. Her beautiful, red hair flowed freely around her shoulders and down her back. Her eyes were sharp icicles, piercing through everyone who dared match her stare. The guard, who had managed to pin Paris to the ground, climbed off the prince sheepishly. His cheeks were bright red from the admonishment, though when he noticed Paris rising to his feet, the guard's look darkened.

"The Trojan ambassadors," he said before spitting at Paris' feet. "If you represent your people, your kingdom is doomed." He glanced at the Spartan queen. "Fraternizing with the enemy is not a good idea."

Helen raised her chin, her lips drawing in a tight, thin line. "I don't want to hear your threats. Menelaus, your king, is doing what he thinks is best for our country. Leave us, and I won't report you to your commander. I wonder how he'll react when he finds out you were harassing your queen."

The two guards shoved their way through the onlookers with one last dangerous look at Paris. As the crowd swallowed them up, Helen approached Paris. Gently, she placed a hand on his cheek.

"Are you alright?"

Aware of the crowd still pressing in around them, Paris pulled away and brushed past her, indifferent to her concern and humiliated by the public fight. All he wanted to do now was hide away and drink until they left for Troy.