Page 3 of Where Darkness Bloomed
“Mycenae.”
***
A week later, a lone Spartan ship cut through the surf, slicing toward Mycenae’s shores. Onlookers gathered to the harbor, watching the Spartan king and his guards disembark without ceremony. Without a word, they mounted waiting horses and rode for the hilltop palace that loomed in the distance.
The doors of the throne room flew wide ahead of Menelaus, his storming footsteps echoing against the stone. He ignored the murmuring noblemen and watchful advisors, striding to the golden throne at the hall’s center.
There he dropped to one knee. “Brother,” he muttered gruffly.
From his throne, Agamemnon, king of Mycenae and ruler of Greece, studied him with sharp eyes. Slowly, he rose from the seat, a practiced smile curling against his hard features as he descended the dais.
“Brother,” he said smoothly, grasping Menelaus by the shoulders and pulling him upright. “You honor me with an unexpected visit. What has called Sparta’s king to Mycenae?”
“The Trojans,” Menelaus gritted through clenched teeth, his hands fisting at his sides.
Agamemnon quirked a brow, amused. “Your peace talks with Troy soured, I presume. Prince Hector can be... unyielding.”
“Not Hector,” Menelaus spat, his face darkening. “Paris.”
Surprise lit Agamemnon’s eyes, a hand drifting to his silver-threaded beard. “The younger whelp?” he asked. “What did that pup do to provoke such rage?”
Menelaus flushed burgundy, blood rising hotly in his face. His breath came heavy. “He—stole—Helen.” The words trembled, bursting with rage. “Took her to Troy.”
Agamemnon went still, all amusement vanishing instantly. Turning, he swept the hall with a hard glare. “Leave us,” he barked.
The hall emptied quickly, an uneasy silence lingering as the crowd obeyed. The chamber doors groaned shut.
Agamemnon sank back onto the throne, gesturing for Menelaus to speak.
Menelaus stood, fury shaking his bulky frame as he bitterly told the humiliating tale: the empty bed, the beggar’s damning words, and the final disgrace: his queen whisked away in the night by the Trojans. His voice rose, hot anger and shame lacing each word.
As he finished, Agamemnon stood and paced the hall in slow deliberation.
“What am I to do?” Menelaus demanded. “I will be the laughingstock of Greece—the king who lost his queen to a soft-skinned boy with a hard cock and pretty face!”
Agamemnon stopped mid-stride, his piercing gaze snapping toward his brother. “You are aking,” he bit out sharply. “And kings do not sit idle while they’re pissed on by painted princes. Paris offers an insult the gods themselves would curse.”
He stepped closer, and his grip was iron-tight as it clamped Menelaus’s shoulder. “You must act.Now.”
“To what end?” Menelaus muttered darkly. “The Trojans will hide behind their high walls, laughing at my demands and growing my humiliation.”
Agamemnon’s grip tightened. “King Priam may ignore you... but he won’t ignore all of Greece.”
Menelaus looked up, blinking as the meaning settled.
Agamemnon nodded grimly. “I march with you. And the Trojans will tremble before us like dogs beneath the boot.” His voice rang like a battle cry in the quiet. “Go now and gather your armies. When you return, we will shape the conquest of Troy together.”
Fierce light burned in Menelaus’s gaze, and he bowed, then strode from the hall.
As he disappeared beyond the colonnade, another figure appeared at the arched entry. Silver-haired and slightly stooped with age, he still bore an unmistakably regal air as he leaned against a gold-topped staff.
“Nestor,” Agamemnon called, beckoning him forward. “My friend, I have just received joyful news.”
The king of Pylos approached with a deliberate gait, his sharp eyes measuring. “What news, High King?”
Agamemnon turned to the terrace where the sea sparked turquoise beneath the high sun. In the distance, his brother descended the hilltop with his guards.
“Paris of Troy,” he said, voice thick with grim satisfaction, “has just gifted me control of the Aegean Sea.”
