For the Most Beautiful
Read For the Most Beautiful Online
Authors: Emily Hauser
Three thousand years ago a war took place that gave birth to legends â to Achilles, the greatest of the Greeks, and Hector, prince of Troy. It was a war that shook the very foundations of the world. But what if there was more to this epic conflict? What if there was another, hidden tale of the Trojan War?
Now is the time for the women of Troy to tell their story.
Thrillingly imagined and startlingly original,
For the Most Beautiful
reveals the true story of Troy for the first time. Krisayis, daughter of the Trojans' high priest, and Briseis, princess of Pedasus, fight to determine the fate of a city and its people in this ancient time of mischievous gods and mythic heroes.
In this novel full of passion and revenge, loyalty and betrayal, bravery and sacrifice, Emily Hauser breathes exhilarating new life into one of the greatest legends of all â in a tale that has waited millennia to be told.
Contents
For Oliver, always
I am grateful to so many people for their kindness, support and hard work in helping to make this book a reality. First, to my teachers: to Andrew Clarke, for encouraging me to write even when I didn't know how. To Bob Bass, for first inspiring me with his passion for Classics. To David Rawson, for teaching me that you can sometimes have too many adjectives. To Professor Mac Marston, for his help with the agriculture and ecology of the Troad. To Professor Dr Ernst Pernicka for his insights into the recent archaeological findings at Troy. To Professor Emily Greenwood for her continued support and encouragement, and also to Professor Irene Peirano Garrison for her course
The Invention of the Classic
, from which the idea for
For the Most Beautiful
was born.
Next, of course, to my indefatigable agent Roger Field, not least for teaching me to climb walls properly. And to my publishers, Transworld: to my lovely editor Simon Taylor (so ably aided by Bella Bosworth) for their ever-helpful comments and for chats about the ancient world, and to the fabulous team who have worked so hard to make this book look beautiful inside and out, especially Alice Murphy-Pyle, Becky Glibbery, Gareth Pottle, Patsy Irwin, Phil Lord and Tash Barsby.
To my family and friends: the HGS crew â especially Brian, Charlotte, Katherine and Nicki â for listening to the book as it was born (over dinner and even on road trips). To everyone at PED, for your support and your printer. To the BSA girls, Arabella, Athina and Natalia, for the first trip to Greece that started it all, and to Clem, Farzana, Eva, Dietmar and Marlis, George and Katy for love and laughter along the way. To my parents, who taught me to follow my heart, and who always listened to my stories, even when they weren't any good. You have all supported me in ways you don't even know.
And, finally, to my husband, Oliver, without whom neither this book nor my life would be the same. For your patience and love and support and your constant, unfailing belief in me and
For the Most Beautiful
â this is for you.
High summer on the slopes of Mount Ida. Sweat trickling down his forehead, flies buzzing around his herd with their incessant thrumming, the stench of the goats thick in his nostrils mixed with the salt of the sea air from the north. He pushes the hair back from his brow and looks up to the sky. The sun, Apulunas' chariot, is at the height of its course.
The middle of the day.
He moves to the shade of an olive tree, his dog following at his heels. The cool darkness beneath the shimmering leaves envelops him and eases the heat on the back of his neck as he picks up a loaf of bread wrapped in stiff linen and his leather pouch, filled with wine. Though he is a prince born of the line of the kings of Troy, he has tended the goats on Mount Ida since he was a boy. The king hopes to show his people that his sons are not afraid to work the land which provides Troy with its famous wealth; yet Paris has always preferred the soft whisper of women's robes swishing through the painted corridors of the palace to the hollow clang of the goats' bells. He unties the thong around the neck and lets a few drops fall to the parched earth as a libation, an offering to the gods who make and destroy all things. The wine hisses on the ground and disappears, soaked into the thirsty soil.
His dog begins to growl behind him.
âWhat is it, Methepon?'
He turns. The dog's hackles are raised, his snout quivering. He bends to grasp Methepon's leather collar, but the dog snarls and barks, sending saliva flying.
âWhatâ?'
There is a sound of movement, a rustling as of leaves upon the wind. Methepon is growling and barking ever more insistently, long teeth bared, eyes fixed ahead.
Paris looks up.
Three women are standing in the sunlight just beyond the shade of the olive tree. How they came to be there he does not know; neither, in this moment, does he care â for they are women of breathtaking beauty, with rich hair falling over their shoulders in waves, soft, shining skin, and robes of the finest gauze that brush against their slim waists and thighs. He feels the tension in his muscles relax. What in the names of all the gods is Methepon so afraid of? And then he smiles, thinking of his brother Hector, whose wife Andromache is as plain as the Trojan fields in winter. There are some men, true, who would fear to be before three such beauties.
But if there is one thing he, Paris, of all the princes of Troy, knows above all others, it is women.
One of them beckons to him, smiling. He bends down to pull at Methepon's collar again, but the dog is still snarling fiercely, paws dug into the dirt. âWhat's wrong with you?'
Methepon lies down on the ground, whining, refusing to move.
Paris frowns. âVery well,' he says, shrugging his shoulders and picking up his pouch of wine. âStay here, then.' He strides out of the shade towards where the women stand. âI apologize,' he says, bowing deeply. âMy dog is not normally soâ'
âMortal.'
The voice rings in his ears. It seems to come from within his own head. He stops where he is and stares at the women, and they smile back at him, eyes glinting. There is a hardness to them, now that he is closer â as if they were sculpted of marble or stone with a sharpened chisel, not soft and made of flesh. He swallows. âWho â what â who are you?' he says, trying to ignore the renewed growling and snarling of his dog behind him.
âGoddesses,' comes the reply. âThe three great goddesses: the ones you pour wine for. Goddesses of Ida.'
âGoddesses?' he says. âGoddesses of Troy?'
He thinks of Arinniti â his favourite goddess â the one he worships with rose petals and pomegranates, whose statue he keeps in a shrine in his chamber. Era, queen of the gods, the august patron to whom his mother Hecuba lays a fresh-woven robe each night as an offering. Atana, the goddess of war and wisdom, whose high temple graces the upper city of Troy and whom the priestesses worship with almost as much reverence as Apulunas himself.
âYou cannot be,' he says. âIt is blasphemy to say so. The gods appear only to their chosen priests within Troy.'
The women smile, and the air shimmers slightly. âLook again.'
He looks up. He sees Era with her crown of golden oak leaves and the sceptre in her hand, her bearing infused with easy command, and even through his fear he sees in her the deep allure of a woman who knows that the world is hers for the taking. Atana has a burning intelligence in her grey-green eyes, and as he turns to her he feels the urge to plumb the secrets of the earth with her, to fly to the tops of the mountains to steal eggs from the eagles' nests and dive into the depths of the oceans. And the third ⦠The third has skin paler than ivory brushed by roses in full bloom, shining hair that falls in waves to the curving swell of her breasts and a mouth as red as apples at the height of summer.
âWhat do you want of me?' he asks, his voice shaking.
The last of the three smiles, a smile that promises everything â and he knows, from the rush of desire that channels through his veins, that she truly is Arinniti, his Arinniti, to whom he prays each morning and each night. She extends a hand. In it is an apple, an apple of gold, glimmering in the sunlight, some words he cannot read etched into the surface.
âChoose,' she says, reaching out towards him. âChoose to which of us the apple most belongs.'
He stares at her. âYou are goddesses,' he says. âHow can I choose?'
Arinniti smiles again, revealing white teeth. âBecause we have chosen you.'
He hesitates, then stretches forward a trembling hand. She drops the apple into it.
He brings it closer to his face, gazing at the sheen of its skin, the impossible perfection of its surface.
And then he sees the inscription etched into its flesh.
ΤÎÎ ÎÎÎÎÎΣΤÎÎ.
âFor the most beautiful,' he whispers.
The goddesses are staring at him, their faces hungry, their eyes dark and wild.
âIf you choose me,' Atana says, in a low voice, âI will give you victory. You will win every battle you choose to fight. Everyone will come to you to beg you for the secret of your fame. Kings and gods will look up to you. You will fail at nothing.'
She draws a hand through the air, and at once his vision is obscured with golden light. Cities form before him â cities besieged by warriors whose brazen armour glints in the sun, stretched across the plain beneath the cities' walls in a sea of sparkling weapons, led by a prince with his own fine features and curling hair. He sees palaces toppled, their golden ramparts dissolving like sand, and ahead of him, an empire stretching as far as the eye can see â innumerable cities, countless lands, all his for the taking â¦
