Song of Princes (Homeric Chronicles #1) (10 page)

“Praise Artemis.”

Shahvash raised her kylix of wine to share with the queen. “We are blessed, my lady. But I give my thanks to Apollo.”

The queen took the proffered wine. “Why Apollo?” Hecuba’s heart throbbed with the old pain. She forced a small smile for her guest’s sake.

“My husband’s brother, Chryse, is a loyal servant and priest of the god. The god gave him a vision of this child. Her husband will be the greatest warrior who ever lived. Her name will fall from the lips of story tellers and tears will swell in the eyes of all who hear the tale for generations upon generations to come.”

“Then, surely she will be most beautiful,” Hecuba responded.
Why couldn’t Apollo give me such a blessing, even if a girl? Why did he have to take my son from me? Order such a cruel death?
She wanted to curse Apollo, but dared not breathe the words into life. “Have you come to bargain for our horses?”

“You have the mind of a man. Always a head for trading and exchange of coins my Lady Hecuba.”

“Apologies. I cannot help but speak praise for our stock. Finer horses cannot be found in all the Troad.”

Shahvash’s laughter rang silver and sweet. “You are correct. I cannot deny my husband has come for such purpose.”

“My horse is the finest in all the land.” Both women turned toward the interrupting voice and found the Prince of Troy looking expectantly between them.

“My lady Shahvash. My eldest son, Hektor.”

Hektor nodded to Shahvash across the table. “My lady, I apologize if I have been rude to speak. I have been listening between the men and my mother regarding horses. I am surrounded by talk of horses.”

Shahvash flashed a happy smile. Hecuba noted her perfect teeth. “There is nothing to pardon. What else would I expect the Prince of Troy to love, but horses?”

“Would you care to see the finest one in all the land?” Hektor asked. “Mother?”

Queen Hecuba nodded approval. “If our guest should wish it. Fair warning. It is a walk, my lady.”

Hektor sweetened the proposition. “He is as black as a starless night. The most hot blooded of all the horses owned by my father. Sure-footed. He will be the finest mount that ever lived.”

“How can I refuse such a request?” Shahvash asked.

“You cannot, my Lady Shahvash,” said the young Prince of Troy.

“What do you call this magnificent steed?”

“Ares.”

“God of War? A suitable name for a warhorse!” Shahvash exclaimed.

“If only there was a war! I would ride Ares proudly and swiftly onto the plains and fight,” Hektor’s face lit up with his wish for war.

Hecuba shook off another shiver of
gold and dust
...as she placed her hand gently on Priam’s arm. He acknowledged her by leaning toward her. “Hektor has a mind to show our guest his magnificent horse.”

The king turned to meet his wife’s eyes. “He is truly my son. Take an escort.”

“We shall.” Hecuba stood with Shahvash and Hektor following. “We are for the stables it seems.”

Priam watched from the corner of his eye as the queen took her leave of the hall, Hektor leading the way talking to the wife of Briseus.

“She is an easy woman...your wife,” Priam remarked to his royal dinner companion.

Briseus raised a perfectly arched eyebrow at Priam’s assessment. “Do not let her soft voice and manner deceive. The blood of my wife’s family breeds fierceness and hot tempers. She’s not so easily bent to a husband’s will as you may think.”

Priam threw his head back with raucous laughter. He clapped Briseus firmly on the back. “It appears, my friend, that our taste in horses and women is the same! The untamable ones intrigue.”

“That is true enough, Lord Priam. I fear the daughter she carries will be the undoing of me.”

“Daughter?” Priam questioned. “You are certain?”

“Apollo has spoken the sacred word.”

Priam bristled at the mention of Apollo speaking of an unborn child’s fate, even though not his own. “The god’s word was...favorable?”

Briseus nodded. “The girl-child will marry the greatest warrior that ever lived.”

Priam smiled. “Then she should be married to Hektor.”

Both men raised their wine in salute and drank. “No more talk of horse flesh and women.” Priam handed his drinking cup to a slave and clapped his hands loudly. “Bring the dancers!” He settled back into his chair. As the veiled women swirled into the room, Priam’s mind drifted to Hecuba. It may have been years since she had wrapped her long legs around him in ecstasy, but he could still feel them in his mind. His cock throbbed at the memory.

PARIS SAT WITH
his father under an olive tree eating the mid afternoon meal. It was important to stay hidden from the sacred bulls. They weren’t cattle intended for field work. They were meant for purifying sacrifices and bull dancing. Only those beasts unmarred by imperfections would be chosen for holy blood letting and worship of the gods. The less perfect were destined for the public dancing arena for bull leaping, which in Troy was serious business. It was a dangerous game to face a wild bull and jump over it. Many men died learning the art of the dance. It was the herder’s task to ensure the bulls remained wild and unpredictable, ignorant of men, unfamiliar with their smell, or the challenge of the experience wasn’t honor worthy in the arena. These giant creatures were highly prized and required a watchful eye to ensure the security of the animals and future profits.

Agelaus looked up at the stars scattered and blinking across the imperial dark. “Tonight, my son, you will join a long line of proud men of the house Távros.” He met the boy’s eyes in the dimming light. “It will be different you know, being out here without your brothers or I.”

“I will make you proud, Father. I want you to be proud of me. Even...even...if I’m not really yours.”

Agelaus looked down at his son. “You are mine, Paris. From the moment I brought you home. Squalling and fat from the foothills. Do you know what makes a boy a good son?”

Paris shook his head. He was often scolded by his mother for not thinking before he acted, like the time he let the goats out to race them in the field came to mind. He’d never seen his mother so red in the face. “No.”

“It’s not the blood tie, Paris. Even the Olympians, in a moment of madness, turned against Zeus. No, it’s not the blood ties.” He put his arm around Paris’ shoulders. “It’s the measure of heart he offers. And you give your mother and I your full heart. We give you ours in return.”

“And that makes me a good son?”

“Yes.”

“As good as Tymon and Harmon?”

Agelaus chuckled. “Do not tell them, but you give more heart than they do.”

“So you give me more heart in return?”

“Shah! That is our secret.”

Paris beamed with pride. “I will keep our secret, Father.”

“Now, about tending these bulls. You must be vigilant for thieves and wolves,” Agelaus said.

“I know father.”

“Do you have your bow?” Agelaus took great pride in his son’s lethal ability with the weapon. The art of bow hunting had come easily to Paris at a very young age. He felled his first stag at age six. His aim neared perfection. His strength much advanced than other boys his age. Agelaus was certain the boy’s royal nature revealed itself in these small, unexpected ways. 

“I can take care of the herd, Father. Don’t worry,” Paris said, munching a mouth full of cheese and bread. “If I see anything, I’ll pierce it with my arrows.”

“That’s my boy.” Agelaus put his hand on his son’s curly black hair. “You do that. I can’t afford to lose another bull.” He stood up. “Well, it’s a long walk back to the farm. Better get started before it gets dark. Your mother will flog me if I miss dinner...again.”

“No bulls lost on my watch. I promise.” Paris became all seriousness. “You can sleep well tonight, Father.” Paris stuck his dimpled chin in the air with confidence. Agelaus had begun to worry that with every passing day Paris looked more and more like prince Hektor. Priam’s seed was definitely strong. He prayed to Artemis and Apollo that no one made the observation.

Paris packed up the remaining flat bread and chunk of cheese he’d been eating and stored it in his knapsack for later. He knew he’d get hungry and eating on and off all night would help him stay awake. He was determined to barely blink, if he could help it. 

Young Paris loved the moment when daylight began to diminish and darkness spread like ink across the sky and the stars magically appeared one by one, as if the goddess Asteria cast them from a basket like jewels strewn across a meadow. He imagined the goddess of stars with a silver gown floating all around her. He imagined her hair illuminated by starlight and for eyes silver flames. Paris played a game inside his head every night at the moment her immortal hands dropped the first star. He counted each sparkle as it appeared and kept counting until the glimmering specks numbered beyond tracking.

Being out in the fields at night might frighten most boys his age, but he’d been accompanying his father since he could walk. The night sounds of crickets chirping and the eerie calls of owls comforted Paris, letting him know all was well. Once, when he was younger, a black wolf had wandered into their camp. The fire had died low and from the blackness beyond the orange glow a dark shape stepped tentatively out in front of them. Agelaus had jumped up and started yelling and waving his arms like a man possessed. The startled wolf practically spun into the fire by accident. It ran for its life probably thinking Agelaus a ghost of Hades himself. When his father stopped yelling and flailing his arms about, they’d looked at each other and started laughing. So, on this first night of his first unaccompanied watch, he wasn’t even afraid of the black wolves.

The thing he feared the most was the cattle thief. No bizarre immortal creature or nighttime prowler concerned young Paris more than knowing that this treachery could be out there stalking his family’s herd. Cattle rustlers often worked in a wicked ring, struck fast as a bolt of Zeus’ lightening, and could ruin an entire year of careful breeding and field tending within an hour. The night air grew colder as the sky grew darker. Paris stoked the camp fire and pulled his himation close around his shoulders; in its warmth he could smell the campfire smoke and his mother’s arms. All he had to do now was remain alert to strange noises or any distressing sounds from the cattle themselves. Since they were not accustomed to the touch of any man, they would sound the loudest alarm if disturbed.

Paris settled his back against the same wild olive tree he always camped under when Agelaus was with him. He’d been there so often that the earth was dented under his rump; rounded perfectly as if scooped by a god’s hand just for a boy his size. The trees twisted roots rose to the surface gripping the earth like gnarled fingers. Unripe fruit dangled in small clusters on the wild silver-green branches, canopied above him. He poked the small campfire, more embers now than flame, with a long charred stick. Delicate cinders floated into the deepening night. Paris opened his knapsack and pulled out his bundle of flat bread and cheese. He ate to stave of sleep more than hunger. Anything to keep his mind sharp. He reminded himself to chew with deliberation so the food would last and he would have something to occupy his time with.

He blinked the heaviness from his eyes as the night stretched into early morning; even the crickets ceased their nighttime vigil and finally slept. A wolf howled far in the distance. An owl screeched and he looked up from under the olive canopy to see the white feathered underbelly pass low overhead.
Athena
, he thought.  The top of the tree shook with the weight of the night hunter as it perched without knowing the boy was there. Paris laughed to himself thinking he’d somehow tricked Athena. An owl would never land this close to a person on purpose. But, soon the beady orange gaze bored into the top of his head. He looked up and the owl’s neck was craned in an awkward position starring directly at him. Paris unsuccessfully squelched an excited squeak. Athena, not amused, leapt from the tree and took wing elsewhere. The glowing sliver of moon offered little light for guidance, and the night passed uneventfully.

Like the changing of the tides, the sky began to lighten from black to pale wine. Paris had managed to stay awake all night, despite the chill and the silence, never leaving his post. All had gone well. He stood and stretched his bones, cracked his back with a twist, and shook his legs to wake the muscles.

The sparrows began their morning greetings before they could be seen. He heard them jumping from branch to branch in the olive tree above him. He knew his father would be returning to break the nighttime fast with him. The thought of fresh goat cheese and a crisp apple made his stomach grumble with impatience. And then he heard a bull bellow.
That’s strange
, he thought. Another bellow sounded. The hackles of Paris’ neck stood on end. It was unusual for the cattle to be so vocal this early. The big lumbering beasts preferred to graze quietly on the dewy morning grasses. His ears caught the faint baritone of men’s voices carrying on the wind. He strained to hear above the breeze. He closed his eyes to better focus his hearing. The unintelligible words, definitely masculine, were far enough away so he knew the men most likely hadn’t seen him burrowed under the tree. With his heart thumping in his chest, Paris reached for his bow. He’d secretly hoped this might happen. Giddy with the notion of finally having a man’s adventure, he prayed to Apollo to guide his arrows and that he might be esteemed in his father’s eyes. Stop his older brothers from harassing him.

The meadow glistened with the breath of morning. His toes slipped against the leather soles of his sandals. Soon they were soaked and slapping loosely around his feet. He stumbled as one foot caught the sloppy sandal of the other hurtling him to the ground with a soggy thud.

He scrambled to his knees cursing his clumsiness as he unlaced the flimsy leather thongs and cast the sandals aside. Barefooted, he crept along the edge of the meadow toward the narrow gorge. He was careful to pass unseen around the bulls just waking or grazing. These bulls hated the sight of men. Once, he and his father had come across a corpse of a cattle thief that had been gored and stomped into a bloody pile of guts and bones. Paris knew better than to let the beasts sense his presence on foot without a horse. Paris’ breath hung in small clouds as he exhaled his excitement. The soggy meadow squished between his toes. He’d never felt so alive in all his life.

The voices sounded much closer now, and Paris knew he was right on top of them. He heard a man shout, “Watch out you idiot fuck! He’ll gore you that close!”

Paris froze. A bull stomped and snorted. Someone screamed like a frightened woman.

“Lykourgos!” the voice yelled again.

Paris crept even closer to the edge and peered through the low growing bramble and snags just in time to witness a bull stomping the head of a man into the marshy earth. He wanted to void the contents of his stomach at the sight of blood and brains being smashed into the ground. He swallowed the rising bile without making a sound.

He counted three men, now that one was smashed to Hades, trying to rope the angered bull snorting and stabbing the ground with his hooves. They were actually trying to lead the bull down the gorge trail and up the other side without benefit of horses. Slowly and with great stealth, Paris pulled an arrow and laid it against his bow. He felt the damp wood against his cheek and notched the arrow into position, pulling the shaft back with a steady hand. He eyed the biggest man and aimed his weapon directly at the man’s neck. His fingers curled tightly around the tendon string steadying the shot. He inhaled a small amount of air to calm his hand and exhaled in a short burst letting loose the arrow. It whistled through the air and slammed into its mark with fatal accuracy. The target threw his arms back, arched his back, gurgled and fell to his knees. Blood oozed from both sides of his neck where the arrow had pierced cleanly through it. The man fell slowly forward, flat on his face. His companions looked around in surprised horror.

“Hades!” the shortest one screamed.

“Where the fuck did that come from?” the other yelled, frantically eyeing the area where Paris hid. The bull threw its head back and screamed.

The short one screeched in fear of his life, “Let’s get out of here, Licinius. Do you hear me? It’s not worth it.”

Licinius scoffed. “You puny pigeon shit, Philip! Grip your cock, you fucking woman! Stand as a man for once!”

Philip began backing into the brush. “I’m not going to die by bull or arrow. Not today or any other day. I—” The next arrow found his neck and blood showered the ground. He fell hard, his neck spurting his life to the gods. Philip screamed again, dropped his rope and started running as fast as he could for the opposite side of the gorge. The enraged bull caught sight of his rapid movement and pursued him into the distance. Paris heard a sickening scream and knew the last thief had met his end. He laughed as loud as he could, his triumph echoing down the hillside, across the meadow startling birds and beast alike.