Song of Princes (Homeric Chronicles #1) (13 page)

Paris walked straight into the central courtyard, through a small flock of hens pecking for bugs, passed the sleeping hound, that barely lifted his head as Paris approached. He reached down and scratched the dog between the ears. He entered the house from a common door, careful to step lightly against the tiled floor so his brothers would not hear him. As he neared the kitchen, he could hear Tymon’s bold voice. He knew his mother would be cooking. He hoped Agelaus was out in a pasture somewhere. Paris peered around the corner.

“Has father selected the bulls to take to festival?” Harmon asked.

Tymon shoved a hunk of bread into his mouth. “I believe he has.”

“Did he decide against the brown one? The one with the white tipped tail?”

As Tymon began to answer, his words choked as he was yanked backward by a quick jerk to his tunic collar. He slammed hard against the floor. He coughed and shook off the daze. “What fuckery is this?” He looked up from the floor to find Paris looming over him. “You’re home earlier than expected,” he said flatly.

Trembling with rage, Paris bellowed, “Get up! By the gods, you will pay for what you did.”

Tymon rolled onto his side away from the chair and stood, purposely putting distance between them. “It was meant only in jest, little brother. Nothing more.”

Paris advanced, circling the small table, boring a hateful eye into Tymon’s face.

Lexias entered the room and startled. “What commotion wrecks my kitchen?!” She could see the rising anger in Paris’ cheeks and feared for both her sons. When Paris took another step toward Tymon, she scolded them like boys, “Whatever you are arguing about, I tell you cease this moment.”

Tymon turned on his mother. “We are not children for you to order about, Mother.”

“You reside under my roof. You stand in my kitchen. It is enough for me to command you, grown or not.”

“I’m going to beat you for what you did to me,” Paris said through clenched teeth. “Apologies, Mother.”

Lexias noticed the dark dried blood on Paris’ tunic and asked, “What did he do?”

“They attacked my camp in the evening. Cracked my head. Hauled me off to some cave and left me there like some nasty beggar.”

Lexias turned to her eldest. “Tell me this is a falsehood, Tymon.”

“He exaggerates,” Tymon said. He wished to spare his mother the full knowledge but found lying to her more troublesome. “It was in jest, Mother. Nothing more. Look, he is fine, despite his mewling like a calf over a scratch.”

Paris sneered. “More than a scratch! Falsehoods fall from your lips like your arrows from your quiver!”

Tymon advanced at the insult, kicking a stool out of his way and shoving the table to the side.

Harmon jumped up from his seat, narrowly escaping being bashed by the corner of the table. “Tymon! Hold your anger, brother! I’m done with this war between you!”

Paris launched himself forward, reaching for Tymon’s waist, ramming him like an enraged bull. The brothers tangled their arms up falling heavily to the floor. Lexias screamed. Paris rolled on top of Tymon and punched him square in the face. Blood splattered across the floor. Tymon reached up with his right hand, grabbing a fist full of Paris’ tunic and pulled him roughly to the side.

Lexias screamed again, “Stop this! Tymon! Paris!”

Tymon, blood dripping from his nostrils, quickly rolled over pinning Paris to the ground with a sharp knee to the chest. “You fucking bastard. My father should have left you to rot on that hill—” Tymon never saw what sent him flying across the small kitchen into the edge of the hearth. When he could finally open his eyes, he saw Agelaus standing over him with his walking staff held firmly in his grasp.

“You forget yourself in my house, Tymon,” Agelaus voice growled with anger and age.

“Father, I—”

The patriarch held out a shaking fist. “Should you ever raise a hand to Paris again...disturb the peace in my house again...” Agelaus fumed.

Lexias placed a calming hand on her husband’s shoulder. “Peace, husband. They are but boys, after all.”

“Boys?! They are men behaving as boys! I’ll not tolerate such rough action in my house. Do you take my meaning, Tymon? Harmon?”

“Again, you show Paris elevated status over flesh and blood. It dishonors me!”

“Dishonors you?!” Agelaus roared. “You ungrateful dung pile!”

“Agelaus, husband, I beg you,” Lexias pleaded. “Cease this fighting. Can you not see how your protection of Paris breeds frustration for them?”

“You side with them?” Agelaus asked his wife, surprise spiking his voice.

“I don’t side with them. I understand them,” Lexias pleaded for peace.

“I see no difference,” Agelaus snapped angrily.

Paris, his head throbbing, held up a hand. “Father, do not worry. Tymon and I will reach understanding. There will be no more arguing between us.”

“Agreed,” Tymon reassured his father.

At that, Agelaus’ shoulders sagged with his age and frustration. He propped himself up on his walking stick, leaning against it. “My entire life has been dedicated to
all
my sons. I protect Paris, because I must. That is all you need know. All of you. Now, get out. Out of my sight!”

The trio of brothers murmured their apologies as they jostled passed their father and out into the courtyard.  Once out of ear shot of the house, Paris leaned close to his eldest brother, their shoulders rubbing, and whispered, “If you ever touch me again, I will kill you.”

“Brave words from a bastard,” Tymon replied with a sneer.

Paris turned and flashed the smile that infuriated his mother. “Indeed they are.”

THROUGHOUT ANATOLIA AND
the west, the horses of Troy were known for their impeccable breeding and were greatly admired. Princes of Persia and beyond traveled to the Troad to purchase the prancing steeds with manes sweeping to their withers and the hot-blooded stallions bred for war. And the bulls of Troy were as magnificent as any Trojan bred horses. Agelaus enjoyed his status as a superior bull breeder. His stock frequently honored the gods in sacrifice, with a reputation for resulting in favorable portents, at the biggest festivals and celebrations. His bulls also faired well in the dancing arena. 

Bull dancing proved popular with the young men all across the plains. Trojan men claimed mastery of either horses or bulls, and Paris had become the latter. Horses were for princes and rich merchants. But, the wild beasts with brute strength and fearless obsidian eyes and fatal horns were for sturdier folk. At least that’s what the men packed around the fences told themselves. They all admired the famous horse stocks of their people, but their hearts belonged in the arena where they could test their prowess as only young men, unencumbered by familial responsibility, could do. The elder men enjoyed the leaping and strategy of the bull dancers from their seats, reminiscing about the days when they too could leap and fly with ease, before age weighed them down to earth with families and tired bones, or when the hard landings required more than a simple shaking off of dust and sweat. Middle aged men admired the sport, acknowledging with sighs of regret, that it was best left to the more pliable limbs of youth.

“You think your bull superior?” Paulinius sneered.

“It’s not what I think. I know,” Paris taunted.

“Then let us put the bulls to task. Let each animal prove his own worth.”

“Are you suggesting we pit them against each other? Now?” Paris asked. His curiosity piqued at the foolish proposition. If either beast were injured, it would be spoiled for sacrificial purposes and perhaps for the arena as well. “When your animal loses, Paulinius, do my ears a favor and keep your whining to yourself.”

Paulinius spat in the dirt at Paris’ feet, his upper lip curling in disdain. “Toss your insults carefully, Paris, before you find me stuffing them back into the hole they spewed from.”

“Then, we must let the bulls have free reign.” Paris smirked, as he jumped from his perch on the fencing.

The sleek black hide of Paulinius’ bull shimmered like pitch in Apollo’s light. Its muscles bulged and flexed at its shoulders and haunches. It snorted mucus and dirt as its keeper led him to the ring.

“Look at the back on him!” an onlooker shouted. “He’ll devour Paris’ bull.” The wagering began with fervor; men betting for or against this or that bull.

“Save your coin my friends. This match is uneven. It wouldn’t be fair if I let you lose all your hard earned wealth just because Paulinius here has a fat contender.” Paris’ serious tone stifled the excited banter. The gathering mob looked from one man to the other in confusion.  “What?! Did you think I was serious about not wagering your coin? By the gods, lay your pieces down! Bet wisely.”

Paris led his bull to the ring. It was stouter than Paulinius’, but just as well muscled with a slightly longer back. Its hide was so black it flashed purple and green in the sun. Throwing their snouts into the air, the bulls each caught the scent of the other. At once, they recognized the other as an enemy, a stranger with strange smells, not of the same meadows, and they began stomping and snorting wildly. The splendid beasts squared off face to face across the small arena. Paris’ bull hammered its heavy hoof into the hard caked dirt and the ground beneath it trembled, flinging clods of dirt and dust swirling into the air.

Whoops of excitement and rowdy cheers went up loud enough to stir Ares from his musings. The god’s curiosity pulled him from Olympus. In specter guise, the God of War descended to walk among the men of Troy.

Paulinius’ bull reared its head and screamed like an angry harpy. It pounded both hooves hard into the ground sending a shudder of anticipation into the crowd. Flashes of black shadow charged across the empty space at each other. The initial clash of beast against beast sounded like boulders slamming into a river.  Their chests smashed together with the force of twenty armed men. Dust flew, choking the air of freshness. The mighty titans roared their fury at being in the other’s presence. Hooves flew. Teeth gnashed. Wide eyed and angry, the two bulls tangled horns. The parched earth drank the blood they spilled. Another great clash and a mist of crimson sprayed the crowd. Paris licked the rim of his bottom lip, tasting the bitter iron of the bulls’ blood. He almost felt sorry for Paulinius’ animal. Almost. Although wider across the chest, Paulinius’ beast lacked solid footing. His was a beast with too much of the wild bred out of him.

A small steady stream of red oozed down the forehead of Paulinius’ animal right between its eyes. It backed up as the blood blurred its vision. It shook its huge head, snorting blood from its nostrils. It stomped the ground with less power but with more determination. Paulinius waved his hands over his head shouting curses and encouragements at his beast.

Paris had witnessed the bulls in his father’s fields fight many times. He knew his animal would fight to its death. Once, he’d watched as two bulls, on their knees, continued attacking each other, biting and head butting. They were tenacious in a way that Paris had not observed in any other bulls. His father once told him it was the strength they gained drinking the water from a sacred spring that welled up through their land. It fortified the bulls with Herculean might and will power. Paris knew his bull would ram, bite and tear at the other until one of them was dead.  Paris’ bull backed its haunches into the fencing, a thin line of blood running down its cheek. It stomped the ground sending a shower of dirt flying. It threw its head back and roared, then charged at the enemy. With its head down, Paris’ bull rammed Paulinius’ beast so hard that when the death scream pierced the air, everyone froze watching in stunned silence as Paulinius’ bull hit the ground with a heavy thud sending up a blinding cloud of dirt and blood. Paulinius’ prized animal lay dead on the dusty arena floor, blood pooling beneath its black form. For a brief second voices rose then fell to silence again, as it slowly registered in the spectators’ minds that the battle had finished so quickly. Then triumphant cheers and defeated curses rose in a clamor around the ring. It was over. Paris’ bull stood as victor. Blood smeared across its head. A slight tear at the shoulder bled. The massive beast snorted loudly as it swung its heavy head from side to side considering its next move, uncertain if the challenge was over to not. Men clapped Paris on the back in hardy gratitude, they’d won a pretty piece of coinage to spend as they wished, without wives knowing or mother’s questioning, while the losers would have tales to create.

Paulinius spewed anger at the loss, “You killed my bull!”

“We both knew the risk,” Paris said calmly. “There’s no need to stir the crowd to frenzy, because you are quick to loose your temper.”

“I demand compensation for my loss. It was a test of strength not to the death,” Paulinius sneered. “Look! Look at my bull! He is completely sullied. I can do nothing with him now.”

Paris climbed up the fencing and bounced into the ring side of the arena. He thought it best to keep a safe distance between himself and Paulinius. “Send his carcass to the outskirts. Feed the poor among the city.”

“What trickery did you pull this time Paris?” He scanned the crowd trying to garner support for his cause. “We all know how you cheated at the footrace last spring festival.”

“I did not cheat.” Paris cringed at the old wound that never died. “I won that race fairly. Diodorus tripped over a rock.”

“We all know that story, Paris. To hear Diodorus tell it, you shoved him in the back as you passed by.”

The heat of indignation flushed Paris’ cheek. “I did no such thing. What need have I to stoop so low to be called victor over a stout, thick legged man in a sprint?” Diodorus had proved a bitter loser, complaining and crying foul for an entire week. The judges, however, favored Paris calling the finish as they saw it, granting victory to him. “You’re angry your bull lost. Next time, think hard before you wager what you can’t afford to lose, my friend.”

Paulinius spat at the dirt, grinding the heel of his sandal into it. “You’re no friend of mine, trickster.” He used the toe of his sandal to flick the small mud clod in Paris’ direction. “That’s what your word is. Shit beneath my foot.”

The hackles on Paris’ neck stood on end. His animal, recovering from its ordeal, was again on high alert. The stare of its obsidian eyes bored into the back of his neck. His safety on this side of the fencing depended on his making no sudden movements. Paulinius stormed off, still ranting and raving, leaving his dead bull in the dust. The spectators finished exchanging and pocketing their coin, and reluctantly walked away, shrugging their shoulders, grateful for an afternoon’s diversion, and went about their expected business. Only then did Paris move to exit the arena pen.

One man yet remained. Paris took notice of him not because he was alone, but because he stood taller than any man he’d ever seen before. Paris knew everyone in this section of the city, but this man was a stranger to him. In the heat of the day, the man wore his himation deeply hooded obscuring his face. All Paris could clearly see was his long black beard streaked with grey.

The stranger’s voice sounded like distant thunder. “Your bull won fairly.”

“I’m sure some would agree with that truth. Losers, not so much I fear.” Curiosity got the better of Paris “I haven’t seen you―”

The stranger lifted the hood from his face startling Paris with his dark beauty. “I am around more than you realize, Paris.” His eyes shone as black as two polished onyx stones, set perfectly beneath a strong handsome brow. Paris was certain the man’s hair and beard glimmered with threads of silver, not gray, when the sun angled on it. Paris wiped the sweat stinging his eyes.

“How is it stranger, that you speak my name with such familiarity?” Paris asked. The hair on his neck prickled.

“I know all men in Troy. Some are more deserving than others of my presence.”

“What are you known by? What is your trade?” Paris’ asked.

“I am courage. I am carnage. I am the fire in the eyes of warriors.”

Paris shivered. That was no straightforward answer, and Agelaus always warned against trusting anyone who answered questions sideways.

“Are you caught without speech, young Paris?”

“How do you know my name?”

“I am more than I appear. Your father would know my name.”

“You know my father?”

“I know your
true
father, yes, quite well.”

Paris immediately wondered what the stranger was hinting at. Did the man know something about his past? It was the way the man spoke to him, with familiarity, with a knowingness that a true stranger could not possess. “What do you mean my
true
father?”

“Only that your father is not who you believe him to be.”

“Give me your name, stranger?” Paris clung to the arena fencing. His knees weakened beneath him. For a moment he believed he might collapse.

“In time, you will know me. But this day, is not the day. I came only to witness the competition. Your time will come. Your fate is coming for you as straight and as swift as an arrow loosed from your bow.”

“What do you mean by such dark words?”

The beautiful stranger said, “I suggest you get the bull to the priests of Ares’ temple.”

“What?! The animal is in no condition to present to the temple of any god!”

“I believe the priests in Ares temple will take the beast and deliver it to the god and send the meat to the poor.”

“The animal is already dead. It is stained with dirt, without garland, unblessed.” Paris stared at the man, “I dare not do something so outrageous and offensive.”

“Are you quite sure you dare not to?” the man asked.

Doubt began to gnaw at Paris’ certainty.
What the by the balls of Zeus does he mean?
Paris turned to look at the fallen bull soon to reek of rotten blood from the heat. The carcass must be moved as quickly as possible, or the meat would sour the tongue even if roasted and crisped.

“I’m not sure…” Paris turned, only to find the man had disappeared. He jumped on top the ring fencing, balancing on one foot, and searched the streets in every direction but saw no one resembling the hooded man. How could a man of such stature lose himself in a crowd? He decided to take the dead animal to Ares’ temple. The worst that could happen was he’d get laughed at or verbally chastised by the priests for trying to present a defiled bull to satisfy the God of War.