The Princess of Sparta: Heroes of the Trojan War (10 page)

The king was not alone. The Royal Seer, Aesacus, hovered behind the throne whispering into his father’s ear. Aesacus’ pet monkey, Sosa, was leashed beside his leg. As the princes approached, it began to hop up and down, screeching like mad. Paris clenched his teeth against the piercing sound. Had the Fates been kind, that foul beast would have long since passed from this world to the next.

Hecuba, beloved queen of Troy, stood beside the slick-tongued seer. Her back was washboard straight and stress lines showed along her aged but beautiful face. He wished her eyes would fill with love, as they did for Troilus, but they did not. Instead, he was greeted with eyes harder than stone and colder than ice. He continued forward, trying his best to ignore her chilly reception.

“Troilus, come away from there,” she demanded, panic gripping at her high-pitched voice.

The boy skipped up to the throne, ignorant of her concern. “Mother, look at the gift Paris has brought me!” He flourished the fabric, spinning it around for all to see.

Hecuba snatched it from her son, inspecting the material on all sides. “Did you steal it?” she accused him, her eyes darting around nervously for some hidden danger.

Paris knelt before the throne. He raised his head formally to his mother’s address. “It is a gift, Your Grace, from the Queen of Tyre. So that your sons will stand out as Prince of Princes and the honor of Priam’s house will be undisputed.”

“It is not honor this child brings you.” Aesacus cut in. “But the ruin of your house. The ruin of Troy.”

Hecuba moaned, tapping her brow with the ritual sign to beseech Athena’s favor. “Forgive me Goddess, forgive this curse of my loins.” Her voice cracked as she prayed.

“What superstitious poison is this?” Hector glared at the graybeard seer with unveiled disgust.

The monkey cackled and raced up his master’s back, clinging desperately to Aesacus’ head. The seer did not budge, even when Hector—bristling with youthful anger—stood toe to toe with the man.

“You speak of ruin when Paris returns with bounteous tribute?” Hector spun toward the king. “Father?”

Priam shared Hector’s look of distaste, but not his boldness. He reclined on his throne, the strain of his rule wearing heavily on his shoulders. It was happening already. Paris sighed, regretting the burden his presence added to his father’s troubles. It was far better to keep these meetings brief.

“Leave us, Soothsayer.” Priam dismissed the graybeard. “Preach your omens to those with weak wills.”

“Even kings must heed the will of the Gods.” Aesacus warned.

“GO!” Priam shouted, his powerful voice affording no argument.

Aesacus disappeared down a nearby corridor. Hecuba quickly joined that retreat, gathering her youngest child as she went. She paused at the exit, watching Paris with a mixed look of fear and sorrow. As Paris expected, fear ruled out, and she left with no further comment.

“Rise, Son, and give account of your travels,” Priam commanded him. The king ran his hand across his stout jaw, rubbing his fingers through his short-trimmed black beard. There was more grey in that beard than when Paris had left. A result, he suspected, of the ongoing hostilities in the East.

“King Baal-Termeg accepts your offer of friendship and will stand with you against the Hatti. The tribute I returned with is a sign of his friendship and esteem he bears for your kingship. He pledges another shipment in two weeks time. He is eager as you to rid Anatolia of the rot of their empire.”

A wave of relief washed over Priam’s face. He descended from the throne and swiftly embraced Paris in a hearty manner that shocked both Paris and Hector. “Ha, ha!” he shouted. “Well done, my son.”

Paris straightened under his father’s praise. Any sign of favor was a rare event from Priam. He normally adopted a strict neutrality when dealing with his ill-favored son.

“I only wish to honor you, Father.” Paris bowed his head.

Hector stepped forward, his face still fuming from the seer’s disrespect. “Paris has done everything you have asked of him. Can you please denounce the omens and be done with it?”

Paris stiffened. What Hector asked was an impossibility. As much as he wished his father’s love would prevail over politics, Paris understood the problem he represented. How could Priam claim to rule by divine right if he defied the divinities? Even if they denounced his own child.

“Peace, Hector.” Paris waved his brother off. “He has his reasons.”

“What reasons?” Hector demanded. “That rumor and whispers are more powerful than the king’s will? That is not how I would rule.”

“BUT YOU DO NOT RULE YET!” Priam towered over his eldest son. “The boy-king of Hatti has called for my head. My bondsmen are falling beneath the fist of his armies,
and you want me to start a battle at home?
Are you mad?”

Hector, shaken, bowed his head. With great effort, he held his tongue.

“Your brother still lives. And he will continue to live under my rule. There is your victory over the power of superstition.” Priam grumbled and began to pace. “Now, go. I have business with Paris and I tire of your insolent tongue.”

Paris whispered a prayer of relief when Hector ducked into a respectful bow without further comment. They both loved their father dearly, but that love was not the armor Hector mistook it for. Paris did not want his brother to say something he might regret, especially on his behalf.

As he turned to depart, Hector grabbed his arm. “I will see you after?”

Paris nodded, watching his brother leave with a pang of sorrow. He was touched by Hector’s concern, but it was a losing battle. He had long ago accepted his role as an outcast of the court. He only wished Hector would one day accept it as well.

Priam resettled on his throne, also watching his eldest child with heavy-lidded eyes. “He was born to rule but does not have half your patience or discernment. Loyalty is a noble trait, but not when it clouds your mind from reason.”

Paris joined him on the dais, allowing himself to finally relax and enjoy a moment of peace with Priam. The expectations of the temple hung heavily on the king’s head. It was only behind the privacy of closed doors that they could converse as father and son.

“Is it so bad that he says what he means? Or that he will not back down no matter how mighty his foe?” As a young prince, Hector terrified the other noble sons. Paris lost count how many times Hector’s righteous wrath scattered Hecuba’s minions who sought to do him harm.

“A king must pick his battles wisely. And your brother cannot right all the wrongs of the world with his sword arm. The sooner he realizes that, the safer the realm will be.”

Paris could not help but agree. Troy was on the brink of war. Cooler heads needed to prevail in their conflicts, both foreign and domestic. Which was usually the case when Priam asked to speak with him privately.

“What is troubling you, Father?”

The king grimaced, a shadow of remorse on his aged face. “The Hatti have choked off our trade from the east and now some fledgling king in the west seeks to cheat me. I have need of you, Paris.”

Paris pushed aside his disappointment. Every visit home was short-lived, but this was exceptionally short. Usually, he’d have at least a fortnight in the golden city before the next mission was set. “What would you have me do?”

“My merchants return from the Greek isles with payment half the value of the wares that they took. This
High King
of Mycenae thinks himself, and his spoils, far grander than they be.” Priam scowled at the title. “He refuses the sea tariff that keeps the channel free of pirates, enjoying the free trade my campaigns deliver but believing himself too important to pay for it. He is a pig who wallows in mud but claims it ambrosia. I want you to go and educate him otherwise.”

Paris stiffened. Never before had Priam sent him to deliver a threat. He was always the negotiator, the one who broke bread with wary kings and created bonds of fellowship. Priam didn’t settle trade disputes by sending an ambassador. Why now? Why him?

“Surely the Trades Master—“

“This is too important to leave to the merchants.” Priam interjected. “If it was only a matter of coin, I would not call on you. But the Hatti campaigns have cost us dearly. With every success in battle they weaken my hold over our satraps. I cannot let this barbarian king also defy me with impunity. My vassals will slip through my fingers if they think me so weak. And if I cannot tame the wildlings in my own backyard, I do not deserve their respect.”

Paris gazed up into his father’s eyes, the mighty monarch an awesome sight enshrined on his golden throne. Few kings deserved the privileged position they inherited, but Priam possessed an aura of authority that could not be denied. He commanded respect from kingdoms from the river lands to the Egyptian delta. He was a giant amongst lesser men. This Mycenaean king was meddling with powers he could not possibly understand. The West would suffer for this insolence.

“And you think I’m best suited to deliver this message?” He had to ask. He would walk into fire for his father, but this quest was an altogether different matter than what he had been trained to do. Surely Hector would have been a better choice.

Priam watched him with an astute eye. He raised his right hand and tapped Paris over his heart. “The man who must threaten force is not one to be feared. It is what is left
unsaid
that strikes a dagger in the hearts of lesser men.”

Paris blinked back his surprise, unsure if he understood his father correctly. “You want me to remind these Mycenaeans of the glory of Troy?” he asked, trying to decipher Priam’s request. “Of the respect we carry throughout the world and the power we represent?”

Priam nodded. “And how unwise it would be to invoke my wrath. You are my fist in the silk glove. Quell this rebellious king before the sword becomes necessary.”

“A delicate affair... ” Paris mused, his mind already devising tactics to complete the task.

“That is why it must be you.” A hint of pride gleamed in Priam’s eyes. “You have never failed me.”

And I never will
.

Paris gave his father a curt nod, indicating he understood. “I will do as you command. My ship can sail on the morning tide.”

Priam stood and reached out for him, placing a sturdy hand on Paris’ shoulder. For a moment he showered Paris with the love he withheld for Hector alone.

“Alexandros Paris of House Laomedon, I know I have asked a lot from you, and I promise it has not been for naught. You were named after the bravest man I have ever known—a great king of men. You bear his name, now bear his honor.”

Priam’s chest swelled as though the shade of his old comrade walked the hall. “Teach Mycenae to respect their elders. Do this, and I swear I will never send you from my side again.”

Chapter 7

The Court of Smiths

LATER THAT evening, Paris joined Hector for festivities at the Court of Smiths. Each trade claimed a district in the hub city surrounding the acropolis. The Smiths, whose work was marveled throughout the river lands, had constructed theirs with an eye for opulence.

Massive copper gates, forged with an embossed hammer and anvil on alternating panels, were open to the public. Towering buildings three stories high surrounded the interior court, their ivy-clung walls studded in bronze rosettes. Craftsmen, journeymen and apprentice alike were out of doors swilling grog and hollering requests to a band of minstrels. The hearth fires burned bright, laughter was in the air, and with the promise of wealth from the bounty Paris had secured from Tyre, the Smiths celebrated.

The princes reclined in wicker chairs beneath a canopy of stars. Of the few hours he had left in Troy, Paris preferred to spend it in the company of these honest craftsmen in lieu of the hostile halls of the Palace. The libations were flowing and even Hector deeply indulged.

“He swore? By Apollo’s honor, you better not be lying to me. You are coming home to stay this time?”

“Zeus strike me down if it’s not true.” Paris lifted his flagon of ale to toast with his brother. “To home.” He forced a smile, though inside his heart was in chaos.

Home...

Paris’ restless wanderings could soon be at an end. It was the moment he had always dreamt, and now that it was in sight, he wasn’t sure he wanted it. Troy, and all her wonders, was never truly home. And despite Hector’s assurances, Paris doubted he’d ever really be welcome here.

“The Western Wilds.” A note of longing filtered into Hector’s slurs. “You lucky bastard.” He drained his cup.

“Slow down.” Paris plucked the empty flagon from his hand. “Andromache will never forgive me if I deliver you home drunk as a shore-leave sailor.”

Hector’s smile slipped into a boyish grin at the mention of his beautiful bride. “Aye, she won’t at that.” Hector’s love for Andromache was as vibrant as his chestnut-colored hair. Paris envied his brother’s happiness. The newly-wed couple shared something sacred.

“Seriously Paris, aren’t you a teensy bit excited?”