The Princess of Sparta: Heroes of the Trojan War (9 page)

Paris savored this beauty. In these few moments before he set foot on Trojan land, he could admire his home. He could pretend that he actually belonged here.

Fifty men pulled at the oars behind him, gliding the elegant ship through the busy harbor, navigating past fat galleys some sixteen meters long resting at anchor. They coasted past the royal shipyard, where the shells of new vessels rested, timber bones left to dry in the afternoon sun. The oars dipped into the water in unison, pulling his vessel onward to the capital and eventually to dock.

The Harbormaster waited along the wooden landing, a roll of sheepskin and quill in hand. “I’ll need to see your register—“

Paris leapt off the deck in a giant stride and landed beside the middle-aged man, his crimson cape swirling around him in the gentle breeze.

“My Prince! Forgive me.” The harbormaster stammered.

“Good to see you, Eteocles. How fare your daughters?” Paris slapped the man on the back with gusto and stretched out sore muscles cramped from a month at sea.

“Growing, Your Grace. Soon they will tower over me like Amazons.” Eteocles grinned, giving Paris a curt bow. “We were not expecting you for several weeks. Is there news from the South?” His voice tightened with concern.

Paris shrugged, feigning a lack of knowledge. Information was the true currency in a town with open borders, and Eteocles often traded gossip for a cup of mulled wine. Paris enjoyed making the man work to ferret his information out.

“I’d say the negotiations were dismal.” Paris replied with a wink as his crew began unloading copper ingots from the hold. “Their vassals couldn’t hold their drink, and their women were as chaste as a temple initiate. I had to settle for this lot.” He waved nonchalant over the heavy mass now lining the dock.

Eteocles’ eyes spread wide as he counted the raw material. There were well over 300 oxhide-shaped ingots of copper and half as many of tin: a kingly treasure.

“It should suffice.” A fevered glow gleamed in the harbormaster’s eyes. “The Court of Smiths will be celebrating tonight.”

Paris laughed, tossing Eteocles a nugget of copper he had in his pouch. “I’ll meet you there. We’ll toast to your daughters’ good health.” He turned and headed down the dock.

“Shall I marshal the royal guard?” Eteocles called after him, but Paris waved him off. He hated the fanfare that typically accompanied any movement of the royal family. He was not so shallow that he needed trumpets to declare his every footstep.

He made good time despite the growing crowds in the city. When he reached the base of the acropolis, he stopped at the feedlot where visiting shepherds quartered their animals. King Priam would want a report of his expedition right away, but Paris was so rarely at the capital he could not pass up an opportunity to converse with old friends.

“Agelaus! Get out here, old dog!” he hollered to the silver-haired herdsman. With the spring thaw on the horizon, the shepherds would soon take their flocks up Mount Ida. It was fortunate Paris had returned home early, otherwise it would be a full year before he would see his dear friend, and any year might be Agelaus’ last.

“Paris? Is that you?” the old man hobbled out of his yurt. Traces of blue film, the telltale signs of blindness, covered his eyes. “How are you, my son?”

Paris engulfed Agelaus in a stout embrace. Normally, it was forbidden for a commoner to address a royal in such a familiar manner. But unlike his highborn kin, Paris did not stand on tradition. He spent the majority of his youth in the wilds of Mount Ida, and this man had saved his life on more than one occasion. He felt more at home here, amongst common sheepherders and tradesmen, than he ever did at court.

“I’m alive, despite the best efforts of the powers that be.” He jested, knowing Agelaus would appreciate his talent for evading the knife. Paris had lost count of how many people wished to see him dead, from the common brigand who wanted his purse to some of the most powerful players in the world—people Agelaus had defended him against his whole life.

Paris quelled a pang of sadness as the herdsman steadied himself on Paris’ shoulder. It was a shame the blindness had taken such a toll on the man. Soon even simple household tasks would be beyond his ability. Agelaus’ hands roamed Paris’ chest and face, ‘seeing’ what his eyes could not.

“You’ve grown stronger, an ox in his prime. When will you finally settle down and marry?”

Paris expected this question. As the second son of Priam, he was afforded more patience in regards to his duty to replenish the royal line. But that did not absolve him entirely. At eight and twenty, he was long overdue.

“I’ll settle down when I find the right woman. These river girls are not pretty enough.” His laugh was forced. The excuse was a boldfaced lie. It did not matter if he found the most beautiful woman in the world, he could not marry her. No woman should marry a man who is cursed.

“She is out there, Son.” Agelaus sighed. “The Gods spared you for a reason. You will find your mate, and she will fill your days with endless sunshine.”

And I will bring her nothing but sorrow
.

It was insanity to dwell on matters he could not change. Paris quickly changed the topic, and they conversed of many things: the wool harvest, the spring calving, and the fallout of trade with the lands to the east. He soon said his goodbyes and headed back up the acropolis, taking a moment to marvel at the massive gates of the inner city and the thick defensive walls that had stood for a thousand years. He whispered a prayer to Athena as he passed that they would last another thousand.

By the time he reached the Palace, news of his arrival had proceeded him. The trumpeters raised their bronze instruments to the sky, the banners of Troy billowing beneath the lead pipes. “Hail, Prince Paris, valiant Son of Troy!” the herald announced with a brass ringed voice.

Paris groaned, brushing past the man and into the Palace proper. He suspected the announcement was meant to alert the courtiers as much as to honor a son of Priam. Sure enough, his reception was a different affair amongst the highborns in the palace than in the city proper. Telltale wisps of colored chitons disappeared down corridors as he strode through the courtyard, the mere mention of his name enough to send the queen’s sycophants running. Of the few courtiers who remained, their open sneers of disapproval were enough to quicken his steps.

He turned down a corridor to the columned hall that led to the throne room. Light flooded in from a dozen balconies evenly spaced down the lengthy marble hall. Their long curtains of lavender and rose fluttered from the ocean breeze.

The design of the palace was ingenious. Priam spared no expense when he reconstructed this wing of the acropolis after the last quake. King Rameses II sent architects all the way from Memphis to assist in the renovation, a show of respect from one great king to another. Paris had visited too many satrapies in his travels whose heavy fortresses were built of stone. One could not tell if it was night or day from the inside. In Troy, the buildings were as open as the spirit of its people.

“He’s home!” the joyful voice of Prince Troilus announced. Paris quickly found himself tied up in the arms of his five-year-old brother. He lifted Troilus, spinning the child about, and quickly looked for further company. If Troilus was here, his other brothers could not be far.

Sure enough, on a far balcony overlooking the city, prince Hector conversed quietly with his bride Andromache. Paris set Troilus back to the ground and released his built up tension. Besides Troilus, Hector was his only friend at court. And when the young boy tired of Paris’ tales of faraway lands, he would succumb to their mother’s dark influence as his other brothers had. Only Hector’s favor was certain.

“Did you bring me anything?” Troilus asked, his youthful face flushed with eagerness.

“There was one thing. Oh, where did I put it?” Paris patted down the many pouches lining his belt. Troilus tugged at his leg as he continued to “search”.

Hector gave Andromache a tender kiss goodbye and moved to join them. The princess was a stunning beauty and well loved by the commoners. Her soft brown hair fell in waves about her shoulders and her deep blue eyes sparkled like sapphires. Her courtship by Hector had already been spun into song.

She deserves their love
, Paris acknowledged, casting her a polite nod as she went. His sister-in-law was uncommonly kind and had shown him compassion when so many of his kin did not. She smiled demurely to him, disappearing down the hall on soundless steps.

“So, the victorious son returns!” Hector hailed him, slapping Paris robustly on the back. “Your reputation grows little brother. Paris of Troy, an arbitrator of fairness that even the Gods would well acknowledge.” He announced in lofty tones.

Paris eyed him suspiciously. Hector was terrible at playing coy. Once he came within arms’ reach, he shifted his weight and swiftly turned the friendly gesture into a headlock. Paris cursed himself for not paying better attention. But he was committed now, and the brothers tussled like they had when they were boys.

“I’ll have you.” Paris warned, buried under the weight of Hector’s hold.

“You’ve been too long in the company of sailors and thieves, little brother. You’ve forgotten the power of a real soldier.” Hector flexed his muscles.

It was not an unfounded boast. Hector was a formidable opponent, easily twice the size of Paris’ build. But therein lay his flaw. Reliance on muscle alone was a mistake, a mistake Paris delighted in reminding Hector of on countless occasion.

Paris pivoted using Hector’s weight against him. He leaned his shoulder into his brother’s torso and shoved hard, easily breaking the headlock and sending Hector tumbling on his back. Hector gasped as the air was knocked from his lungs.

“I warned you.” Paris gloated, helping Hector to his feet. “And the Phoenicians are not
thieves
. There’s a lot even a solider like you can learn from a seafaring culture.” He pushed an unsteady Hector for emphasis. “Like how to stay on your feet?”

“That only matters if I don’t pummel you first.” Hector cuffed him gently across the cheek. They shared a laugh as Paris danced out of his range.

Olympus help any man who earns his ire
. The man was as strong as an ox.

“Seriously, Paris. Six months in Tyre?” Hector’s happy grin faded. “A year with the horse traders in Phrygia? Stay put for a while. I miss you.”

Hector’s sincerity gave him pause. They were the two eldest sons, they trained together, and fought together. Paris always hoped they’d spend their lives at each other’s side, watching their children grow old and conquer the world. And now that Hector was happily married, it drew to the forefront all the things missing in Paris’ own life.

“What about my present?” Troilus stamped his foot, upset at being forgotten.

“It’s here!” Paris turned from Hector, happy to avoid the familiar argument. Hector knew why Paris could not stay. To pretend otherwise was a cruel form of denial.

But still, he cast Paris a stubborn look. If there was a man who could bend the fates to his will, it would be Hector. This conversation was not over.

Paris reached into his pouch and pulled out a parcel of crimson fabric the perfect length for a child-sized cloak. Troilus gasped when he saw the material, the rich color a deeper red than any to be found in the city.

“It’s beautiful.” Troilus whispered. “However did they make it?”

“That’s a secret, Brother.” Paris winked, his crooked smile suggesting he withheld the information on purpose.

“I suppose you are full of secrets by now.” Hector whispered in his ear, his words a bitter dart meant to shame Paris into staying.

“I’ve picked up a fair few.” Paris shrugged, knowing better than to take the bait. He adopted a familiar grin, his forced gaiety the only weapon he possessed against Hector’s insistent demands. “The bath houses in Rhodes were most instructive. I daresay I learned a few things that would make even your hair curl.”

Hector coughed, blushing to his roots.

Troilus, however, gave up trying to follow their conversation. He took off, racing to the doors of the throne room. “Mother!” he cried. “Mother, look what Paris has brought me!”

Paris’ smile vanished. “She is here?”

He hated the pity lining Hector’s face, but it was unavoidable where Hecuba was concerned. The favored son linked arms with the disgraced. “Come,” he led Paris to the doors. “She cannot hurt you more than you allow. Face it like a man.”

Troilus raced before them as they entered the throne room. The child laughed merrily as he ran, his melodic voice echoing across the cavernous hall and between the hundred pillars that supported its domed ceiling.

Epic scenes of legend lined the throne room in brilliantly colored frescos: Zeus defeating the Titans, Prometheus’s gift of fire to Man, and Athena handing the ring of kingship to Ilus, the first of King Priam’s line. The heroes towered twenty feet over Paris. He suppressed the surge of awe the artwork inspired, reminded—as the artist intended—of his own petty mortality before the Great Kings of this realm. The greatest king was none other than his father, Priam.