Favorite Son

IRON AND FIRE

“Something troubles you, my son.” So speaks my mother the queen.

Minutely I incline my head. Hard have I tried to keep the darkness inside me from tainting my family, yet oft she sees what others do not.

She links her arm in mine, and the twig-thin arm is dwarfed by my own. “You have grown so big, Hector,” she says, amusement mingling with pride in her voice. “Come, walk with me. Let us look at our city.”

We leave the coolness of the palace and circumvent the citadel along the balcony. Northward the city lies before us, spread almost to the shores of the harbor bordered by the noble Hellespont. The summer has been beautiful. A time of great peace, when none dare challenge our might. Ships pass through the harbor to bring ice from northern territories. Caravans from the south bring valuable goods which are traded in the bazaars of Troy. Our craftsmen and artisans have plied their trades in peace, sending out to the world examples of the wonders of this most fortunate of cities – the city of Apollo. It is a time of great prosperity.

“When first I came to Troy, it was not so large or beautiful,” my mother says, stopping to gaze over the sunlit city. I place one hand over both of hers where they clutch my arm. “Like you, it has grown bigger and stronger over the years. Priam has never stopped building, nor adding to its defenses. It was a small town, almost nothing, before he came here. He has been, truly, father to all of Troy.”

On an impulse I bend low and softly kiss my mother’s brow. “As you are mother to us all,” I say quietly.

I have pleased her, as her smile attests. “Ah, my Hector, when I was young, everything was so exciting. When I carried you, I never felt so happy or so well. I felt as though I would burst with health, at one with the fertile lands that bore fruit as I bore you. You cannot imagine how proud I was upon your birth.”

“I pray I have given you no reason for regret in the ensuing years.”

“Never. You were the most wonderful child. While Priam was traveling to other lands to lend aid to our allies, you and I were oft alone, and for a time you were all my world. You were – you remain – the greatest blessing of my life.”

Now it is my turn to feel pleased, and humbled as well. I turn my face as though to look to the East, lest my mother see a womanly sentiment in my eyes. Yet she knows me well; there is little I can hide from her.

“The sun is so bright,” she says. “Will you come and see Cassandra’s newest tapestry?”

When we return to the palace, it seems very dim after time spent under Apollo’s light. Here Cassandra sits at her loom, lit only with a weak northern light from an open clerestory, and torches against the wall. As we stop to peruse the work as it progresses, I lay one hand upon my sister’s delicate shoulder and squeeze gently.

“Is this Aphrodite?” I enquire.

“In her visit to the Troad,” Cassandra agrees, not stopping her work, not looking at me.

My mother leads me a short distance away and we recline upon cushions where we can see the tapestry from afar and appreciate the wide scene.

“Cassandra has great talent in weaving,” my mother says in a low voice. The susurration hisses about the chamber, but I think none can make out the words but ourselves only. It is as though we are once again alone in the world made of only the two of us. “I have been blessed in all my children. It has been wondrous to see each of you grow and learn new talents.”

“Our parents have reared us well,” I concur. “Have we not always known that we were born to good fortune, and that obligates us to be ever noble, to give our lives for the city and for its people?”

“Of all my children, I think you have taken that lesson most to heart.” She sighs then. “My quickening with you was easy and full of joy. Yet with Paris….”

My heart clenches at the mention of my infuriating, beloved brother. The moment we returned from Mount Ida, a feast was held that lasted more than two days and three nights. At the end of that time, when both Paris and I were drunk – he happily and I morosely so – he was shown the new quarters prepared for him, and since then he has never once set foot in my home. I rarely go there myself now, as it is lonely and seems full of ghosts. I prefer to spend the nights in the lower city and in the barracks. Archeptolemus watches me surreptitiously. He does not understand what transpired between myself and Paris, but the journey back to Troy had been full of tension and silence, and my friend knows that something is amiss. I am not ready to speak of it, even to him.

“With Paris I was ill much of the time, and beset with difficult dreams,” my mother continues, a shadow darkening her fine and beautiful features. She pauses: clutches my hand hard, harder than one would think possible in such a small woman. I risk a quick glance; her eyes are glistening. She turns her face to me suddenly and smiles as a tear escapes and leaves a moist track on her pale skin. “Oh, Hector, how glad I am that you have come to treasure him and to care for him!”

I can say nothing. I press her hand gently and maintain my silence and give her what time she needs to recover her composure.

“He does well at his military training?” she asks, carefully brushing away another tear while she thinks I am not looking.

“He improves each day under Tolemus’ tutelage,” I say honestly. “He may make a fine warrior yet. He is not lacking in skill.”

In the quiet of the room, the rhythmic sound of the shuttlecock is soft and soothing. A windy gust comes through the open windows and the torches flicker.

“I pray to Apollo that we may have peace for a long while. Hector, you cannot imagine how I worry about you, about Deiphobus, about Helenus.”

“A king’s son is born to protect his father’s kingdom.”

“He must be raised so, as well. He must be taught. All children need this, and if they do not receive it, the noblest birth cannot make up for it.”

“You fear for Paris, if there is war.”

“I pray daily to Apollo and Athena that this peace will last.”

“Father works very hard to bring peace for all of us. The might of Troy protects us, too, from those who look at us with envy. The cost of acquiring Troy would be too high.”

“Then let it stay that way,” the queen says, with a sigh. “For I could not bear to lose Paris again.”

“Nor could I,” I say, truthfully.

+

I long to see Paris again. More than just the brief and uneasy glances we have shared at large family dinners, or seeing one another unexpectedly in the streets of the city, when we pass awkwardly with no words spoken. I have denied myself so much, and denied him as well, that it has become my habit. And so I know not under what pretext I might seek him out. Instead I saddle my war steed and leave the Dardanian Gate and ride the stallion hard across the countryside.

He throws a shoe over rocky ground, stumbling enough to tumble me from his back. I take little injury from it, nor has my steed, yet I will not ride him now for fear of causing damage. I lead him back to the city, walking towards the setting sun.

The guards at the gate immediately offer to take over the care of the horse but I wave them off. I know the way to the smithy. When I arrive there, it is dark but for the fire that is burning low, stoked back somewhat – its owner is not working now. Sounds come through another doorway, where a heavy wooden door is propped nearly closed. The horse snorts softly and I caress his neck.

“Worry not, we shall deal with this first, then you shall have a fine grooming and fresh hay,” I say to him. “Hold a moment.” He nuzzles my neck with a moist nose.

When I step to the doorway, from the sounds that emanate from the inner room, I am assailed with the knowledge that I am interrupting something private, a coupling of soft moans, the creaking of a bedstead. I smile to myself and resolve to take my horse to his stall in the royal stables and deal with the missing shoe later. The smith surely deserves his rest and recreation.

Then there is a voice, not loud, but it stops me as still as one of the statues of Apollo scattered throughout the city.

A voice I know all too well. I cannot tell what words were said, but I cannot keep myself from turning again and seeing, through the narrow opening where the door is not quite fully closed, into the room. It is lit very low by a lantern, and the opening is indeed very narrow, but it is enough to discern what is happening within. The blacksmith I know well – Echeclus by name – a thickly muscled man, one whose physique is admired often in the public baths. While I have seen him naked, I have certainly never seen him riding a lover. It is shameful for me, a prince, to watch a man during a private moment, but my own limbs seem not under my own control and I remain rooted to the spot, for the body beneath his is only too well-known to me. Echeclus’ hand is stroking the golden flank that wraps around his waist. Stroking in just such a possessive manner as I have longed, but lacked the courage, to do.

The moans and whimpers coming from his lover – I know those, too. I thought they were meant only for me.

I was wrong.

Heat coils in my gut, festering and growing until my very blood feels that it will boil and set my body on fire. I know that I should leave, but anger has possessed my spirit. To think that the cowardly, dung-covered shepherd has the insolence, the audacity to mock my rightful dominion over his life and his body… I cannot think. With a Herculean effort I try to force my eyes to turn away, to make my body walk from this place – without success. The rage has possessed me too fiercely.

I kick open the door and bellow as loudly as ever I have on the field of battle.

“PARIS!!”

The door slams against the wall and shudders violently. Even the horse backs and snuffles in surprise. That is nothing to the looks on the faces of the two on the bed.

“Clothe yourselves, both of you!” I roar.

Paris scrambles for his tunic and manages to get it over his head with shaking fingers. Echeclus dons his kilt with more dignity. They await my next outburst, and it is not long in coming.

“How dare you touch my brother?” I snarl at the blacksmith, who holds his ground even as I enter the room and stand before him, my hands clenching and unclenching at my sides.

Paris scurries in front of the man as though he would protect someone twice his size from my wrath. “Hector, that is not fair, Helenus sleeps with every washing-girl in Troy!”

The back of my hand makes contact with his cheek before I can stop myself. He would have fallen to the floor had not the blacksmith grasped his hips firmly and held him upright.

The look Paris gives me is full of a fire to match my own, with something deeper than hatred smoldering in them.

“Prince Hector,” Echeclus says quietly, “if you wish to punish someone, let it be me.”

“You,” I say, still nearly blind with fury, “you will take my horse to the stables and see that he is cared for.”

I clamp my hand on Paris’ slender arm and drag him from the room without so much as a glance behind, out of the smithy and into the streets, where eyes turn and follow us as I march my recalcitrant brother up one stairwell after another until we reach the heights of the city and his own new home. The house is splendid, beautifully decorated – indeed, by our mother’s own hand – and a servant is preparing the table for a meal. “Out!” I scowl, and he scurries out, softly closing the door. I slam the bolt into place. My hand now on the back of Paris’ neck, I compel him to the inner portions of the house until I find the bedroom. I fling him on the bed.

He rolls to his back and stares up at me, half afraid and half furious himself.

My concentration is taken up with breathing deeply and relaxing my taut muscles so that I do not do something even more regrettable than my actions in the smithy. “Do you understand,” I say with deceptive softness, “how I have shamed myself in front of one of my own subjects?”

Paris chews on his lower lip. My eyes are immediately riveted to his mouth; I can imagine the blacksmith pleasuring himself with that mouth. “Why am I not permitted to have a lover?” Paris asks defiantly. “You do not want me.”

“Do you understand how you have shamed the house of Priam with your wanton behavior?” I continue.

“Am I to live with no love?” Paris is courting danger. He knows it full well. Some part of me admires his daring. “Simply because you are unable to know what it is to love well and truly?”

“Is that what you think?”

“You have made it clear,” he counters with a frown. “You envy the simple blacksmith.”

“He had no right to lay with you!”

“He had the right that I had given him. He has done me no wrong; he is gentle and loving.”

“Ah, and you know so much of love, do you not? You who lied to me.”

Paris squirms on the bed. “I would rather be a liar than a coward.”

I glower darkly. “Be careful what you say to me, little brother.”

But he clearly has no intention to take any care at all. “For so long I thought you knew no fear, but that is wrong,” he spits. “Mighty Hector knows fear. He is afraid of a shepherd boy.”

My hand goes up again, unbidden, and Paris flinches in spite of his bravado. When I lower my hand without striking, he sits up and tugs his tunic over his head and hurls it aside. “I know what you want,” he says sullenly, turning onto his hands and knees and presenting his backside to me. He lays his forehead on the sheets and spreads his legs wider.

If he thought such a sight would soften me, he is mistaken. His entrance is still soft and open from the blacksmith’s attentions. My anger turns white-hot again. I get on the bed behind him and draw aside my kilt. I am already fully aroused, which Paris knew before turning away. I mount him and pull his hips towards me until I am fully inside him. There is no resistance.

“Go on,” he says softly, his voice muffled by the pillows. “You know you want this.”

“Be quiet! Do not deign to tell me what I want,” I snarl, drawing back and then slamming myself into him again. I am not gentle. I ride him as I would a whore. Worse, even, than I would treat a whore. He makes no sound beneath me other than a quiet grunt now and then. I think of the blacksmith, and I ride Paris harder. His breathing becomes louder, more ragged. If this is causing him pain, I neither know nor care. I only know my own pain, the fiery rage that grows inside me until it must come out somehow; the horrid cramping, throbbing anger that is destroying me, that focuses suddenly on the body that I am using so fiercely, and at last the anger is released into that body while a painful yell is torn from my throat.

Through it all, Paris was never aroused. He lies on the bed, not touching me, his back to me, naked, while I am on my back, breathing hard, fully clothed. Carefully, I reach for him with an unsteady hand, and I lay it upon his thigh, yet he flinches away.

Silently, in my thoughts, I curse the blacksmith. I curse the day I was born. I curse the day Paris was born. I curse my parents for conceiving me, for conceiving him. I curse the city of Troy for needing me, for expecting me to always do what is right, to save them from themselves. I curse the people who have come to expect perfection from me. I curse the gods who created the world. I curse myself for being cowardly, foolish, and weak.

But mostly, I simply wish I could have been born a blacksmith. A blacksmith might be permitted to weep. A blacksmith might be permitted to have a shepherd for his lover.

Hours later, Paris is yet awake, blinking into the darkness. He has said nothing, indeed has not moved. I take myself down to the stables and seek my horse, which has been well-cared for as I knew would happen, and I lay myself down in the straw to sleep.


To Be Continued