Favorite Son

“Paris!” I bellow.

He drops everything in guilty haste and stares at me.

“How many times must I tell you — let the servants do that!”

“I do not mind,” he bleats.

“I do,” I say menacingly. “A prince does not clean up after others.” As I speak, I close the distance between us, and he backs slowly from me. “You came to Troy claiming to be a prince. You should act like one.”

“You do so much for me, my lord, it is only right that I do something for you,” he continues, his voice unsteady but his chin held high.

His back is to the wall and I loom over him. “I need nothing from you,” I tell him.

“No, my lord,” he agrees. He moistens his lips and his eyes dart to the side as though seeking escape. “Perhaps I should – I could go back.”

“Back?”

“To Mount Ida. My foster family, my friends on the mountain – I could return to them....”

“You would not dare leave.”

That brings forth a look of surprise, bolder than before. “But I think you do not want me here, Prince Hector?”

“It is no matter what I desire, Paris – but you have charmed the queen and she could not bear your leaving now.”

“It would be better had I never come at all. Tomorrow, I will take my leave of her and go—“

“You will STAY!” I snarl, grasping his chin and turning his face to mine. I am pleased to see fear on his perfect features. “You have come to my city,” I growl in a low voice, “without being invited, you have upset the entire order of things, you have told my mother that you are her lost child, and I will not – I will NOT allow you to be the cause of further pain to her! Do you mark my words?”

He nods shakily.

“You will say nothing to her of this,” I declare. “You will learn to behave like a son of Priam, and you will practice in the fields every day until you prove you can fight like a Trojan. Are you listening to me!”

“Yes, my lord,” he whispers.

One day, I think resignedly, one day I will tell him to cease calling me lord and prince. But that day will not be today.

“And, Paris,” I continue, “do not pick up anything that I drop.”

I release him and step back and he scuttles to the bedchamber he chose for himself a fortnight ago. I watch him go with grim satisfaction. There is something dark in me that relishes this sensation, something I do not examine closely.

I find myself too intemperate now to retire for the night, and therefore I step out to the dark balcony that looks over my city, and ponder the state of affairs. It is much to bear but I was given no choice. As the gods brought Paris back to us, it was never in my power to send him away. And now it is far too late.

Yet Paris has striven to ingratiate himself from the outset. Since that first night, the insufferable whelp has followed me everywhere. The gods know I have tried to be patient with him, and he watches me closely until I am aching with the provocation of it and know no peace. He watches me eat in order to learn not to pick food from his teeth with his fingers like an Achaean savage. He accompanies me to the temples where I must teach him to conduct himself properly before the gods. I have chastised him for gambling in a tavern with tradesmen, for swimming naked in the bay, for hiding a stray cat in his bed, for interrupting a council elder at a banquet, and for helping the stable-hands to foal a pregnant mare. The shepherd has come down from the hills, it would seem, and yet he is still of the hills.

*** *** ***

Paris does not appear, upon the rising of the sun, to have heeded my instructions as well as he might, for I awake to find he has prepared the morning meal and sits at the table waiting for me, slicing a piece of succulent fruit and flaunting his usual sunny disposition.

“What have I told you about servants?” I ask sternly.

Paris looks up brightly. “Let them pick up things from the floor,” he announces as though to show how well he has learned his lesson.

I sigh and sit down. Over the past days I have often felt hopeless of ever training him properly. Paris is like a loose rock in the river, rolling out of the way whenever one tries to step upon it.

He spreads cream over a piece of bread and places it in front of me.

“I am capable of feeding myself,” I inform him.

There is a commotion in the outer hall and my youngest sister runs into the house and straight into the arms of Paris. I watch the two of them with lowering brows. Paris catches my eye and whispers into Laodice’s ear. She slides from his lap and comes around the table and climbs into mine, but I know very well she finds him more enticing.

I have the respect of all Troy – yet Paris has their love. The injustice of this smites me deeply. Have I not given my whole life for them, bled for them, killed for them? Have I ever complained or railed against my lot? How worthless am I that an unknown boy, a herder of sheep, for the love of Aphrodite, means more to them?

Abruptly I set Laodice on the floor. “Go back to the palace,” I command.

“But, Hector—“

“Now,” I say, “or do you wish me to punish you?”

She pouts at me, smiles at Paris, and scampers away.

To Paris I say, “I have no time for you today. I have neglected other duties that can no longer wait. Find Deiphobus and let him teach you how to behave like a prince.”

He looks so disappointed that I suddenly wish I had kept my ill temper to myself.

“Yes, Prince Hector,” he says.

“And stop calling me prince.”

*** *** ***

In the cold and silent heart of Athena’s temple, I meditate for long hours, seeking wisdom and fortitude from the goddess. This has been my habit and the caretakers of the temple see that I am not disturbed.

Often in these moments, my thoughts dwell upon the people of Troy: the weavers who create beautiful cloth and tapestries, the bakers who make our bread, the mothers who raise our children to be good citizens, the servants who wait upon us and clean the public areas, the temple priests and priestesses who intercede with the deities on our behalf, the soldiers who guard the walls, the merchants who see after our trade, the herdsmen who tend flocks and the farmers who nurture the fields outside the city walls, the toll-keepers at the port, the poets who sing of far lands and brave deeds, the smiths who make swords and armor, the horse tamers who break young stallions to the bit, the tradesmen who traffic with the caravans, the king’s councilors who advise my father in setting the course of the country, the fishers who brave the churning waters of the Hellespont to bring the sea’s bounty to our tables, the builders who raised the great walls and the citadel and who build new homes, the artisans who adorn our homes and fashion our jewelry and sculpt our heroes and gods in stone. Each has a part to play in the greatness of Troy.

For Troy is a beacon of civilization and culture. Our people are well-fed and happy, our city is beautiful, our lands are abundant and fruitful. Truly, we live in the sun, as the favored people of Apollo. Arousing, there can be no doubt, the passionate envy of others.

And to keep Troy safe, there is a price that must be paid.

I have always known what my life would be: I would grow to be a warrior, a leader of men, brave in battle and just in judgment; in time I would marry a noble woman of Troy and she would give me sons and daughters; I would worship and pay tribute to the gods, who in turn would bless the harvests and defend us from our enemies; I would honor my parents and safeguard my sisters and my brothers. I would give my life gladly for any of these things.

Much of this has already come to pass, and the rest will surely follow, or so it always seemed until my new brother, if brother he be, came to the city. No longer am I certain of my future, or Troy’s future.

Truly, the people of Troy love him. When he passes through the streets, children run to him and he swings them in the air and laughs at their antics. He has a winning smile for every bashful maiden and matron. He visits the shops of the tradesmen and artisans and exclaims over their wares – amazed and gratified by everything – and he pays the wildest compliments to everyone. On the day when he is given a set of armor, very like my own, he is so pleased that he wears it for days on end, removing it only for sleep.

He is full of grace and joy in a way that I will never be. At times I fear that he will not turn out much of a warrior, in spite of his physical skills. He is much better at singing and playing pan-pipes and amusing the king and queen. And though I prize the skills of a warrior above such talents, and hold my fellow warriors in the greatest esteem, yet I am drawn to Paris as surely as are all the others, though not for the world would I let it be known.

And I begin to wonder, at times, whether the people of Troy – the king and queen – my sisters and brothers – have acted wisely in welcoming this unknown into our bosom. Cassandra alone seems wary of the boy, and although she speaks in arcane riddles and some say she is quite mad, nevertheless she has been proved right betimes.

I find myself hoping she is wrong.

*** *** ***

Archeptolemus and I wince as Paris falls off the galloping horse yet again.

“He possesses an ill seat on a horse, does he not?” I muse. In truth, he has been covered with bruises lately. Each new discoloration on his heretofore unmarked skin seems to accuse me of an unkind stubbornness when I insist his training continue without cease. Yet there is no other way. Having started his schooling so late, he must catch up to others who began nearly at birth.

“I am not so sure, my lord,” Archeptolemus says, “It seems to me Prince Paris possesses a very nice seat.”

I glance at him, my eyes narrowing in suspicion, yet I discern no indication that he is teasing me.

“Yet he improves with sword and shield?”

“Very much indeed.”

“And with spear?”

“Better each day. Excellent accuracy but the hurling of a spear takes much strength in the arm.”

“At least he is good with bow and arrow.”

“He is incomparable at that.”

“Fortunate, since he cannot seem to stay on a moving horse.”

“Shall I teach him to drive a chariot instead, my lord?”

“Perhaps. One presumes he would fall less.”

Archeptolemus slaps my shoulder. “You and I learned to ride as children,” he says mildly. “Give him time.”

I snort and look back across the sun-baked plain of the Scamander. Paris has chosen to walk the horse back rather than ride it. When I notice that he is limping, I quickly run to meet him.

“It is nothing,” Paris says quickly. “There was a rock where I fell.”

His thigh is bleeding profusely from a long gash. I crouch and explore the wound. He flinches sharply. “Hold still,” I command, looking up to his face and seeing there the pain he is trying to hide. My heart seems to stop for a moment, for I know at this moment that I cannot bear to see him in pain. “You will heal, Paris, it is not bad,” I tell him, squeezing his hand.

I return my attention to the wound, which proves deep enough to require mending, so I rise and take the reins from his hand and mount the horse. “Come,” I say, holding out my arm, which he grasps uncertainly, and I lift him bodily to the horse’s back, to sit directly in front of me. His small gasp of pain rends my heart anew, and I put one arm around his waist and with my free hand pull on the reins and turn towards the city.

I stop near Archeptolemus. “Is Prince Paris hurt?” he asks, looking up in concern.

“Not beyond repair,” I answer. “I will take him to the city to have it cared for. Your apprentice will return to you in a day or two, I promise.”

“As soon as may be,” the bastard says, grinning at Paris. “I wish you the best of health, my prince.”

“Many thanks, captain,” Paris answers faintly. I spur the horse and we canter off at a fast pace. I decide to seek out Acheptolemus later and tell him to stay well clear of Paris, although how he might accomplish that and continue to instruct him in the arts of war, I do not know.

As we ride, I note that Paris has grabbed the horse’s mane. “Use your hands to hold the wound closed,” I instruct him, leaning over to speak in his ear. “Otherwise you will lose much blood.” He seems reluctant to release his hold on the horse. I grip him tighter and say, “Do not be alarmed, I will not let you fall.” Against my better judgment, I am reluctantly pleased when he complies and leans trustingly against my chest.

*** *** ***

The healer has been sent away, not without voluminous and vociferous protests. Paris rests on a low stool while I kneel between his legs, carefully stitching the wound. I have already cleansed it and applied the healer’s favorite mixture to dull the pain at the wound’s site, and later I will see that Paris drinks enough ale that he will sleep through the night. Many times have I cared for my men when they have been wounded thus, and my hands are steady at the task. I am less certain, however, of the impulse that came over me on the plain: that I could not bear to see Paris harmed.

The last stitch is finished cleanly and I tie and sever the piece of gut and set the needle aside. The color has returned to Paris’ face and he is much recovered. I lay my hands on his thighs and he places one of his hands, small and elegant, on top of my own.

“Will I grow to be as big as you and Prince Deiphobus?” he asks.

I raise my eyes to his and shake my head slowly. “You will be more like Helenus. But do not be unhappy, for it is the size of the warrior’s heart, not his body, that matters.”

He chews on his lower lip and looks down. “I cannot even grow a beard,” he says with a mortified laugh.

“You are young,” I assure him.

“I am trying very hard to be a good fighter.”

“You have done well. Deiphobus and Archeptolemus tell me of your progress daily. The king is most pleased.”

“I want to make you proud, Hector,” he says.

“Then do so.” My voice sounds rough to my own ears. His nearness is affecting me powerfully. Never before have I desired a man or youth. And yet now I can only think how beautifully formed are his brows, and how I wish to run a finger across them. I know a burning desire to kiss his closed eyes or his lovely mouth or (I feel myself growing hot with shame as I think on this) the place between his legs.

The boy saves me from such further thoughts with a sudden laugh, more like his usual joyous mirth, and swiftly he leans back and swings his good leg over my head and bounces off the stool.

“Take care with the leg,” I say sternly, getting up to assist him.

“It no longer hurts, and I am certain it will heal well, now that you have mended it.”

“It will scar.”

“I do not mind,” he muses, touching with his small hand a long-healed welt on my forearm.

*** *** ***

This night, while he sleeps unknowing in my bed, in the small room that he has taken from me, I dream of him. I dream of a youth so bright that he burns in the midday sun, and so dark that he fades beyond sight among the Stygian shades.

As in a dream I awaken to see his shadowy, moonlit figure in the archway, his hands tucked into his armpits, shivering and barefoot. Still dreaming (for I cannot imagine I would permit this indulgence otherwise), I allow him into the bed, beneath the eiderdown coverlet, and he curls against my back. I long to turn and hold him, and I tell myself it is not more than I have done many times in the past for my younger siblings when a storm threatened or the nights turned cold. Yet it is not the same at all, and this I know very well. I fear that I am failing in my duty, for I know I must not permit myself to fall under his spell. It is not enough to lay claim to the weakness of a simple mortal when my countrymen, my king and even Apollo have come to expect my absolute devotion. As the firstborn child of a great king, I have been both blessed and burdened.

Yet I am human, even if they choose not to remember this. And behind me, Paris is already asleep, snoring softly.

I fear for Troy and for myself.