Blessed and Burdened

There is a fly in the room somewhere. Antenor drones on. I cannot determine which of the two is more maddening to bear.

In the council assembly chamber, my place is at my father’s right hand. Deiphobus sits to the other side of the throne, and others of my brothers at times take their turn in joining the council in order that they keep abreast of the city’s affairs. There is a small chair to the side for this purpose. The chair is empty, as should not be.

While Antenor natters, the king leans over and whispers to me, “Where is Paris?”

“I ordered him to attend,” I say very low. “I will punish him when I find him.”

“No, no,” the king says placatingly. “Do no such thing, my son. Paris is new to our ways.”

“Three full moons have come and gone. He should know better by now.”

“Promise me you will not punish him for this, Hector.”

I grimace, but nod.

The king smiles and pats my arm. “You are a good son, Hector.”

He has grown soft-hearted in his declining years. Priam was once a great warrior, fierce and battle-hardened. He it was who ordered the building of Troy’s impregnable walls, the temples and the palace, the markets and stables. Before my birth, Troy comprised a scattering of mud-and-wattle huts on a promontory overlooking the Hellespont. Now it is a magnificent city which has taken the countryside under its protection. If he chooses peace now, there can be no blame. And yet, I think, would that he be something less soft-hearted to the willful Paris.

Antenor’s discourse is disrupted by a sudden peal of thunder. The sky has darkened outside the open windows, and lightning flashes fitfully. Soon, there will be a downpour.

In the momentary silence following the thunder, while Antenor appears yet startled by the interruption, perchance trying to decide whether it is an omen of the anger of Zeus, a servant runs into the assembly chamber and bows before the king.

“What is it, man?” asks the king.

“Prince Paris—“

“What of him?”

“Missing, my lord. He cannot be found!”

The king rises hurriedly. “What do you mean?”

“He went out this morning with the merchants to visit to the caravan,” said the man. “He was not with them when they returned to the city in the forenoon.”

Although it is most unlike me to disrupt my father’s speech, I stand and grab the man’s robe. “Have you looked everywhere? Are you certain? Has someone gone back outside the gates to seek him? Were the caravan drivers questioned closely?”

“Yes, prince, yes, the captain of the guard did all that!” The man looks frightened – not of the king, but of me.

I have ever been displeased when Paris leaves the city walls without my presence. He chafes greatly at my control, for he has known great freedom when he lived as a simple shepherd – but he was not a king’s son then, and would have fetched no ransom.

My father lays a hand on mine and I release the servant’s robe. Addressing the servant, he asks, “Who last saw Prince Paris?”

“The wine merchant, my lord.”

“Take Prince Hector to the merchant,” he instructs, nodding at me.

Lightning flashes anew and the downpour begins, drumming loudly on the roof, for the council chamber lies in the uppermost reaches of the city. As I follow the servant through the halls and down numerous flights of steps, nearly treading on his heels, my thoughts fly to Paris. What can he have been thinking? That he would run away and join the caravan? If the foolish child thought he knew my wrath before, he will learn that he had not the first idea of it.

*** *** ***

As it turns out, when I do find him, it would seem his lesson must wait.

For I find him – many leagues from Troy, in a bramble-covered ravine of the eastern hills – in the grip of a filthy bandit holding a blade to his throat. The bandits we have surprised are nine in number, while I am backed by the six men-at-arms who rode with me into the rain and the darkening day.

Although the bandits have refused, quite foolishly, my first and exceedingly generous offer – that they might leave unharmed if they release Paris without delay – they have accepted my second: that I will fight their best man for him. Indeed, the huge brute appears to be quite eager for the battle. This is not strange, for many men wish to try themselves against the firstborn prince of Troy, yet were it not for the bandits’ greater numbers and my own overmastering need to rescue Paris, I would never abase myself by offering to fight a miserable bandit in single combat. Further, though little do I relish a fight in the rain and the mud, the insult to the house of Priam may not go unavenged.

I am only slightly mollified by the look of abject terror marring the lovely face of Paris. I glare at the man who holds him, and he lowers his knife but retains his hold. It is well for him, for in spite of my offer, had the blade broken skin, I would gladly gut him like the swine he is.

I turn back to their champion, hoisting my spear and shield. The brute and I circle one another warily.

As I pass near to Paris, I spare no glance for him, but he whispers in a quivering voice, “Kill him for me, Hector.”

“I shall,” I vow.

A moment later the brute leaps forward and strikes a blow on my raised shield. We trade blows for long minutes, blinking the rain from our eyes, our sandals squelching in sludge. His arm is strong, his reach longer than mine, and his blows are fierce, yet he falls harder and finds his feet slower than do I, as we slip in the mud until we are both fair covered with it. As happens oft with such battles, it ends abruptly in the beat of a heart. He yells and lunges at a perceived gap between my shield and chest, moving in dangerously close, and at that last moment I twist the shield enough to turn his blow and thrust my spear through his body. He tumbles backward, dead: his unseeing eyes open to the rain.

Paris shudders, his face white as marble, as I wrench the spear from the body and a fresh gout of blood burbles forth and is washed away by the rain.

I raise my eyes to the other bandits. “Who will be next?” I ask darkly.

In answer, the cowards unhand Paris and run to their horses.

“Let them go,” I say to forestall the captain from pursuing. “They will relate what has happened here this day to others, who will not be so quick to risk Troy’s wrath.”

“Very well, my lord,” says the captain.

Paris runs to me and I grasp him by the nape and hold him off. “You I will deal with later,” I inform him.

“The savages do not even take their comrade’s body,” the captain is saying. “What shall we do with it?”

“Leave it,” I reply. “His actions were dishonorable. He deserves nothing from us. Now, captain, set Prince Paris on the bandit’s horse. Tie him to it if you must, and ride behind to see that he does not fall.”

The hurt look in the boy’s eyes is not enough to mitigate my anger or lessen my resolve. I yearn to shake him until his teeth rattle, but this is not the place. I must wait.

The long ride back to the city does nothing to diminish my fury, yet the drenching rain at least has washed most of the filth from my body. At the stables I send word to my parents that Paris is well and alive and that he will wait upon them in the morning. I drag him through the long corridors to my house and bolt the door.

I am trembling with fury, while Paris trembles with fear. And yet I must master myself, for the bandit paid for my anger with his life, yet I cannot harm Paris. The dark thoughts I had while riding back to the city – of punishing him in some way to assuage the shadow in my heart – must remain mere phantasms. Thus I am careful not to touch him.

And yet I must make him understand, else he endanger Troy with his thoughtlessness. “Paris,” I begin, in a deadly calm voice.

It would seem he cannot find his voice, but his eyes beseech my mercy.

“Have I not told you a thousand times,” I continue, “not to leave the city without my permission?”

“I only wanted to see the caravan. The Trojan merchants were there as well.”

“But you did not stay with the merchants, did you?”

“I meant only to see the olive groves.”

“You were told to be at the council of elders!”

“I forgot!”

“And so instead of doing your duty to the city that has welcomed you – you, a mere shepherd still smelling of dung – you ran off and contrived to be taken prisoner by common bandits!”

“But, Hector, how could I have known? They came upon me unawares!”

I clench my hands in my hair to keep from grabbing him. “You should not have been outside the walls in the first place!” I bellow.

He cringes but holds his ground. He certainly possesses courage of a sort. Or perhaps he simply knows that I do not possess the ability to harm him. “Am I not a free man?”

“If you wished to be a free man you should have stayed a shepherd, for a shepherd needs no protector.”

“Why do I need a protector? Why must the guards follow me everywhere?”

“For the very reason you saw today! A king’s son can be held for ransom and bring ruin upon the city!”

“But you take care of everything,” he says as though he is being very reasonable.

Why must he incite such rage in me? I can no longer stop myself – I seize his shoulders and shake him ferociously. I thank the gods for the pounding rain that still pours over the city, else all Troy would hear me. “Can you not understand, Paris, that my very life is forfeit to yours! That my life is forfeit to that of any Trojan! Did you come to Troy to destroy the entire city? I am not immortal, Paris! Are you listening to me?”

In the ringing silence after I cease yelling, a small pained sound from Paris tells me that I have gone too far. I stop shaking him but continue to clutch his shoulders. If I were to release him, I fear I might not be able to stand. He is clutching me as well, hands clinging to my breastplate.

“I am sorry,” are the soft words I hear, “I meant no—“ and then a loud rapping sounds on the door.

We spring apart guiltily, for what reason I cannot say. I recall that the door is bolted. “Go away!” I call harshly.

There is a silence and then a meek voice. “King’s errand, my lord. Their majesties wish to see the prince.”

I drop my hands. Defeated, as always. “Go,” I tell Paris.

“Will you not come?” he asks quietly.

“It is you they want. Leave me.”

Still he hesitates.

“Go!”

I do not move while he lifts the bolt and slips out the door.

*** *** ***

I sit in the dark for a long while, the torch snuffed out, my armor in pieces on the floor where I flung it. I have cleaned myself somewhat and donned fresh clothing, but more than this I have not attempted.

For the first time in my life, I am uncertain. My thoughts shame me, for the arrival of Paris has awakened so many improper passions. I should be above envy, yet I am not. I envy his usurpation of my place in our parents’ hearts, in our people’s hearts. They respect and admire me, they look to me for protection, but Paris they adore. I even envy his glad spirit and the joy he takes in the simplest things.

But it is more than this. I resent the smiles he bestows upon others. I want them for myself. His foolishness enrages me, yet I also desire to shelter him from the world’s perils. I would like to stand always between him and harm, to keep him locked away and safe at all times, to fold him in my arms and let him know that I care for him.

After the day’s terror, the long ride, the fight in the ravine, and my rage, I am exhausted, yet I cannot sleep. For this reason Paris finds me still reclining in the chair when he enters quietly. His sandaled feet pad across the floor and he stops beside me. He is wearing a beautiful garment and smells clean.

“Hector?” he asks softly.

“I am awake.” My voice sounds ragged and dull.

“They wondered why you did not come,” he says.

“It was you they wanted to see.”

“You are wrong, they asked for you.” He kneels on the bare floor beside me and places his head on my knee. “Thank you, Hector.”

“For what?” I ask wearily.

“For all you have done for me. I know that often I fail to heed you, and you are right to be angry with me. But I miss the green hills, and the trees and the birds singing. I miss tending my flock of sheep, and breaking fast with my family on Mount Ida. I do not mean to sound ungrateful; I am trying to do well. I know that I fail. I know it is hard for you.”

“It is not so hard,” I say, brushing the curls from his forehead where it rests upon my knee. “Come, the floor is too cold, get up.”

He rises gracefully and then, surprising me utterly, settles himself on my lap, his legs on either side of mine, and twines his arms about my neck and kisses me full on the mouth. His lips are soft on mine, and my hands, unbidden, clasp his thighs.

“Paris,” I grate out harshly, “do not kiss me.”

His lips still against mine. He lifts his head and asks in a hurt voice, “Why not?”

“It is wrong.”

“But I want this,” he says simply. He sits back, tugs his robe open and lets it fall from his shoulders to drape across his thighs and my lap.

I cannot suppress a deep groan. My arms encircle his waist, pulling him against me. He nestles his face into my neck, his hands in my hair. His legs spread wider and my hands move to caress his buttocks, then the backs of his thighs. Paris makes a small soft sound as my hands move inward. He is trembling in my arms and his breathing has quickened. Although it is something I have never yet done, and I am even afraid, I touch the opening to his body. He shudders strongly and pushes his arousal against my belly where my robe has slipped open, and whimpers faintly.

Never could I have imagined this. Not the susurration of his voice, nor the feeling of his warm body in my arms, his breath against my neck, the solid weight and male smell of him. Gently my finger strokes the pucker, circling around it and at times directly across. Paris writhes and rocks against me, moaning.

“Oh, Hector,” he whispers, barely above the din of the downpour, and then he tenses and I feel warmth and moisture on my belly. I still caress the pucker until Paris gives a small cry. “No more, please,” he whispers. “It is too much.”

Ceasing immediately, I bring my arms around him and hold him to me while his breathing gentles. My own breathing seems harsh and loud, for I have had no release. I will my arousal to dissipate, yet it takes a long while, and no longer can I halt the thoughts of my wrongdoing. When I thought it was only I who wanted Paris, it was difficult. Now I find, to my dismay, I am culpable for his corruption as well. For how else would he have come to want this? As a hero he venerates me, yet he is not alone among the youth of Troy to do so, and I have never felt this way about another. It must be my own corruption that has engendered his. I must bear the responsibility and must set all to rights.

Slack against me, Paris begins to snore lightly. How can he sleep so innocently, I wonder. Weary though I be, I do not think I will find rest this night. And yet I must put him in his bed soon and go to my own. Tomorrow, I vow to the immortal gods, this will end.