Favorite Son

I fall asleep after all, and dream of being pursued by bloodied giants riddled with arrows who refuse to die, while the towers of Troy burn against the black sky. I awaken long before Paris and leave the house while he yet slumbers.

I do not speak to Paris for days on end. In his eyes I see doubt, and, once, tears not yet shed – my gift to my little brother. I harden my heart against the sight, for why should I suffer alone?

Yet his sadness infects me. My deeds were unworthy and wrong. Paris, being young and not yet mature, cannot have any blame in this. I long for something to do, something that might take me from the city for a long while. A war would suffice, yet the times are peaceful and the king will not release me for I have been charged with overseeing the stocking of winter provisions.

Paris spends many hours with the royal household where, as always, he is at the center of whatever merriment ensues. The king and queen dote upon him, as do all the younger children. The servants fall over their own feet to be the first to serve him, for he is gracious and kind to each. Betimes I watch from the shadows of a hallway, and once Laodice spied me and came over to raise her arms and beg to be lifted, whereupon I hoisted her into my arms and held her for a long while, as she whispered into my ear how she missed me, and I whispered back that I must spend my time caring for Troy and keeping it safe, that she might be safe.

My dreams continue, vivid and disturbing. I awaken feeling hag-ridden. I immerse myself in the business of the city in order to put these things from my mind. I begin to spend nights in the garrison with the men, to take my meals there, and rarely to ascend to the high houses of the city. The simple camaraderie of warriors I find deeply comforting. I long to speak with Archeptolemus, but I cannot bring myself to reveal my thoughts to anyone, for the weight of my guilt is heavy. It cannot be right that I desire Paris as I do. That the gods themselves couple with their own brothers and sisters does not pertain, for it is also told that Cronos ate his own children, and of course we mortals cannot do that.

It has been several days since ever I laid eyes upon Paris, when I come upon him in the public square, where he is seated on the rim of a fountain, surrounded by children and holding a kitten. Caught off my guard, I hesitate for an unwise moment and he looks up and sees me. I must appear fierce, for the children stare at me and shrink closer to Paris.

“Hector,” he says, “Aphrodite is not well.”

“Aphrodite?” I ask stupidly.

He holds out the kitten. “Her paw is hurt.”

Ah. The cat. For a moment I do nothing, but my heart is no longer so bitter, and I crouch down and take the tiny creature into my hands. Cats earn their keep in the city by ridding it of vermin, and sometimes children make pets of them. Leaving aside for the nonce the thought that naming a dumb animal after the goddess may be sacrilege, I examine Aphrodite’s paw while she protests weakly. “There is a wood splinter embedded deeply. Draw my knife, Paris.”

He reaches for the sheath on my belt and, while I firmly hold the kitten with one hand and her paw with the other, Paris finds the offending object and carefully eases it out with the tip of the knife. The shy children move closer and I feel their small hands on my thighs. They sigh as one when we finish and I place the kitten in the care of the eldest boy.

“Wash her paw in clean water, very gently, mind, and then let her rest in a quiet corner,” I tell the boy, who nods eagerly. As the children run off with their kitten, I take the knife from Paris and sheathe it. He halts my motion to rise with a hand upon my knee and supplication in his eyes.

“How have I wronged you?” he asks.

“You have not wronged me,” I say stiffly.

“Yet you no longer come home at night,” he protests.

“That is your home now, not mine.”

He looks shocked. “No, Hector, I never meant -“

“It matters not what you meant, Paris, you seem unwilling to learn that your willfulness has grave consequences.”

“You are angry with me.”

“I was angry.”

“You are still angry.”

“Do not remonstrate with me,” I declare, flinging off his hand and rising brusquely.

Paris stands, too, and glares at me. “What must I do to make it right?”

“You cannot,” I say meanly.

In spite of his defiance, his lower lip begins to tremble and I fear that he will make a fool of himself in the public square.

“Remember your place, Paris, and do not shame all of us.”

“Very well,” he says quietly, “I shall leave Troy.”

“You shall not,” I reply. “You shall go to the royal houses and not venture forth until I give you leave. Do you mark me, Paris? Do not risk my anger, for I have been kind to you thus far.”

With muttered words amongst which I distinguish “if this is kindness” and “overbearing” and “pompous,” he turns on his heel and walks briskly from the square. I glower at the people who have been watching until they hurriedly return to their tasks.

*** *** ***

Only much later do I learn that he walked out the Scaean Gates, which remain open whilst Apollo rides the skies, and has not returned.

Again?

Cursing myself roundly for failing to instruct every guard in the city not to let Paris outside the walls, I ascend the southern watchtower and scan the landscape. Of a certainty, there is a dark spot moving across the plain. Does the fool think he will walk all the way to Mount Ida?

Descending to the level of the streets, I stride into the stables, calling for my horse to be made ready. As Paris is on foot, I surely will reach him before he crosses the Scamander and, as the sentries have reported no foes in the southern region, I choose to go unaccompanied. An audience might be unwise and unwelcome when I catch up Paris.

Near the river the horse slows to a walk to pick its way amongst reeds and damp ground. Paris must hear the approach but he never turns, only walks stubbornly onward. When I roar out his name he halts and looks over his shoulder angrily. His eyes follow mine as my horse draws alongside, and I hold out my arm.

“No,” he says.

“Do not try me, Paris. I have come to bring you home.”

“I am going home. As you can perhaps see, there is no reason for your concern. I am no longer a prince, I am simply a shepherd, I have taken nothing of value from Troy, and after all no one wants a mere shepherd.”

And truly, he is dressed in a simple homespun tunic, with a plain leather belt and sandals. But the austere garments of a shepherd cannot hide the golden beauty of his skin, nor the sweetly delicate features of his face, nor the regal mien he has learned with such alacrity in the palace of Priam.

I know a moment’s panic when I think he means to leave me. To hide this I slide from the horse’s back and draw my sword from the saddle scabbard. Paris’ uncompromising look turns to one of uncertainty and concern as I approach him.

“Very well, shepherd boy, then I am simply a marauder who has come upon you in the wild and dislikes the look of you. I count life cheap, and seeing your blood run red would please me. How do you propose to defend yourself?”

“Defend myself?” He takes a cautious step backward.

“I shall make it easy for you.” I thrust the sword into the ground at his feet, unbuckle my breastplate and let it fall to earth, and unsheathe my knife. “Take it,” I say, indicating the sword.

“But, Hector –“

“Take it!”

“No!” he cries. “I will not fight you!”

My blood is beginning to boil. It would seem he knows precisely how best to enrage me, and always takes that path. I fling the knife into the ground and force myself to stand still. My hands clench and unclench at my sides and my chest rises and falls with each breath. “What will you do, then?” I ask with quiet menace. If he knew how close I am to uncontrolled rage, he would not test me in this way.

But perhaps he has no notion of it, for he takes several more steps backwards and says merely, “Run.”

Run? A cowardly and unusual tactic for a prince, but I have seen him run, and he is fleet indeed. He might even outrun me; given his still developing fighting skills, it is perhaps his wisest course. “Very well,” I say softly, “try.”

His eyes dart hither and thither as he scans the terrain and deliberates upon his chances. He is unsure whether I am in earnest. He feints to one side but I make no move. I have learned to read intent in a man’s eyes. I know the very moment when he decides his course, and almost before he begins to move I am after him. In six strides I have him, grabbing him by the belt and hurling him to the ground. He lands hard, gasping for air, and I straddle him yet he surprises me by slithering out of my grasp. Grabbing his ankle, I haul him back but clearly he has chosen to fight at last, for he becomes as a cornered wild beast and flails against me. One well-aimed kick catches the side of my head and I am filled with pride. He may not have the best wrestling form but it matters not – for so long as he fights to defend himself, I am pleased.

We struggle and grapple in the dirt until I am able to pin him beneath me. While sustaining several blows that will turn livid by nightfall, I have taken care to do him no harm beyond a bruise in the falling. We are both panting heavily as I lean over him, holding his wrists to the ground and immobilizing his legs through the expedient of sitting upon them.

His dark eyes flash: he is angry. Let him feel what I have felt, and suffer as I have suffered. Yet when he says, “Are you pleased now, brother?” I am stricken with shame.

“No, Paris, no,” I tell him, “it is not that way.”

“How, then?”

“I was afraid.”

“I do not believe you. Hector fears nothing.”

“Hector fears many things,” I correct him.

“I will not believe that.”

“You were leaving me.”

“I am not wanted.”

“You are wrong. They all love you.”

“I meant by you.” He looks away. His anger has softened to discontent and his beautiful eyes are swimming in unshed tears. I release his wrists and clutch him to me and whisper in a choked voice, “I was so afraid, Paris. So angry with you. I wanted to beat you.” His slender arms reach around my neck diffidently. “To teach you never to do such a foolish thing again,” I stumble on.

“If you think that is best,” he says, sounding young and uncertain.

I squeeze him so hard that he emits a squeaking noise in protestation.

“Would it give you pleasure, Hector?” he asks, and my heart breaks.

Not for anything could I do that, my love, I think madly. For I am mad. Truly I have gone mad, for to my horror I discern that I am fully aroused. My hand moves as though through divine will to stroke his cheek and brush away a tear that has escaped. I press our brows together and clasp the back of his head, my fingers gripping and releasing the thick wild curls. “Paris,” I say brokenly, and his face turns up and I feel his mouth on mine. I am mad, or the gods have cursed me, for I kiss him as though he were mine.

For a long while we kiss, and I feel his arousal against my thigh. Pulling our clothing aside, I lie upon him and tangle our legs together and push against him, and he against me. Abandoning his lips, for a pleasure so intense cannot be borne for long, I hide my face against his neck. He is murmuring something – my name – over and over as I rock him gently into the dirt and the leaves and the grass. His breathing changes and he cries out in release. I make no such sound, but come to completion in utter silence.

Afterwards, I roll onto my back and Paris rests his head upon my breast. The dishevelment of our clothing and hair is severe, and soon we must set it to rights and make our way back to the city, for the sun is westering and the air is becoming chill. Paris sighs and strokes my chest. When he kisses one of my nipples, there is an unexpected tingle in my groin. Never have I felt such a thing, for no woman with whom I have coupled has ever done such. How I should proceed, I am entirely at a loss to understand. Once again I long to speak with Archeptolemus, for he could instruct me, yet my pride would not allow it. Moreover it would be an insult to him, as I refused his bed. And under no circumstances can anyone know that I have lain with Paris.

I bury my face in his hair. He smells of eucalyptus and sandalwood. “I beg your forgiveness,” I cannot stop myself from saying.

His arms tighten about my neck. “There is nothing to forgive, Hector.”

“You must take no pleasure in this.”

”No pleasure?” he asks in confusion.

“So long as you take no pleasure, it will not be your fault. This will be my responsibility.”

“But I love you, Hector.”

“Do not forever be arguing with me, Paris. For once, do as I say,” I tell him wearily, and he falls silent.

*** *** ***

When we reach Troy, the world has grown dark and the chariot of Artemis is rising in the east. Before I send Paris away that I may care for my horse, I grasp his arm and lean down to speak in his ear. “Come to me,” I whisper, “this night.”

I enter my house long past midnight, having stayed late with my captains and consumed far too much wine. Paris is waiting in the room where I now sleep, seated in the window embrasure, careless of the night air. He rises when he sees me, and stands statue-still in the cold moonlight.

I open my mouth, find I have no words, and close it again. I mean to speak, truly, but cannot make a sound. I am desperate for his warmth and love.

Paris tugs on the belt and his robe falls to the ground. He is naked and so beautiful. So long as I take no pleasure in this, I tell myself, all will be well.