A new life for Paris

Paris slept.

Upon opening his eyes, he saw Broethevs sitting in the half dark next to him, watching him. He was covered in furs. Broethevs said nothing. His face of expression was unreadable, and it brought Paris to wonder if he'd done something to anger the giant. Maybe he'd overslept. Maybe he'd outstayed his welcome between Broethevs' furs. Maybe he'd kept the giant awake. Paris rubbed the sleep from his eyes and sat up. The pelt which had been covering him, slid down to reveal a naked shoulder, and a pressing need to empty a very full bladder immediately presented itself. Paris knew that leaving the comfort of the warm pelts meant staying out in the cold. But it was probably time anyway. Maybe Broethevs wanted them to himself. But why hadn't Paris been kicked out sooner? A wave of guilt washed through him, and he lowered his gaze, realizing that Broethevs watched every step he took. Paris discovered that his feet had been wrapped in linen. They felt much better. Before he could move any further, he saw Broethevs stir, coming towards him. He produced a pair of makeshift boots made from pieces of fur which he'd sown together. He tossed them over to Paris. Paris reminded himself of that they were probably only lent to him. He put them on, mentally preparing for the cold. Looking up, the sight of the snowy pass ahead nearly blinded him. He got to his feet and stumbled outside, shivering as his naked body got used to the chilly air. He found relief to to his bladder, and took care not to wet the boots. Only a loan, he reminded himself. Only a loan. You're a slave, a low dog and a traitor, Paris told himself. He could own nothing. As he ventured back inside the cave, he remembered how he'd come by the rag he'd worn as a loincloth. It had been a tunic once, and he'd lifted it off a dead slave on the beach of Troy. He'd stolen something from a countryman, a fellow man of Troy. And Paris had felt like such a wretch. He'd watched the carcass being thrown onto a pyre afterwards, and it pained Paris to know he'd sent the man off to the Underworld without as much as a thread on his back, let alone two coins to pay the ferryman to cross the river Styx. But Paris had no coins. And he needed the tunic more than the dead one. The justification didn't make him feel any better. From the corner of his eye he registered that Broethevs was chewing away at some dried meat and pouring it all down with some wine. Paris would have killed for a taste of that wine. His stomach growled. He took off the boots, placed them neatly next to the pelts making up the bed, and ventured to kneel infront of the eating Broethevs. He bowed his head and his back and placed his nose inches from the rocky floor while he cupped his hands in a pleading gesture over his head. It was a body language which couldn't be misunderstood. A sign of submission. The ultimate grovelling posture. Paris anticipated a few scraps to be thrown in his direction. Maybe he'd be ignored completely, left to starve for another day. Some times, they'd laugh at him, or scorn him with words and rape him instead. He could not expect any benevolence. Thinking of all of the times of misfortune while begging for food made him lose his courage. He felt himself falter, and he reclined, drawing back, thinking it safer to sit in a corner to starve. He did not want to risk Broethevs' wrath, not in this place. Paris saw it all too clearly. He'd come to depend on the Spartan giant. The brute had somehow become a beacon in the dark. One last hope to cling to, yet Paris was unsure what he actually hoped for. It was dangerous to hope. Dangerous to ask for food. The more his courage diminished, the faster did those warnings spin in his head. Without realising, Paris had retreated until his back touched the cave wall opposite to where Broethevs was sitting. He remained there, with his mind locked in a falling spiral, reminding himself why he didn't deserve any benevolence and what he had to be cautious of, just like he'd done for the past year and a half. Broethevs made a sudden movement, and Paris flinched, breaking out from the reverie of misery he was trapped in. A piece of dried meat landed on his toes, and Paris looked at it in disbelief. He had to look twice before realising what he was looking at. It was whole. Not half eaten. Not scraps, but another solid piece of meat like the one he'd been served some time ago.

“You've been asleep for two days” Broethevs said, breaking the silence. “Eat now, and have some more wine. Rest. We'll brave the mountain pass tomorrow.”

It was a lot of information to take in for a tired mind like Paris'. He registered the word 'eat' and the promise of wine. Knowing it was presented to him with a cost, a silent understanding of returning the favour by spreading his legs at a later occasion, Paris took the meat, turned his back against Broethevs and ate in silence while he stared at the cave walls. Eating without a tongue was still awkward. And with big lumps of meat, there was no way of keeping it elegant. Paris used his fingers to tear off small pieces. It was better that way. And he could pretend he had some privacy while he ate. And he didn't want to bother his benefactor with his awkward meal.

Broethevs stared at Paris' back while they both ate in silence. He wasn't sure why Paris turned away when he ate, but seeing how the dog relaxed his shoulders and straightened his back, did something to him. He could not tear his gaze from the ripple of the boy's muscles, the way the spine curved its way gently upwards. The frail frame vanished beneath a forest of thick brown curls just where the neck met the shoulders, and it occurred to him that he was reminded of how his wife looked from behind and how it made him feel. It was the timidity, the gentle play of muscles, the sway of curves in just the right places. The same tan of the skin and the near identical hair colour. There was something of a royal air about the dog whenever he turned away to eat his much needed food in peace. It was there in his posture, like he became someone else when he thought no one was looking. Right there and then, the missing piece of the puzzle fell in place for Broethevs. It was a story he'd heard around the camp fires. About how Troy fell. About two Trojan princes. And how only one died. So that's why king Agamemnon was so anxious to get his hands on the boy. To return to Sparta with an enslaved prince as a plaything! Broethevs quite forgot to eat. Thinking it through quickly, he realized that it didn't change his plans whatsoever. He could keep the dog until he found himself a new wife. Then he could sell him to Agamemnon. There was no way he'd let go of the dog now. The reminder of his wife was something he needed. It was a drug, an aphrodisiac which the dog provided. He did not care if the dog was a prince. Broethevs' needs would come first.

With his stomach full, Paris yawned quietly. Unaware of Broethevs' discovery about his heritage, Paris turned his head to gaze at Broethevs' jug of wine. The way he turned his head timidly, with an almost shy appearance. It was another reminder of his sweet wife which hit Broethevs right in the gut. He remembered when they'd first met. She'd been a shy, fragile little blossom presented to him by her father. And he'd stood there with the dowry – three goats, two cows and a small satchel of silver coins. She'd taken him completely by storm as she'd gazed up at him with long dark lashes and a shy smile on rosy lips. Paris possessed those same long, dark lashes. Broethevs saw it now. The royal upbringing was shining through despite the odd years at the beach serving as a soldier's wench. It gave the dog that little something extra. Just like she had. She had been proud to be his wife. She was proud to have given him a child. But the dog wasn't proud. He cowered and he struggled, and he would never rise on his two hind legs again.

Feeling a little bolder now that his stomach was full, Paris decided he would brave Broethevs' grim look, and beg for some wine. He was grateful, and he hoped the gratitude was expressed through his face and through his humble gestures. Assuming the begging position again, he pointed his cupped hands towards the half full jar of wine. From the low persepctive, he watched the jar being picked up by Broethevs, and Paris felt his heart drop to his knees. That gesture typically meant that his plea was being rejected. It was a common way of spiting the slaves. First, they'd be offered wine. But when they were down on their bellies, grinding their self-esteem in the dirt, the soldiers would take the cups or jar with the wine and drink it all up in one gulp, leaving nothing behind. And then, Paris winced at the painful memories, then they would laugh at him and take him from behind before he even got off the ground. The memory leapt further to another, to when he'd forced to serve wine at a party held by Agamemnon and his brother. And he'd have to do it with a wooden stick in his rectum and a string of leather wrapped painfully around his erect member. Against all odds, Paris still had his penis. At one point during his servitude on the beach, a group of drunkards had castrated him as a part of a game. First, they'd passed him around from cock to cock until he no longer could sit. Then they'd held him fast. He still remembered the unshaven face of that soldier who'd been grinning from ear to ear, telling Paris he wasn't squealing high enough. Must be those balls getting in the way. So he thought he'd help Paris with the problem of hitting those high notes the women did. Because you do sound a bit like those women, Paris remembered the soldier telling him up in his face. So his sack had been cut clean off. The soldier who'd done it, giggled and removed the testicles from the bloodied sack. He then forced them into Paris' mouth and sealed his mouth with a gag.

The memory made Paris sick. He stumbled outside from the cave and threw up about everything he'd just ate. But the memory kept rolling on in his head, and unstoppable, endless row of events. Paris still remembered how it was to throw up with the gag in his mouth. His hands had been tied behind his back and they'd left him by some rabble by the edge of the water. How had he gotten loose? Oh yes. That woman. A fellow slave. A Trojan girl with long blonde locks which reminded him of Helen sometimes. Paris didn't want to be thinking of all the times he'd have to witness that poor girl get raped. Like him, she was constantly bleeding from between her legs. He remembered her now, and all the miscarriages she had because she kept being raped all the time.

Paris didn't realize he was shaking so badly until Broethevs' strong fingers closed about his neck. The grip at the back of his neck forced him to follow Broethevs back inside. He was led onto the pelts, and Paris suspected the time had come for him to repay the benevolence shown by Broethevs for the food Paris just been so unfortunate to throw up. Another shudder rippled through Paris' frail frame, but he never the less positioned himself on hands and knees on the pelts, finding comfort in the fact that he didn't have to do it standing on bare rock. He gasped as a water skin was placed next to his right hand. Paris blinked several times, silently sighing. It was all so confusing. The neck grip. Water skin? What happened to the wine? He took a quick gaze over his shoulder, but Broethevs was not there. He was squatted next to the water sack instead, gazing at Paris. Paris was completely puzzled. Was he to perform some strange act with the water skin? What did Broethevs mean by placing it like that. Was it meant as a taunt? Paris closed his eyes hard. He felt queasy again, and tired of the silent game Broethevs was playing. He felt like he was down on the beach again, being terrorized by the vague gestures of the soldiers – gestures which could be interpreted more than one way – and if interpreted wrongly, more than often led to violence. It was a game they liked to play, he imagined, because it gave them an excuse to torture and rape him. Was this what Broethevs was about? If Paris took the water skin offered to him, would he be raped? Wasn't he about to be so anyway? Sensing that his courage was failing once again, Paris decided he would take the safest course by removing himself from the dangerous situation. He started to back away, crawling on hands and knees backwards until he was safe off the pelts and nearly by the cave opening. He wanted so badly to shout at Broethevs, to tell him that he was half dead anyway, there was no use in throwing away good water on Paris. He wasn't worth it. He wasn't worth keeping. And he would gladly go away so Broethevs didn't have to encumber himself with a troublesome, flea-infested Trojan. Why haven't you killed me yet?! Paris wanted to shout at him. Why must I be driven to the brink of insanity by your silence?! Paris felt hot tears on his cheeks as he tumbled out of the cave and half crawled, half ran upwards, hoping his lungs would explode from the strain of coping with the stale and oxygen-deprived air. If not the air then, perhaps the snow would somehow kill him. It was good to feel like he was being choked, for the lump in his throat kept growing larger and larger. It felt as if the lump blocked his windpipe, cutting off his airsupply and it was exactly what he wanted. Paris pressed on, upwards until he had put about one third of the snowy hill behind him. He didn't look back. He just wanted to die. Black dots began to dance in his vision, and the world around dimmed. Then he lost consciousness.