Favorite Son

Never have I seen Paris so proud. His face fairly glows with satisfaction, and as he glances from the straggling line of peasants in the farmyard to me, his dark eyes sparkle with joy.

For my part, I am standing stiff and awkward as though at my first drill, awaiting with trepidation an inspection by the master-at-arms. A very foolish position indeed for a grown man to endure, and entirely untenable for a future king.

“Why must they bow like that?” I hiss to Paris in an undertone. Obeisance from the people in the city of Troy I expect, thus I am uncertain why this causes me such discomfort in the green countryside, under Apollo’s warm spring sun.

“They think you a god, Hector,” he replies with a pleased smile.

“I am no god.” A future king, true; a god, never. “Make them cease. Now.”

Paris crosses the farmyard, exhorting the people to look up. He embraces one old man in particular, and several comely maidens as well. None can doubt that these people are exceedingly happy to see Paris. They crowd around him, touching his garments and the jewels in his hair, kissing his cheek or clasping his hand.

In the midst of their excitement, some still cast wary glances my way, making me feel unusually uncomfortable in the full armor which Paris insisted we wear, and everything feels scratchy and hot. At my back are four Trojan warriors who have accompanied us on this journey to the southern regions. Archeptolemus and his newly reposted beloved – a tall and muscular warrior named Dresus – are among them. We number so few since the scouts have seen no threats in the region, and in a way this is a journey for simple pleasure rather than the official version that we are inspecting the far corners of the kingdom.

Paris takes the old man by the hand and leads him to me. He is small of stature, white-haired, wizened, with hands made rough by years of honest labor.

“Hector, this is Agelaus of Ida, who took me into his family and raised me as his own child,” Paris says, and in spite of his obvious pleasure in this introduction, he is skittish like an unbroken colt. “Father, this is Hector, firstborn prince of Troy.”

The old man bows his head briefly. He has the good sense to raise his head again and look me in the eye. A steady eye it is: the eye of a free man of Troy who takes pride in his livelihood. Yet, like Paris, something is giving him unease. I hope it is not my presence.

“Prince Hector,” the old man says in a deep yet querulous voice, “may the gods forgive me for what I did those years back. I could not leave the babe in the wilderness. My wife would not allow it.”

Now his concern is clear to me. He feared retribution for failing to obey the orders of King Priam all those years back. If he but knew – that I am near to throwing myself at his feet, or embracing him and kissing his withered cheeks, or giving him the most effusive thanks and showering him with the treasures of Troy….

But I will do no such thing, for I am a prince of Troy, and I know how to behave. “Honored father,” I tell him, using the honorific most suitable in this case, “there is no call for forgiveness. The gods willed your actions, and brought about the return of Paris to his true heritage. The royal family is in your debt.”

His relief is palpable. “I must credit my wife for all,” he says. “It was she was made me retrieve Alexandros. She who nursed him to health after being left in the cold and rain.”

Paris has told me that his foster-mother died many years hence. I place a hand on Agelaus’ shoulder. “I am sorry for the loss of your wife and my brother’s foster-mother. Prince Paris has told me often of her goodness and her piety.”

Thanks be to Hera, this has pleased him and the uncomfortable meeting is at an end at last, for I will not suffer the introduction to each of the people while I am squirming inside my armor and longing to be alone with Paris, somewhere in the sunlight with the birds singing.

Yet it is not to be. Paris must first show me the farm, and the stables where the sheep are kept in inclement weather, as well as the humble house with its open hearth and single room and rough-hewn furnishings, not overlooking the small table he made with his own hands; the view over the grazing land and the tilled fields; the nearby village and the well-kept temple to Apollo. Everywhere we are trailed by children, curious villagers, and a sheep or two.

Agelaus tells us that the villagers are preparing a feast for us tonight. Mindful of the fact that they already housed and fed Helenus and his men only a few months hence, I am glad we who came are so few. When Agelaus offers his house for our rest, saying that he will find his sleep elsewhere, I refuse and inform him that we will take shelter in the stable. Oft have I and my men slept upon the cold, hard ground, so it will be no unusual hardship for us, while Paris grew up sleeping in this very stable, so although he rapidly accustomed himself to the luxury of the king’s quarters in Troy, he will suffer no ill from a small reminder of his humble past.

Paris is not yet done with the tour of discovery. It would seem I must see his flock of sheep. Thinking to spare Archeptolemus, I bid him and his fellow warriors look to the preparations. “And see that they go to the smallest trouble possible,” I add in an undertone. “We have not come for the purpose of laying waste to their provisions.”

“It shall be so,” says Archeptolemus, briefly gripping my shoulder.

Paris and I mount our stallions and go in search of the grazing ground. We find the flock, and an idle young shepherd, on the slopes overlooking the plain of the Scamander.

The shepherd, upon learning our names, is struck dumb with our splendor. This suits me well, for it means there is no need to exchange greetings with him. We dismount and Paris wades into the herd and crouches by a fat and fluffy white beast.

“She does not recognize me,” he says, shaking his head yet smiling. “Sheep are not very wise.” He buries his hand in the wool. “Yet she has produced many a lamb, all with fine coats of wool.”

“Your foster-father…” I begin, hesitant.

“Yes?”

“He called you Alexandros.”

“It is my name,” Paris says simply. He rises and speaks with the shepherd, and the herd follows the boy to new grazing ground. Paris and I walk along the grassy slope and look to the north where, far off and difficult to make out against the dull colors of the land, lies our own fair city.

Paris stoops to pick a spring wildflower; he straightens and twists the stem in his fingers. “I used to come here,” he says, “and while the flock would graze, I would sit on the ground and look at the city and wonder what it was like.” He sits upon the grass, not taking his eyes from Troy. “I imagined it to be very magnificent.”

“And have you found it to be so?” I enquire, standing beside him with my arms folded across my chest.

“Very much so.” He begins to unbuckle his armor and lays the breastplate upon the grass with care. “More than I imagined. Never did I truly think I would go there one day.” The greaves join the armor. He looks most fetching in his royal blue tunic and kilt. He looks up at me, squinting in the sunlight. “Did you ever look south to Mount Ida and wonder what it was like?”

“I passed near Mount Ida once.”

“Yes, I recall,” he says. “I saw you then, as the regiment passed along the eastern road. You were the age then that I am now, I think. Yet even then you were tall and strong. I wanted to be like you.”

I am glad he is not like me. I much prefer his slender frame, and his happy smile, his loose curls and his well-formed thighs. I prefer his smooth chest and curved buttocks, his sharp chin and knowing hands. He appears perfect, to my mind. I would change nothing.

Again I am smitten with a yearning to embrace the old shepherd who spared the life of the baby. So overcome am I that I turned my face from Paris and pretend that I am interested in naught but the vista. Troy seems small from this prospect, yet from the city, Mount Ida always seems large, if far distant. At times in my youth, I did look to Mount Ida and wonder what it was like. And had I the least notion of what was there, long before now I would have come to claim what is mine.

The warm spring sunlight and the balmy zephyrs are working upon me like an enchantment. Truly, here on Mount Ida, Persephone has emerged from Hades to spend time with her lovely mother Demeter, bringing blossoms to the trees and a carpet of vibrant green to the hills. My heart is full with the thought of my beautiful country. The king has done right to work for peace, making alliances with our near neighbors, and allowing the country people to tend their farms and flocks in serenity. Our strength is in our unity and our prosperity, which I cherish. If I could but be a simple shepherd now, I believe I would be happy.

Past my shoulder, the sheep have become small white dots against the hill as the boy takes them to find the stream of fresh water. The clank of the bellwether can no longer be heard over the song of birds or the hum of bees.

Slowly I undo my armor and discard it nearby, stripping to kilt and sandals and sinking to the earth beside my brother, who now leans back upon his elbows and watches the small white clouds.

For a long while I have longed to ask him a question, yet never dared, consumed as I was by envy. Yet Demeter’s fair spell remains upon me and I look out over the plain and say, “Did you truly see the goddesses?”

Paris smiles brightly at me. “It was upon this very spot.”

Intrigued, I turn to him. “Truly? Tell me how it came about.”

He sits up and hugs his drawn-up knees to his chest. “It was in the declining of the year, as you know, and the apple harvest was begun.” He tilts his head back and looks skyward and my eyes follow. Indeed, we sit nearly beneath such a tree, which now bears white flowers. “My flock was all about me and the day was peaceful and very warm. Often I would eat fallen fruit, you see. And there was this golden apple that I picked up, with not a single flaw.” He smiles ruefully. “It was too beautiful to eat, so I did not eat it but kept it by me. And then I did what I often did on a lovely warm day while tending the flock.” He smiles at me teasingly.

“And what is that?” I prompt.

“I had a nap. Predators are rare during the day and the sheep are pleased to graze wherever we stop. I cannot recall much, but it seems that I slept, and then when I woke there was a beautiful singing in the air, and three women of surpassing beauty stood before me.”

“Here?” I interrupt, somewhat skeptical.

“Yes, here. Hector, do you disbelieve me?”

It is less that I disbelieve him than that I wonder that goddesses would deign to visit a shepherd when they might have come to Troy, to Priam, or perhaps to his firstborn son. Yet I will not spoil his delight in his story by saying any of this. Instead, I indicate that he should resume the tale. “Tell me what they were like.”

“It is not easy to recall,” he says dreamily. “They were so very beautiful and the light was so bright around them that it was difficult even to see them clearly. And yet I know they were lovely, and their voices were soft and musical as well. Hera, mother of the gods, said that I must choose which of them was the most beautiful, and give my golden apple to the goddess of my choice. But how should I choose amongst them? Hector, I was afraid to offend those I should not choose. I tried to avoid this task – I told them that I had no right to judge the immortals. But they would have none of it. Hera offered to give me command of all Anatolia and the East should I choose her, and to make me wealthier than any man.”

“A wondrous gift,” I muse.

“But what would I do with that?” he asks, sitting up straight and looking over at me. “If I had land and wealth and dominion, others would try to take it from me. How would I have time to enjoy it?”

I smile secretly. How unlike many of our brothers, and our father! “So you were foolish enough to turn down the offer of Hera herself?”

Paris nods. “Foolish, I know. Then grey-eyed Athena offered me the gift of victory in all battles, and great wisdom.”

“You should have accepted that gift,” I say. Knowing already the choice he made, for it was bruited about Troy from the first moment of his coming, I cannot keep a touch of disdain from my voice. “You could have defended Troy.”

“But, Hector, I did not know that I was your brother then!” he cries, not without justice. “What did I know of battles? I had my bow and arrow and needed the assistance of no goddess to win my battles with the wolves who wanted my sheep.”

“Perhaps a little wisdom from Athena would not have been amiss, either,” I mutter, hoping he does not hear.

“But Aphrodite – she offered me the most beautiful woman in the world to be my wife. That seemed eminently sensible. For even a shepherd wants love, and a loving wife seemed the best gift of all. So I gave the apple to Aphrodite.”

“The goddess of love,” I say slowly.

“Did I do wrong, Hector?” he asks. “At the time it seemed proper, but now I feel as though my choice was all wrong. What do I want with a beautiful woman? I mean, now.”

He is waiting for me to speak, yet I am at a loss. If he means what I surmise, then I feel myself unbearably fortunate. I desire only him, and I wish him to desire me. My palms feel damp and I rub them upon my knees.

His head droops and he speaks more softly. “I wish I had chosen Athena’s gift, so that I might help you to protect Troy.”

“Paris, no. You could not have known. It was unfair for the immortals to expect a mortal to do this task for them. You did as well as anyone could have done. Do not fault yourself – for I do not fault you.”

Paris shuffles closer to me and rests his head upon my shoulder and sighs deeply. “After that, I seemed to fall asleep again, and when I awoke, the apple was gone. But the world seemed brighter, and I saw Troy in the distance, and the sun touched the towers and gleamed even from this distance. Aphrodite wanted me to go to Troy, and so I did.”

“Where else would a man find the most beautiful woman in the world?” If I jest, it is done to hide my anguish.

And yet it is but a poor jest, and Paris makes no answer for a long while. Just as I think he has decided to indulge in a nap for the sake of old times, he turns himself onto his hands and knees and starts to crawl toward the lip of a small dell. “Do you know what else I used to do here on Mount Ida?” he asks, mischief in his voice. He looks over his shoulder to be certain I am watching, then pitches himself over the edge and rolls down the grassy slope like a log. He tumbles to a stop at the bottom and lies there laughing merrily.

“Hector, come down here!” he calls.

Some things are beyond the dignity of a prince. I shake my head, and Paris clambers to his feet and dashes up the hillside, grabs my hand and attempts to pull me upright. “Come, Hector, you will like it!”

His enthusiasm is amusing, but he has not the power to make me stand. Rather, I yank him down until he tumbles into my lap, bony knees knocking into me at one place and another. I pull him against me and bury my nose in his tousled hair while he laughs against my chest. My eyes scan the land but the herd of sheep is no longer in sight and there is not a mortal nor a house nor anything made by man visible save for the remote city.

Paris shifts until he has arranged himself more comfortably in my lap and tilts his face up to me. His eyes sparkle more brightly than Apollo’s chariot. “Did you not play when you were a boy, Hector?”

“I played at being a warrior,” I tell him, though he should not need to be told this.

“And nothing else?”

“Nothing else.” A prince’s life is never his own. I am glad that Paris escaped such a fate. I am glad that he is merry as the day is long. I lean down to kiss him only to be startled when he quickly places his hand between our lips.

“No, do not kiss me,” he says, holding his hand in place.

Foolish boy. I lick the inside of his palm instead and a fine tremor passes through his body, but his hand is still between us.

“You may not kiss me until you roll down the hill with me.”

“Paris,” I admonish, “I am your master. Have you forgotten?”

“Just once,” he begs, dropping his hand and pouting.

“We are royal princes, Paris. We must set an example of decorum.”

“No one is about. None will see.”

Whether or not he be right about this, we are already in a most compromising position. Further, it did indeed appear to be an enjoyable activity. What harm can there be? I toss him from my lap and rise in a single movement. “Very well. Once only.”

Paris leads me to the place where the slope begins in earnest. “You must lay yourself down first,” he instructs, going to his hands and knees.

It is not a position oft used by a royal prince, but after a quick glance around, I join him on the ground. We must appear absurd, like children playing at being horses.

“Now lie down and wrap your arms around your body for protection.” Paris relishes making me look a fool, I see it in his laughing eyes.

“I have no fear of a few rocks,” I say haughtily, but I lie prone next to him, stiff as a corpse on a pyre.

“Then I will protect you, Hector,” he whispers into my ear, and wraps his arms around my back – as best he can – tangles his legs with mine, and yanks us over the edge together and we tumble helplessly into the dell.

In spite of the thought that I should not have set aside my tunic, this is rather enjoyable, although I must be cautious and not apprise Paris of the fact. As by instinct, my arms go around him and I tuck his head under my chin to protect it, as the world spins around me to the sound of Paris’ wild laughter. We bump all the way to the bottom and come to an abrupt halt whereupon I find I have landed atop Paris. He is winded by his own laughter but for my part it is a very different reason. Idly, I pluck blades of grass from his hair and his shoulders.

“Have I earned a kiss?” I ask, my voice low and rough.

His laughter ceases. “How silly you are,” he answers softly. “All my kisses are for you.”

My heart clutches in my chest and a surprised gasp escapes my lips unbidden. “Paris—“ I begin.

If my heart were not thus far in danger of stopping, it might do so now, for at this moment there is a shout from the top of the dell.

“Prince Hector! Prince Paris!” It is the voice of Archeptolemus.

For a moment, there is but one horrific thought in my mind: How much has he seen?

I freeze in place, yet Paris seems unalarmed. With graceful movements he disengages his limbs from mine and we stand rather awkwardly.

“That looked like great fun!” the bastard bellows down to us. Beyond his shoulder Dresus appears.

“Would you care to have a go?” my miscreant brother cries up to them.

“Paris,” I growl warningly, to no avail, and the remainder of the day is spent in a whirl of torture, where I must watch Paris take turns going down the hill in the embrace of first Archeptolemus, then Dresus. Next of course the two lovers must have their turn, and then it is back to the beginning when Paris must tumble down the hillside with Archeptolemus again, while I sit fuming at the top of the rise.

And all the while, Archeptolemus is clearly enjoying my discomfort.

Events do not improve manifestly at supper, for the whole village has arrived to partake, and every strapping youth or man excites my deepest curiosity and even envy, as I wonder which of them has lain with Paris; which of them has known his slender young body before ever I had the chance.

The feast, given the size of the attendance, is held out-of-doors in the village square beneath the twilit sky, with torches and a wild boar roasting slowly upon a spit, and stout wooden tables and benches brought out from the houses. There is satisfyingly hearty country bread and mead made from honey, and those villagers with musical talent have brought out their instruments to serenade our meal. Other than being called upon to give the invocation wherein I thank the gods for their protection and our countrymen for such generous hospitality, I am allowed to eat in relative peace, for none dare speak to me directly save Paris and Archeptolemus.

Long afterwards, after the music and the meal have ended, after Paris has danced with seemingly every maiden and matron in the village, after the fires have been doused and the furnishings put away, Paris and I share a straw pallet in the rafters of the stable. The men have bedded down on the ground level with the horses, feeling that their princes should have the upper level to ourselves, as though it would equate somehow with the lofty palace where we reside in Troy. In this I do not argue with them, for it gives us privacy. And them as well. For from one corner below I hear soft sounds of shifting straw and blankets, and quiet moans.

This makes me wish to couple with Paris, yet already he sleeps. A feeling of tenderness steals over me as I gaze upon him, for we have traveled far this day, and it has been a day of great import for him.

My hand reaches for the shade of the glowing lantern yet stops short of its goal and falls again. I would look longer on his loveliness. I draw the homespun blanket away from his body and look my fill.

In sleep, his eyes, the windows to his soul, are shuttered. Dark lashes rest against his cheeks. His lips are parted but a little ways. Auburn curls cascade over his brow. His chest has no hair, no scars – but there is a fine down covering him that can be seen in the soft light. Carefully, I lean over him and kiss his exposed and defenseless belly, feeling the downy hairs against my lips; I touch my lips to his navel, and am reminded that we have shared the same womb, a thought almost too intimate to bear. I want to push my tongue into the indentation but I fear to wake him. Instead I lay my palm over it and marvel at how my outspread hand nearly spans his waist.

Crooking one elbow, I prop my head upon my hand and trace the lines of his body with the lightest touch possible. His body is strong though lean, and months of training have improved his musculature. Even so, even though he is young and will continue to grow, he will never be like me: thick with muscle and taller than most men. The thought of his smallness pleases me greatly. My fingers trail along one shoulder and Paris snorts and shifts in his sleep, twisting until his face is buried in the place where my arm and shoulder join, making me smile, for he looks as innocent as a babe.

The lantern gutters and is extinguished, which incongruously causes Paris to awaken in the darkness, momentarily confused at the unfamiliar surroundings, and rising to sit up. In the quick motion his forehead knocks against my mouth and I shove him back against the pallet.

“Oh! What—”

“Hush, Paris, it is only I,” I whisper roughly. I can taste blood – no doubt the blow caused my teeth to lacerate the inside of my mouth.

“But where are we?” he asks, his voice yet groggy.

“The stable, do you not recall?”

“What are those sounds?” he whispers, suddenly suspicious.

“Hush,” I tell him quietly.

“Is that Tolemus and Dresus?”

“Yes.”

He stills, then sits up, and in the moonlight streaming through an opening I see him get to his hands and knees and begin to crawl towards the edge of the platform. I grab his ankle and drag him back.

“But I want to see!” he hisses urgently.

“That would be wrong. You know this, Paris.”

I pull him against me and hold him firmly until I feel him relax, yet he is still sulking. I bring my hand to his face in the dark, and nestle his cheek into my palm and gently turn him to me, and lean down to find his lips in the dark and lick them. He remains unmollified.

I, however, remain undeterred. I kiss his nose and his chin and his forehead, his cheeks and throat, everywhere but his lips, until his face is damp with my kisses. At last his lips seek mine and his arms find their way around my neck, as I bend over him and kiss him long and sweetly while the sounds from the lovers below increase in urgency, and then fade to silence. A wayward moonbeam falls across my cheek and it is as though I hear the voice of Artemis in my ear, no louder than the exhalation of a sigh, whispering, “Alexandros.”

To Be Continued directly in next chapter