Song of Princes (Homeric Chronicles #1)

by Janell Rhiannon

  “What troubles you, Paris?”

  “Nothing.”

  The nymph reached a tender hand in his direction. “If nothing is pressing your thoughts, then why do you avoid me?”

  He knew she would see to the reason eventually, preferably sooner rather than later. Paris wiped the sweat from his forehead and dried his hands on his chiton. His leather pallet teemed with logs and he secured it with leather straps, making unnecessary adjustments here and there. “This will get us through the night,” Paris said.

  Conversation ended as they began the familiar walk to Paris’ usual campsite. Oenone produced two fish from the twig basket slung around her shoulders.

  “Gratitude,” Paris mumbled, as he worked on starting a cooking fire.

  The nymph handed Paris a bundle of wild sage and rosemary. “And these.”

  Her gesture emboldened Paris. He dared a glance, his smile a genuine sign of thanks. Just then, a whoosh of birds flew overhead. Crickets in the beginning of their evening song ceased in unison. An unnatural quiet settled around the perimeter of the camp. Paris’ ears pricked at the silence surrounding them. He motioned to Oenone to remain where she sat. He put two fingers to his lips indicating to her she should refrain from speaking. Oenone feared very little from the woods, but Paris’ concern made her gaze more seriously about in the dark.

  Paris heard a twig snap under a heavy foot. A stray cricket chirped an isolated warning. He stoked the fire as quickly as he could. Wild beasts tended to avoid the bright flames. Paris remembered how the black wolf sprang into the night encampment Agelaus made all those years ago. Another twig snapped in the dark. Paris turned his head in the direction of the noise.

  A chill crept up his spine. The hairs on the back of his neck and arm prickled up. He moved next to Oenone and whispered harshly into her ear, “Shah. We are not alone.” He realized as soon as he spoke the words out loud that the fire betrayed their safety. It allowed the enemy in the dark a clear view of himself and the nymph. With his face still pressed close to Oenone’s ear he commanded her, “Slip into the shadows. Stay hidden.” In the blink of an eye, the nymph vanished into the creeping darkness. Her skill lay in illusive maneuvers and cunning, not in hand-to-hand combat with beast or man.

  Paris sat on his haunches stoking the flames as if he’d heard nothing. The unnatural silence swelled with tension. “Night creatures stop their chatter only for man.” Agelaus’ words rang clearly in his head. He chastised himself. I should have paid attention to the dark, not the nymph’s breasts. By the balls of Zeus! Looking after himself presented small fear for Paris. His worry for Oenone made him curse at his inattentiveness.

  He scanned the black line of brush surrounding their camp as he continued the pretense of stoking the now sputtering fire, his intention to stir it to nothing more than embers. As the firelight dimmed, Paris’ eyes adjusted to the growing darkness. The night creatures remained silent, even the crickets’ shrilling symphony remained quiet as Paris waited for what or who would emerge from the pitch black. A snap of a twig sounded to his left, another to his right. So, there are two circling me…

  Cattle thieves moved among the fields in the night, avoiding the moonlight. It was uncommon for them to make their presence known near the herdsman’s camp. They usually crept into the outlying edges of the herd to steal the beasts bedded down as far away from the herdsman’s watchful eyes and ears as possible. Paris began to think that perhaps the men in the dark moved with more sinister thoughts that thieving cattle. He carried nothing of value. Everyone who knew him knew that. Who would fail to recognize me in my family’s own hills? That thought gave rise to a more potentially dangerous situation. Maybe they did know him and were after something personal. The fire glowed with its last orange haze, as a dark cloaked figure jumped from the brush behind him. Paris never heard the assailant circling from behind. They hunted him like a pair of wolves. He turned just in time to see a wooden club swinging in his direction. Then all faded to woozy blackness.

  “Did he see you?” asked Harmon.

  “No.” Tymon commanded, “Tie up his hands and feet.”

  “Are you certain that’s necessary? What if—”

  “Stop fretting like a fucking woman,” Tymon snarled. “What do I care for his

  comfort?” Their father’s continued favoritism of the adopted bastard over his own blood

  had soured any gentle feelings Tymon had for Paris years ago. “Did you see where the woman went?”

  “No,” Harmon answered, as he bound his younger brother’s feet. “She’s real, Tymon. His nymph is real!”

  “And what of it? She’s probably long gone by now. Or hiding up some fucking tree spying on us,” Tymon spat.

  “He was telling the truth all this time.”

  “No matter, brother. He must be taught humility.”

  Harmon eyed the black outline of branches and the blinking stars against the black cloak of night. “Are you certain we should—”

  “Get his legs,” Tymon ordered. “Let’s move quickly before he wakes.” The two brothers carried Paris into a nearby cave. “Light the torches,” the elder said. They walked, winding deeper into the side of the mountain until they reached a place where the torch light ceased and darkness again descended.

  “Don’t you think it’s far enough?” Harmon asked. “You assured me this would be in jest. I never agreed to cruelty.”

  “It’s far enough,” Tymon replied. “You may be a woman about his safety, but his arrogance earned him a sound beating. Always rattling on about his skill with bulls or the damned nymph. And father encourages him to do so. Who are we Harmon?! Who are we but his flesh and blood?!”

  “He is good with the bulls. Better than you or I.”

  Tymon dropped his unconscious brother’s shoulders roughly to the ground. Paris’ head hit the hard earth with a solid thud. “Shut your fucking mouth, Harmon, before I close it with my fist.”

  Harmon slowly released Paris’ feet to the ground. He knew better than to challenge his elder brother. Tymon’s temper was well known. He nodded. They left Paris there, alone and injured in the dark. Tymon smugly satisfied and Harmon uncertain how he felt about either brother now.

  PARIS PAINFULLY BLINKED his eyes open. His vision slowly focusing on the nymph leaning over him. His head rested in her lap. Voices filtered through his hazy memory. “What happened?”

  “You were ambushed...beaten,” Oenone said, her eyes brimming with unshed tears.

  He said nothing as the familiarity of the voices finally crystallized. He trembled with anger and Oenone pulled him closer to her. The rapid beating of his heart pounded against her chest. She smoothed her hand through his hair in the dark, feeling the congealed blood clot where he’d been struck.

  “Shah. All will be set straight,” she soothed.

  “And I will make it so,” Paris said, his jaw clenched tightly, revenge glinting in his eyes.

  “Shah. Turn your thoughts from such anger, Paris.” Oenone’s lips gently brushed against his forehead.

  Suddenly, he was aware of Oenone’s closeness. He could feel the round softness of her breasts. He’d never touched a woman’s breasts before. He’d seen women in the village feeding their babies. He’d been smashed into his mother’s bosom by the occasional embrace, but Oenone felt different. The smell of wild grass and flowers filled his head with sensual ideas fueled by the images he’d etched in his mind’s eye from the clay vessels Lexias stored the oil in and the set of kylikes adorned with unclothed females dancing around the bowl. A pleasing, familiar warmth flushed through his groin. When out in the field and his cock hardened with this urging, he released his seed on the grass without shame. But here, pressed close against the nymph, his cheeks flushed with heat as the familiar urge grew.

  “What is it Paris Alexander? Why do you tremble?”

  He licked his dry lips, and swallowing hard, timidly reached to caress one of Oenone’s breasts. She allowed Paris to cup the softness in his shaki
ng hand. His passion urged him to hastily press his face into the dip between the exquisite mounds. The nymph’s body, soft beneath his hardened chest, her skin cool against his warmth caused his groin to spill unexpectedly with erotic pleasure. Wetness soaked the thin line where their legs touched in the dark.

  “I...Oenone. Apologies,” Paris stammered.

  Oenone cooed softly, “Do not worry, my mortal. Pleasures abound in the cave of a woman. You are not yet ready, but soon.” She kissed him gently on the eyes and on his mouth. He reached his hands behind her neck pulling her closer, pressing her lips harder against his own. Her mouth tasted of sweet nectar, and returning his fervor, Oenone slipped her tongue passed his teeth causing Paris to swell and release his pleasure a second time. He bit her bottom lip and pulled away in utter embarrassment.

  Oenone spoke tenderly, affectionately to her inexperienced lover. “Soon, we will be united. There is time enough for us to explore one another. Rest now. When you wake, we will return to the camp.”

  “I will keep you always in my heart,” Paris blurted out.

  Oenone whispered sadly, “I wish it could be so, my mortal. I wish it could be so.”

  “It will be so,” Paris reassured her, certain his affection for the nymph could never be severed.

  Oenone kissed his forehead and reached into her shoulder satchel. She pulled out a finger-like root. “Bite into this. You will sleep. It will dull the pain in your head. Paris took the root and chewed its bitter flesh. Oenone encouraged him, “Sleep, my mortal. Sleep.”

  Paris closed his eyes unable to ignore the heaviness pressing sleep through his entire body. The throbbing pain behind his eyes ceased and liquid warmth spread through his limbs. When he was fast asleep, the nymph lay down next to him, wrapping her delicate arm around his shoulders. She smiled in the dark for love of Paris, and shed a single tear that slid into a silver crystal down her cheek knowing that he would not be hers forever.

  IN THE MORNING, Paris walked the familiar path home, anger seething through gritted teeth. His head ached with the tender lump behind his ear. Each step pounded with the weight of his anger and humiliation. He knew his brothers resented him, but not to this extent. His father’s lands flanked him on either side, as he scanned the flattened hills before him. Rounding the last wide curve of the path home, the house came into view. He hoped his unexpected arrival would give him the advantage over his older brothers.

  Paris walked straight into the central courtyard, through a small flock of hens pecking for bugs, passed the sleeping hound, that barely lifted his head as Paris approached. He reached down and scratched the dog between the ears. He entered the house from a common door, careful to step lightly against the tiled floor so his brothers would not hear him. As he neared the kitchen, he could hear Tymon’s bold voice. He knew his mother would be cooking. He hoped Agelaus was out in a pasture somewhere. Paris peered around the corner.

  “Has father selected the bulls to take to festival?” Harmon asked.

  Tymon shoved a hunk of bread into his mouth. “I believe he has.”

  “Did he decide against the brown one? The one with the white tipped tail?”

  As Tymon began to answer, his words choked as he was yanked backward by a quick jerk to his tunic collar. He slammed hard against the floor. He coughed and shook off the daze. “What fuckery is this?” He looked up from the floor to find Paris looming over him. “You’re home earlier than expected,” he said flatly.

  Trembling with rage, Paris bellowed, “Get up! By the gods, you will pay for what you did.”

  Tymon rolled onto his side away from the chair and stood, purposely putting distance between them. “It was meant only in jest, little brother. Nothing more.”

  Paris advanced, circling the small table, boring a hateful eye into Tymon’s face.

  Lexias entered the room and startled. “What commotion wrecks my kitchen?!” She could see the rising anger in Paris’ cheeks and feared for both her sons. When Paris took another step toward Tymon, she scolded them like boys, “Whatever you are arguing about, I tell you cease this moment.”

  Tymon turned on his mother. “We are not children for you to order about, Mother.”

  “You reside under my roof. You stand in my kitchen. It is enough for me to command you, grown or not.”

  “I’m going to beat you for what you did to me,” Paris said through clenched teeth. “Apologies, Mother.”

  Lexias noticed the dark dried blood on Paris’ tunic and asked, “What did he do?”

  “They attacked my camp in the evening. Cracked my head. Hauled me off to some cave and left me there like some nasty beggar.”

  Lexias turned to her eldest. “Tell me this is a falsehood, Tymon.”

  “He exaggerates,” Tymon said. He wished to spare his mother the full knowledge but found lying to her more troublesome. “It was in jest, Mother. Nothing more. Look, he is fine, despite his mewling like a calf over a scratch.”

  Paris sneered. “More than a scratch! Falsehoods fall from your lips like your arrows from your quiver!”

  Tymon advanced at the insult, kicking a stool out of his way and shoving the table to the side.

  Harmon jumped up from his seat, narrowly escaping being bashed by the corner of the table. “Tymon! Hold your anger, brother! I’m done with this war between you!”

  Paris launched himself forward, reaching for Tymon’s waist, ramming him like an enraged bull. The brothers tangled their arms up falling heavily to the floor. Lexias screamed. Paris rolled on top of Tymon and punched him square in the face. Blood splattered across the floor. Tymon reached up with his right hand, grabbing a fist full of Paris’ tunic and pulled him roughly to the side.

  Lexias screamed again, “Stop this! Tymon! Paris!”

  Tymon, blood dripping from his nostrils, quickly rolled over pinning Paris to the ground with a sharp knee to the chest. “You fucking bastard. My father should have left you to rot on that hill—” Tymon never saw what sent him flying across the small kitchen into the edge of the hearth. When he could finally open his eyes, he saw Agelaus standing over him with his walking staff held firmly in his grasp.

  “You forget yourself in my house, Tymon,” Agelaus voice growled with anger and age.

  “Father, I—”

  The patriarch held out a shaking fist. “Should you ever raise a hand to Paris again...disturb the peace in my house again...” Agelaus fumed.

  Lexias placed a calming hand on her husband’s shoulder. “Peace, husband. They are but boys, after all.”

  “Boys?! They are men behaving as boys! I’ll not tolerate such rough action in my house. Do you take my meaning, Tymon? Harmon?”

  “Again, you show Paris elevated status over flesh and blood. It dishonors me!”

  “Dishonors you?!” Agelaus roared. “You ungrateful dung pile!”

  “Agelaus, husband, I beg you,” Lexias pleaded. “Cease this fighting. Can you not see how your protection of Paris breeds frustration for them?”

  “You side with them?” Agelaus asked his wife, surprise spiking his voice.

  “I don’t side with them. I understand them,” Lexias pleaded for peace.

  “I see no difference,” Agelaus snapped angrily.

  Paris, his head throbbing, held up a hand. “Father, do not worry. Tymon and I will reach understanding. There will be no more arguing between us.”

  “Agreed,” Tymon reassured his father.

  At that, Agelaus’ shoulders sagged with his age and frustration. He propped himself up on his walking stick, leaning against it. “My entire life has been dedicated to all my sons. I protect Paris, because I must. That is all you need know. All of you. Now, get out. Out of my sight!”

  The trio of brothers murmured their apologies as they jostled passed their father and out into the courtyard. Once out of ear shot of the house, Paris leaned close to his eldest brother, their shoulders rubbing, and whispered, “If you ever touch me again, I will kill you.”

  “Brave word
s from a bastard,” Tymon replied with a sneer.

  Paris turned and flashed the smile that infuriated his mother. “Indeed they are.”

  THROUGHOUT ANATOLIA AND the west, the horses of Troy were known for their impeccable breeding and were greatly admired. Princes of Persia and beyond traveled to the Troad to purchase the prancing steeds with manes sweeping to their withers and the hot-blooded stallions bred for war. And the bulls of Troy were as magnificent as any Trojan bred horses. Agelaus enjoyed his status as a superior bull breeder. His stock frequently honored the gods in sacrifice, with a reputation for resulting in favorable portents, at the biggest festivals and celebrations. His bulls also faired well in the dancing arena.

  Bull dancing proved popular with the young men all across the plains. Trojan men claimed mastery of either horses or bulls, and Paris had become the latter. Horses were for princes and rich merchants. But, the wild beasts with brute strength and fearless obsidian eyes and fatal horns were for sturdier folk. At least that’s what the men packed around the fences told themselves. They all admired the famous horse stocks of their people, but their hearts belonged in the arena where they could test their prowess as only young men, unencumbered by familial responsibility, could do. The elder men enjoyed the leaping and strategy of the bull dancers from their seats, reminiscing about the days when they too could leap and fly with ease, before age weighed them down to earth with families and tired bones, or when the hard landings required more than a simple shaking off of dust and sweat. Middle aged men admired the sport, acknowledging with sighs of regret, that it was best left to the more pliable limbs of youth.

  “You think your bull superior?” Paulinius sneered.

  “It’s not what I think. I know,” Paris taunted.

  “Then let us put the bulls to task. Let each animal prove his own worth.”

  “Are you suggesting we pit them against each other? Now?” Paris asked. His curiosity piqued at the foolish proposition. If either beast were injured, it would be spoiled for sacrificial purposes and perhaps for the arena as well. “When your animal loses, Paulinius, do my ears a favor and keep your whining to yourself.”