Paulinius spat in the dirt at Paris’ feet, his upper lip curling in disdain. “Toss your insults carefully, Paris, before you find me stuffing them back into the hole they spewed from.”
“Then, we must let the bulls have free reign.” Paris smirked, as he jumped from his perch on the fencing.
The sleek black hide of Paulinius’ bull shimmered like pitch in Apollo’s light. Its muscles bulged and flexed at its shoulders and haunches. It snorted mucus and dirt as its keeper led him to the ring.
“Look at the back on him!” an onlooker shouted. “He’ll devour Paris’ bull.” The wagering began with fervor; men betting for or against this or that bull.
“Save your coin my friends. This match is uneven. It wouldn’t be fair if I let you lose all your hard earned wealth just because Paulinius here has a fat contender.” Paris’ serious tone stifled the excited banter. The gathering mob looked from one man to the other in confusion. “What?! Did you think I was serious about not wagering your coin? By the gods, lay your pieces down! Bet wisely.”
Paris led his bull to the ring. It was stouter than Paulinius’, but just as well muscled with a slightly longer back. Its hide was so black it flashed purple and green in the sun. Throwing their snouts into the air, the bulls each caught the scent of the other. At once, they recognized the other as an enemy, a stranger with strange smells, not of the same meadows, and they began stomping and snorting wildly. The splendid beasts squared off face to face across the small arena. Paris’ bull hammered its heavy hoof into the hard caked dirt and the ground beneath it trembled, flinging clods of dirt and dust swirling into the air.
Whoops of excitement and rowdy cheers went up loud enough to stir Ares from his musings. The god’s curiosity pulled him from Olympus. In specter guise, the God of War descended to walk among the men of Troy.
Paulinius’ bull reared its head and screamed like an angry harpy. It pounded both hooves hard into the ground sending a shudder of anticipation into the crowd. Flashes of black shadow charged across the empty space at each other. The initial clash of beast against beast sounded like boulders slamming into a river. Their chests smashed together with the force of twenty armed men. Dust flew, choking the air of freshness. The mighty titans roared their fury at being in the other’s presence. Hooves flew. Teeth gnashed. Wide eyed and angry, the two bulls tangled horns. The parched earth drank the blood they spilled. Another great clash and a mist of crimson sprayed the crowd. Paris licked the rim of his bottom lip, tasting the bitter iron of the bulls’ blood. He almost felt sorry for Paulinius’ animal. Almost. Although wider across the chest, Paulinius’ beast lacked solid footing. His was a beast with too much of the wild bred out of him.
A small steady stream of red oozed down the forehead of Paulinius’ animal right between its eyes. It backed up as the blood blurred its vision. It shook its huge head, snorting blood from its nostrils. It stomped the ground with less power but with more determination. Paulinius waved his hands over his head shouting curses and encouragements at his beast.
Paris had witnessed the bulls in his father’s fields fight many times. He knew his animal would fight to its death. Once, he’d watched as two bulls, on their knees, continued attacking each other, biting and head butting. They were tenacious in a way that Paris had not observed in any other bulls. His father once told him it was the strength they gained drinking the water from a sacred spring that welled up through their land. It fortified the bulls with Herculean might and will power. Paris knew his bull would ram, bite and tear at the other until one of them was dead. Paris’ bull backed its haunches into the fencing, a thin line of blood running down its cheek. It stomped the ground sending a shower of dirt flying. It threw its head back and roared, then charged at the enemy. With its head down, Paris’ bull rammed Paulinius’ beast so hard that when the death scream pierced the air, everyone froze watching in stunned silence as Paulinius’ bull hit the ground with a heavy thud sending up a blinding cloud of dirt and blood. Paulinius’ prized animal lay dead on the dusty arena floor, blood pooling beneath its black form. For a brief second voices rose then fell to silence again, as it slowly registered in the spectators’ minds that the battle had finished so quickly. Then triumphant cheers and defeated curses rose in a clamor around the ring. It was over. Paris’ bull stood as victor. Blood smeared across its head. A slight tear at the shoulder bled. The massive beast snorted loudly as it swung its heavy head from side to side considering its next move, uncertain if the challenge was over to not. Men clapped Paris on the back in hardy gratitude, they’d won a pretty piece of coinage to spend as they wished, without wives knowing or mother’s questioning, while the losers would have tales to create.
Paulinius spewed anger at the loss, “You killed my bull!”
“We both knew the risk,” Paris said calmly. “There’s no need to stir the crowd to frenzy, because you are quick to loose your temper.”
“I demand compensation for my loss. It was a test of strength not to the death,” Paulinius sneered. “Look! Look at my bull! He is completely sullied. I can do nothing with him now.”
Paris climbed up the fencing and bounced into the ring side of the arena. He thought it best to keep a safe distance between himself and Paulinius. “Send his carcass to the outskirts. Feed the poor among the city.”
“What trickery did you pull this time Paris?” He scanned the crowd trying to garner support for his cause. “We all know how you cheated at the footrace last spring festival.”
“I did not cheat.” Paris cringed at the old wound that never died. “I won that race fairly. Diodorus tripped over a rock.”
“We all know that story, Paris. To hear Diodorus tell it, you shoved him in the back as you passed by.”
The heat of indignation flushed Paris’ cheek. “I did no such thing. What need have I to stoop so low to be called victor over a stout, thick legged man in a sprint?” Diodorus had proved a bitter loser, complaining and crying foul for an entire week. The judges, however, favored Paris calling the finish as they saw it, granting victory to him. “You’re angry your bull lost. Next time, think hard before you wager what you can’t afford to lose, my friend.”
Paulinius spat at the dirt, grinding the heel of his sandal into it. “You’re no friend of mine, trickster.” He used the toe of his sandal to flick the small mud clod in Paris’ direction. “That’s what your word is. Shit beneath my foot.”
The hackles on Paris’ neck stood on end. His animal, recovering from its ordeal, was again on high alert. The stare of its obsidian eyes bored into the back of his neck. His safety on this side of the fencing depended on his making no sudden movements. Paulinius stormed off, still ranting and raving, leaving his dead bull in the dust. The spectators finished exchanging and pocketing their coin, and reluctantly walked away, shrugging their shoulders, grateful for an afternoon’s diversion, and went about their expected business. Only then did Paris move to exit the arena pen.
One man yet remained. Paris took notice of him not because he was alone, but because he stood taller than any man he’d ever seen before. Paris knew everyone in this section of the city, but this man was a stranger to him. In the heat of the day, the man wore his himation deeply hooded obscuring his face. All Paris could clearly see was his long black beard streaked with grey.
The stranger’s voice sounded like distant thunder. “Your bull won fairly.”
“I’m sure some would agree with that truth. Losers, not so much I fear.” Curiosity got the better of Paris “I haven’t seen you―”
The stranger lifted the hood from his face startling Paris with his dark beauty. “I am around more than you realize, Paris.” His eyes shone as black as two polished onyx stones, set perfectly beneath a strong handsome brow. Paris was certain the man’s hair and beard glimmered with threads of silver, not gray, when the sun angled on it. Paris wiped the sweat stinging his eyes.
“How is it stranger, that you speak my name with such familiarity?” Paris asked. The hair on hi
s neck prickled.
“I know all men in Troy. Some are more deserving than others of my presence.”
“What are you known by? What is your trade?” Paris’ asked.
“I am courage. I am carnage. I am the fire in the eyes of warriors.”
Paris shivered. That was no straightforward answer, and Agelaus always warned against trusting anyone who answered questions sideways.
“Are you caught without speech, young Paris?”
“How do you know my name?”
“I am more than I appear. Your father would know my name.”
“You know my father?”
“I know your true father, yes, quite well.”
Paris immediately wondered what the stranger was hinting at. Did the man know something about his past? It was the way the man spoke to him, with familiarity, with a knowingness that a true stranger could not possess. “What do you mean my true father?”
“Only that your father is not who you believe him to be.”
“Give me your name, stranger?” Paris clung to the arena fencing. His knees weakened beneath him. For a moment he believed he might collapse.
“In time, you will know me. But this day, is not the day. I came only to witness the competition. Your time will come. Your fate is coming for you as straight and as swift as an arrow loosed from your bow.”
“What do you mean by such dark words?”
The beautiful stranger said, “I suggest you get the bull to the priests of Ares’ temple.”
“What?! The animal is in no condition to present to the temple of any god!”
“I believe the priests in Ares temple will take the beast and deliver it to the god and send the meat to the poor.”
“The animal is already dead. It is stained with dirt, without garland, unblessed.” Paris stared at the man, “I dare not do something so outrageous and offensive.”
“Are you quite sure you dare not to?” the man asked.
Doubt began to gnaw at Paris’ certainty. What the by the balls of Zeus does he mean? Paris turned to look at the fallen bull soon to reek of rotten blood from the heat. The carcass must be moved as quickly as possible, or the meat would sour the tongue even if roasted and crisped.
“I’m not sure…” Paris turned, only to find the man had disappeared. He jumped on top the ring fencing, balancing on one foot, and searched the streets in every direction but saw no one resembling the hooded man. How could a man of such stature lose himself in a crowd? He decided to take the dead animal to Ares’ temple. The worst that could happen was he’d get laughed at or verbally chastised by the priests for trying to present a defiled bull to satisfy the God of War.
AS APOLLO’S LIGHT dipped toward the horizon, gold and bronze overtook the expanse of blue. Smokey clouds gathered and floated quietly on the sunset sea. Paris headed for the home of his heart. The stranger’s words still echoing in his ears...Your true father. For all the love he received from his parents, the difference between himself and his older brothers pricked him with bitterness. All his life, they taunted him about his black curly hair and his blue sparkling eyes. Their constant taunting had set a wedge between his contentment and himself. He knew he belonged to other parents, that whoever bore him abandoned him. Agelaus would only tell him he stumbled upon him as a bundled child in the foothills of Mount Ida. Agelaus told the same story his entire life without variation. He loved Agelaus well enough and Lexias as well, even if she grew exasperated with his deeds. His parents offered him everything, except what he wanted most: the truth. His mind could not let go the bitter question. Who am I? Why did my parents leave me to die? He wanted to know his real family. He sensed that Agelaus kept a vital piece of knowledge from him, something that may alter the course of his life. His father’s tight lipped stubbornness in the matter frustrated Paris.
For the last year of his life, he’d found solace in the forest and the rivers he traveled to herd cattle. The river nymph, Oenone, who roamed the shaded paths and tended the wild flowers of the meadows, understood his desire to know about his real family. Together they had built a home inside a cave hidden behind a waterfall. A cascade of water marked the secret entrance. Paris fashioned simple furniture from trees and water willows. Together, he and Oenone collected from the mountain’s offerings to create their sacred space. Oenone, divinely bound to the river of her birth, collected green and purple river rocks the size of a man’s fist to line the cave like tiles. They planted thick moss on the floor to pad the hard cold dirt of the cave. Mist from the waterfall fed the living carpet. Only here, in this place, could Paris’ restlessness find peace.
Maybe his early days of abandonment in the wild breathed a restless spirit inside his heart. Only in the fields and rivers did he truly feel at ease. Paris knew if he belonged anywhere, it was under the stars. The nymph promised to love him always. She smiled at his return each day. She kissed him sweetly on the forehead, coaxed him to laugh when melancholy threatened to spin him into an abyss of self-pity.
“Did all go well with the bulls?” she asked sweetly.
“Yes. As expected.” Paris ran a blade of wide grass between his fingers, ripping the tip off with a quick snap of his wrist. He tossed the section of grass away in silence. It fluttered dead in the breeze.
“Perhaps, you are distracted? A walk?” Oenone suggested.
“No. Not today. My heart is heavy. I’m uncertain the cause.”
“Did you not have the best bulls to offer for the festival?”
Paris looked into Oenone’s large sparkling eyes, usually shifting with blues and greens like water now grew dark with concern.
“My father’s stock stood superior.”
“I feel you hide something.”
“It’s nothing.”
She pressed her lips on his. The smooth cool roundness of her mouth tasted of honeysuckle. Her arms encircled his neck pulling him tighter. Her lips parted in a tiny crescent. The tip of her tongue touched his bottom lip. He obliged by opening his mouth. She explored his tongue and teeth with her own. The scent of roses and wild sage filled his head with consuming passion. He burned to cover her flesh with kisses. He pressed his face into her palms, kissing each knuckle even as his lips trembled with not knowing what to do next. Her body lay as a mountain before him, calling him to begin his first exploration. Every trail, every rock, every babbling stream of her essence awaited him.
“Paris―”
He pulled back. “Is it unpleasant?”
Oenone smiled. “No, it is very pleasant. I would speak of the consequence of our mating.”
“Speak plainly, Oenone.”
“We will bring forth a child—who, I see, will complicate your future and bring you great suffering.”
Paris let his hand rest against her check, contemplating her words. His future consisted of raising bulls; his life could use some complications. “Any child we may bring to light will cause me no suffering. Of that I am certain. If he be of our love, I will love him also.”
“If it is a girl?” the nymph asked.
“So be it.”
“One act of love making will bind us forever, my mortal.”
“As in marriage?” Paris asked.
“Yes, as you mortals call it so.”
“Then, we shall belong to one another,” Paris whispered into her ear. “Forever.”
Oenone relented into Paris’ arms, surrendering her divine gift. As he took her, the world around them paused, the wind ceased, butterflies and dragonflies froze suspended in mid-flight over meadow grass, and the River Cebron stilled to silence. Paris looked down into the nymph’s eyes and he felt complete for the first time in his life. It didn’t matter who is father was or why he’d been left for dead. He filled Oenone with his passion for life, with his longing for home, with his hopes for their future. His climax began with a roar and he shuddered from his broad shoulders to his bare feet. The nymph wrapped her legs around his hips and pressed her need against him as she felt him melt inside her. Only the
n did the world once again burst to life.
Paris had been made bridegroom underneath the expanse of sky he loved second only to her, his newly made wife who lay contented beneath him. He found he could not release her from his embrace. He didn’t care if it was an enchantment or his own primal need to remain inside her; he wanted her beneath him on the cool grass. Forever. Paris gazed into his bride’s eyes. “I will love no other, Oenone.”
Oenone blushed. “It is I who will love no other.” She kissed him, sealing their solemn love vow. “You will betray me,” she whispered, even as Paris kissed her, murmuring that he could never do such a vile to her.
“I have loved you all my life, nymph. I will always honor you,” Paris defended.
She smiled sweetly, knowing the impossibility of his promise. “I have seen it in a dream.”
“Then, let it remain in your dreams, a cloud of thought that comes to nothing.”
“If you wish it so,” Oenone said quietly.
“I do.” Paris placed his warm rough hand on her flat belly, as the heat of his touch rippled through her like a chill. “We will have a fine son.” He rolled onto his side and plucked a stem clustered with pale blue flowers and gave it to Oenone. Then, he kissed her on the cheek, got up from their marital bed of grass and slipped his chiton over his shoulder. “I have sheep and cattle to look after.”
“Promise you will never leave me,” Oenone begged. She needed to hear his true intention, before the gods intervened to take him from her. When, she did not know. But that they would, she knew that with certainty for her visions never failed.
“You need have no worry, Oenone.” He held a hand to lift her. “Come, we both have work to do. You tending your flowers and I the roaming beasts.”
“Will you tell your father about us? What if he does not approve?”
“We wed before the sacred river promising our love with our union. It is not good enough? You have no desire to live in a house of brick and fire. I have no need to ask of anything requiring Agelaus’ consent.”
Song of Princes (Homeric Chronicles #1) Page 11
