Chapter 29

Paris ran a hand over his beard, fingers idly scratching at a white scar that ran diagonal from jaw to cheekbone. It still itched from time to time, and in moments of deep thought or duress, he often caught himself worrying at it, this souvenir of his travel from Phthia to Mycenae.

While no stranger to treacherous terrain -- he had scaled mountains and crossed barren plains from Troy to Egypt with barely a scratch -- he had finally found his wayfaring nemesis on a rain-soaked hillside pass nearly halfway to Mycenae. The slippery shale had sent him tumbling, laying his cheek open on a sharp, protruding rock and smashing loose a back tooth in the process.

It was an inauspicious moment in a tiring journey and he tried not to let the ill luck disturb him overly much, but he had no companion to distract him and his mind periodically pondered whether it was merely accident or an omen.

He began to heal quickly, for which he was grateful and heartened by, and a stray glance in a puddle of water hinted at the makings of a rather decorative scar. If he were to slip into Mycenae and walk about unrecognized, any disfigurement would complement the unruly beard and untended locks that was the sum of his physical camouflage.

He felt confident that the combination would be ample disguise; there was nothing of the studiously groomed prince about him any longer. Even his posture had lost much of its jaunty, lordly air. He ached excruciatingly, his body still clinging to a chill from sleeping in the embrace of Nature or feebly seeking warmth in livestock huts when darkness fell and rising before shepherds appeared to tend their flocks in the early morning hours.

It was a fugitive's existence, but his heart oddly grew lighter the closer he drew to Mycenae. Dear, fretful Andromache would call it reckless and dangerously confident, but he had not felt so alive in a great while. This was indeed his moment to act, relying on himself and himself alone.

It was a test, perhaps the ultimate test of his life. Even facing Menelaus in personal battle was not so daunting. Then, Hector had been by his side, and he had not been forced to either fight and die, or flee in disgrace until the Spartan cut him down. Hector had intervened and taken the wrath of Agamemnon upon himself.

Now, there was no one. No Hector, no stout walls to his back, no dutiful love and encouragement from a city's populace. He was very much alone in this and it was immensely freeing. His mind, his strength, his will were his only tools, and there were no duties, no sentinels looming over him. If he succeeded, excellent; if not, he had valiantly tried. He felt like the lamented Paris of old, but with wiser confidence supplanting the rash tendencies that had controlled him in the past. He wanted Troy back, perhaps even more so than Andromache did.

Not perhaps. He did. Andromache had found peace with her Myrmidon among the hills and seemed to want to leave strife behind. He could not blame her. Astyanax as heir would forever mark him as threat. What mother wanted that? There was nothing of the ruthless dowager in Andromache, only maternal fear. She wanted her son, her life and, apparently, the love and devotion of a good man. Simple pleasures for a simple, good woman who had enjoyed them in the warm, secure embrace of his brother. How different from Helen's expectations and desires! How different from his own.

" 'Xandros!"

Paris jerked his head up and saw a woman gesturing to him cheerily.

"Come here!" she cried.

Paris pulled himself to his feet and clambered up the shallow slope of close-cropped grass and bristly brush. Half-grown lambs scattered before him and the woolly herd bleated at the disruption. He grinned at the burst of chaos and made straightway for his hostess, a widow of Andromache's age but with few of her physical features.

A short, sturdy woman with black hair and penetrating golden eyes, Creusa scratched out a proud existence on a large plot of land that overlooked the palace of Agamemnon, seat of the formidable House of Atreus. She had some skills in herbs, laundered a share of the royal linens, and was ready to aid anyone who came to her door with a tale of woe or outstretched hand.

The latter was how Paris had come to know her. On a cold and rainy windswept night, he had staggered into her cottage with a desperate tale of sorrow; he knew Agamemnon dwelt in the immediate valley below and this woman's home would provide a perfect place from which to observe and plan. So he had lingered in the elements until suitably disheveled and knocked on her door as thunder cracked and lightning flashed. There had been no hesitation; he had been ushered inside, warmed, fed, and, ultimately, adopted like a stray pup.

Although Paris appreciated Creusa for untold reasons, her true value to both her king and those about her was her flock of sheep. She tended it lovingly and the meat was the envy of any who had the good fortune to taste it. Despite the acclaim her sheep brought to one's table, she was adequately compensated for her stock but nothing more. Still, she did not resent the slight; the honor of being of some value to her king rather than a nuisance, and therefore unmolested, seemed to be all the extra payment she required. That she had been allowed to remain on her husband's land, rather than punished for her childless state and remanded into the care of remote family also deepened her joy.

She smiled at him now, arms folded across her ample bosom. Three of her front teeth were missing, but Paris thought it detracted little from her peculiar beauty. The woman was good-hearted and not quickly suspicious, useful traits all in order to successfully stake a position so close to Agamemnon's palace. Yet he truly did enjoy Creusa's company, appreciated her dedication to hard work and took pleasure in all she had to say about her cantankerous royal neighbors. Despite her gratitude to them, she was not their blind defender. She was never at a loss for stories or opinions about their behavior.

"What are you grinning about?" she demanded jovially.

"Nothing," Paris replied. "Only counting myself fortunate that you saw fit to give a drowned rat like me a roof over its head." He gave her a bashful smile, his brown eyes limpid with gratitude.

"You have such a way about you," she giggled. "Were my husband still alive, I'd have you teach him to properly speak to a woman. He was ever a cripple when it came to compliments." She sobered and pointed down the hill at Agamemnon's palace. Creusa's land was so close, the vantage so well placed, that it was possible to see people moving about the grounds between palace and fortified walls. While the patterns on some of the women's dresses were not discernable, Paris was able to distinguish oranges from yellows quite handily.

"Leda was just here," she went on. "She says a ewe is needed for Agamemnon's table tomorrow night. Some lord by the name of Aegisthus is being honored and the queen is bullish intent on a full and rich table. I want you to take it there in the morning. They'll be expecting you at the gate, so state your business and they will send you along. You know how it all goes."

"Am I to see Agamemnon this time?" Paris asked, continuing to smile but feeling impatience grip him. He had delivered rams, ewes and lambs before for either the dinner table or the temple altars to sacrifice, but had yet to even witness Agamemnon, let alone be in close enough quarters to slay him and escape. He was merely a shepherd, hustled in and out with nary a fare thee well. He continued to bide his time and, luckily, Creusa was of such pleasant disposition that his frustration and anxiety was wisely tempered until pragmatism trumped impulse.

Creusa shook her head. "Unless Agamemnon greets you to take possession of the sheep himself, I highly doubt it," she said. "But do try to linger awhile and listen carefully. Leda hears much from working in the kitchen, but too much knowledge can't hurt a soul." With that, she flashed a gap-toothed grin and bent to pick up a large reed basket of dirty linen.

"I'm off to the river," she said. "I'll leave it to you to pick the unfortunate ewe. I trust your judgment." She ambled off, the basket bouncing sluggishly on one broad hip.

Paris watched her leave before he turned toward the calmed flock of sheep. His shepherd's eye had been quickly re-sharpened once in Creusa's employ and, while his days as a tender of flocks on Mount Ida sometimes seemed a lifetime ago, it was knowledge not easily forgotten. He knew a good piece of flesh when he saw it.

He wandered back down into the hollow, his eyes scanning the herd. He bent down and thrust his hand into a puddle of cold muck and water and quickly slapped the rump of the most succulent ewe in the flock, marking it for the morrow. The creature blatted in surprise and leaped away. Paris laughed as he retook his shepherd's position against a large rock that had gamely tried to absorb warmth from the winter sun. He reclined, loose-limbed and in good spirits.

It had been five months since he left Phthia, two of them had been spent on Crusa's charity while inching closer to his quarry. There was every expectation that tomorrow would yield no greater chance of gaining further entry into the palace, but Paris told himself he had nothing to lose by being optimistic.

* * *

"Leda! What is wrong?"

Creusa rubbed the remainders of sleep from her eyes and stared in surprise at the woman who stood outside the door. Leda was shifting from one foot to the other in a bid to keep herself warm in the crisp morning air.

Paris peered over the edge of his blanket from his rope bed in the corner of Creusa's small home. He made no attempt to pretend sleep. Creusa's surprise had been so loud that it would have woken even the soundest sleeper. Besides, dawn was beginning to break and he was due to rise soon; if he did not do so, Creusa was not averse to kicking the bed to wake him up.

Leda looked over Creusa's shoulder at Paris and lowered her voice, but not enough.

"I--I am fearful, Creusa," she stammered. "I just saw…"

Creusa grabbed Leda by the shoulder and hauled her inside. The kitchen maid stumbled into the room and stood looked around, flustered and mute. She looked askance at Paris and her manner reminded him of Andromache's nervous little slave.

Creusa went to the small table near the hearth and lit a candle. Although the interior was beginning to brighten, it was still dark enough so that Paris had to strain his eyes to discern Leda's expression. The impending conversation between Creusa and Leda would likely not require him, and Creusa was certainly within her rights to order him outside and begin work. But his curiosity was heightened.

Leda did not normally come to Creusa's home unless in the light of day. She was visibly distressed by something there, in Agamemnon's palace. He would strive to stay and learn what it was.

He threw back the blanket, one hand reaching for his tunic. He heard a shallow, surprised gasp as Leda glimpsed his body in the dim, dawn light. He rose and drew the non-descript garment over his head slowly.

"Eh, out with you!" Creusa exclaimed when she turned around and saw Paris' lithe form on display. "Leda's ruffled enough without you making it worse!"

"No, no, he can stay," Leda demurred, turning to Creusa, but not before giving Paris a shy, regretful look. Upon the older woman's knowing sniff, Leda rushed on. " 'Xandros will be going to the palace today, yes? He's bound to see some turmoil and it's best he's prepared."

Creusa looked doubtful, but gestured at him to sit down; which he did, taking a seat upon his bed and crossing his legs, attentive.

Leda fluttered onto the crude bench at the table and clasped her hands in front of her. "Creusa," she began, "I caught the queen in a tryst."

Creusa's eyes widened. "When? Now?"

"Just now," Leda affirmed miserably. She rubbed her hands together slowly, her eyes riveted on the motion.

"Well, where was it?" Creusa demanded when Leda was not forthcoming with details. "If you don't speak up, I'll have to assume she defiled Agamemnon's bed as he lay next to her!"

Leda shook her head. "It was in the garden grove, a remote corner, where I planted mint. No one else likes it brewed, so I was told to keep it there instead if I wanted it." At Creusa's impatient wave of a hand, Leda hastily finished, "I woke sick and went to get some to eat. Klytemnestra had retreated there with…with Lord Aegisthus."

"Were you seen?"

When Leda's face crumbled and she threw her head down on her arms, Creusa gave an exasperated sigh.

"Oh, Leda…"

Paris bolted from his bed and took a seat next to Leda, one hand stroking her back encouragingly. Creusa glared at him suspiciously, but then she shrugged and gestured for him to continue. The girl was distraught and needed some reassurance, and Creusa seemed inclined to think Leda was more likely to respond at the touch of a handsome man than a brusque old widow.

Paris guessed correctly; Leda lifted her head and looked at him, sniffing back tears that had yet to flow disgracefully. She had calmed, and he felt a subtle pressure as she leaned invisibly against his hand.

All three jumped when a sharp rapping was tattooed on the door. Leda looked to Paris, her large eyes filling with fright. He smiled in encouragement, although he felt a knot beginning to twist in the pit of his stomach.

Creusa heaved herself from the table and went to the door, taking a deep breath. None of them had any doubts that the unseen visitor was connected to Leda's inadvertent spying.

Creusa slowly opened the door. Standing there, stiff and arch, was Klytemnestra's personal confidante and servant, Melaina.

Paris did not know her personally, but he knew of her. Creusa despised her and was not shy in her choice of words when Melaina came up in conversation. A mistress to Hyrtius, Agamemnon's affable emissary, Melaina had none of her lover's easygoing temper and all of the excess ambition Nature had not seen fit to give him. Her status as slave and concubine was no impediment; she ingratiated herself to Klytemnestra, lamented wrongs and encouraged grudges. In her, Klytemnestra found an eager ear and kindred spirit. Within a short time, Melaina became untouchable and it was an immunity the woman savored and wielded unchecked.

"Leda!" she snapped, not giving Creusa the courtesy of a greeting. "The queen wishes your presence. There is much to do today to ready for tonight's feast. No time to be running about!"

Leda leaned even further against Paris, but it was not out of some desire to feel his touch more firmly. It was instead a reflexive move of one afraid, flinching from the threatened punishment Melaina represented.

"Melaina," Leda begged, "I shall not tell--"

"Enough!" Melaina's bright, keen eyes went to Creusa, then settled on Paris and he was certain he saw a glimmer of fear in the formidable depths. So, he thought, the queen thinks she has truly misstepped and is afraid.

Leda sniffed again, dread of a beating or worse punishment no doubt filling her mind. She rose slowly and advanced to the door as one already found guilty and condemned.

"You," Melaina said, pointing to Paris. "You were to bring a ewe, correct? Step to with it, for I shall not bring it. I'll have nothing to do with the stringy beasts."

Melaina's provocative unpleasantness found an opposing force in Creusa. The more peevish and abusive the one became, the more beatific the widow's smile, the rosier her cheer.

"Always a pleasure, Melaina," she beamed. "You'll make a queen yet."

"Hah!" was the sarcastic reply. "I won't take that as the insult you intend, Creusa. You should have known me when I was stashed in the backwoods with that Myrmidon of Achilles, Eudorus. And I thought being his leman was as far as I could reach! How wrong I was! Ah well, he's pretty content with that Trojan puff, I hear."

"The widow Xuthos has mentioned?" Creusa asked, the prospect of gossip stilling her tongue from her previous needling. "You are quite close to him, I gather."

"He has not left his friends in Phthia behind and he shares with me the news he hears," Melaina replied smugly. "A well-traveled soul like myself always wants to keep up with matters."

"Oh, and well-traveled you are, Melaina!" Creusa agreed with a vigorous nod. "The ceilings you've seen, and me aught but one!"

Melaina's eyes narrowed, the set of her mouth viciously tight. She turned to Leda. "Come on, girl! Stop your sniveling! There's work to do."

Leda fell into step behind Melaina, her pace a wary mix of reluctance and anxious desire to hurry in a bid to prevent further punishment from raining down upon her unlucky head.

Paris rose. He needed to follow as well. Melaina had already left the doorway and was waiting at Creusa's gate with ill-concealed ire at any delay. As Paris walked past Creusa, she grabbed him by the arm.

"Watch yourself," she whispered. "Make sure you don't get between a blade and its target. I sense there will be plenty of knives flying today, from eyes if not from hands. What Leda saw does not bode well."

"I'm well-acquainted with the like, Creusa," he said, summoning a smile. "I've been the recipient of dagger glares myself once or twice, and for similar reasons. I was quite a handsome boy at one time and often in trouble."

She patted his arm. "Stay safe. I'm almost afraid to let you go. Leda, too. If that place gobbles you both up, I'll never forgive myself."

"Why? Afraid you irked Melaina too much and she will take out her anger on us?" he joked.

Creusa's lips curved into an involuntary impish smile. "She's such a braggart. Little does she know how Xuthos laughs at her pretensions behind her back. One would think from the way she talks that Eudorus fellow was besotted with her, but Xuthos says he tumbled her but once before turning to the 'Trojan puff,' as Melaina calls her."

"I almost want to meet the woman, if she has or could cause Melaina some grief," Paris grinned, knowing the thought of gentle Andromache instilling jealousy in another woman would have amused his brother greatly.

"A beautiful woman, if Xuthos speaks true," Creusa said, "and not even a Trojan, a breed Melaina despises, but a close neighbor to the city. But that matters little to Klytemnestra's loyal dog out there. Anyone within spitting distance of Troy is fair game for hating, especially if they took something she felt was hers. She has Hyrtius and more sway than one of her temperament should enjoy, but being kicked out of a mercenary's bed for a near-Trojan sits less well with her than it would others more accepting of the way men's hearts work."

"How much do you know about what happens in the world?" Paris cajoled. "Mycenae…Phthia… Are you going to tell me what Pharaoh of Egypt had for breakfast yesterday?"

Creusa laughed, her nose wrinkling in mirth. "I just might know that by the time you get back!" She sobered and sent him out through the door with a light smack on his rump. "Just make certain you do come back."

Paris hastened to the livestock and slipped a rope halter around the marked ewe with expert grace. He joined Leda and they trailed in Melaina's wake down the steep hill to Agamemnon's palace.

Dawn had firmly broken and the palace and surrounding village was already stirring. Agamemnon's hunting kennel surged with barks at passersby and Paris was reminded yet again of the glorious cacophony that had resounded throughout Troy every morning, the noise a daily affirmation of its vitality, its strong collection of hearts and minds and bodies.

He wanted that experience again, to step out onto a balcony and look down into a city, a small kingdom that was his.

Each step that brought him closer to Agamemnon's palace created a delicious tightening in his stomach. The earlier tense anxiety, borne of Melaina's harsh anger towards the helpless Leda, was fading as his mind became consumed instead with his own cares and aims. It did not last.

A soft hand fumbled at his and he looked down to see that Leda was surreptitiously trying to clasp his hand. She kept pace close to him, the fluttering folds of her gown masking this attempt at reassuring contact.

"Leda?" he whispered.

"I'm going to be beaten," she replied, her voice thin, quavering. "Tell me I won't cry and beg. I don't want to be a coward again. The last time, I disgraced myself."

She looked at him, her face pale except for a flushed spot staining each cheek. Her eyes had already acquired a glassy sheen, her upper lip beaded with perspiration. He could feel her shaking through her fingers.

He felt his own fear and terror when at the mercy of Menelaus, the memory causing his throat to tighten and burn. Klytemnestra and Melaina were poor counterparts to the Spartan king's fury that had been unleashed upon him, but he knew her fear, understood it all too well.

"You won't cry," he told her levelly, giving her a warm, confident smile. "You won't beg. You will be stronger than I could ever be, Leda."

She stared at him, as if contemplating whether he meant it or was simply lying to encourage her.

She did not need doubt, for then surely she would break. Paris squeezed her fingers and leaned down to give her a quick kiss on her trembling lips.

"It is only pain, Leda," he whispered. "That is fleeting when compared to other sorrows."

"Such as?" she asked. The tip of her tongue nervously played along her lips, as if drinking in whatever strength his kiss might have possessed.

"Be brave for me today, and I will tell you tonight."

* * *

OK, I lied. There will be more than 1 chapter left after this one. This chapter wrote itself pretty quickly (at least by my standards) and I found it growing fast. So I'll have to split it in two. Paris actually became interesting to write, damn his golden boy hide. He's trying his best to charm me into giving him a happy ending.

I hope you've enjoyed this chapter and thanks for sticking around! It will end, never fear!