Author's Note: Hi everyone, hope you are keeping safe and well. This chapter took some time as I tried to weave the original Ancient Greek legend of Paris of Troy into the story and I kind of lost my mojo in the middle :o( Anyway, here is the next instalment, hope it reads okay and makes sense. Review if you can, it does keep me motivated! :o)
Something – or someone – happened that seemed to mark the beginning of change to my happy and peaceful existence.
There was a huge festival being held in the City of Troy at the time, one that only occurred every four years. With this festival, my people worshipped our patron god Apollo and the celebrations lasted for days. My mother had always hated the hustle and bustle of public events and my father was usually working during such affairs, so I had rarely attended as a child but experiencing it as an adult and palace resident was just fantastic! In the evenings we all enjoyed grand feasts together in the Great Hall with lots of dancing and singing. During the day however, we were encouraged to go further than the palace gates and out into our fair, prosperous city to celebrate the festival with the general public.
Every street of the town was decorated with garlands, palm fronds and colourful flags with fragrant incense burnt all over. Great markets sprang out of nowhere, selling rich foods, plenty of beer and wine, wonderful jewellery, bright scarves and all manner of nick-knacks and souvenirs. There were plays and puppet shows staged randomly across the city, street performers like fire-breathers and jugglers were doing their tricks and bands of musicians played on every street corner. All the taverns in town were heaving with people needing refreshment – I popped into The Bunch of Grapes at one point to see Korina and Markos run off their feet but happy as it was a very prosperous time for them.
The Royal Family would parade through the town every day, some on chariots and some guarded by the infantry as they walked. People would line the streets and wait for hours for a glimpse of them. Hector, I noticed, preferred to be on foot so he could meet his people. He was the perfect Prince – courtly, polite, a proud vision in his armour, although he wore no helmet so his face could be seen, with a beautiful blue cloak attached to his shoulders (the one Andromache had been working on decorating in the Gynaecium for all those months) which swung behind him as he strode. Strapped to his back was his sword, the Great Sword of Troy, which he wore symbolically rather than for protection. The townsfolk would have him kiss their babies as a blessing or reach out to touch his breast plate for luck. He was very much loved by the residents of Troy.
During the festival, games were held at the palace – wrestling and boxing matches, running and horse races to name but a few. The public were invited to compete with palace residents on these occasions – that is how Prince Paris returned.
It was the last day of the festival and a boxing competition was being held in the training arena of the palace, next to the stables during the festival. A great crowd lined all around the low wooden fences to spectate. The King himself also watched, sat under a sunshade and raised on a makeshift dais so he was separate and elevated from the commoners and courtiers in the audience. He looked very proud and satisfied as Hector and two of his brothers, Helenus and Troilus (all excellent fighters) had already been the victors in a handful of matches against men from the general public. Markos even fought a good-natured bout with his friend Hector but ultimately lost. They were so good in fact, that the number of willing participants dwindled as most men now did not fancy their chances against the three strong Princes of Troy. Hector's last match came and the King called to the crowd for a contender. There was a pregnant pause as nobody dared volunteer to fight the legendary royal warrior after watching him swiftly beat three men before. The King called again and a young man of around my age stepped out of the crowd to present himself as a challenger, much to amusement of everyone watching - he was shorter and notably slenderer in stature compared to Hector, surely no match for the Prince at all. Like the good sportsman he was, Hector shook the man's hand, gave him some ox-skin tape to wrap around his knuckles and wished him luck. The young man was obviously a countryside dweller judging by his simple, slightly ragged clothes and loose, shaggy dark curls haloing his head. His slight yet athletic build was probably due to a lifetime of working in the fields but his face had the kind of fine, male beauty sculptors prize. However, his countenance did not seem to be one of a farmer or shepherd – perhaps it was his self-confidence or the gallant way he held himself. The young man did not look out of place standing by Hector, Crown Prince of Troy nor did he seem uncomfortable to be in the presence of our King.
For the first three rounds, the young man practically danced around Hector, dodging the Prince's punches. However, this was not out of cowardice. He was wily, I could see he was biding his time, waiting for Hector to tire. Round four is where it got interesting. Hector managed to get in some good punches that earnt him points but the young man was fast and surprisingly strong. He threw one quick, powerful punch that glanced off the bridge of Hector's nose. In an instant, Hector reeled backwards and ended up sitting on his backside on one side of the arena because of the pain, blood gushing from his nostrils and his eyes screwed up and watering. The referee - Jasper - approached Hector as he sat there on the dusty ground of the training arena, where he was holding a hand to his busted nose and blinking, trying to correct his vision.
"I concede. That can count as a knock-out." Hector told him, ultimately ending the match and making the young man the winner. There were gasps of shock from the watching crowd before polite applause rippled through them.
In an instant, l ducked under the fence and rushed over to where Hector was across the arena, grabbing some cotton towels from the referee's bag as I did. I knelt with him, holding a towel under his nose for the blood which was previous dripping down his tunic and onto the ground. I got him to lean forward a little and I gently pinched his nose about the nostrils – as I did so, I felt a slight crackle under the skin there, confirming my suspicions that his nose had been broken.
"I must know the name of the man that beat the Crown Prince and Commander of our army, no easy feat, I assure you!" declared the King when the crowd had finished their clapping.
The young man approached the dais, got on one knee and bowed respectfully.
"I am Paris, my Lord." He answered in a well-spoken voice, as clear as a bell: "Paris of Troy."
King Priam's face took on an expression of utter shock and he was rendered motionless for a moment. Hector looked on, his own face mirroring his father's. I was ever so confused.
"It cannot be!" The King finally exclaimed: "You died – they sent me proof!"
Paris rose from his bow to look to the King.
"The Gods spared me." He explained. It seemed to mean something to Priam and Hector but it did not help clear up my own puzzlement.
The King slowly stood from his seat and stepped down from the dais to approach Paris. He took the young man's face into his aged hands and took a while to study it. When he found family resemblance in his beautiful features, Priam smiled.
"You look like your mother." He told Paris. "I suppose you are here to claim your birth-right?" the King asked him.
"No sire. I just wished to meet my father and brothers." Paris replied humbly.
The King was touched by Paris' modest words and enveloped him in an accepting hug.
"Welcome home, son." He told him, with reverence.
A few moments later, I had managed to get Hector up onto his feet and I led him away from the gawping crowd into the privacy of the stable so I could tend to him properly. In the dusty, dim light, I had him sit on the low stall outside Whitefoot's pen and I crouched before him. Whitefoot lifted her head over her gate to greet her master but she was to be disappointed if she thought Hector was about to take her out for a ride. The blood flow from his nose was slowing but had not ceased so I changed the towel under his nose. I checked with him whether he had a headache or double vision but he assured me he did not. I looked to those eyes that I adored and realised Hector would probably end up with two big bruises under them for a while. I told him this but he seemed more troubled by the fact he had lost a boxing match. Hector's male pride did take over his sensibilities sometimes.
Hector's eyes looked black as he glowered, a sure sign he was displeased: "That was only the second time someone has managed to break my nose … but it was witnessed by all those people!" He seethed.
I felt like his egotism was overshadowing the more extraordinary event of the boxing match – that apparently a lost prince of Troy had returned.
"Is that man really your brother?" I asked him, removing the towel so Hector could more easily talk to me.
"My father seems to think so." Hector stated diplomatically, still a little in shock, I think. He considered for a moment whilst I dabbed gingerly at his sore nose with the cotton towel. He smelt strongly of fresh sweat and blood, a combination I was not yet used to on him: "I suppose he does resemble my mother very much." He added thoughtfully. I knew that Hector's mother, Queen Hecuba had passed some years ago from a short illness and like any good son, he had loved her very much.
"Why did you all think Paris to be dead?" I asked, still dabbing at his nostrils, feeling satisfied his bleeding was beginning to cease.
Hector then proceeded to tell me the rather horrific tale: Queen Hecuba, his mother, had dreamt she gave birth to of a flaming torch just before she bore his baby brother Paris. This dream was interpreted by a seer (possibly Cassandra, Hector was not specific) as a foretelling of the downfall of Troy and it was declared that the child would be the ruin of his homeland. On the day of Paris's birth, the seer claimed that a child born of a royal Trojan that day would have to be killed to spare the kingdom as he was the child that would bring about that prophecy. Though Paris was indeed born before nightfall, he was spared as both King and Queen were unable to take his life, despite the urging of a priestess of Apollo. Instead, the King asked the chief herdsman to remove the child and kill him. Something – a body part - was returned to the palace as proof of the deed's completion so it was assumed poor baby Paris was indeed dead and the Kingdom of Troy was saved.
I was shocked to the core. I was torn on the story – what kind of monster would send their own child off to be killed? It certainly sullied my high opinion of the Royal Family somewhat. But then again what if the prophecy was true? Since Paris did not die and had now returned, was the city in peril?
"How old were you when this happened?" I asked Hector, stunned by what I had just heard.
"About ten summer's old. I was very distressed about it but not old enough to voice my protest." Hector admitted sadly as I was removing the dirty, ox-skin tape from his own large, knotty knuckles. I was certainly relieved I did not have to question Hector's own humanity. "I had never forgotten him." Hector added thoughtfully.
That made me smile in affection for his kind heart. I stood as my calves now ached and I reached forward and brushed some of the dried blood out of his beard.
"The Gods have made sure you have the chance to know him now." I told him lovingly, without a hint of the misgivings I was feeling inside about Paris' return.
Hector looked to me warmly: "For such a fierce young woman, you have such a gentle, caring way with me." He told me affectionately as his arm circled my waist and he tenderly pulled me onto his lap. "I am not sure I am worthy of you." He added softly as his lips began to nuzzle my neck.
He was causing me to tingle all over and I cursed in my head that there were so many people outside the stable door and that we did not have more privacy at that moment. They would be expecting their esteemed Prince to show himself again very soon.
"I think I need to return your goodness – perhaps we could leave this evening's celebrations a little early and we could bathe together?" Hector suggested as his lips brushed my skin over and over and I lent into him with my eyes closed, relishing his attentions.
"I would love that." I replied, my voice tinged with lust for him as his arm tightened around my waist, pulling me closer to him. It had been a while since we had shared a bath and it was one of our favourite things to do.
The festival had sadly meant I had not been able to spend much time in Hector's company. He had been busy beforehand as he was involved with the preparations, then during the festival he made seemingly never-ending public appearances – the street parades, the games and at the temple during rituals. The palace banquets each night had lasted well into the early hours of the morning and he had been expected to be in attendance the whole duration. It had not bothered me very much, I understood I not only shared Hector with his wife but also with his royal, political and military duties. However, that is not to say I had very much missed being with my lover – the flesh and blood man, not the famous Prince.
That night, I waited and waited for Hector to arrive at my quarters as we had arranged but it was in vain. Feeling rather glum, I took the bath alone before the waters became too cold. I quickly washed myself and dried my body off, before I spent a good while giving my long hair a thorough brush. Finally, I slid my nightgown over my head and climbed under the covers of the bed, feeling quite lonely. The relief of sleep did not arrive immediately as my disappointment was too acute. I was not worried about what had happened to Hector, not after the banquet that night anyway - it was easy to guess.
It had been more momentous occasion than previous nights, simply for the fact that Paris was presented as a legitimate, pureblood son of King Priam and instead of the event being a celebration in honour of Apollo, it was turned into one for the returned Prince. Paris was by then had bathed and was dressed in a fine blue robe with his mop of curls tamed into something more fitting of a royal. He was sat on the dais in a place of honour between Hector and their father. I noticed Hector had relinquished his own golden seat for the Great Hall so Paris could have a chair befitting a Prince of Troy for the first time, whereas he was seated on a plain, high-backed wooden chair. As Hector did not value material things or like grand objects very much, he did not look uncomfortable and similarly, Paris did not look out-of-place sat next to his father and big brother, it was if he had never been sent away and lived the life of a commoner. With the distinguished way he held himself and the courteous, polite way he behaved, you could certainly tell he had royal blood and that nature – not nurture – had prevailed.
The King announced that he believed the gods had spared Paris and it was a blessing from them that he had returned during the festival for Apollo. Apparently, this had meant to Priam that the prophecy - that Paris would bring about the destruction of Troy – was false. Paris' explanation on his survival made the whole tale even more strange. The chief herdsman who was tasked to kill the new-born prince could not bring himself to do the deed. Instead, he had left the baby on a mountainside placing the Prince's fate to nature and the elements. However, when the herdsman had gone to check, he found that Paris had miraculously survived nine days and nights all alone and defenceless out there - the conclusion he had drawn from that is that the baby was suckled by a bear. He took this as a divine sign so took the baby home and raised him as his own. The body part presented to palace as proof the baby was dead was a dog's tongue. A peculiar story, I think you would agree although there were more outlandish myths and legends spoken of in my homeland, I must admit.
Priam, so overjoyed to have Paris back, decreed that the chief herdsman who had previously deceived the royal family should not be admonished but commended for his actions. He also announced that Hector would be Paris' mentor as he acclimatised to being a Prince of Troy. My heart sank a little to hear this – Hector had enough responsibilities already but I knew he would give his all to this new duty out of love for his father and brother.
So, that is what I presumed had happened to Hector since he did not come to my quarters to spend some time with me that evening as planned – he had been waylaid by Paris, I thought with a heavy sigh as I lay there in bed alone. Of course, I was upset but I did not begrudge either of the Princes for it, it was the way things should be after all – the older brother looking out for the younger one. It was just that there something about Paris did not sit quite right with me. I could not tell you what had made me feel that way as I did not know myself. It was just a feeling, an intuition.
When I finally drifted to sleep, I dreamt a terrible nightmare where the entire city of Troy was blazing with flame - so fierce were the engulfing fires that the raging red and orange colour reflected on the dark night's sky. I could hear terrified screams, wails of pain, babies cries abruptly and frighteningly silenced. As a shadowy man pinned me to a crumbling wall and held a blade to my stomach, ready to plunge, I woke up with a start of terror.
It took me a moment to realise the horrifying things I had just witnessed were just a dream and I was so very relieved to find myself tucked up safely in my bed. However, just as I blearily came to my senses, I felt a little alarmed to feel something move next to me. I looked over to see Hector sound asleep there. I rubbed my eyes delicately with my fingers for a moment to make sure he was not a figment of my imagination or another dream but no, he really was with me. How late or early was it? I glanced to the window and could see the sun was not yet rising so it must have been the very early hours of the morning. Pleasantly surprised, I shifted myself over to lay my head on his bare chest and put my arm around him, craving comfort and how safe he made me feel after having such a horrible and distinct nightmare. My touch roused him and I felt his arm drowsily circle me around my back, holding me to him.
"I am so sorry Kitten." He croaked sleepily: "I was delayed, father had me show Paris around the palace."
"I understand." I whispered, nuzzling his neck then craning up to plant a little kiss on his cheek so he knew I did not bear a grudge.
Hector held me to him more tightly: "I did not want to let you down and I have missed you – but it was very late and you were already asleep when you arrived, I did not have the heart to wake you."
"You are here now." I told him as I propped myself up to look at his face. It was creased with sleep; his face was pale and those black/blue bruises under his eyes were really starting to come out – they made him look even more exhausted.
"Yes." He grinned mischievously: "And seeing as we are both awake …" He said as his other hand found its way under my nightgown, his fingers travelling up my thighs.
It did not take a genius to know what he was referring to.
"Hector." I said flatly, my eyebrow arching as I gently scolded: "You are worn out. I would much rather have you when you are better rested. Get some more sleep. Just to be held by you right now is enough."
Hector thought for a moment and acknowledged I was right with a heavy sigh and the removal of his hand from under my gown.
"You read me so well sometimes, it scares me." He groaned: "And I would not want to disappoint my lover." He said, acquiescing to my request. He shifted a little to get more comfortable and closed his eyes so he could fall back to sleep. Something told me it would not take him long.
"You could never disappoint me." I told him lovingly as I laid my head back down on his chest and closed my own eyes.
I was awoken at a more decent time later that morning with Hector stirring behind me as we laid on our sides and Troublemaker pressing insistently into the small of my back. I knew he rose when Hector did every morning, if not before. What followed was a gloriously slow and passionate love-making session and I savoured every moment, every inch of him. As we lay there afterwards, sated, sweaty and content, I thought with some happiness that with the festival drawing to a close, our lives would return to the blissful normality I was used to. Little did I realise our lives would never be 'normal' again.