THERE, BUT FOR THE GRACE OF GOD, GO I.
Chapter Two: The Shepard
The toast, "Brothers in arms!" was chanted back by a chorus of good natured officers, generals, and distinguished soldiers in an adjoining room, followed by a round of rowdy calls for "Friendship!".
"Princes of Troy," Menelaus stood and opened his arms grandly, his cheeks already stained from his consumption of wine. It was enough of a spectacle to draw the reluctant attention of one especially beautiful boy away from his enraptured study of the full plate before him. Distant, dark eyes lifted and settled on the richly dressed host of the evening, King Menelaus of Sparta, brother of King Agamemnon and husband of Helen the Fair.
"On our last night together," he continued, "Queen Helen and I salute you." The king bowed his head as others at the table, both Trojan and Spartan, applauded and laughed, banging cups together as they drank in praise of every other word.
"We've had out conflicts before, it's true. We fought many battles, Sparta and Troy." The powerful man lifted his fist and thumped it on his chest proclaiming, "And fought well!"
More cheers and raised cups, more fists of flesh slammed against wood.
"But I have always respected your father. Priam is a good king, a good man. I respected him as an adversary. I respect him now as my ally."
The throng of nobles and distinguished guests from both sides of the sea raised their voices until the youth could barely hear him self think.
"Hector, Paris, young princes, come. Stand. Drink with me." Menelaus invited magnanimously. Paris, silent and overwhelmed, stood as his brother did with a gaudy gold cup clutched too tightly in his white-knuckled grip. "Let us drink to peace."
"To peace," Hector intoned sincerely, raising his cup to the king. "Between Troy and Sparta."
"May the gods keep the wolves in the hills and the women in our beds!" Menelaus blessed the table, draining his cup in a single gulp. From there the drunken revelry escalated and decorum and propriety diminished. Dancing girls wearing the ransom of kingdoms around their slender necks, with painted faces and sheer beaded skirts, followed the sultry piping of the music into the feasting room. They draped themselves around any man who looked twice while the wine-oh the wine! - sloshed from jug to cup more times than even the Gods themselves could count.
Standing suddenly, the beautiful boy, Paris by name, fled the chaos and perfumed heat of the hall, his brown eyes glossy with fever. Taking the labyrinth at a stumbling run, the tortured prince felt his way passed bewildered servants in search of some quiet place to calm his tripping heart. Moaning wretchedly in frustration after a dozen minutes of aimless wandering- all of the walls in the stone palace looked the same- Paris threw himself blindly through a promising red-curtained door way. His momentum propelled his slight body and he just caught himself against the stone rail of the balcony before he toppled over the edge. His torso pressed against the carved and detailed yellow-brown stone, Paris stared down at the swell of a thunderous gray wave as it hurled itself against the cliffs below, much like he had just done to himself.
In the distance, muffled and indistinct, he could still hear them, all of them.
Sobbing, Paris slid down to his knees, his head bowed and pressed to the cool stone, his impossibly exquisite face turned and hidden beneath his wild curls. The bobs and beads and braids that had come undone in his manic rush to escape and then his sudden halt, now bit into the golden skin of his knees and ankles as he ground them into the floor. Gasping for air, Paris fought valiantly within himself to put this anguish back in the Pandora's Box it had broken out of but, but, but…
He gagged and coughed while his head swirled and ached as if he'd drunk ten times more than the half cup he'd daintily sipped at through the evening. Hector had cautioned him in the beginning that drink was all good and well… in moderation. As with all things, he'd added, smoothing Paris's curls with a strong, calloused hand so like those of his lover. Golden hair replaced dark brown, dark eyes faded into blue eyes, and those hands upon his body… Paris whimpered as he shook his head, tears sliding down his cheeks. He was unable to stop them; the more he tried, the faster they fell. He gave in and took a deep breath…
"Noooo…!" Paris wailed.
The wind smelled of the sea! Salt and brine and all the things that belonged to Poseidon and every waver-tamer, fish monger, and sailor held dear. But wave-tamer, fish monger, sailor, he was none of those men. He was Alexandros. A Shepard and best loved of all in his homely little valley. He was king of his hill and sovereign of his herd. His life was simple, fulfilling, and quiet. His lover had promised a place with him in Larissa come the spring. Perfect was the life of Alexandros the Shepard until…
"I hate this life. I want to go home. I want to go home, home, home, home, home!"
"Paris?"
Alarmed, Paris/Alexandros lifted his tear stained face, his trembling lips, and pale face to the intruder. "What…?"
TBC...
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