Favorite Son

I take Paris by the shoulder and jostle him. He is reluctant to awaken, making some mumbling sound and clinging to me, but I push him away and sit up.

“I was sleeping,” he accuses.

“Something is amiss,” I respond, rising and donning my clothing in haste and hurrying down the ladder.

Archeptolemus is also alert as I crouch beside him. “A rider is coming,” I say.

Behind his shoulder, Dresus also is awake. And Paris has stumbled down the ladder in the gloom and is rubbing sleepiness from his eyes.

“Stay here with Paris,” I instruct Dresus. “Tolemus, come with me.”

Outside in the moonlight-bathed farmyard, Agelaus has emerged from the house. The hoof beats are louder and in that moment the horseman comes around the bend in the road and draws up before us in a cloud of dust.

Archeptolemus grabs the reins to still the startled horse. “What is it, man?” he demands.

The rider, a weathered but hale farmer in simple clothing, not far older than myself, slips from the horse and bows before Archeptolemus. “Word came down the mountain that the mighty prince of Troy had come to the house of Agelaus,” he says breathlessly. “We implore your help.”

“I am not the prince,” Archeptolemus rebukes him.

“Forgive me!” says the man, his eyes darting between us. “I knew not– “

I step forward. “I am Hector.”

The man seems relieved to learn this news. He drops to his knees before me and clutches at my robe. “My wife – she has been taken. My lord, please help me!”

“Be calm,” I say, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Rise and tell me what has happened.”

Thus the man relates, in broken phrases, how the previous morning marauders on horseback had taken his wife as she was drawing water from the well while he and his sons were birthing new lambs in the fields. The sons were not of age to follow the marauders, so he sent them on foot to the nearest outpost while he, having learned in the nearest village of my visit, borrowed a horse and set off immediately for this place.

Paris has come up behind me silently, and he speaks now with great disdain. “What sort of brutes would take a man’s wife? They must be very ill-born and bred.”

“They will sell her to the slavers!” the man cries. “The caravans that travel far to the south engage in such trade.”

“What? That is beneath contempt!” Paris continues hotly.

“Silence,” I tell Paris without a glance his way, although I can discern his thrumming indignation beyond my shoulder. “How many were they – the men who took your wife?” I ask the bereft husband.

“My daughter saw at least four. And glad I am that they had not seen her as well, for surely she would be gone now, too. Some of the men in the village offered to join me in pursuit, even beyond the borders of the Troad, and yet I fear that no good would come of that, and my children would be left fatherless as well as motherless.”

I nod, pleased with the man’s thoroughness and courage. “You did right to come to me. You and your fellow farmers are not warriors, although you are brave to contemplate such action. Wait here for a moment.”

Turning, I take Archeptolemus aside. “Prepare the men to ride. Paris shall stay behind with Agelaus.”

“But, Hector-“

Over my shoulder, I fix Paris with a glare. “Join the men on the other side of the yard.”

“But-“

“Now!”

He trudges off grudgingly. Later, I will have to remind him of his manners. It looks ill to have my authority questioned in front of our countrymen.

“Paris stays with Agelaus,” I repeat to Archeptolemus.

“Should we not take him?” he asks quietly. “His skill with a bow is extraordinary and could prove useful.”

“I have no wish to look after him,” I demur. Yet I greatly trust and value the judgment of Archeptolemus, and indicate that he should continue.

“It is my thought that Prince Paris has grown greatly since coming to Troy, and this may be a chance for him to prove himself.”

“My mind misgives me in this matter, my friend. If we are wrong, what then?”

“They are but four,” Archeptolemus says. “We will be six.”

“We do not know their numbers for a certainty, and moreover we may not catch them before they reach a caravan, or a place of hiding. We may not find them at all.”

He leans close and lowers his voice further. “Does not the prince deserve to be treated as a defender of our country and our people? This seems to me a good test for him.”

“You are very wise, Tolemus,” I say, smiling wryly and clasping his shoulder. “I will bow to your judgment here; prepare all the men, but keep an eye on Paris. He needs watching.”

While valiant Archeptolemus takes care to see to the horses and the arming and provisioning of the men, in which he is aided by Agelaus who provides food and skins of water, I speak with the husband of the missing wife, to learn more details about the road we will ride, where the marauders may have gone, and a description of the woman. Then Agelaus takes the man into his house for refreshment and one of his grown children leads the man’s horse into the stable as ours emerge.

The village in question is far to the east and then south, so we choose another road that leads more directly south in the hopes of making up time. We make good time while on the main road, but when we must turn south onto a less-traveled road, we ride carefully in the darkness in order to spare the horses from stumbling. Yet as the dawn lightens the world, we are able to spur the horses to a gallop again.

We halt near an overlook as the sun climbs over the far ridges. A long way below us, the great southern plain spreads for leagues, and beyond that the crests of distant mountains can be seen. A wide, much-used road scars the sun-baked land, yet it is empty of life. Archeptolemus touches my shoulder and points. Far to the east, a rising cloud of dust is barely discernible.

“A caravan,” I say.

“Or the work of Aiolos?” he offers.

“Perhaps. Yet it seems too large to have been created by the winds alone.”

“If it is a caravan, it is at least two days away.”

I nod. “Let us descend further. If meeting the caravan is their intention, they may be seeking a hiding place, or already waiting somewhere.”

*** *** ***

It is Paris who first spies our quarry. The escarpment which sinks to the level of the plain curves several leagues off into the shape of the half-full moon. His eyes, trained by this landscape, descry something moving amongst the vegetation.

“Twelve horses at the least,” he says, shading his eyes from the sun. “All mounted.”

“Is there a woman?” Archeptolemus asks.

“From this distance I cannot say,” Paris replies.

“Let us keep on then,” I say, tugging on my horse’s reins and setting upon the path again.

“Yes, we must rescue our countrywoman,” Paris agrees, and for one last moment he stares at the remote panorama – his perfect features silhouetted nobly against a bright blue sky – looking righteous and severe and determined.

*** *** ***

He looks rather different a long while later, as I force open my eyes through what appears to be dried and encrusted blood, to discover that I am bound hand and foot, sitting upon the pounded-dirt floor of a rudely built hovel, propped against a filthy wall, while Paris eyes me with wary trepidation from the opposite side of the ill-lit chamber.

“You ran,” I accuse, my voice feeling and sounding rough as sandstone.

“I… Hector, I…” he begins softly.

“Be silent!” I roar.

He shrinks back and I glare at him in the dimness.

Gathering my scattered wits takes much effort. Gathering my scattered dignity will take far longer. Almost I wish I had not regained consciousness, for it grieves me beyond measure to recall how I came to be in this state. Our plan of attack started off well enough – for we rode swiftly until we found the resting place of the marauders and identified the farmer’s wife at their mercy – and I can take pride in the plans that were laid with such care by myself and Archeptolemus as we watched from cover, and in the bravery with which our men fought when the scheme was put into action. Less do I care to recall how well the enemy fought, how well they were armed, how there were far more than four. Yet we have battled worse odds and won, and for my own part I slew two in the fierce skirmish.

Yet it is with deep reluctance that I bring to mind how Paris scuttled away like a frightened hare seeking the safety of its burrow when confronted with the harsh truth of battle. I shall keep to myself forever the profound fear that settled in my gut when one of the enemy chased after Paris with a bloody spear, and how I allowed myself to become distracted and turned to follow, and thus was overcome and knew no more.

“You ran!” I repeat, hardly crediting my own words.

“Hector, they are in the next room!” he finds the courage to whisper urgently.

The need to yell again is powerful yet I resist, as he is right for once. Breathing deeply to calm myself, I inspect our surroundings more closely. “Why are you not bound?” I ask suspiciously.

He has the decency to look guilty. And to lower his gaze to his hands which lie in his lap. “They do not fear me.”

Small wonder. I snort rudely. “And why are you not over here, freeing me from these bonds?”

“I tried while you were… asleep,” he says. “The bonds are very tight,” he adds miserably.

“You have no notion,” I mutter, squirming. “Come here and try again.”

He makes a movement forward, then stops. “Are you still angry with me?”

I should think the steam that must be rising from my head would be enough to reassure him on that count, but he appears to require confirmation in words. “Yes, Paris,” I say slowly, with rising inflection. “I am very angry with you, and when we are both safe I will give you a beating you will not soon forget, but for this moment get over here without delay!”

He scrambles across the floor and kneels before me and begins to work feverishly at the leather thongs while I flex my wrists in an attempt to give him leeway. It is a great pity that they have stripped our armor, or we might have employed a bronzed edge, no matter how dull. Yet the room is entirely empty and we are clad in naught but kilts and sandals.

“I cannot loosen the bonds!” Paris hisses in frustration.

“Have you no patience? Did you learn in one day how to bring down a wolf with a single arrow? All worthwhile goals require discipline.”

He nods without looking at me, then leans forward to rest his forehead upon my shoulder. “I am sorry, Hector, I am so very, very sorry.”

“Tolemus?” I ask, ignoring his ill-disguised request for forgiveness.

“I do not think they have him, or the others,” Paris answers quietly, moving away again and working at the thongs.

“Why have you not escaped by the window?”

“There are guards outside.”

“We will make the attempt once I am free.”

Paris looks up momentarily, then drops his eyes again. “It is too small for you.”

“Yet not for you, I think. When darkness falls, you will go out the window and come to open the door.”

“But they are armed!”

“They will kill you if you sit here, or if you attempt to escape.” A thought suddenly occurs to me. “Do they know who we are?”

“I think not.”

Whether this is welcome news or otherwise, I cannot judge. If they know our identity they will want to ransom us. Yet if they do not, they may simply kill us. “And who are they?”

“I do not know. They speak a language of the south.”

“And the woman? Is she nearby?”

“I am sorry, Hector; I do not know.”

I sigh loudly and relax and allow Paris to continue his attempts. He is concentrating fiercely now, a tiny bit of pink tongue caught between his teeth. My head feels like a boulder, but I am recovering fast and I notice a purpling bruise on his cheek. I want to kill the bastard who dared lay a hand upon my brother, who marked the skin that I have kissed. But that must wait.

The room becomes darker as night approaches, and Paris resorts to using his sharp white teeth on the thick leather. Of a sudden, when there is no longer light to see, I feel the pieces of leather give way and fall from my wrists. “Quick, my feet!” I cry, and my hands - which are stiff and weak from being bound so long – scrabble alongside his to tear at the bindings on my ankles. Fortunately these are less tight. Just as my legs are freed the single door to the room slams open to reveal two armed men.

Feebly flickering light streams in from the next room, presumably from a torch. The men know instantly what we have done and launch themselves at us.

“Paris, go!” I say, rising to my feet despite the lack of sensation in my legs.

“I cannot leave you!” he cries.

“Go, fool!” I yell, shoving him hard and turning to place myself between the men and Paris. “Find Tolemus! Go!”

The attackers are crying out in their own tongue, and several of their comrades rush in; just as well, for perhaps Paris will have a chance now if they are well and truly distracted. I cannot spare more thought than that for him now, however, as I throw my elbow into the face of one attacker and wrest his sword from him, then pierce his. Others grasp at me and I fling them off or kick them to the ground, yet there are too many of them.

Once again the world darkens.

*** *** ***

When next I awaken I am trussed far tighter than before, and with more thongs. I am not certain that I am even capable of moving. Indeed, I think glumly, my limbs may never regain full use again. I am lying face down on the floor with my hands bound behind my back. Perhaps I should be grateful that they have not killed me, that I have some value. Perhaps they believe I would have value to the slavers. If they believe I would ever submit to anyone other than the king of Troy, perhaps they will be interested in acquiring, for a small consideration, a footbridge over the Hellespont.

In the darkness, I know I am alone in the chamber. Paris is gone. Did he succeed in escaping? Was he killed in the attempt? I choose to believe he escaped. The alternative does not bear contemplation. He will find Tolemus, I tell myself, and rather would I suffer the ignominy of being rescued than be forced to employ some means of killing myself in place of being displayed upon an auction block.

Loud voices emanate from the next chamber. Although I listen carefully for a long while, I can make out nothing of what they say, for the tongue is unknown to me, and most uncouth as well. At times they seem to come to blows. Men who live by the subjugation of others can have no trust or honor amongst them, and I feel no astonishment if they dislike one another heartily.

At long last, one by one the voices still until there is no sound but occasional snores, and the noises made by creatures of the night, and the guards they have left outside. I need to remain awake, for I know Archeptolemus has some plan and will likely hatch it before dawn, yet I am tired and sore and I have had no food or water for many hours, and when the rescue comes I am as startled by it as the sleeping malefactors. The sounds of fighting outside the hovel, hoarse yelling and fierce battle cries make me ferociously angry that I cannot be in the center of it. With a Herculean effort I succeed in turning over and propping myself against the wall, at which moment the commotion ends following a last scream – presaging a death, no doubt – and then a voice I know well.

“My lord! My lord!”

“Tolemus!” I rasp in return.

The door is kicked wide and there looms the reassuring figure of Archeptolemus bearing a sword that drips with fresh blood. Another of my men thrusts a torch into the room.

“My lord!” Archeptolemus cries with relief, and in another moment I am fair certain that he will tease me for not joining the fight, and I would allow him this liberty for a little while in recompense for his actions tonight.

Yet before more words can be spoken, Paris pushes past him and, with a cry that cuts to my heart, runs to me and flings himself upon me.

“Hector, Hector!” he wails, winding his arms about my neck and burying his face against my shoulder. “I thought they had killed you!” he cries, his voice muffled and distraught.

I can do nothing with my arms tied – neither hold him and comfort him, nor thrust him away, for this behavior is unseemly in front of our fellow warriors.

Archeptolemus snatches the torch and directs the men to secure the outer area and find the abducted woman. He pushes the door closed and comes to crouch nigh to Paris and me. I know he means only to learn if I am well, and to cut the bonds, but as soon as I see the torchlight in his eyes, and how he stares at Paris, who is clinging to me while trying to wrap himself around me, sobbing all the while like a child, I realize a thing that horrifies me.

He knows.

Archeptolemus knows about us: he must see it in my stricken face. And I in turn see the pity in his eyes, and I will not be pitied.

“Free me, Tolemus,” I say roughly, and he bends to the task even though Paris cannot be persuaded to relinquish his grip. My arms, once emancipated, are stiff and aching, but they enclose Paris as though he belongs in their protecting circle, and he sobs harder.

“My lord,” Archeptolemus begins falteringly, but I stop him with a look.

“No, my friend,” I tell him quietly. “Say nothing. I owe you my life, and my brother’s life as well.”

“You do me great honor,” he says, casting his eyes down. “Oft have you saved my own life, as you know well.”

“As it should be, for we are brothers in arms. Have you killed them all?”

“I believe so.”

“And our men?”

“Some harsh wounds, but we are all whole.”

Praise be to mighty Zeus for that. “Let us leave at the rising of the sun. Set a guard for the remainder of the night.”

“I will see to it, my lord.”

“And see that the men eat and that they take turns resting.”

“Very well.”

“And bring me some water.”

He nods and grasps my knee for a moment, saying quietly, “I thank the gods that you and your brother are safe.”

I am touched by his gesture, and I know that he means he will safeguard our secret. Truly I am blessed of all men, to have such a friend.

“Tomorrow,” I say fervently, “we will thank the gods together for the safe deliverance of us all.”

Paris is quieter now, and in a moment I know that he will be asleep, for it is his way when he tires himself with displays of passion. A deep weariness is stealing over me as well, and I long to forget, for a little time, my worries and my cares. “I think I shall rest for a bit, Tolemus.”

“Shall I not tend to your wounds, my lord?”

“Nay, it is nothing,” I say with a rueful smile. “Go and see to the men. Rouse us when it is time to leave.”

He nods and props the torch against the wall, then slips silently from the chamber.

Once alone with Paris, I brush his hair from his sweet face and he stirs lightly. With my thumb I wipe away the tears that have not yet dried upon his downy cheek.

“You will be the death of me,” I sigh to the sleeping boy, “and I suppose I will go willingly enough, when the time comes.”