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Twist of the Fates	By : Sagittarius Category: S through Z > Troy Views: 32712 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Troy, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

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Title: Twist of the Fates

Author: Sagittarius325

Email: Sagittarius325@hotmail.com

Chapter: 3

Rating: NC-17

Pairing: Achilles/Paris, Achilles/Patroclus implied

Warnings: This fic depicts graphic m/m interaction, consensual and non-consensual activities of varying and sordid kinds. If any of these subjects offend you, if you are underage or the laws of your country prohibit you from reading such material, then look away.

Summary: When Achilles and his Myrmidons win the Trojan beach what if it had been Paris, not Briseis, captured in the temple that day.

Disclaimer: No infringement is intended, no money is to be made.
*****
Paris� eyes were wide and fearful as Achilles thoughtfully trailed his fingers over the soft skin beneath his touch. Not the skin of a warrior, the son of Peleus noted silently, but that of a prince, and one pampered and cosseted at that. Maidens often felt thus beneath his hardened hands, though few possessed such silken hides.
And none had held the enticing qualities that Achilles so yearned for and could only be found in male flesh. The firm and lean muscles, the tautness of chest and belly, a sturdy body striving beneath him as he forcefully claimed and dominated, whether it was a slave or enemy or fellow warrior.
Or prince.
Paris was much like the brother Achilles had slain ten years before, though there was an innocent beauty about the youngest son of Priam that Troilus had never held. A beauty unmatched by any of the males Achilles had bedded in his lusty years, fairer even than his beloved cousin Patroclus. And too there was a delicate fragility about this captive Trojan princeling that set the fires of desire burning deep within Achilles� belly.
It was this that stayed the warrior�s usual instinct to simply take what he desired, replacing it with a rare need to be as gentle with his captive as a maid after picking a fair bloom, carefully peeling back each petal until the flower had been unfurled to display all the glory within.
Achilles could feel the prince trembling beneath his touch and he cocked his head. "Are you afraid?" he asked quietly, looking into the large brown eyes and seeing the truth there.
"Should I be?" the prince returned, defiantly, though he sounded a little breathless.
"Perhaps," Achilles allowed, and he raised his fingers to stroke lightly over the boy�s lower lip, soft like the flesh of a ripe fruit tempting a thirsty man in the heat of the Grecian sun. "But I could have gifted you to Agamemnon. And he would not be as gentle with you as I."
"You killed my brother."
The words gave Achilles pause and he stared hard into the boy�s doe eyes, willing him to understand. "Yet the gods have given you to me, you who walks in his image."
"Your men killed those priests," Paris continued as if he had not spoken. He verily shook in Achilles� hands though the warrior could not tell if it were from fear or rage. "They were defenceless old men who would have done you no harm."
"Then let Apollo take his revenge," Achilles replied and lightly rested his hands upon the boy�s creamy shoulders. The conversation was of little interest to him now and his sap, having first risen upon sight of the boy, had not waned in the slightest. He longed to feel Paris� lithe body against his own and it was with some difficulty he reined in his impatience.
Born and raised a warrior, Achilles had come to learn that to live was to want and to want was to take, for there was no certitude in the future for one such as him. His doom had been foretold long before his birth and with no certainty of when his Fate would come upon him, Achilles would take his pleasures as he found them.
Especially now, with his mother�s warning that he would meet his doom in Troy. Achilles would take what he desired, claim his prize in the form of the youngest prince of Troy while the blood still pounded in his veins and the fire burned in his loins. He would sate his lust before his eyes darkened on the world for the last time.
Paris winced suddenly and Achilles realised he had unwittingly gripped the boy�s fair skin hard enough to bruise. He relented and released his captive, rocking back on his heels, for he had no wish to carelessly hurt the prince in his haste. He had time yet before his doom was upon him and for once wished to savour the span of the days left to him. Paris was a pretty prize for any man and while the prince�s seduction of the fairer sex was legendary, Achilles� instincts told him the youth had yet to taste the carnality of a male.
The thought both pleased Achilles and raised his lust still further, yet once again he denied himself the ingrained impulse to ravish what was before him. Instead, he rose and began to remove his armour. He would send for one of the men to care for it later, for he would no doubt be occupied with Paris to trouble himself with attending to it.
He bathed his face then carelessly shed the rest of his war clothes, allowing the tepid seawater to wash away the dirt, the blood of the men he had killed in the day�s battles. The salt stung numerous nicks and abrasions but he paid them no heed, for they were trifling wounds. The teachers of his early years had oft done him more damage.
Turning back to prince Paris, he was surprised and then amused to see the youth�s face flushed and his eyes carefully averted. So even the debauched Paris of Troy could be rendered modest by the display of a naked man. Achilles was certain his was not the first unclothed male body the prince had witnessed, so perhaps there was another reason for the boy�s blushes.
He suppressed his grin as he approached his captive, at the last reaching for a simple robe to tie about his waist and conceal his nudity.
"Are you thirsty?" he asked and Paris, still downcast, hesitated before nodding.
Achilles filled a cup from his flask and brought it to Paris� trembling lips, allowing him to sip the precious liquid a little at a time. Until they secured a water source, captured Trojans and cattle would be slaughtered alike, the latter to feed the belly of the army, for on neither could the Greeks afford to squander their dwindling supplies. Once Troy fell, the men could then indulge in captives and take slaves as war prizes back to Greece.
But Paris was no mere slave to whom Achilles fed his water on a whim. And Achilles himself was no common soldier who would bow to the demands of an army's needs. Therefore he allowed the boy his fill of water and when he was done, Achilles drew his knife and cut his bindings. He had little fear Paris would try to escape, doubted the prince had the strength to try.
"If you leave this tent, you will be found and taken to Agamemnon," Achilles warned anyway, sheathing his knife.
Paris slid him a cautious look from beneath lowered eyelashes and massaged his swollen wrists. The cloth had bit, but not deeply.
"Are you hungry?" Without waiting for a reply, Achilles reached for his near empty tray and placed it between them.
Hesitantly, Paris picked out a delicate slice of cooked meat and brought it to his lips, chewing carefully around his bruised jaw while Achilles looked on. The tension between the two was palpable and Paris� fingers trembled as he snagged another tiny morsel. Time dragged as the youth ate slowly, careful not to look his captor directly in the eye, no doubt fearful of what that would earn him.
At the last bite, Achilles purposefully set aside the tray and Paris� tongue nervously darted out to lick the spilled juices from his lips. Now he dared an uncertain glance at Achilles and the warrior reached out a hand, needing to touch his prize, to calm him like a highly-strung mount.
Like a flushed rabbit, Paris scrabbled backwards onto the pallet, away from his advances. Not to be denied, Achilles prowled forward like his namesake the lion. Both knew Paris was too slight to fight off the skilled warrior, both knew the inevitable was coming, just as they both knew what Achilles wanted.
And what the Great Lion wanted, he took.
"My brother�" Paris began, desperately, and Achilles silenced him with a finger to his lips.
"Is not here," he finished, uncaring whether the prince spoke of Hector or Troilus. One was dead, the other soon to be. But here and now he had the youngest and most desirable of the three.
He reached out and ran his hands down Paris� shoulders to his wrists, enjoying the feel of the silken skin once more, before placing his palms flat on the boy�s naked chest. He has few muscles here, Achilles mused, slender, but masculine all the same. Paris shivered beneath his touch but did not attempt to ward off or evade his advances.
Achilles passed his thumbs over pebble brown nubs of flesh and Paris� hands fluttered to lay atop his own. From here, Achilles could feel the boy�s rapid heartbeat like the flutter of a bird�s wing, feel his skin turn to gooseflesh at the warrior�s touch.
"Beautiful." Achilles did not realise he had spoken aloud until he felt Paris start at his words, the brown eyes wide and surprised and full of cloudy confusion. Achilles smiled then. Surely women had called Priam�s youngest son beautiful, but mayhap no man ever had. At least, not within his hearing.
He entangled one hand in the back of the soft brown ringlets, the other tilting Paris� chin to his face. "So beautiful," he breathed again in truth, and pressed his lips to the boy�s. Like he had imagined, they were as delicate and ripe as a maiden�s, warm and wet and as inviting as water within a desert�s scorching embrace.
Shocked eyes met his own when Achilles pulled back, licking his lips to taste in full the Prince of Troy. Paris was breathing quicker now, mouth parted, frowning in puzzlement. So he feels his sap rise, Achilles realised in triumph. He smoothed the boy�s ringlets from his face and leant forward, claiming those lips once again as he used his greater height and weight to bear Paris down onto his pallet.
"My Lord."
At first Achilles did not hear the call, but felt Paris stiffen, felt the boy�s hands unsuccessfully attempting to push him away.
"My Lord, forgive my intrusion," Eudorus said again, sounding both fearful and respectful.
Achilles sighed noisily. His men knew he did not like his pleasures interrupted, so it would be a matter of great import for Eudorus to come to him thus. He pressed his forehead to Paris�, kissed one flushed temple, before pushing away and rising gracefully to his feet. The robe did little to hide his arousal but in front of Eudorus who knew well of his inclinations he did not care.
"Agamemnon requests your presence," Eudorus answered wryly at his impatient look. "The kings are gathering to celebrate the victory."
And therefore Achilles would be called upon to make a show of his allegiance to Agamemnon. Looking down upon Paris, the boy had his knees drawn up to his chest and arms crossed before him as if to ward off harm, but Achilles knew better. Paris had responded to his caresses, had sighed into his mouth albeit reluctantly. To have that pleasure interrupted by Agamemnon�s whims angered Achilles.
And if the King of Kings was expecting the son of Peleus to kneel before him and claim the victory won as Agamemnon�s then he was to be sorely disappointed.
Eudorus was still waiting and Achilles spared him a brief glance. "You fought well today."
Eudorus fairly glowed with pleasure for it was not often their leader would bestow such praise. He bowed low. "My Lord," before leaving the tent.
Achilles stripped off his robe, though he had not the luxury of time to parade his nakedness to the discomfit of Paris. He was reluctant to don his armour, yet in the presence of Agamemnon he had a feeling he would need both it and his weaponry. One never knew when a snake like the King would deign to strike.
"Why are you here?"
The desperately voiced question gave Achilles pause and he turned to Paris, who was watching him with something akin to despair. He had yet to uncurl from his defensive position and Achilles turned his back on the prince as he continued to dress. He feared that should he continue to look upon Paris� beauty, he would be undone by it and therefore ignore Agamemnon�s summons in order to pursue his claim upon the boy.
"You did not come for Helen, did you?" Now there was a real desperation in the boy�s soft voice and this time Achilles answered him.
"I did not," he replied and heard the boy sigh. "I came here for war."
Tightening the last buckle he at last faced Paris and crouched before him, though the prince shrank from him yet again.
"You need not fear me boy," Achilles promised him then rose and prepared to face the heat of the day once more. He paused and turned back to add, "You're the only Trojan who can say that."
*****
Paris' laugh was quiet and bitter at his captor�s parting words. At last left alone, he dared to tentatively unfurl from his self-protective cocoon, ashamed that he had resorted to the instinctive huddle of a frightened child. Yet it was not his cowardice alone that stung him into shamed wretchedness, but the way his body had responded to the touch of the Greek barbarian, the enemy of Troy and murderer of his brother Troilus.
Sickness pooled in Paris� belly, his self-loathing dampening the kindled flames of lust as he attempted to thrust from his mind the memory of Achilles� mouth, hot and hard upon his own, the feel of the warrior�s sleek and muscled body pressing him down onto the pallet in order to claim him.

He is a murderer of your kin, he fiercely reminded himself, though he shivered as he recalled the warrior�s callused hands upon his body, gentle yet demanding, the feel of Achilles� firm arousal pressed against his own�
"Gods, no," Paris moaned aloud in disgust as his desire rose anew. He loved Helen, desired Helen, had ignited a war for their love. And yet he had betrayed her, betrayed his country in a moment and all for the demanding piece of flesh between his thighs that told him he wanted the blond warrior. A man, for the love of the gods!
Tears pricked at his eyes and Paris angrily wiped them away, furious at his weakness. Hector had oft called him a child and in the great defender of Troy�s eyes he knew that was what he would forever remain, a wayward younger brother to be protected, cherished, doted upon. But now he was a traitor to their father, to Helen, to Troy herself. Both a traitor and the whore men named him.
Unless he escaped the son of Peleus before what little nobility he still possessed was stripped from him.
Achilles had kept his word and neither Agamemnon nor Menelaus knew of his presence within their midst, for Paris was certain that even now he would be dead. Or Helen in his place and that he would prevent at all costs. He had stolen the Spartan queen and though she had come willingly, she would never have betrayed her husband were it not for his words of love and reassurance of safety within Troy�s walls. He would not see her dead because of his impetuous foolishness.
Yet neither could Paris abide to remain a captive of Achilles a moment longer. Mayhap Hector still thought him little more than a wayward child intent on nothing more than slaking his youthful lusts and bedding women, but Paris was no innocent of what it meant to be a slave.
And it was all too clear what Achilles desired from him and would take whether he consented or no.
Escape then, Paris decided, before his fear and doubt overcame him once more. He would either win free of Achilles and the invaders or die on the sands of Troy, for he was still a prince of royal blood and in such an end there would be no ignominy. Standing bravely, he approached the beaded curtain that was all that stood between him and ten thousand enemy warriors.
Yet before he could even part the curtain to take his first step, darkness crowded out the light of the burning sun and his breath caught on a hitch of sudden fear. As he slowly backed away, ominous shadows filled Paris� vision and one bitter thought crossed his mind as the armed soldiers crept grinning into the tent.

He has sold me to Agamemnon.
*****
Unimpressed, Achilles observed the fawning of the kings with something akin to disgust. Proud men all, they ruled mighty kingdoms of wealth and bounty and dignity, yet so quick were they to abase themselves before the King of Kings. The gifting of great treasures was received by Agamemnon with grace and courtesy yet Achilles could not help but inwardly sneer at the overbearing King�s fatuous confidence of dining within Troy�s walls the following morn.
Agamemnon was no fool however and his pretty speeches were no doubt for show, inspiration for the lowly masses that crowded the beachhead of Troy. The fools outside had no notion that their great and noble King would see them every last one of them slaughtered on nothing more than a whim if it were to satisfy his ambitions and quest for power.
Something of Achilles� derision must have shown on his face as he prowled however, for Odysseus cast him a guarded look, one that counselled patience and restraint. And so he was given enough time to school his features before Agamemnon�s viper like stare was whipped his way.
"Leave us," the King of Kings demanded imperiously then and all rose to obey.
The cuckolded husband Menelaus and the giant Ajax passed before Odysseus dared to hesitate before Achilles. The King of Ithaca made a valiant attempt to lighten Achilles� mood, but with the knowledge that the beautiful boy Paris yet awaited him within his tent, Achilles was not swayed. He wished not for pretty words or flowery speeches but for Agamemnon to dismiss him soonest that he might return to his new bed mate.
The thought that his pleasure had been delayed on Agamemnon�s orders soured Achilles� mood still further as he approached the throne. "Apparently you won some great victory," he noted, not bothering to conceal his insolence.
Agamemnon was unperturbed however, used to his arrogance by now. "Perhaps you didn't notice," he retorted easily enough. "The Trojan beach belonged to Priam in the morning. It belongs to Agamemnon in the afternoon."
"You can have the beach, I didn't come here for sand," Achilles said, unmoved by the King�s boasting.
"No you came here because you want your name to last through the ages."
Achilles shrugged at that, unconcerned. He had made no secret of his ambitions and Agamemnon knew his reasons all too well.
"A great victory was won today but that victory is not yours," Agamemnon pressed on. "Kings did not kneel before Achilles. Kings did not pay homage to Achilles."
Unable to resist baiting the arrogant man, Achilles lightly replied, "Perhaps the kings were too far behind to see. The soldiers won the battle."
The King of Kings turned red in fury at that. "History remembers Kings, not soldiers. Tomorrow we'll batter down the gates of Troy. I'll build monuments to victory on every island of Greece. I'll carve Agamemnon in the stone."
"Be careful King of Kings," the son of Peleus warned quietly. "First you need the victory."

You need me, was the unspoken avowal. Ever had it galled Agamemnon that he needed Achilles to win his wars, to bring triumph to Greece. Soldiers witnessed and remembered the blond prince�s victories and his name was even now revered throughout the lands. More so than the King who commanded his very actions.
Agamemnon descended from his throne at last, suddenly sanguine and relaxed�and at his most deadly. But if the King thought to take the Lion at unawares, he was set to gain nothing but disappointment.
"Your men sacked the temple of Apollo yes?"
The seemingly innocuous query took Achilles off guard for a moment. Agamemnon was not a pious man, would sack every temple throughout Greece if it fulfilled but a tiny measure of his colossal ambitions. But perhaps instead the King remarked upon the fact Achilles had yet to present him with a war gift to honour the victory won. After all, the Myrmidons had taken enough gold and precious jewels from the temple to fill a ship�s hold, yet none of that compared to the priceless prize Achilles had secured for himself in the form of the youngest and fairest prince of Troy.
And if gifting Agamemnon with the wealth of Apollo�s temple at Troy brought him closer to attaining his release with his coveted captive, Achilles would willingly sacrifice it all.
"You want gold?" he said, carelessly. "Take it. It is my gift to honour your courage. Take what you wish."
Agamemnon smiled benevolently then and every instinct in Achilles� body warned him to draw his sword, guard his back.
"I already have," Agamemnon replied, smugly and called for his soldiers.
Two warriors entered the ship, between them bearing a battered, subdued prisoner. One grabbed the captive�s dark hair and jerked his head back for the perusal of the King and warrior present.
The hollow, defeated stare that caught Achilles� gaze speared him to his very core and he stared mutely at the boy Paris, who looked back with hurt betrayal and hopeless eyes.

He thinks I have at last gifted him to Agamemnon, Achilles realised dully.
"The spoils of war." Agamemnon�s mocking voice filled the room.
At the sound of it Achilles felt something huge and unstoppable rise up within his chest, a mighty possessive fury that demanded in each burning breath that the King of Kings lie fallen beneath his sword for daring to touch what was his alone.
*****
"No argument with you brothers but if you don�t release him you will never see home again."
Held within the brutal, bruising grip of his Greek captors, Paris� eyes widened at Achilles� tightly spoken threat. The blond warrior had fallen into a menacing fighting stance though he had yet to reach for his sword. The tightening grips on his arms told Paris the men who guarded him were uneasy and the tension in the very air was palpable.
Realisation dawned then along with a kindling hope. Achilles had not betrayed him to the Greek King. The prince of Troy had been taken from the mighty warrior without his knowledge or consent. Paris' heart rose in a burst of near joy at that though he could not say why in any truth. Prisoner of Agamemnon or Achilles it mattered not, for both were his enemies and the enemies of Troy.
But one had treated him gently and from the other Paris doubted he could expect the same.
"Decide!" Achilles barked and Paris jumped, along with the men who held him.
The ring of steel was loud in the shocked silence as the son of Peleus drew his sword and fell into a fighting crouch.
"Guards!" Agamemnon�s shout sounded more satisfied than alarmed to Paris� ears.

He has reckoned upon this, the young prince of Troy realised belatedly. He had never been blind to the intrigues played out in the court of Troy and he instantly recognised such machinations here and now. But Achilles was the Greeks' greatest warrior, peerless it was said, second to none except perhaps his brother Hector. Agamemnon was a fool to play such games with his champion, for if he were to fall out of favour with the fickle Achilles�

Then the Greeks would be bereft of their mightiest warrior.
They had little hope of breaching Troy�s walls as it was, but without the name Achilles ringing through their ranks, sacking Troy would become nothing more than a fanciful dream. Agile mind racing, Paris realised there was one service he could still perform for his country though it terrified him to do so, for it would surely mean his end.
To see that he was not returned to Achilles and further the wedge between the warrior and his King. And that meant allowing himself to remain in Agamemnon�s keeping, the brother of the man Paris had stolen from, a man who would see him soonest dead.
Feet thundering on the wooden hull of the ship as Greek soldiers burst into the throne room decided Paris more quickly than he would have liked.

But at least this way I will be master of my own Fate, he allowed, pride forcing his head up as he marshalled his courage.
"Stop!" he commanded, with all the authority of a Trojan Prince.
To his surprise the soldiers, no doubt conditioned to respond to such authoritative tones, hesitated and Paris was able to shrug out of his captors' grip and take a few tentative steps forward. Every eye was upon his near naked frame, including Agamemnon�s, and he swallowed down his fear. None present must concern him except one.
He raised his chin and met Achilles� piercing stare. Such beautiful eyes, he thought, absently, as he met them. Like the jewels my mother was wont to wear before her death.
Pushing away such distracting thoughts, Paris held out a placating hand to the blond warrior. "I will have no one die this day on my account," he said, as firmly as he could muster, though he quaked inwardly at the thought of abandonment here with Agamemnon and his not so tender mercies.
"A little late for that, son of Troy," Agamemnon called mockingly and Paris winced as he recalled too late the slaughtered priests, the dead Trojan soldiers.
"Nonetheless," he pressed, keeping his gaze focused on Achilles, "there has been enough bloodshed. I would see an end to it." At the last his voice fell to a near broken whisper.
The King of Greece no doubt wished for the conflict to continue, but Paris silently pleaded with Achilles using the only weapon left to him, an imploring look that had oft won Hector over. His brother called it the look of a pup that had been dealt a blow.
Something unreadable moved in Achilles� sapphire eyes at that, an unhappy acceptance, though the fury remained. The blond warrior rose suddenly from his crouch and an audible sigh of relief breezed through the room.
"The mighty Achilles, silenced by a slip of a boy," Agamemnon continued, merciless in his goading, yet Paris was amazed by the warrior�s capitulation.

For me, he thought, dazedly. He did it only because I asked it of him.
A burgeoning feeling was spreading through his chest, fluttering through his belly, when Paris felt his arms grabbed and he was roughly dragged away from Achilles. He felt the brush of robes against his bared skin as the Greek King moved in behind him and a lock of his hair was raised in a gesture reminiscent of his would be rapist within Apollo�s temple. He shuddered at that, but did not try to pull away.
"Do you think he is untouched?" Agamemnon commented to the blond warrior, and Paris could hear his grin. He strove to remain impassive when a crude hand ghosted over his buttocks. "I�ve never had a prince before. I hear he�s quite good."
"You sack of wine!" Achilles spat, pacing. He spun and pointed his sword at the King�s breast. "Before my time is done, I will look down on your corpse and smile."
Agamemnon hesitated at the baleful threat, but placed an overly friendly hand on Paris� shoulder and squeezed. Hard. "But perhaps I should gift him to my poor brother instead," he continued, still in the same conversational tone but there was a dire warning in his words. "He�s been without a tight hole to plunge into since this boy took his wife. I suppose it would be fitting."
The thought of being under either Menelaus or Agamemnon, or any man for that matter, as they took their pleasure of him turned Paris� stomach, but he remained stoic, schooling his features to impassiveness lest he sway Achilles� mind. Agamemnon was merely toying with the warrior, he was certain, else he might find himself on his knees, begging for Achilles to save him from such a Fate.
Paris was unsure whether to feel relief or terror as Achilles prowled from the ship at last, sword still in hand as he passed the uncertain Greek soldiers. But they scattered soon enough before him. No man went against the Great Lion and hoped to live.
"Now boy, what to do with you," Agamemnon said, pleasantly, turning Paris� downcast face to his own.
The Greek King looked over him, seemingly unimpressed. "What did that whore of my brother�s wife see in you I will never know," he remarked, wonderingly. "Why, you�re as pretty as a girl!"
There was ribald laughter at that and Paris� cheeks stung. "You did not come here for Helen," he snapped. "You came here for Troy and her wealth."
Agamemnon shrugged and smiled, but Paris had to be certain. He could not allow the Greek King to exchange him for her. "If you barter me for Helen, you will lose this war," he pressed.
Now Agamemnon laughed. "Boy, you tell me nothing I do not already know." He moved closer to Paris, placed his hands on the prince�s bare shoulders in an uncomfortable display of intimacy.

He cannot possibly want me, Paris thought desperately as the King grinned lustily at his discomfort. Gods, what have I done. I would sooner commit self-murder before I allow this fat warthog to touch me thus.

"I�d gift you to my brother, but he would only demand his whore wife back," Agamemnon said thoughtfully, touching Paris� hair once more, before cupping his chin. "I could have you tipped into the sea, but there is a much better use we can put you to."
A few of the men present chuckled at that and Agamemnon smiled. It was not a kind or benevolent smile. The King removed his hands from the prince�s person and gestured to the soldiers. "Take him below. No one is to see him except on my orders. Not even my brother."
Relieved he was not to be used basely after all, Paris allowed himself to be dragged away. Before they left the throne room, however, Agamemnon�s mocking voice paused him.
"Oh and boy? Expect a visit from me tonight. I may not be a merchant's wife but I�m sure you can adjust your considerable talents in bed to suit my needs."
Paris closed his eyes in horror as the soldiers laughed and took him below.
*****

Bird signs, Hector thought sourly. Fifty thousand Greeks stand on our shore and father would listen to a man who speaks of bird signs.

Sitting in the royal gardens, the great Trojan defender looked to the older man at his side. Priam, King of Troy, was staring up at the stars, his gaze distant and thoughtful, as if seeking counsel from the gods he so loved.
"There is no sign of him father," Hector said, at length and the old man�s gaze fell from the sky to rest upon his oldest son�s. "We have searched every corner within Troy�s walls and Paris cannot be found."
Priam chuckled and the light of fond memory came into his eyes. "Even as a child that boy had a way of losing himself within our city."
Now Hector took a steadying breath, preparing for what he had to say to his father. "I do not think he is here. I believe he has fled Troy."
The shock and denial on his father�s face was enough to shame Hector for his thoughtless words, but he could not lie to his King. Not when war loomed for their fair country.
"Paris may not be a fearsome warrior of note Hector," the King chided, "but he is no coward. He is a prince of Troy and your brother."
"And I would love him dearly should he be the most craven of men," Hector pressed. "But we must face the truth. Paris is gone. We should give Helen back to the Greeks."
"You think Agamemnon will be satisfied with that? No my son, he has come here to destroy us. He will not withdraw because we give back to him his brother�s wife."
"Yet it may cause dissension among the Kings of Greece. Menelaus at least would withdraw."
"Your words, as ever, are wise Hector," Priam said. "But you heard Glaucus at the council tonight. Our walls have never been breached. Our forces are strong and the gods on our side."

Bird signs again, Hector thought, in frustration. Before he could protest, the King continued.
"Helen is no longer Queen of Sparta, but a princess of Troy. If we give her back, it will signal our weakness to our enemies, make them believe that there is fear within our walls. And if Paris should return to find her gone, he will never forgive us."
The last was spoken with a King's finality and scowling, Hector looked away, to the stars himself. Beloved little brother, he thought. Will you ever come to realise just what you have wrought here in your home?

*****
The blackening sky found Odysseus, King of Ithaca standing on the cooling sands of Troy, staring out to the dark and rolling sea. There lies home, was his wistful thought. Yet too many years still lie between this foreign land and my kingdom for comfort.
It had been no easy thing, to follow Agamemnon into war against a largely peaceful and prosperous nation. But to go against the orders of the self proclaimed King of Kings was folly. Gentle Ithaca could not stand against the might of Greece and so Odysseus found himself beholden to a man he loathed, whose very actions he found repugnant.
Looking across to the silent, brooding tent of Achilles, Odysseus grimaced. How I envy you, my brother, he thought. Your freedom, your Fate� both are yours to do with as you choose. Even now, news was spreading throughout the camp faster than wildfire though arid farmland. That Achilles had fallen from grace with Agamemnon, that the Myrmidons would not stand shoulder to shoulder with their Greek brothers. Many believed it was Achilles� refusal to gift Agamemnon with the Trojan Prince that had rent the alliance, few knew the truth.
Odysseus was one of them. Over a boy, Achilles my brother, he thought, shaking his head in wonderment. I cannot believe you of all people would give up your chance for immortality for a mere boy. Conceit perhaps though, that Odysseus could full understand, for the son of Peleus was as prideful a creature as he was skilled in battle. For Agamemnon to have stolen what Achilles had won for himself would have wounded the warrior�s vanity. Agamemnon was lucky to remain breathing this night for the trespass he had committed.
And Odysseus wondered at that too, that Achilles had not foolishly slain the King in a pique of rage. Agamemnon deserved it and more for his own greed, for risking the war over his private and petty battle with Achilles. Because of his actions, the Greeks would face a Trojan army led by the mighty Hector, tamer of horses, without their fearless champion to rally their courage. And even should they somehow manage to break the Trojan ranks, they then had Troy�s huge and impenetrable walls to contend with, filled with archers of deadly skill and accuracy.
With or without Achilles, the endeavour seemed hopeless to Odysseus� mind. Yet with Achilles they at least stood a chance. The King of Ithaca looked once more to the silent tent wherein his brother was no doubt long into his cups, his mind fixated upon but one thorny issue. How to convince Achilles to take up arms once again in the name of Agamemnon, to fight side by side with his countrymen, to take on Hector and the thousands of Trojan warriors with peerless courage and skill.
There was one answer that sprang to Odysseus� mind. To persuade Agamemnon to give the boy back. But the King was as gracelessly prideful as his champion and he would not be soon in relinquishing prince Paris. No, he would make sure the boy was damaged, violated, all but useless for the warrior�s pleasure, and knowing Agamemnon�s penchant for cruelty to his slaves, no doubt he would do as such this very night.
If they ever hoped to win Achilles� back to their cause, Odysseus had to see that Paris remained untouched, at least until he could persuade the King to return his contentious prize to the warrior.
With that thought in mind, Odysseus bade a silent good night to his beloved homeland far over the black waters, prayed to the gods for sea-faring Ithaca�s safe keeping and began the long trek over the sand back to the Greek encampment.
*****

What sin against the gods have I committed that I should be brought so low? Paris wondered in misery as the stench of stale animal waste continued to assail him. He had been forcibly taken below, roughly pushed down narrow steps into an ominous awaiting darkness. Cracks in the decking above allowed scant light into his prison and from what he could see about him, he realised this was where the Greeks had stowed their beasts on the voyage across the seas to Troy.
The Greek warriors had lashed his wrists before him, then to the main mast sunk through the ship, using harsh leather bindings that abraded his fair skin if he moved. At first he had tried to free himself, twisting, then gnawing at the restraints to no avail. Hopelessness had crept in then and Paris was left to his own terrified thoughts and vulnerable, trembling body as the spilled light from above grew dimmer.
Now it was night, long after the sun had set by his reckoning though even the smallest time that passed seemed unfairly strung out to his mind. Fewer feet tramped across the decking and faint raucous laughter echoed somewhere above him. Agamemnon�s threat left him sick to his stomach in fear and disgust and more than once Paris had felt his gorge rise. The thought of the corpulent and hated King caressing him as a lover repulsed him beyond belief. No man had ever dared to touch him, a prince of royal blood, so basely.

Except Achilles, his treacherous mind swiftly pointed out. You did not find yourself unwilling then when he pushed you down onto his bed and claimed your lips. You would have let him have you then, traitor�

A trap opened from above and Paris� thoughts scattered in near terror as torchlight, bright as the sun, was brought into his makeshift prison. He squinted against the light, trembling in his bonds as a guard swiftly descended the stairs, moving to one side to allow a considerable bulk in rich robes to come after.
Agamemnon, King of Greece, mockingly wrinkled in nose in distaste. "If I had realised the poorness of air down here, I would have had the boy brought to my bed chambers instead."
The guard at his side chuckled into his helm and Paris flushed.
"Not to your liking, Prince of Troy?" Agamemnon continued, grinning, seeing his reaction. "Please forgive my lack of manners in not affording you better quarters." He glanced about the small room once more, then gave Paris a predatory look. "I think this will do however."
Gathering his courage lest he give in to a womanish pleading, Paris raised his chin defiantly. "I am not a common slave from which you would take your pleasures, King of Greece. I am Paris, son of Priam and of royal blood. If you must have your revenge upon Troy and my father for my cowardly deed, I ask that you accord me the grace of my station." He swallowed nervously, but pressed on. "A noble end by the sword. And my body delivered to my father for proper burial rights as demanded by the gods and my peoples� customs."
At his words Agamemnon�s eyebrows had raised in surprise and at the end of his speech the King of Kings let out a single, humorous guffaw. "Boy, they say you are a spineless coward, but there is a fire in your eyes that I like. Were you not so pretty, I would keep you solely to entertain me and my court. Though who is to say you will not upon our return to Greece?" he added with a leer.
Enraged and without thought, Paris spat defiantly at the King�s feet.
Agamemnon moved swiftly despite his bulk and Paris shrank back, but was not quick enough to evade his grasping hand. He cried out as his dark hair was brutally grabbed and his head pulled back to expose his throat. He felt a large, powerful hand come to rest on his vulnerable skin and winced, choking, as his air was cut off.
"I could crush your throat easily enough, slave," Agamemnon hissed, venomously. "If I did not wish for your father to see you crawling, bloodied, beaten, to lick my feet like the whore you are. If I did not wish for that fool Achilles to see what I have wrought upon his pretty prize." He traced a finger along Paris�s angled cheekbone, ignoring his captive�s desperate gasps for air. "How it will gall him to know that I, Agamemnon, have taken and sullied what was once his."
He released Paris who began to cough and sputter and the prince hugged the wooden pole that held him captive, eye closed. So it begins, he thought, and realised he would have gone down on his knees and begged for Achilles to keep him no matter the cost to Troy if he had known Agamemnon�s intentions.
"But I will grant you one wish, my slave." The King�s voice had turned light and airy and Paris trembled in fear. "Impalement by the sword you asked of me and I believe it would be a most fitting punishment for your defiance."
Paris� eyes flew open as he heard the rustle of clothing, the lusty sounds of pleasure escaping the King as he parted his robes. Seeing Agamemnon�s turgid flesh, rearing large and proud from the silken cloths and already beading with the pearly liquid to ease a man�s way into a woman was enough to make Paris want to close his eyes once more and slip into an eternal darkness.
It was not simply his flesh the King lusted for, Paris knew. He wished to humiliate and torment his champion Achilles and Troy�s King and would do both harm through Paris� unwilling body.
"In truth I cannot decide where to begin," Agamemnon confided, hoarsely, stroking his fleshy rod to full arousal. Then he grinned and leaned down to place his hands on Paris� bare back to whisper, "But it matters not. I�ll know you in full before this night is done, boy."
Paris struggled then against the leather bindings, knew it was useless but instinct forced him to try. He felt Agamemnon�s rumbling laugh as the King reached down to grasp his hips, dragging his legs apart, pushing the cloth covering his buttocks to one side�
"Come, do not be skittish, boy," Agamemnon was saying breathlessly behind him, shifting into a better position and Paris felt the King�s flesh between his buttocks, fingers prying them apart.
The cry the prince of Troy was about to let loose died in his throat as the guard who had accompanied Agamemnon strode forward to interrupt. He did not look at Paris, did not look like a man about to witness the rape of a helpless captive. Perhaps the King took prisoners thusly so often the warriors had grown familiar with it.
More likely, the soldier just did not care.
"What is this?" Agamemnon snapped, greedy hands still holding a struggling Paris to him.
"Forgive me my King," the warrior said, humbly. "But a war council has been convened. The Kings are requesting your presence."
"A war council?" Agamemnon roared in disbelief, throwing Paris away from him to gain his feet. "In the very dead of night before battle?"
"The council agreed that without Achilles, you would need new battle plans to take Troy," the soldier said, hesitantly. "It was Lord Triopas who sent word for you."
"I see," Agamemnon said, quietening. He fastened his robes and Paris shuddered, turned his head away from the grotesque display. "Who called this council? No," he interrupted quickly, "you need not speak. Odysseus plays a dangerous game. And over a mere slave."
He nudged Paris meaningfully with his foot, but the prince didn�t move, remained huddled around the wooden pole, hugging it to him like he had as a small, scared child grasping his brother Hector�s legs.
"Inform our illustrious allies I will be with them shortly," Agamemnon told his guard. But before the booted feet had left the hold, Paris felt his hair grabbed once more, felt the King�s lips over the shell of his ear, whispering viciously. "If you think I am done with you, little whore, reconsider. Odysseus has bought you a measure of time, but you shall fall to the will of Agamemnon before I am done here."
Paris whimpered as a sweaty hand trailed longingly down his bared side, curving over one buttock to squeeze, but the loathsome presence was soon gone and he was left alone in the dark once more to consider the King of King�s words.
*****
Dawn came all too swift to find the son of Peleus surrounded by the ruin of his possessions, unwitting victims upon whom he had spent his impotent rage during the night. The wine tasted sour in his mouth, the fruits no longer sweet and the stench of stale sweat churned his drink full belly. Spitting a pip out onto the Trojan sand, Achilles drew an arm across his mouth and took another long swig from his goblet.
Visions of the boy, Paris, in the keeping of that bloated swine Agamemnon continued to assail him, prick at both pride and concern. No doubt the pig of a King had spoiled the youth already, unappreciative of his dark and fragile beauty and uncaring of his delicate stature. No, Agamemnon would have raped and tormented his captive beyond endurance, all because the boy had once belonged to Achilles.
That it was Achilles himself who had allowed Agamemnon to keep Paris, had not fought the King to reclaim his prize, only fuelled his rage further, though not all was kept solely for the King. He could have slain Agamemnon, killed the soldiers and simply thrown the boy over one shoulder like plunder to sail from Troy forever. Yet it had not been the thought of killing fellow Greeks, his brothers in arms, that had halted his sword, but Paris himself, a Trojan who should have found delight in the squabble and slaughter of his country�s enemies.
The boy had instead pleaded with the champion of Greece to stay his hand, to abandon him to Agamemnon and his uncertain mercies, yet all Achilles could see was his eyes, large and soft, full of anguish and fear. Some would say Paris had begged to stay with Agamemnon in the hope of being ransomed to his father, Priam, but Achilles knew the truth the moment he looked into the boy�s eyes.

He seeks to use himself to break my allegiance to Agamemnon, Achilles had thought. A ploy worthy of Odysseus himself.

A brave one too, for in Agamemnon�s keeping he would not receive the tender treatment Achilles had shown him.
But staring at the youngest prince of Troy who was all but on his knees beseeching the warrior to lay down his arms, Achilles suddenly found he could not deny the heartfelt entreaty. His heart, which so often guided him in matters of war and lust, betrayed him at the very last and turned to a tenderness he had not before known. That he had allowed this fair Trojan Prince to beguile him in such brief time surprised him, even as he found his hand lowering his sword to obey the boy�s plea for an end to the bloodshed.
Though rendered impotent to strike out by Paris� plea, Achilles nonetheless made one promise to Agamemnon before he left. To see the King of Kings dead before his time was done. Murder would await another day.

Have your pretty prize then, fool Agamemnon, Achilles thought, angrily, as the sun continued to rise outside his quarters and preparations for battle were made. Lose this war and know what it is to defy Achilles!

Footsteps on the sand outside warned him someone approached, before Eudorus ducked inside without leave. Behind him came Patroclus, the younger man wearing an expression of guilt and confusion as he looked about the ruins of the tent he had so carefully erected for his cousin.
"My Lord," Eudorus greeted him, staring about the wreckage before turning his attention to his commander. "My Lord the army is marching."

Had the men heard nothing of his orders the night before? Achilles wondered, irritated. Perhaps they thought he had changed his mind. He had not.
"Let them march," he told Eudorus, abruptly. "We stay."
"But the men are ready," Eudorus pressed and Achilles fought the urge to throw his cup at the man.
"We stay till Agamemnon groans to have Achilles back," he said, stubbornly.
Eudorus bowed his head, defeated and disappointed. "As you wish."
He ducked out of the tent, but Achilles felt Patroclus� presence continue to hover over him. For once he wished his cousin would go, leave him be before wine and anger made his loosened tongue say something to regret.
Suddenly the soured drink refused to sit well in his belly and he threw the remainder onto the tiny fire in disgust, at both himself and his Fate. His men deserved more than a drunken answer as to why they would not fight this day with their brothers.
"Are you ready to fight?" Achilles demanded his cousin into the thick silence. "Are you ready to kill, to take life?"
"I am," Patroclus replied, sounding confident.

So his pride was pricked before the Myrmidons attacked Troy and once again last night when I refused his comforts, Achilles thought. "I taught you how to fight, but I never taught you why to fight."
"I fight for you." This time it was spoken in defiance, yet only made his cousin sound younger still. Impossibly young for such a wretched thing as war.
"Soldiers they fight for kings they have never even met," Achilles told him. "They do what they�re told, they die when they are told to die."
"Soldiers obey."
At that simplistic, idiotic answer, Achilles could no longer rein in his sharp tongue. Nor the hurt anger that pulsed within his chest. "You did not obey me, cousin," he told the younger man and saw Patroclus stiffen and pale. "I told the men to keep the Trojan Prince�s presence here secret. They have fought for me, bled for me, none would betray my orders so treacherously as you have done."
"I did what I thought was best for you, cousin!" Patroclus all but cried, falling to his knees in the sand. "To keep the Trojan prince would have harmed us all should Agamemnon have discovered him too late. Instead, it shall soon become known to all the victory you have won for Greece once again."
Almost, Achilles was swayed by the pleading youth. His cousin was young, foolish, knew nothing of the world or the games it would play with a man�s life. And too they had grown together in the court of his father, beloved cousins, inseparable friends, later to become lovers.
But when Patroclus lifted an entreating hand to touch his cheek, Achilles grabbed his wrist, halting him as bile rose into his throat. He could not forget his cousin�s treachery so soon, especially knowing what it had wrought upon his Trojan Prince.
"Another man would be been dead now, even loyal Eudorus, for such a betrayal," Achilles told him thrusting his hand away and Patroclus� eyes widened, a tear daring to roll down one cheek to fall and be swallowed by the sand. Never had Achilles spoken to him so harshly, with such coldness in his voice. "I can no longer trust you at my side cousin. Not now. I would ask that you return home but you came here for war, not for me, no matter what you say."
He thrust the younger man from him, suddenly saddened, turned maudlin by drink, by events beyond his control and Fate. "Don�t waste your life following some fools orders. Go!"
Patroclus hesitated.
"Go!" Achilles barked again, and the younger man fled the tent.
*****
They did not speak again that day, though when Achilles joined his Myrmidons on the hill overlooking the field of battle Patroclus cast him a desperate glance, one he refused to yield to. Eudorus, side by side with the men, too looked his way in hope, but when he saw his lord was without his armour he turned once more to the Greek army, something akin to reproach in his lowered eyes.
Achilles paid neither man any heed, eyes fixed on the sweeping army as they marched towards Troy, ten thousand of spears glinting sharply in the sun, a truly glorious sight to behold. Already he could feel heated blood pounding through his veins, his heart beating in time with the rhythm of the march and his fingers flexed of their own accord, silently seeking a weapon with which to do battle. He had been born for this, for this very fight.
But the war no longer belonged to the Great Lion. Impotent, his pride had forced him to stand aside as others sought renown and immortality in his place. Odysseus, Ajax, mighty Kings to lead a mighty army against the impenetrable walls of Troy.
And too, the Trojan army had come out from hiding in a display of boldness that impressed Achilles. In the distance it seemed as if a river made of a silvery sheen surrounded the Trojan walls, awaiting the Greeks, all but daring its enemies to attack.
Agamemnon would not resist such a opening, Achilles knew, to crush the Trojan army against its own walls if they could but get close enough to evade the archers above. Hector must have considered such an outcome but that he had still brought his father's army out to meet the invaders showed the true courage of a warrior.
Achilles sighed and folded his arms, impatient now. This day would have been his chance for glory, to claim his birthright and slay mighty Hector, the commander of the Trojan army, before the very walls of Troy, before witnesses in their thousands who would tell their children and their children�s children of that day. Now his opportunity was lost, stolen by Agamemnon whose greed had brought them to these very shores.
His interest was pricked when the Kings of Greece urged their chariots forward to meet Hector, the solitary speaker for Troy. That Priam trusted his oldest son for such a momentous task spoke volumes of the prince�s parleying skills. Achilles snorted at that. No warrior should be forced to barter with his enemies, but see them dead in the sand.
Hector obviously believed the same for whatever was said between he and Agamemnon, the latter was clearly displeased, returning to his chariot only moments later. No bargain had been struck, though Achilles doubted any of the Kings had truly expected such an outcome. Troy was a proud nation, it would not bend to any will, let alone one such as Agamemnon.
From his vantage point, the son of Peleus witnessed what occurred next. A figure that could only be Menelaus had not followed his brother back to the chariots, but was calling to the royal box high upon the walls where the family and priests could preside over the battle in safety. It was unclear which man drew first, but moments later Hector and Menelaus had crossed swords, kicking up a dusting of sand in their dual.
Neither side called for battle as the two men fought under the burning sun, a matter of honour Achilles supposed, shaking his head. Agamemnon must not have valued his brother too highly for though Menelaus was as every bit vicious as his sibling, he was old, fat and slow and was without his shield. Hector slew him shamefully quick and even from a distance Achilles could sense the collective shock of the Greek army as they witnessed their King�s brother slain.
Agamemnon too was caught unprepared, for he raised his arm and gave the order to attack with no thought or planning. But it was too late to pull back for the other Kings and their commanders joined in the cry and the Greek army surged forward.
Achilles felt the pull of the battle, could see his Myrmidons stirring restlessly as they watched their brothers charge the walls of Troy. By his will alone they remained, condemned to watch the battle unfold but do nothing.
The archers in the great walls were the first to score, slaughtering whole numbers in a deadly shower of arrows. The Greeks had reckoned upon that however and while men fell like chafe before a farmer�s scythe, the army pressed on, attempting to smash the Trojan force against its own walls.
What they had not reckoned upon was Hector. The warrior rallied his men, charged the enemy and fought side by side with his people. It was enough to bring them courage and strength and while Agamemnon hid in the rear, his lines growing disjointed, breaking, Hector stood as firm as the city�s wall itself.
Pacing now, Achilles grimaced in disgust as more and more Greeks were slaughtered from the walls above without ever swinging their swords or meeting in combat. "Pull back you fool," he seethed to Agamemnon, seeing the lines break further. Had he been there with his Myrmidons, they would have charged the enemy's ranks, gutted them and created a passage for more Greeks to spill into, cracking the Trojan army wide apart.
As the Greeks fell further into disarray, only one man remained to fight the Trojan warriors before the towering gates. Ajax, by his mighty stature and the swing of his weapon. A King attempting to rally men into battle, yet neither Agamemnon nor Odysseus had seen his ploy and he stood alone against the enemy.
Into the fray rode Hector and for a moment it seemed as if Achilles would never achieve his goal of battle with the Trojan prince for the great Ajax knocked him from his horse and swung at his fallen frame. One blow from Ajax's cudgel would be enough to split a man�s head apart like an overripe fruit, but Hector was quick, agile and cunning.
To a cacophonous roar from his men, he defeated Ajax, spearing the King through his belly, even as the archers continued to send death over the walls and into the now shattered ranks of the Greeks.
Achilles turned away in frustration as the call was at last made to retreat. He could not bear to watch as the army was chased away like curs, men throwing away shields as they strove to outpace the chasing Trojans. Ashamed for his country, he prowled down the rocks, ignoring Eudorus� call.

This is what you called for, prideful son of Peleus, a voice in the back of his mind taunted him. Greeks are dead, dying, running from battle with Troy. Agamemnon has lost this day.

Infuriated, he let lose a howling cry of rage to the heavens above. The battle should have been his. His chance at immortality. Instead, it would become a day known for Greece's defeat.
END OF CHAPTER THREE
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Twist of the Fates