Free Troy 03 - Fall of Kings by David Gemmell Page B

pushed forward and stared up into his brother’s eyes, his expression angry. “You will not send Helen back to Sparta,” he said.
    “Why would we?” Hektor responded, surprised.
    “You think me an idiot? That is what Agamemnon demanded. That is what caused this stupid war.”
    Hektor sighed. “I do not think you an idiot, Paris. But you are not using your mind now. The demand for Helen was merely an excuse. Agamemnon does not want her and knew when he made the demand that Father would have to refuse.”
    “I know this!” Paris snapped. “It does not alter the fact that Agamemnon has used the refusal to gather allies. Therefore, to accede to his demand would weaken the Mykene alliance. Not so?”
    Hektor shook his head. “Not anymore, Paris,” he said. “Had we agreed at the start, then yes, perhaps our enemies would not have been so numerous. Not now, Brother. A king is already dead, and a queen has been murdered. This war will be to the death. No drawing back. Either Mykene will fall or the Golden City will.”
    “They will come here, then?” Dios asked. “We cannot stop them?”
    “They will come from the north, from the south, from the sea. Agamemnon, Menelaus, Achilles, Odysseus…” His voice tailed away. “And all the lesser kings, bandit chiefs, and mercenary bands seeking plunder.”
    “But you will be here to defeat them,” Dios said.
    “If the gods will it, Dios, then yes, I will be here. As will you, my brothers.”
    Dios laughed aloud and clapped Paris on the back. “You hear that, Paris? You are going to be a hero.” Taking the helm from Paris’ hands, Dios placed it on his brother’s head. It was too large and slid down over his eyes.
    “It is as if great Herakles himself has returned from Elysium!” Dios laughed.
    Paris dragged the helm clear and threw it at Dios, who ducked. The helm struck the wall and clanged to the floor. Paris lunged at Dios, grabbing his tunic. Dios staggered, and they both fell. Dios scrambled up, but Paris grabbed his ankle and tried to drag him back. Hektor smiled, and his thoughts went back to the days of childhood. Dios and Paris had always been close. Dios unruly and disobedient, Paris quiet and scholarly—they were an odd pair.
    Priam’s voice suddenly thundered out. “What in the name of Hades is going on here?”
    The two brothers ceased their wrestling and climbed to their feet. Priam advanced down the corridor, his face flushed, his eyes angry. “By the balls of Ares, are you morons?” he shouted. “Sons of Priam do not squabble like children.”
    “Sorry, Father,” Paris said. “It was my fault.”
    “You think I care whose fault it was? Get out of my sight, the pair of you.”
    Dios and Paris backed away. “Whose is this?” Priam asked, pointing to the dented bronze helm.
    “Mine, Father,” Paris told him. Priam hooked his foot under the brow of the helm and skillfully flicked it up in the air toward Paris. The young man reached out hesitantly, and the helm struck his fingers. With a cry of pain he leaped back, and the helm once more bounced to the floor.
    “I must have been sick with fever the day I sired you.” Priam sneered, turning on his heel and striding back to the Amber Room. As the insult echoed in the air, Paris looked crestfallen.
    Hektor picked up the fallen helm, handing it to Paris. “He has much on his mind, Brother,” he said.
    “Perhaps,” Paris answered bleakly, “but what difference does that make? When has he ever missed an opportunity to humble his sons?”
    Dios stepped in and curled his arm over his younger brother’s shoulder. “Do not take it so seriously, Paris,” he advised. “Priam is old and increasingly frail. With luck we will both live long enough to piss on his funeral pyre.”
    Paris grinned. “That is a happy thought,” he said.
    The three brothers walked out of the palace into the midmorning sunlight. Dios and Paris set off for the lower town, and Hektor made his way back to his own