Free Song of Princes (Homeric Chronicles #1) by Janell Rhiannon

foothills rose in waves surrounding the base of Mount Ida miles in the far south. He knew his son had perished there. He believed in the gods. He believed in protecting his kingdom. He hoped that his wife may one day forgive him. All he could do now was stand as sentinel over her grief.
     

 
     
     
     
     
    THE MORNING OPENED dark and gray. Rain threatened. It mattered not what weather fell from the gods, the bulls needed tending and so did the farm. Agelaus’ family relied on the financial surplus his knowledge and skill provided in raising the sacred beasts for sacrifice and the bull arena. The extra coin he earned from king Priam’s patronage and his expertise supplemented his family’s world, providing more than a meager herder’s existence. He tended to the fields, small orchard and the bulls. He longed for the day when his sons attained enough years to watch the fields and cattle without his company.
    Lexias looked after the chickens and goats and their sons…and little Paris Alexander. The boy grew at a rapacious rate, growing faster than the other boys at an equal number of passing moons and suns. Lexias lamented almost daily that Paris would be the death of her and the cupboards. At the age of three, Paris stood as tall as her hip. He never refused a meal and often snuck whatever morsels he scavenged from the wooden cooking table. Once, Lexias found him eating raw onions from the gathering basket. Upon being scolded, he smiled broadly. His breath stank for three days afterward, so much so that Lexias could barely bring herself to kiss him goodnight.
    “Paris?! Paris?! Where are you?” Lexias only took her eyes off him to gather the eggs. She still needed to milk the goats. “That child,” she muttered. She searched the stables, looked behind the bales and storage pots. “Where in Hades is that boy?” A snorting bawl caught her ear. She stood straight up and bolted toward the bull pen.
    She skidded to a complete stop, sending dirt flying and breaking her sandal strap. She kicked off her shoe hanging like a shackle from her ankle never taking her eyes from the young child walking without care among the bulls corralled for the next day’s sacrifices. “Gratitude Apollo, at least you didn’t send him to the roster house to get pecked to death. Yes, better he is stomped to bone and guts by bulls!” she said to herself, not caring if the god could hear her. She didn’t hold the gods in as high esteem as her husband, yet superstition ran deep, so she mocked them quietly when situation presented. Agelaus, on the other hand, lived and breathed by signs and omens, made worship and sacrifice, and lived truly to serve and honor his patrons. The real world pressed her with constant need and the unseen world of the divine gave her small pause.
    “Paris! Come out of there!” she demanded. She feared approaching the beasts too closely. They might startle and knock the boy over.  Paris caught the sound of her voice. He looked over his shoulder grinning with fascination as he reached up and tugged the tail of the bull in front of him. Lexias nearly fainted. Where is Agelaus?
    “Paris, stop that,” she kept her voice forceful but low. When the boy’s grip released, the massive animal flicked its tail and meandered away as if it nothing more than a fly pestered it. Lexias rolled her eyes into the back of her head. Her entire body began to sweat. “By the gods! How do I get him out in one piece?” She watched in horror as Paris moved deeper into the thick of dark hides and hooves of death. She dropped to the ground so she could follow his feet.
    “Lexias?”
    “AHHH!” She jumped up, brushed stands of stray hair away from her face. Tears immediately filled her eyes at the sight of her husband. Her mouth contorted without words.
    “What’s wrong? Lexias are you well? Why do you lay in the dirt?” Since Paris began walking, Agelaus often found his wife in these panicked states. Then, it hit him, “Where is