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

he this time? What has he done?”
    Lexias pointed toward the corral and sank to her knees sobbing, “I can take no more.”
    Agelaus moved toward the bulls. He heard the sound of his son babbling, but couldn’t catch sight of him. “Paris? Paris? Come here.” Agelaus’ voice remained calm and even. He knew the dangers of walking among the skittish beasts. The safest action required he get the boy out without having to disturb the beasts. Strange they are not bothered by his presence. “Paris Alexander, come here.”  A rounded face peeked from under a bulging muscled neck. “There you are. Come.” Agelaus held his arms out. “Come here, son.” Paris moved toward the edge of the pen. Agelaus moved closer. Relief relaxed his apprehension. Then, in a flash, Paris bolted back into the corralled herd. The beasts stomped around scattering wildly. One bull bucked at another. Lexias screamed.
    Agelaus sprang for the corral. He leapt over the fencing, landing hard on his feet. His left ankle immediately throbbed. He ignored the burn shooting up his leg. Agelaus hobbled this way, then that. Trying to keep his eye on the boy and on the giants he not so gently shoved aside. A cacophony of heavy bellowing and snorting ensued.  Then, by the grace of Apollo, the boy’s head popped up in front of a bull next to Agelaus. He snatched Paris up by the arm so hard, the boy began crying which agitated the bulls more than the frantic pushing and shoving.
    Lexias ran to the corral and pulled Paris over the fence from her husband’s grasp. She hugged the boy close enough to suffocate him. She sobbed hysterically into his black curls. Agelaus climbed the barrier between danger and safety, bruised and rattled with an ankle swollen to the size of an apple. I have too many years on my bones to keep pace with this child.
    “I can take no more of this, Agelaus. No more.” Lexias’ voice hitched every other word. “Do-you-hear-me? He-is-too-wild. Reckless.”
    Agelaus watched his wife alternating between fussing, crying and kissing the boy. Her words were unintelligible through her sobs. It was the last day Agelaus left his son in the care of his mother. Agelaus feared not so much for the boy, but that his wife might die of fright or worry. So, Paris became his primary responsibility from that day forward.
     

 
     
     
     
     
    PARIS LOOKED DEEPLY into the dark watery eyes of the laboring cow as she lay on her side in the field. She snorted as he ran a calming hand between her ears. His young brow knitted with concern for her extended labor.
    “Why does the calf not come to the light, father?” Paris asked. “She is frightened.”
    Agelaus knelt beside his son and shook his head. “Her first water spilled at dawn.” Agelaus looked up into the sky. “Apollo’s light is high above us now. You speak true words, son. She should be frightened. Too much time has passed.” The way Paris spoke as if he knew what the cattle were thinking always puzzled Agelaus. He never corrected the boy, because he always seemed to be right. He watched as Paris continued stroking the cow’s forehead. His normally loud and rambunctious son offered gentle hand and word to the cow.
    “I must help her bring the calf to light, Paris. It will be distressing for her and the newborn. But, if I don’t do this, we may yet lose them both. Can you help her remain calm?”
    Paris broke his spell with the cow and looked his father dead in the eye. “I will, father. Please, stop her pain.” Paris bent his head near the animal’s ears again and spoke in a low, comforting tone to her. “Be patient, cow. Father knows how to help you. Be calm.” His small hands continued stroking her head and neck.
    Agelaus moved to the hind quarter of the beleaguered mother. He noted her heavy breathing steadied. He wasn’t certain if it was Paris’ calming effect or her labor stealing her strength. He knew he had to reach inside her cavity and pull the calf. He placed a firm