Priam and Heracles
By A.J. Mittendorf
After waiting for hours alone in the deep reaches of his own city's dungeon, Priam leapt a little in his heart when he heard his name called. The voice was gruff and filled with disdain, as if the mere mention of his name were beneath the use of the man's tongue. It was dark, and with no sunlight for the hours he had spent in the his cell, Priam had no way of knowing if it was day or night. He could only barely make out the silhouette of the speaker of his name who now, with his armoured body, blocked the doorway to Priam's cell. Hesitating for only a moment, certain of his pending fate, Priam decided it would be better to suffer a quick death by the sword above ground than to endure the long, languishing death that lay before him some day potentially years in the distance--a death from darkness and disease in the waste left by those who had passed on before him, in which he had been sitting, in which he had even slept. The meagre lantern light that shone faintly behind the guard felt like a welcome visitor.
"Well?!" demanded the guard.
Priam, feeling suddenly very old--stiff, sore and sick to his stomach--stood and stepped forward through the slop--toward the man, toward the door, toward the light and the infinite blackness, but he squared his narrow shoulders and raised his beardless chin. The guard stepped aside to let him pass, and Priam stopped for a look up at his foe. In the dim light he could assemble only a cursory image of the face: a scraggily beard; long, harsh hair; a massive scar down the lighted side of his face, from the temple to the lip, which sported a sneer. It was only an impression of the face, but Priam promised himself that he'd remember what little he had seen. If he got the chance, it was information he determined he would put to use.
The guard pushed Priam violently through the door: "We mustn't keep our king waiting."
Priam had stumbled, but he regained his stance and stood with his back to the man. Then he felt the sudden thrust of his clothing tearing from off his shoulders; it made a single ripping sound, and Priam found himself standing naked, his shoulders now aching, but he made no complaints. Then, with just as little warning, his body was engulfed in a wash of cold water, and, in spite of the chill, Priam noted with gratitude how refreshingly clean the water smelled and felt. "Scrub!" his keeper ordered, "so you can suffer a clean death before the king."
Priam complied, bathing with the rag that had been thrust at him and he scoured away the filth he'd been soaking in, then he was doused again with more cold water. Moments later, shivering and shaking, he felt clothing thrown at him; it hit his face from the side--little more than a loin cloth. He donned it, allowed his hands to be tied in front of him,--the rope was coarse and tightly applied; he accepted the sack that was placed over his head,--it, too, was coarse, and he acquiesced as he was pushed forward. Marching steadily, resolutely, regally, he ascended the stairs into the halls of his own city, still keenly mindful of the sword that his guard held at his back. When they reached their destination, the guard commanded, "Stop. Wait here."
He froze and the man pushed passed him. He heard a door open. It was a sound he was all too well familiar with--one of two doors near the front of the throne room, each to one side of the throne. There was a long pause before the guard spoke again with the distinct sound of a gloating sneer: "Your presence is required." Priam felt himself lead forward some twenty paces before a hand on his shoulder stopped him again. Then someone untied his hands--he rubbed his wrists--and pulled the sack gruffly off his head from behind. The door behind him closed, and Priam found himself standing in front and the the right of the throne of his city. An enormous, burly man sat there; it was not the king he had been accustomed to seeing, even though the crown on his brow was all too familiar. Behind him stood and attendant--a scrawny, older man who looked to be far too familiar with the poetry of war to have any practical experience with the reality of war. Priam didn't know the man on the throne, but their eyes met each other's for a long moment. He leaned forward in the seat, regarding Priam with harsh intensity. Priam thought little of it but turned his attention purposely and scrutinisingly around. There was a large gathering of men at the foot of the room. One of those men held Hesione, Priam's only sister, by one arm and the opposite shoulder. She was dressed in a loin cloth like his own, but, unlike Priam, she still wore her jewels that hung about her neck, draped from her hips, squeezed around her arms, wrists and fingers, and dangled from her ears. Priam could see that she had been crying and stood, now, in grave terror. Priam's expression never faltered, though, not even to show the compassion that filled his heart for her. Then his eyes wandered around the rest of the room and came to rest on what they had just before refused to acknowledge: on the floor before the throne, before the door opposite the one through which Priam had entered, lay the bloodied corpses of his twelve older brothers and his father, the king.
Priam's first response was to allow his eyes to well up with tears, but he caught himself. Then his eyes squeezed to slits, pinching out any semblance of mourning as he looked to the man on the throne menacingly.
"Very good, boy!" the man on the throne nodded. "Excellent! I can feel the chill--almost. You have learned well to choose the feelings that are best to reveal." Priam said nothing. "You are the youngest son of Laomedon?"
"I am."
"And how many years have you?"
"I have known twelve suns."
The man on the throne leand back toward the attendant: "I'm impressed. There is no fear in his eyes, no quivering on his lips and no cowering in his voice." Then he spoke to some in the crowd: "You there, pick those up." The men to whom he spoke stepped obediently forward and began dragging away the bodies of Troy's royalty. When they had finished their tasks, the man on the throne addressed Priam again: "Do you know how I am, boy?"
"No."
Again the man on the throne leaned back to his aide: "Such strength in one so young! He never finishes a thought with 'my lord,' or 'your highness' or even 'sir,' but he exercises self control." The aide nodded compliantly, almost bowing, as the man on the throne addressed Priam yet again. "Your father and your twelve brothers are dead; you saw the corpses yourself. There is no one coming to your aid. And I am seated on the throne that once belonged to your father. What does that tell you?"
"It tells me," Priam said flatly, "that you claim to be the king of Troy."
"And you don't recognize my claim?"
"Not at all."
"The throne is mine, just the same. These men and others outside will support it should you wish to challenge."
The young Priam made no response.
"Have you a name, or shall I simply call you 'boy'?"
"Priam," was the only response.
"Priam," the man on the throne nodded in greeting. "I am Heracles, the son of Zeus. I killed your father right there where he was lying. Do you know why?"
Again, Priam made no response. He stood with as much of an air of defiance as he could muster and never allowed his eyes to fall away from Heracles.
"Heracles shifted slightly in the throne, leaning farther towards the stalwart child. "Let me give you fair warning, Priam: courage is one thing; I've seen it in you and I commend you for it, but insolence is quite another thing that I shall not tolerate. Is that clear?"
Priam's response was only to soften slightly in his posture.
"Good," Heracles said approvingly. "I killed your father for cheating. He promised to pay Poseidon for the construction of Troy's walls, but he reneged. As punishment he was to sacrifice this young woman to the Kraken. I assume that she's a relative of yours." He indicated Hesione who was still held staunchly by the man.
"She is my sister," Priam confessed.
"Well, she apparently meant less to your father than even his honour did. He sacrificed her quite willingly, left her for dead until I came along. I agreed to save her, and to do so I killed that dreaded sea monster, but as payment, I had demanded the four horses that Zeus had presented to Troy. Once again, your father reneged on his agreed payment, so I killed him. What do you say to that?"
"What had my brothers done to warrant the same fate?"
"An admirable question. I shall tell you. The elder two I killed without question. My thinking was that they were old enough to have been too heavily influenced by their father; the others I chose to test. Of the next two, the elder tried to seek immediate vengeance; that fool died before he took a full step in my direction. The younger showed more restraint, but not nearly enough. In the same way I tested the following eight of your brothers, each of whom was only slightly wiser than his elder brother, but none wise or bold enough in my estimation as king of Troy. In you, alone, I found restraint, strength and wisdom--virtually no influence of your father's rule, and yet, royal blood. I wonder if he ever even held the infant Priam twelve years ago.
Priam looked away for the first time. He swallowed, took a breath and looked back to Heracles.
"I see," was Heracles' response. "As painful as that might be, young Priam, it is all the better for you. For had I seen any influence of your father in your character, you would have joined him in Hades by now. As it is, I have plans for you, which I shall share presently; I have other issues to deal with first. Wait there just a moment." He turned his attention, then, to the man who had been holding Hesione throughout the entire discourse: "Telamon, you were most helpful to me in taking this city; how shall I reward you, I wonder?" Telamon's only response was to ripen the lascivious grin that he'd been wearing. "Ah, I see. That girl you're holding, you like her, don't you?" Telamon's lustful smile broadened as he made a grunting confession and drove his tongue in the nape of her neck. Heracles took a fast look at Priam to see his reaction. He stood horror struck: his helplessness evident to everyone, especially to himself. "Very well, then," Heracles continued, "she is yours. Take her out of here and do with her as you will." Telamon's response was nothing more than a guttural laugh as he began to pull the girl--who had already begun to cry anew--from the room through the exit at the foot of the room. The door behind them closed with a decisive click of the enormous latch.
There was a long moment of silence as Priam began to look inward for the first time. He suddenly realized how alone he felt, indeed, how alone he had been feeling, but the cries emitted from his sister drove home the pain and the fear and the sadness and the enormous sense of loss. He felt the solitude of uselessness and helplessness. He felt the urge to try to save Hesione and the understanding of the futility of such a move. He felt the tears welling up from his heart and he made no attempt to stifle them. Heracles, for his part, gave the boy a moment of peace, saying nothing and letting his own eyes fall to the floor--an offer of privacy. He saw honour in the boy's character, but he also saw that he was still only a boy and gave hime some time as a boy.
Presently, Priam regained his composure and stood straight again. But in those moments of tears, he had moved forward. While he still had no control over the situation he faced, still, the glint in his eye, the breath in his torso, the tilt of his chin and the confidence of his air took even Heracles by surprise. Priam had become majestic, like a well-bred horse. "You are an impressive young man, Priam. Now, we are able to take care of you. What is it that makes a king a good king, Priam? Do you know?
"A king is only a king where he is needed. His nobles do not need him. They honour the king--implement his edicts and carry out his commands--but only because he has the power to revoke their comfort; and the king rewards them, as you have just witnesed, but the king, really, is in greater need of them than they are of him, so even the king must walk with care where the nobility is concerned. So who needs a king? Hmm? The homeless, the orphan, the starving, the widowed, the aged, the infirmed, the injured, the beaten, even the foreigner who has been brought into his city's gates; it is they who need a king and thereby make a king out of the man who sits on the throne. The king who honours the least of his kingdom honours the great; he who honours his debtors honours his creditors, therefore a city's princes must be considered expendable for its peasants, its pious for its prisoners. The nobility follow their leader; the lowly follow their saviour, and a good king must be both. Do you understand what I am telling you, young Priam?"
"I do, sir."
"Do you agree?"
"I do."
"We shall see. Troy is mine, Priam, but I leave its throne, and with it, its walls, homes, citadel, and citizens to you. As long as I see that you are fit to rule, you shall do so until she falls." Then Heracles addressed his aide again, "Where is the robe that Laomedon wore?" The aide reached behind and brought out the enormous robe that had belonged to Priam's father. Heracles took it from his aide and walked to Priam, placing it firmly on his shoulders. He took the crown from his own brow, placed it on Priam, then, with an extended arm, invited Priam to take his place on the throne.
When Priam had seated himself, Heracles smiled. It was almost a fatherly smile. "I shall now take my leave of you, King Priam, and on the morning tide, My men and I shall take our leave of this fair city. But I would like to know, first, where your rule shall start; what shall be your first command?"
Priam considered for a moment before he declared, "I shall redesign the dungeon with barred windows for air and light, and sewers for the health of both guards and prisoners."
"Excellent," Heracles determined, then, waving a hand to his men, he turned to exit the throne room. As he opened the door, there stood Priam's former guard. Priam immediately recognized him not only from the vague image he had observed in the doorway to his cell, but also from the man's stunned expression when he recognized Priam, seeing him seated on Troy's throne.
"Wait!" he called. Heracles stopped and turned to him: "Tomorrow I shall begin work on my dungeon; the hour is late, so this man shall spend tonight in the cell where I felt so much at ease thanks to his tender administrations. He shall be released in the morning before your departure and with the same warmth and tenderness I received from him." The man's stupefied expression was surely no disappointment for Priam, nor was it a distraction. Heracles regarded Priam for a brief time then nooded. Priam called to his own men, "Guards, take this man below; do see to his comfort; he should be made to feel very safe." Two guards bowed to Priam, then caught the man, each by an arm, and escorted him from the hall. Priam and Heracles exchanged glances, each with the faintest hint of a smile, and Heracles made good his departure.
THE END
