Chapter 1

The Champion

The huge roan thundered through the paddock, pounding the earth with massive hooves. His long, muscular legs reached out to take the rolling ground and hurl his great frame ahead at a breathtaking speed, a juggernaut of sinew and will. Even in the dawn's wan light, the rich, caramel sheen of his coat glimmered like satin. With his strong neck thrust forward, his ears laid back, and his nostrils flaring, the driving roan barely took notice of the bit in his mouth. If he felt the weight of his rider, he didn't show it. He ran tirelessly over the emerald field, displaying a power and majesty that marked him as a true descendant of the immortal horses, sired by the stallions of Apollo.

The rider leaned forward, letting the reins have enough slack to give the roan a sense of freedom, but not so much as to make him forget he was bridled. The rider knew how to give him his head, how to let him run. He was a master of horses, from a family of horsebreakers who traced their lineage back to Dardanus, son of Zeus, King of the Gods. He knew how move with the power and pulse of the stallion.

Gripping the roan's great body with his knees, he could feel the stallion's muscles flex and release beneath his glistening coat, anticipating his leaps over gullies or rocks or fallen trees. They moved as one.

Though a chill gripped the air, the rider wore only a short green tunic, trimmed in gold. The skirt stopped just above mid-thigh, and the single strap stretched over his left shoulder. The sinews beneath the surface of his tanned olive skin rippled almost in unison with the great roan's, as the wind raced by, whipping his mane of thick, black hair. Like the horse, his frame was long and muscular.

The pale dawn spilled over him, revealing the myriad scars that twisted across his shoulders, arms, legs, back and chest. They testified to the countless battles he had fought over the last ten years of war. The price he had paid for the love of his country and the great city of Ilion - sometimes called Troy, after Tros, its ancient king - was to bear the marks of his enemies' assaults on his flesh. Some were faint, faded with the years; others were newly healed, vivid and angry.

As the horse and rider broke into an open stretch of the paddock, the scarred warrior stared ahead with eyes gray and hard as iron at a squadron of shadowy figures arrayed in the field a furlong away. They wore gleaming Greek helmets, carried Greek shields, and brandished iron-tipped spears that bristled against the sky. They stood in two columns, still and menacing.

The rider reached down and pulled out a sword from the sheath at his side. The bronze blade flashed in the haze like a burst of flame. His eyes narrowed; he bent low and whispered something to the horse. The great roan vaulted forward, carrying the warrior with him. As one, they hurled themselves into the gauntlet.

Horse and rider raced between the enemy files, now clearly visible up close as straw soldiers, standing on wooden pikes. The rider slashed the head off of each mock foe without a single miss. It was an exercise perfected through years of training; but on this morning, a deadly fury fueled each stroke. His sword sang in the air, ringing with a monody of rage and death.

At the end of the gauntlet, the rider wheeled his horse and reined to a halt. Dust and shards of hay swirled above the field; cloven helmets and broken fragments of armor littered the ground. The rider whirled the great roan once more, surveying the carnage with grim satisfaction; but the anger still burned in his chest and the dull ache in his stomach did not abate. After a moment, he spurred the animal toward a far railing where they passed through an opening and trotted towards a huge, stone stable standing twenty rods from the paddock.

Near the stable entrance, the warrior dismounted and walked the roan up to a water trough. Their breath puffed out as clouds of vapor in the chill of the early morning, but sweat glistened on both their bodies. The stallion bent his head to drink.

'Easy, Chiron,' said the warrior, patting the animal's long, muscled neck. 'Not too much.'

The roan suddenly lifted his head and snorted. His great, brown eyes blinked, and he turned his head to the right, then back to the left, as if looking for something - or someone.

The warrior stroked his neck again. 'You miss him, Chiron?'

The horse whinnied softly.

The warrior bowed his head. 'I miss him, too.'

The stallion and the man stood in quiet communion for several moments until a voice behind them broke the silence.

'You ride like a god, Aeneas.'

The warrior stared into the limpid eyes of the roan. 'The gods don't ride on horses, Coroebus. They ride on the backs of men.'

He heard an amiable laugh. 'Strange talk from the goddess-born Aeneas, son of Aphrodite.'

Aeneas turned. The young soldier who leaned casually against the stable door was dressed in the red and gold livery of Phrygia, a small but wealthy kingdom to the east of Ilion. Coroebus was the son of King Mygdon, one of the Trojans' staunchest allies. An eager, open smile lived perennially on his handsome face.

Aeneas shook his head dismissively.

Coroebus laughed again and walked to the the great stallion, staring in rapt admiration. Reaching out, he stroked the roan's neck. 'He is beautiful and proud.'

'Hector knew how to break a horse's will without breaking his spirit. The stallions of Troy are prized throughout the Aegean.'

'That must be why Zeus chose you Teucers to train the Immortal Stallions.'

'No one was better with the horse than Hector,' Aeneas replied.

'Except you, from what I've heard,' quipped the Phrygian, grinning.

Aeneas remained silent.

A rare frown clouded Coroebus' face. 'You were good friends. I'm sorry he has crossed the river.'

'He deserved better from the gods,' said Aeneas, grimly.

Coroebus shrugged. 'Who can argue with the gods?'

Aeneas' face darkened and his jaw muscles rippled.

'There was nothing you could do,' insisted Coroebus.

'I could have slain Achilles.'

'It wasn't meant to be, Champion.'

'Do not call me that. Hector was Troy's champion.'

'And so are you,' exclaimed Coroebus, impatiently. 'Hector's death doesn't change that. The gods ordained a hero's death for Hector at the hand of Achilles - just as they ordained that Achilles should die in ignominy by the hand of a coward.'

'Careful, my friend,' cautioned Aeneas with a grim smile. 'You may be betrothed to King Priam's youngest daughter, but that "coward" is Priam's son - and heir to his throne.'

'And Paris is the reason Hector is dead, not you. It wasn't your fault. And now, Achilles is dead. It's justice.'

'Justice?' snapped Aeneas. 'Tell that to Andromache; tell it to Scamandrius, the son she nurses.'

'You are not responsible!' pressed Coroebus.

'You think not?' Aeneas' voice nearly broke with fury and anguish. He slapped Chiron hard on the flank to stop him from drinking any more water.

'It was the will of the gods, general. You have fought this war for ten years. You have battled the greatest heroes of the Argives: Diomedes, Idomeneus, Leocritus - and you vanquished them all.'

'I would trade my life to have slain Achilles.'

Coroebus shook his head. 'No one can change the past - not even the gods.'

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