Romanowski and Rosemary

3. King of Cyprus

The enormous hall was packed with drunk men, warriors for the most, as they greedily helped themselves to the feast.

Eight wide pillars, four on each side, were spaced equally, which held the large squared banquet hall, adorned by red velvet curtains. Even though the hall of Cyprus' royal palace was decorated magnificently, with the howling warriors, it resembled a ravenous fest in Hades.

"Cyprus royal king has been crowned! Now enjoy till you can't enjoy anymore, mates!" someone hollered, and the hall erupted into excited howls.

The only women present there were slaves. Some perched on their masters' laps, feeding them wine or fruits, laughing seductively. Others in a heated make-out session. While the more scared ones sat by their feet, afraid to even look up without their master's permission.

The new King was crowned with the holy wreath, which was meshed with gold string and victory flowers. He was merely eighteen but had defeated men twice his age in the one-on-one combat organised by the previous king of Cyprus. He was growing old and having no heir to take over, announced to crown his ablest warrior as the next king.

It was the young warrior's skill to use a sword as fast as a lightning bolt that made it almost impossible to defeat him. Besides his precise moves, he was awfully clever. It seemed as if he could sense his opponent's attack way before they landed it on him.

"Impressive swordsmanship you exhibited, Menelaus," a warrior thumped his shoulder as the new king stopped staring momentarily at the rowdy celebration to glance aside.

"I prefer to be called Julian."

The warrior smiled smugly. "Well, well, dropping the name your father gave you, huh?"

Julian leaned forward to rest his arms on the table, sipping on his wine. "Old man's addicted to the Iliad. Not me."

The warriors yelped in loud laughter, raising toasts to each other, emptying goblets after goblets.

"You mean he's addicted to Alexander being the hero and not his own son?" The previous warrior taunted deliberately.

Julian said nothing, casually reaching for a fig. Achilles was the hero of the mythical Trojan war and that's what Alexander was referred to.

While his own father called him Menelaus, who although was a king and had won the Trojan War, he was left in the background as everyone hailed Achilles.

'No one could be greater than Alexander', that's what his father liked to believe in. Being a nobleman in Phillips' court could do that to anyone, he thought, indifferent.

"Mate, who the fuck would want to be named Menelaus?" Another warrior, Jakov, shot back. "Although he won the war and all, his wife Helen literally fled away with that little boy Paris." He barked a laugh. "Our Menelaus won't want that, would he?" He snickered at Julian.

"Whatever interpretation floats your boat." Julian cracked his fingers, going back to stare at the celebrations.

For someone who had just been crowned and should be the centre of attention of the extravaganza, celebrating the hardest, he was rather uninterested, sitting with his comrades at the feast table. While dances and music went on in the centre of the hall.

"Zadrov, is he even showing up today?" He asked, irritated. "I can't tolerate this fucking celebration anymore."

The warrior Zadrov guffawed, looking around to find the drunk warriors and slaves getting on each other.