Discord's Apple

  “She’s been very helpful.”

  Finally, Lucius set Sylvia down. She collapsed in a heap, laughing and gasping for air.

  “Mother’s telling me about the Trojan War,” Sylvia said once she had breath enough to speak.

  “Oh?” Lucius eyed Vita.

  “Everyone’s telling stories out of Virgil’s new epic. She overhears. Why don’t you tell your father one of the stories?”

  While Vita finished seasoning the soup, Sylvia launched into dramatic reenactment of the fall of Troy, showing how the Greek soldiers must have had to scrunch up to hide inside the hollow horse, wriggling across the floor like the snakes from Tenedos as they attacked Laocoön, slashing the air like a warrior with a sword. Lucius pretended to be slain, then laughed, and Vita laughed, too.

  In a moment of calm, Lucius said, “Who’s your favorite? Which of the people in the story do you like best?”

  Vita was sure Sylvia was going to say Cassandra, but she said, “Sinon.”

  Lucius sounded confused. “What? But he was a terrible liar. A spy. Deceitful. There’s nothing in him to admire.”

  “But to the Greeks he was brave. Wasn’t he?”

  “Humph. I suppose he was. But we’re not supposed to admire the Greeks.”

  “Then why do we tell their stories?”

  Lucius could answer that one on his own. Vita wiped her hands on a cloth. “I need to get some wine from the cellar. I’ll be back in a moment.”

  “I’ll go! I’ll go!” Sylvia dashed ahead, as if to race there first, but Vita managed to snatch her around the middle and hold her back. Oof, she’s getting too big for this.

  “No,” Vita said. “You’re not allowed down there, you know that.”

  “You never let me see down there.”

  “You’ll be allowed there when you’re older.”

  Lucius stood to take Sylvia from her, distracting her with more questions about Trojans and Greeks. His gaze met Vita’s, and she saw her own suddenly somber expression mirrored on his face. He also did not go into the cellar. When her mother died, she told him why he couldn’t. The unspoken second part of what she had said to Sylvia hung between them.

  You’ll be allowed there when you’re older, when I am dead.

  10

  Crouched in a wrestling stance, Sinon and his opponent, both naked, circled each other in the middle of a tiled courtyard at the Sun Palace. The man did not appear to be much taller or heavier, but he glared with such ferocity—eyes burning, face scowling—that Sinon felt afraid. It was the fear he used to feel before a battle, the what if questions that nagged and threatened to turn a warrior into a coward.

  The chain felt heavy on Sinon’s neck. He pushed the fear away, ignored it, pretended that it didn’t exist, because the gods could sense his emotions. Ares, his opponent, would be joyous to know he was afraid.

  Sinon couldn’t hope to beat the God of War at wrestling. But he could try.

  Ares, brown skin glowing in the sunlight shining on him, rounded his shoulders, flexing the muscles of his arms. The movement was meant to put Sinon off guard. Ares pretended that he was still preparing. But Sinon saw the muscles of his legs tense and was ready when Ares leaped at him, arms cocked, ready to scoop him up and throw him to the floor. He dodged sideways, evading Ares’ grasp, and spun to knock the god on the back, making him sprawl on the rush mat where they fought. Sinon backed away and waited in his defensive posture for the next round.

  Apollo laughed and applauded. “You see? He’s been with us long enough he knows our tricks. Not such an easy victory.”

  A dozen other gods and goddesses watched the bout, lounging on chairs and cushions, eating, drinking, talking, laughing. Apollo often entertained his brethren in the palace. He plied them with drink and learned what gossip he could. It was also a way to display his own power, his own prizes—such as Achaean warriors made into slaves.

  The God of War didn’t believe that the slave serving wine had once been a warrior. He challenged the Sun God to prove it. So here they were.

  Ares raised himself to a crouch, panting through bared teeth like a beast. He charged again. His attacks were single-minded, uncreative. Again, Sinon jumped out of his way, over the god’s reach. As he did, he curled his arm around Ares’ neck and pulled hard, flipping him flat to the mat once again.

  Gods are only men with power, Sinon told himself. Odysseus never bowed to Agamemnon, despite all his power. As long as Sinon could stay out of the man’s reach, he could hold his own. He had to hold his own only until Apollo grew bored and called a halt to the match.

  But really, what was he worried about? That Ares might kill him? He smiled a little at the ridiculousness of it all.

  Ares caught the expression, and it must have enraged him, because he snarled. This time when he flexed his muscles, he seemed to expand, growing a foot, two, three, and gaining a hundred pounds of mass. His hand could now reach around Sinon’s middle.

  Sinon’s eyes widened in panic. He scrambled away. No one could fault him for turning tail and running. Despite his massive form, Ares moved with the speed of a hawk, his arm flying to swipe at Sinon. He struck, and Sinon rolled across the mat and into the base of a set of marble stairs. He saw stars for a moment and shook the dizziness away. Ares didn’t rest, but came at him, arms reaching.

  Scurrying on all fours, Sinon raced forward, between the giant’s legs. He spun at the last moment and slammed into the backs of his knees. As he hoped, the knees buckled and Ares fell, but once again Sinon underestimated the giant’s speed. On his knees, Ares turned and grabbed Sinon. His breath slammed out of his lungs as Ares lifted him.

  So much for not getting caught.

  Ares squeezed, his fingers twisting Sinon’s body. Sinon winced, unable to struggle free of the tightening pressure. Then a crack echoed, and his body turned into searing fire. That was his back breaking.

  Ares dropped him. He rolled and lay still, every nerve in his body writhing with pins and needles of pain. In a few moments the pain went away, replaced by a hot, thick rush, like boiling honey flowing down his back as the bones of his spine healed. He lay there a moment, trying to still his breathing, not sure if he could stand. But he could, and he did, as if it hadn’t happened.

  He gazed over a silent courtyard and tried to wear a mask of indifference, as if none of it mattered. But he could feel how pale and cold his face was, and his hands were shaking.

  “I won,” Ares said. With a discharge of light, he returned to his original size.

  “But you had to cheat to do it,” Apollo said. “I think I’ve proved my point.”

  “I’ll fight you next!” Ares pointed at the Sun God.

  “Ares!” A luminous woman reclining on a bench called to the god. “Come here, darling. You’re ruining the mood.” Aphrodite reached a perfect, graceful arm to him. No one could refuse such a command, not even a god. Ares bowed to her and returned to his place at her feet.

  Apollo stood at the top of the steps, appearing cheerful again. “Find your pitcher, Sinon, and serve my guests.”

  “Yes, my lord,” he whispered, his voice still shaking. He climbed the steps to where he had left the gold pitcher of wine. He moved slowly, letting his strength return. He hoped his hands stopped trembling soon.

  When he was next to Apollo, the god whispered to him. “I’m sorry for that. I’ll make it up to you.”

  That meant a visit from the nereid in the pool, or a journey away from the Palace—to the coast, perhaps, or to a forest where they could hunt. Or a full day on his own, with no duties to perform and no harassments from any gods.

  Sinon closed his eyes and nodded, unable to speak. If he opened his mouth, he’d yell, and if he yelled at Apollo in front of the others, the Sun God would never leave him in peace.

  The festive mood returned soon enough.

  “Wherever did you find him?” Aphrodite said, watching Sinon.

  “He’s a souvenir I took from Troy. A genuine Achaean warrior. In
fact, he’s the fellow who talked the Trojans into bringing that wretched horse into the city. You wouldn’t think him capable of possessing the wit to pull off a trick like that, just looking at him, would you?”

  “Indeed. Looks and wit. I might find a way to buy him from you.” Aphrodite sipped thoughtfully from a goblet. As Sinon felt her studying him, a chill ran along his skin. He kept his eyes downcast to hide his frustration, his resignation. He waited by a column, naked and decorative, until the next guest needed a goblet filled.

  “He’s not for sale.”

  She licked wine-dampened lips. “Oh, everything’s for sale.”

  “Why do we do it?” This came from Hermes, who made an unlikely perch on a giant urn, balancing birdlike on the rim.

  “Do what?” said Apollo.

  “Keep souvenirs of that war? Nobody was happy with how it turned out. It’s been over for—for I don’t know how many years—”

  How many years? Sinon desperately hoped he’d give a number, to mark the time. But he didn’t.

  “—and we still find little else to talk about. I’ve never seen this family so passionate about anything. The reminders of it are everywhere.” He glanced at Sinon, who tried not to notice. “Why is that, do you think?”

  Apollo huffed. “Who knows? It’s not like we couldn’t orchestrate the destruction of a civilization anytime we wanted.”

  Conversations stilled as the gathering paused to listen. Another said, “That’s not it. This one got away from us—the mortals kept doing things we didn’t plan for.”

  A woman in the back said, “That’s true. They fascinate us so, don’t they?”

  “Tell me, did that fellow Odysseus ever make it home?”

  “Yes,” said Hermes, and Sinon let out a sigh. “He had quite a bit of housekeeping to do. Apparently his wife was getting ready to remarry—”

  “No, she was trying not to remarry, but they all thought Odysseus was dead and every bachelor in Ithaca wanted to get ahold of the lands.”

  “Why didn’t the son do something about it?”

  “Well, I don’t know—”

  “Athena says the son is as clever as the father.”

  “She’s biased. The son is probably hers—”

  Sinon wanted to leave, to get a breath of air or smash the pitcher against a convenient wall. But if he moved, Apollo would draw attention to him, find a new sport to throw him into, for the amusement of his guests. Sinon would hear more news only if he kept quiet.

  Hermes said, “I suppose I could hop over there quickly and see—”

  “Not necessary.”

  Apollo sat up and pointed at Aphrodite. “Speaking of souvenirs, what did you do with that apple you were all so desperate for? I can’t believe you all fell for that trick.”

  “I still have it.” Apollo raised an inquisitive brow, Hermes leaned forward on his perch, and Aphrodite pouted. “I’m not going to tell you where. Her Most Imperiousness is still after it.”

  That was Hera. The others gods and goddesses rarely called her by name. No one seemed to like her much.

  “Really?” Apollo said, drawling. “That’s rather pathetic, isn’t it?”

  “Oh yes. Just last week she disguised one of her little minions as a monkey and sent him into my palace, trying to find it. I sent him back to her as a slug.”

  “She can’t even do her own dirty work. She isn’t really that powerful, is she?”

  Hermes jumped from his perch and retrieved his goblet from the floor. He raised it at Sinon, who approached, head bowed. Odysseus would be appalled to see him like this, subservient and uncomplaining.

  “Don’t make that mistake,” Hermes said as Sinon poured. “Her true strength isn’t in her own power. Her strength is her ability to influence others and use their power.”

  Now everyone needed more wine, and once again Sinon circulated, filling the goblets raised to him. The pitcher never ran out of wine.

  “She doesn’t influence any of us.”

  “You’d think she’d let it go. It’s just an apple. Aphrodite bribed her out of it fair and square.”

  A soft-spoken goddess who sat by the reflecting pool at the edge of the courtyard, touching her fingers to the water, looked up and raised her voice. “She used to be stronger. She used to be Queen in her own right. That was when mothers and priestesses were more important than warriors. Most of you are too young to remember a time when she was not always jealous.”

  She had long golden hair, the color of barley at harvest, and far-seeing eyes the blue of a summer sky. She frowned, creasing her face, making her seem old, which meant that the winter season was upon the earth. She was Demeter.

  None of the others could say anything trite after this. They could not mock her sadness or her memories. While they might have blamed her for bringing a somber mood to their festivities, no one did. For her beauty and thoughtfulness, she was welcome everywhere.

  Apollo brought out his lyre and played a light tune, and the deities seemed content to sit back and drink their wine.

  Sinon went to Demeter and got down on one knee to pour her wine. Out of them all, she understood sadness.

  11

  Dad?” Evie tapped on his bedroom door. She’d wanted to check on him last night, but had hesitated at the late hour. If he was resting, she didn’t want to disturb him. And if he wasn’t okay . . . surely he’d have said something. He had a telephone. He could call 911.

  “Dad?” She knocked louder. “I made coffee, you want some? Dad?” Her heart thudded. How long should she wait before she burst in? What if he was hurt? Unconscious? She closed her eyes and rested her forehead on the wall. “Dad?”

  “Huh? Evie? What’s wrong?” His voice came muffled, slurred, as if struggling to wakefulness.

  She exhaled a relieved breath. “Nothing, I just wanted to see”—if you’re all right—“if I could get you some coffee or something.”

  “Come in so I can hear you.”

  Carefully, she pushed open the door.

  Her father was propped on a mound of pillows. His half-lidded gaze shifted slowly to track her progress. She found a chair in the corner and brought it near his bed.

  “Can I bring you breakfast?” she said, whispering, as if her voice would rattle him. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen him eat anything.

  “Not hungry. Appetite’s shot to hell.” He shook his head and shifted against the pillows. He wore a T-shirt and held the bed’s comforter flat across his waist. He looked as sick as Evie could have imagined him looking: pale to a shade of grayness, his voice muffled, his manner vacant. For a moment, she wished she’d stayed in L.A. Then he took a deep breath, gathering the energy to focus on her and speak clearly. “Is that Alex character gone?”

  “Yeah.”

  He frowned, an expression she remembered from her high school days.

  “Don’t look at me like that, he didn’t stay the night or anything. He’s totally not my type.”

  He chuckled, tipping his head back and closing his eyes. “Whatever you say.”

  “I’ve been trying to find out who he is. He never has a straight answer. When I asked last night, he gave me a copy of the Aeneid and walked out.”

  “The Aeneid? If he’s in there, do you know how old that would make him?”

  He spoke as if there were nothing strange about it. She could tell him about Hera and he wouldn’t be surprised.

  She did some quick math, back to when the Trojan War was thought to have taken place. “Thirty-two hundred years or so.”

  “Hm. I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone that old.”

  So—whom had he met that made a character from the Aeneid showing up seem not out of the ordinary?

  She managed to convince herself that he wasn’t going to die in the next few moments. Sitting back in her chair, she looked around. The room was an amalgam: the furniture—the four-poster bed, oak dresser, beat-up vanity table—had been here in her grandparents’ time. The faded floral c
omforter had been her parents’ as long as she could remember, and his wallet and watch were sitting on the dresser, where he always kept them.

  On the nightstand by the bed was a lamp with a half-dozen orange pill bottles clustered around its base. She wondered how many of them were painkillers. His breathing was slow, deep, like he was on the verge of falling asleep. Like he’d been drugged. She should go away and let him sleep.

  She was about to stand when he spoke.

  He took a long time, saying the words slowly and methodically; she waited motionless and patient. “When I was growing up here, I think my father went into the Storeroom once, to get something for someone who came to the door. Twelve-league boots. The guy was on a quest. I don’t remember what for anymore. In the last month, I’ve had a dozen people come asking for what belongs to them, and that doesn’t count the ones who’ve come who don’t have a right to anything. It’s like—the Storeroom is dispersing. Magic’s going back into the world.”

  It was hard to believe in magic in a world where things like the Seattle bombing happened. Then again, maybe magic was the only way to stop things like Seattle happening.

  “Dad—why did you put Mom’s papers in the Storeroom?”

  “Wanted to save them,” he said. His eyes opened to slits, and a different self seemed to look out of them. “Do you know who that was, asking for the sword?”

  She nodded, and he nodded back.

  “Do you know what it means, if Merlin and Arthur have come back?”

  She shook her head, but the movement changed. Again, she nodded, because somehow she knew. “The stories,” she said.

  He winced, stiffening, clutching the edge of the comforter. “Joints,” he muttered. “Hip. Back. Everything.”

  She almost reached for him. Her muscles flinched to do so. But there was nothing she could do. In another heartbeat, his face relaxed, and the spell went away.

  “When Britain needs its King again,” he said. “He’ll come. Something’s going to happen, Evie.”

  “I know,” she said, thinking of Hera, of the apple that started a war that changed the world. What would happen if the apple went back into the world?