Discord's Apple

  She wasn’t ready to lose her father, too. She’d be crippled all over again.

  2

  If they’re going to believe that I escaped your plan to sacrifice me, I’ll have to look like a prisoner,” Sinon said.

  “I’ve thought of this.” Odysseus had stood so proudly before the war chieftains, not at all cowed by their wealth or power. He made no secret that he thought most of them vain and petty. He had wanted to let Helen rot in Troy and blame Menelaus for letting Paris carry her off.

  Now he looked grim, preoccupied with the details of his plan. His gaze turned inward, and his face was furrowed with worry. Sinon thought, This is what he will look like as an old man.

  Sinon had come to Troy a boy, an untried warrior wearing his first growth of beard and carrying his first spear. Under Odysseus’s command, he had grown to manhood, shed his first blood, seen his own blood shed, learned of honor. And of common sense. He would follow Odysseus to the end of time itself.

  “Maybe we could get Neoptolemus to have at me.” Sinon grinned, meaning it as a joke.

  Odysseus shook his head quickly. “I don’t trust that vicious whelp to know when to stop. I had planned on doing it myself.”

  Of course. Odysseus planned for everything, and he hated asking other men to do the difficult work.

  Sinon and Odysseus went some distance along the beach, away from camp, where they could have privacy. The camp itself was in chaos—hundreds of tents being brought down, horses being loaded onto ships, supplies packed and carried off, all by torchlight. More than that, the sound of construction—men hammering hundreds of planks of wood into place—overwhelmed even the sound of waves breaking.

  This was all part of the plan.

  They stopped along the river that poured from the hills above Troy to form a brackish marsh where it joined the sea. Here, the rolling waves and chatter of night insects were audible again.

  An escaped prisoner would have rope burns around his wrists. Sinon stripped down to a thin tunic. Odysseus tied his hands with rope and bound his wrists to a post driven into the beach.

  Pulling on leather gloves to protect his hands, Odysseus said, “I don’t want to do this, Sinon.”

  “I know. But it must be done.”

  “A few choice bruises. A black eye. That’s all.”

  Sinon nodded and squared his shoulders, bracing.

  His jaw clenched, Odysseus made a fist and backhanded Sinon. His head whipped back as he fell, his arms jerking on the bindings.

  Over and over, Odysseus struck him. Sinon had been hit before, he’d been wounded in battle. He knew how to block pain. Keep breathing. No matter that his ears rang and that blood clogged his nose. It would be over soon.

  Sinon flinched back when Odysseus grabbed his hair to hold his head up.

  “Easy, there. I’m done. Priam himself will pity you.”

  He tried to smile, but winced when his lip cracked. His left eye was swelling shut already. “You hit like a thunderbolt. I’m glad you’re on our side.”

  “Gods, you’re bleeding.”

  “I thought that was what we wanted.”

  “Save your breath for the Trojans, my friend. Let’s have a look at your hands.”

  The ropes had made bleeding rashes around both his wrists. Odysseus brought a waterskin and made him drink, but they didn’t wash the wounds. Let them swell, blacken, and look as grisly as possible.

  The pain would put truth into his voice.

  Time was passing. The ships had already set sail, carrying the bulk of the army into hiding. The horse was ready. Odysseus needed to take his place among the warriors hiding inside.

  “Wait in the swamps. At dawn’s first light, make for the city gates. If they suspect the horse, if they destroy it—and us—you may still live. They may still believe your story and spare you.”

  “No—”

  “If so, you must go back to Ithaca and tell Penelope I’m sorry that I could not return.”

  That task, bringing news of Odysseus’s death to his wife, was more daunting than lying to a city full of Trojans.

  “This will work,” Sinon said to his mentor.

  Odysseus took Sinon’s face in his hands. “I will see you again inside the walls of Troy.”

  “Inside the walls of Troy. Yes.”

  Odysseus left him.

  Sinon splashed water from the river on his face to clear blood from his nose, mouth, and beard, and to keep himself awake. The bruises and cuts would heal—Odysseus had calculated the blows to look awful without causing permanent damage. Ever an optimist. His head ached, but he didn’t dare lie down and sleep. Timing was everything. He had to be at the gates before the Trojans could make a decision about the horse. He had to be there to convince them. His tunic was spattered with dirt and blood. He certainly looked the part of an escaped sacrifice victim.

  Just before dawn, he started the walk. He wanted to be sure he had enough time to reach the city. The gates looked far away.

  Sunlight crossed the sky when he saw the finished horse for the first time.

  Taller than the city gate, it stood like a war steed preparing for a charge, head held high, body stout. It was made of planks lashed together, darker wood making a harness, hooves, and glaring eyes. An immense sculpture, it appeared seamless. Sinon couldn’t see a trapdoor or any sign that it was hollow at all. It stood on a wheeled platform, a tempting prize to simply roll inside the walls.

  The city of Troy with its great temples and palaces, all shining marble decked with gold, occupied a set of hills and dominated the plains around it. Invincible stone walls surrounded it, and for ten years, the Achaeans had thrown themselves uselessly at those walls. The morning sun rose behind it to form a halo, and cast golden light on the prize the Trojans would never be able to resist.

  By the gods, this could work.

  Trojans were already gathered around the horse. They’d awakened to a sight they had not seen in ten years: the beach clear of Greek boats, the camp of the Achaean army empty. The invaders had fled. The Trojans had immediately come out to explore. As if disbelieving their eyes, they had to walk the ground to convince themselves the Greeks were really gone.

  A pair of soldiers on patrol found him creeping along the outer wall. “You! Greek! Hold there!”

  He waited for them to catch him. They did so as brutally as he might have expected of a people who’d been under siege, throwing him to the ground, kicking him, reopening the cuts and waking the bruises Odysseus had given him. When they drew daggers, Sinon thought they would kill him right there, ruining the plan entirely. But he begged like the piteous exile he was playing, and they put their knives away. Mindless of his wounds, they bound him and dragged him to the gates, where the lords and priests of Troy waited.

  Think of the story. Tell them the story.

  “We found a Greek dog skulking on the beach,” one of the soldiers said, and shoved Sinon to the ground.

  He struggled to his knees and got his bearings. The horse towered above, casting its morning shadow over the sand. The crowd that had gathered formed a circle around a tall man draped in a purple robe. He was old, but held himself proudly, and wore a silver band on his nearly bald head. This had to be Priam, King of the Trojans.

  Sinon caught his eye. He would speak to this man alone.

  He spat, scowling with hatred. “I am no Greek. Not anymore.”

  Priam looked down on him. “Explain yourself.”

  The story. The pain of betrayal. The wounds on his wrists. “They needed to make a sacrifice to bring fair winds for their journey. A human sacrifice of blood, since that was how they won fair winds for their departure. Odysseus—” He snarled when he said the name, as if it had a sour taste. “—has always hated me since I served his rival, Palomedes. He tricked the Greeks into murdering him, and now came his chance to kill me. He named me as the sacrifice. But I escaped. They had to sail with the tide and could not chase after me.” He gasped, short of breath, and bowed his head. ??
?My lord, you are my only hope of shelter now.”

  His guards shifted behind him, gripping weapons they didn’t dare raise. They weren’t happy with his story. But others of the crowd murmured, “Butchers!” and “Poor man.”

  Priam’s frown deepened. His voice was gentle. “You have been ill-used. Do you truly hate them now?”

  Sinon’s face contorted with pain. “I do.”

  “Untie him.” The guards cut the ropes. Sinon slumped, relieved. “We can give you shelter here. If you tell us what they meant to do with this.” Priam gestured at the horse. “Is it truly an offering as the inscription says? Or is it another Greek trick?”

  The bait was set. The trap must close. His story must be true.

  He chuckled, wiping at saliva that dripped down his numb chin. “The oracles revealed that Pallas Athena was angry at the theft of the Palladium from her temple. And they thought that a good prank at the time. They built this to appease her.”

  “Why did they make it so large?”

  He did not have to pretend to wince in pain. The cut on his lip stung. He was still kneeling in the dust, his back bowed. “Because—because they did not want you to carry it inside the city. That would turn Fortune toward you and your city and away from them. They hoped that you would destroy it, and bring Athena’s anger onto yourselves.”

  He spoke knowingly, wryly, as if to say, The Greeks are fools to think they could trick you so. You know the truth when you hear it. He spoke to convince them: I am truth. You believe they’d do this to me because you believe they’re treacherous dogs. I am easy to believe.

  They nodded among themselves, whispering, glancing at the horse with covetous eyes. Sinon knelt before them, a broken man without pride, without hope, with nothing to lose by telling them the truth.

  He should have been a bard.

  A woman fought to the front of the crowd.

  She was young and wore the white robes of a priestess. Her skin was pure, shining with beauty. Gold cords laced her black hair, binding back the thick curls.

  “No! Father, no!” At last she broke free from the hands that tried to hold her back. She clutched at Priam, tugging his sleeve, clawing at his arm. “Father, it’s a trick! Don’t listen to him, he is lying, it’s a trick, the greatest trick of all! Centuries from now, our name will mean ‘trick’ because of this! Generations to come will think us fools!”

  Priam’s daughter. Sinon thought her beautiful, even as her words chilled him.

  Gently but firmly, as he might push away an insistent puppy, Priam took the woman’s wrists and held her off. “What do you mean?”

  “The horse is hollow and filled with Greeks! If you bring it into the city, they’ll burn us to ashes! There will be nothing left!” She begged, her eyes wide and face taut with fear.

  Sinon stared. His instinct was to jump to his feet and run away. It was all over, the prophetess had spoiled everything. As if she felt his gaze on her, she turned and pointed at him, her mouth open in a horrified grimace.

  She knew—damn her, she knew! He could do nothing but keep his place and look confused.

  Someone in the crowd laughed. “That’s ridiculous!”

  Priam regarded his daughter sadly. “Cassandra, is this another one of your foolish dreams?”

  “It’s true, it’s true! Everything is true!” She stomped in place, screaming. A nearby gentlewoman grabbed her arms and held her still. Priam closed his eyes, seeming suddenly weary.

  The gentlewoman said, “Her madness speaks nonsense, Sire.”

  Cassandra screamed until the woman took her away.

  Madness. They thought her mad. Sinon tried to look pitying instead of relieved.

  The murmurs among the crowd had started again: “It is a gift from the gods!” and “The war is truly ended!” And finally, “Bring the horse in! The magnificent horse must live in the city! May the blessing of Athena be upon us!”

  At last Priam, either listening to the cheers or taking his own counsel, said, “Yes. Bring men to drag the horse into the city. We should have some trophy for all this hardship. And you.” He knelt and touched Sinon’s shoulder. “Take some rest within our walls.”

  “Thank you, my lord. Thank you.”

  The gratitude, at least, was genuine.

  3

  Frank dropped a spoon on the floor while lifting it from the drawer to his cereal bowl on the counter, and Evie jumped out of her chair, her heart racing.

  “Dad, are you okay?” She rushed to grab the spoon and hand it to him before he could stoop to reach it.

  He straightened, scowling as he took it from her. “I just dropped a spoon.”

  Pouting, she clenched her hands.

  He said, “I’m not going to drop dead in front of you. You’ll have some warning, trust me.”

  Turning away, she pinched the bridge of her nose to stop herself from crying again, then stalked back to the table and her own bowl of cereal.

  They’d kill each other before he could die of cancer if they kept this up. “Maybe I shouldn’t have come.”

  “No, I’m glad you’re here.”

  It was just as well she had to rewrite the entire script for the May issue of Eagle Eyes. It would give her something to do instead of staring at her father, watching for symptoms.

  She insisted on clearing the dishes, asking all the while if there was anything else he needed, if there was anything else she could do to help. Did the garbage need to go out? (No.) Did the dog need walking? (Mab had a pen out back and walked herself.) Cleaning? Cooking? Anything?

  “Evie, I’ve lived alone for five years. I can take care of myself.”

  This left her with her eyes watering, yet again.

  He closed his eyes and seemed to be counting to ten. “Why don’t you run to the store? I’m almost out of eggs and bread. I probably need to stock up since there’s two of us.”

  She jumped at the chance to do something, anything. And to get out of the house. She hadn’t even been back a day, and she was feeling claustrophobic.

  He tried to give her money to pay for the groceries.

  “No, I’ll get it.”

  “Nonsense. You had to travel all this way, you’re staying here as a guest—take it.”

  The starving-artist days when she’d struggled to make ends meet with a part-time data-entry job were still vivid in their memories. He wasn’t used to her being able to pay, much less offering to do so.

  “There’s little enough I can do while I’m here—let me buy groceries for you.”

  “Evie—”

  Take a deep breath, count to ten. Like father, like daughter. “You can buy next time.”

  After a moment, he put the bills back into his pocket. “Okay. My ration book is on top of the microwave. At least take that.”

  She’d have to make sure to really stock up, so that next time didn’t happen for a while.

  Hopes Fort had seen its heyday when her grandparents were teenagers. The sugar plant and steel mill had been in operation then. They closed down after World War II. Work dried up, and most of the agriculture became unprofitable. None of the buildings downtown had been constructed later than about 1960.

  Another high school classmate who hadn’t left town was a manager at the Safeway. Evie had caused a mild scandal after graduation when she went to Los Angeles for college. Most people who left town went into the military, or if they went to college at all it was to one of the state universities before moving to the Denver suburbs to raise their 2.5 kids. Everyone was convinced she’d get shot on the L.A. freeways within months. They wanted to know if she’d have to wear a bulletproof vest to go to class.

  She traded a few pleasantries with the manager, who asked how Frank was doing. Evie said fine because she didn’t want to explain in any more detail—and more than that, she didn’t want to start crying.

  The store was almost empty. Many of the shelves were also empty. Evie piled her cart with what she could, mostly canned staples and dry goods. She pushed
her cart to the only open checkout lane and started unloading. Between her father’s ration coupons and her own, she was able to cover the haul.

  A man stepped into place behind her. She felt bad that he’d have to wait while the clerk rang up her cart. He only had a candy bar on the conveyor belt.

  He stood too close to her. She inched forward, away from him. And he inched forward, right up to her again. She tried to ignore him.

  “You’re Frank Walker’s daughter,” said a voice in her ear.

  She turned around to stare straight at him. He might have been a classmate from high school; he seemed about the right age. But she didn’t recognize him. He looked back expectantly. Slightly shorter than she, he had an olive complexion, tanned, with dark eyes and brown hair, thick and tousled. Clean-shaven. He wore a blue felt pea coat over a white oxford shirt, unbuttoned at the neck.

  “You a friend of my dad’s?”

  “Not really.”

  “Then how do you know that?” She took careful note of his features and tried to interpret his casual smile. She wondered if her father had reported his prowler to the police, or if he had gotten a description.

  “It’s a small town. Not hard to find things out.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I only wanted to meet you.”

  The clerk glanced up, then returned to swiping food over the sensor. Each item passed with a beep. Evie turned away from the stranger and dug in her pocket for her debit card. Strange, definitely strange. Strange the same way that guy in the duster back at the house yesterday was strange. His look was likewise unplaceable, his accent unidentifiable.

  She paid as quickly as she could and started putting the bags in her cart. The man paid for his candy bar, walked past her and out of the store without a second glance. She sighed, relieved.

  He was waiting for her at her car, standing by the rear bumper, hands in his pockets, watching for her. She stopped, gripped her cart hard, and considered going back into the store and calling the police.