Discord's Apple

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.