Discord's Apple

He shouldn’t. What would he say when he got there? “Yes.”

He still knew the way to Odysseus’s manor. He led Prometheus there.

It, too, seemed the same: a stucco wall surrounded the house, but the wooden gate stood wide open, welcoming visitors. Chickens scratched in the dirt, children played with dogs, women worked in the yard spinning wool and hanging wash to dry. Odysseus had lands with tenants, servants and wealth. He was as much a king as Agamemnon had ever been, though unlike Agamemnon, Odysseus had never cared for crowns or displays of power.

Sinon stood at the gate for a long time, hugging himself under his cloak. Prometheus waited for him, and Sinon was about to give in to his second thoughts and turn around, when a boy almost grown, fifteen or sixteen years old, came around the corner and leaned on the wall. He had dark shoulder-length hair and a proud tilt to his chin.

“Sirs, are you needing shelter?”

I know that face, Sinon thought. He glanced away to hide his look of wonder.

Prometheus had to speak for them. “I was told in the village that this house is famous for its hospitality.”

The boy beamed, his smile lighting his face. “It is! That is, if the guests are polite. This is the house of Odysseus, my grandfather. Have you heard of Odysseus?”

“Of course I have. His tales are famous from one end of the Mediterranean to the other.”

“I’ll go get my father. Come in!” The boy stepped between them, took them by their elbows, and pulled them into the yard. Then he ran off behind the house.

“Friendly lad,” Prometheus said with a grin.

Sinon studied the house and its yard, the work going on, every face that eyed him curiously and gave him a smile. This was the life he might have had. A wife and children. A farm. Laughter.

He couldn’t go back.

A moment later, the boy returned, running ahead of a slim man of middle age. He had gray in his dark hair and beard, but his expression was bright, his body strong, and his long stride almost kept up with the boy’s enthusiasm.

“Father, here are the strangers!” the boy said proudly, as if he had found treasure.

The older man smiled and came forward. “Give me your arms, strangers, and rest with us awhile. I am Telemachus. This is my youngest son, Polymedes.”

Prometheus offered his hand, and the men gripped each other’s wrists. Telemachus repeated the gesture with Sinon.

Sinon said, “Son of Odysseus. I am honored to meet you.” He had his father’s eyes. Gods, Odysseus must be so proud of him.“I am—Call me Phaetus.”

“And I am Inachus,” said Prometheus.

“Welcome. Come in and take rest.”

The boy Polymedes ran ahead, and Sinon asked, “How many children do you have?”

“Ten, may the gods help me.” He laughed.

Telemachus guided them inside and brought food and drink while they sat at a table near the hearth. The household gathered for the evening meal, and everyone treated them as honored guests. Prometheus sat at Telemachus’s right hand, Sinon sat beside Prometheus, and they listened to the stories of the day: of cats that caught mice, of a child learning to walk, of a fisherman’s son courting a daughter of the household.

Sinon knew what he looked like—a strapping warrior of perhaps thirty years of age, a little worn by travel, but at his prime. Certainly not old enough to have seen Troy fall. Telemachus would think himself a good twenty or thirty years older. Sinon tried to remember that, and when his host asked questions about where he came from and what he did with himself, he tried to make appropriate answers—answers that weren’t lies and yet hid the truth. I’ve worked as a sailor. We fought off pirates once. Prometheus spoke little, watching the proceedings with a pleased smile.

Before the meal was served, Polymedes and a maiden a year or two older than he entered, between them guiding an ancient man stooped with age, his hair thinned to wisps. Before thinking, Sinon stood, leaning on the table to steady himself. He had prepared himself for this sight. Nonetheless, he wasn’t ready for it.

Telemachus leaned over to whisper to Prometheus and Sinon.

“The storytellers call him Many-Minded. I must warn you: Age has taken most of those minds from him. My mother’s death last year nearly destroyed him. But I still honor him as head of this household. At least in spirit.” He moved to take his son’s place by the old man’s side and helped guide him to the head of the table.

Odysseus, his skin gray and loose on his bones, swatted them away. “Leave me, leave me. I’m not crippled, curse the lot of you.” His voice cracked, and he kept shaking his head. His eyes were clouded.

Sinon thought he might weep.

The girl said, “Grandfather, remember your manners. We have guests this evening.”