Discord’s Apple (9 page)

He didn’t argue, which made her wonder if this was a bad idea. She pulled back onto the highway and drove toward home. Her hands were sweaty on the plastic of the steering wheel.

He sat quietly, watching the road ahead. She tried to study him out of the corner of her eye, as if that would tell her what she needed to know about him.

“What are you looking for?” she said to break the silence. “You’ve been to see my dad before. He said he didn’t have anything for you.”

“Yes. At least he
says
there’s nothing.” He spoke with a tone of bitterness and frustration, like maybe he thought her father was lying.

“But what do you think is there? What do you want to find?”

He watched the yellow, wasted prairie scroll by the car window. He said, “I’m looking for something that will kill me.”

H
enrich Vanderen crossed the Atlantic to escape Napoléon, and to escape being drafted into the army in Prussia. Europe had suddenly become a small place, nations sprawling everywhere. Difficult for a man to be alone in, and to find a place where he would not be bothered. He spent the journey in the ship’s hold, using as a pillow the one bag he brought with him, a sturdy leather satchel closed by a drawstring.

It felt a little like betrayal, leaving the land of his fathers, of countless fathers who had come before him, fading into history like ghosts. At the same time, those ghosts urged him on. He must find a safe, isolated place where he wouldn’t be bothered. The ghosts knew what was important, and they passed that knowledge to him. Find a safe place, dig in deep, and remember.

In America, he could lose himself, and no one would think him odd for wanting anonymity. People who needed to find him would. They always did. He traveled to the frontier of the new country, as far as Europeans had traveled in the wild land, and carved himself a farm in Ohio. His stumbling English, broken with a German accent, was not so out of place here. And while the forest had many eyes, which he felt watching him when he traveled, he did not feel the iron breath of armies and governments down his back. He could start a family without fear that it would be snatched from him when he closed his eyes.

He built a cabin, and under it he dug a cellar that became a new Storeroom, housing ancient lyres, golden fleece, and glass slippers.

One morning, he opened the door of his cabin and saw a man sitting cross-legged in front of his house. He was one of the natives, with sun-reddened skin, raven-black hair, and a broad face. He wore what looked like long gaiters made of leather, and a breastplate made of porcupine quills.

When Henrich appeared, the man opened his eyes, as if he’d been asleep, sitting with his back straight and legs tucked under him. He stood gracefully, without propping himself on his hands. His hair shimmered, and Henrich saw that it wasn’t simply that his hair was shining black. He’d braided raven feathers into a tail down his back.

Henrich had heard stories of bloodthirsty natives, but he wasn’t afraid of this man.

The native man approached him, arms stretched before him, cupping something in his hands. He spoke with a rough voice, like the scratching cry of a bird, in a language Henrich didn’t understand. But the man gestured with his hands, and the meaning was clear. Instinct made him reach and accept the gift from the stranger.

The native put an ear of maize in his hands. Henrich met his dark-eyed gaze, and the man nodded decisively. Then he vanished into the woods at the other end of the space Henrich had cleared for his holding. A raven circled overhead.

Henrich put the maize in the Storeroom, with the rest of the treasures passed on from his ancestors into his safekeeping.

Men could be raped. Every boy who joined an army discovered that quickly enough. Early on, Sinon had learned to fight back—and to give in, occasionally, when the situation suited him. But he could not fight a god.

When he woke up, he was no longer in the temple at Troy. He lay on a pallet in a room that overlooked a garden. It might have been another temple in another town—Apollo had many temples. Or someplace that only the god himself knew. He was naked. His wounds had been cleaned. He was sore.

He didn’t remember being brought here. Apollo’s attentions toward him had lasted a long time, and he had passed out. He rubbed his eyes and let out a groan. The gods were supposed to ravish feckless girls, not hardened Achaean warriors.

“Some of us like hardened Achaean warriors.” Apollo stood at the archway to the next room. He wore a short tunic, belted loosely with a silk cord. Grinning, he crossed his arms. “As well as feckless girls.”

Slowly, minding the tender places, Sinon sat up. He found a chain hung around his neck like a collar. Touching it, he examined its round links of bronze, and couldn’t find a clasp.

“It will never come off,” Apollo said. “I sealed it around your neck myself. It shows that you belong to me. It ensures that you’ll be with me for a very long time.”

Sinon winced, confused. Then he thought of nothing at all. He didn’t want to give Apollo any more of himself if he could help it. If Apollo could take his very thoughts, he would keep his mind as still as possible. He would be empty as air.

You don’t die.

He looked away, suddenly feeling very much like that boy who’d set sail for Troy, untried, filling himself with excitement that would bury the fear. Now, after all these years, the fear won out. He squeezed shut his eyes.

He was Achaean. He was part of the army that broke Troy. He was friend to Odysseus. What would Odysseus do, were he here? Think of some way to trick the god. Be so awful a slave that Apollo would be grateful to let him go.

“I know what you’re thinking, boy, and it won’t work. I plan to make you like it here. You’ll find clothing in the chest by the bed and food on the table in the corner. Refresh yourself. If you need anything, simply think of me and I’ll come.” His smile was coy and arrogant. He was master here and enjoyed the games he played.

He slipped around the corner and was gone.

Sinon opened the wooden chest and found a silk tunic, short and functional, and leather sandals. He did not touch the food. If this was anything like the stories, eating the food would trap him here, like Persephone in the Underworld.

He explored. This wasn’t a temple, at least not like any kind that he knew. He went from room to room—richly furnished living quarters, sitting rooms of marble, and even libraries—looked out of a dozen porches, doors, and windows. Gardens lay in every direction—hedges, fruit trees, fountains, pools surrounded by lilies, vines, every color of flower, every scent of herb and nectar. He set out on a path that led away from the palace. When he passed the hedge that bounded the property, his steps slowed. Looking ahead, he saw more gardens and another gleaming marble palace. He looked behind, to the porch
he had just left. Then he ran ahead to this new structure. He ran through the new gardens, up the steps to the porch and through the archway to a small room.

It was the room where he’d woken up. It was the same chest by the pallet. He opened it to be sure, and found clothing arranged exactly as he’d left it. The food—fruit, cheese, wine—still sat on the table in the corner.

He went back outside, tried a different path, which again circled back to Apollo’s palace without ever curving. He ran, finding new paths, marking the ones he’d already tried by scattering rose petals at intersections. He must have run for miles, like Theseus in the labyrinth, searching for the one path that would take him away. But all paths returned to the palace.

Finally, he sat at the edge of a pool, letting his feet touch the murky, opaque water. He wasn’t as clever as Odysseus, not by half. That story he’d told to the Trojans—that was Odysseus’s story, and Odysseus would rightly get credit for it. Sinon was no hero.

Perhaps if he didn’t follow a
path
. . . He set off across a lawn, following no path at all. When he reached the hedge, he went
through
it, shoving into the mass of branches, not minding how the thorns clawed at him or the fine tunic he wore. He ripped his way to the other side, thinking he might actually find himself in a nonmagical garden this time.

At last, the branches gave way and he fell out of the hedge and onto a lawn. He brushed himself off, wincing at the stinging cuts on his arms.

Ahead stood a palace. The same palace he’d just left, the same garden, the same fountains. He looked behind, over the hedge to—the same palace. He was running in circles.

“It’s no use. You can’t leave until I say so.” Phoebus Apollo stood on the nearest path, twirling a rose between his fingers. “You’ll wear yourself out if you keep this up.”

Sinon squared his shoulders and met the sun god’s gaze.
Stupid pride—he should be on his knees. That was what gods wanted, for men to fall on their knees and praise them. Maybe that was what Apollo was waiting for, and as soon as he did, Sinon could leave.

Apollo looked like a man, not even a great man. He was rather short, his build slim, however sculpted his muscles appeared. If he were a man, Sinon could cut him to pieces. He had done nothing to inspire Sinon to fall on his knees in worship.

Except move the sun across the sky each day and create divine music.

Apollo said, “Speak to me, Sinon. I want to hear your voice. The Trojans say you have a lovely voice.”

If only Sinon had remained anonymous, one of the faceless Greek soldiers. He’d be sailing home with Odysseus now. Assuming someone else had been able to play his part in the scheme.

“I am not awed by you.”

“I know. That’s why I decided to keep you. When you realized who I was, you didn’t cower, beg, or pray. No, you fought bitterly. Or tried to, which I admire. You kept your pride. You still do.”

“What do you want of me?” he asked like a common prisoner of a common captor.

“Your service. I’m in need of a valet. Perhaps even a bodyguard—at least, I have the need to
pretend
I need a bodyguard.” He chuckled.

“I will not serve you.”

“Give it time.”

“I’ll drown myself in one of your ponds.”

“Try it.” Apollo made a gesture, and the rose in his hand became a sword. He tossed it at Sinon.

Sinon caught it by the grip and swept it in an arc to finish the motion of its flight. He hefted it, turning it to study its edge.

“Do it,” Apollo said. “Kill yourself and get the impulse out of your system.”

It was a trick. Sinon knew it was. The god wouldn’t have brought him here to torment him, only to watch him kill himself.

He didn’t want to kill himself. He never would have thought it, even if he’d been captured by the Trojans, tortured and enslaved while all his friends perished. Courage came in persevering. Odysseus taught him that. But this place was different. Did courage mean anything here?

He would not be a slave, not to the Trojans, not to a god.

He turned the sword, gripped it with both hands, set the point in the middle of his belly, just under his ribs. His heart was racing.
This isn’t right.
He gave his mind over to panic and stumbled forward, driving the sword in as he did.

Pain followed the metal through his flesh. Moaning, he fell to his knees. He stayed there, holding the wound, feeling blood pour over his hands.
Now I am a slave to Hades.

Apollo, a mocking curl to his lip, came to him, gripped the sword, and yanked it out. Sinon cried out and doubled over, holding his belly because he felt as if his guts were spilling out.

Then the pain lessened. The blood on his hands dried. His organs didn’t burst onto the grass. He straightened and looked, smoothing his hands over the front of his tunic. The cloth was still ripped, but the wound in his belly was gone. Healed.

“You cannot die.” Apollo used the bloody point of his sword to flick at the chain around his neck. “Another thing—in Troy they call you the Liar. I can’t have that here, for I am the god of Truth. As long as you wear that chain, you cannot lie.” He turned and went away.

Sinon collapsed, his breath coming in gasps, his mind flailing, refusing to understand.

I killed myself and did not die. I am neither alive nor dead now.

Time passed. Sinon lived in luxurious captivity, richly fed and clothed, lingering amid the entertainments of the Sun Palace. Apollo summoned the best musicians, dancers, and bards to perform for him. Sinon kept to the shadows, intensely jealous because the performers could leave at the end of the evening.

He ran. He jumped hedges and raced his shadow, as if still training to be a warrior. He made himself a wooden sword out of a tree branch and practiced hitting at shrubs, scattering leaves and broken branches around him on the lawn. Sweating deadened his mind and kept him from trying to be clever like Odysseus.

The sun never set on Apollo’s palace. Always, it was midday—always a little too warm, too bright. Tracking one day to the next was impossible.

One day, walking in the garden, he startled a woman who was bathing in one of the pools. She gasped, covering her breasts with her arms. He quickly turned away. With his luck, the Sun God’s sister had come for a visit, and he knew the stories that told what happened to men who spied Artemis at her bath.