“But my father—”
You are its heir.
Marcus’s knees gave way. He sat on the dirt floor and tried to catch his breath. He was sixteen. Only sixteen. Nearly a man, yes, but—he wasn’t ready. He’d inherited the knowledge all in a terrible flash, a burst like death. Even at the first, he’d understood what it meant. That was why he’d screamed.
He wanted to give it all back.
Part of him believed it was a mistake. The gods had visited a fit upon him, a false vision. He climbed the stairs slowly. He had to know. He’d see his father striding through the door, and Marcus would demand from him some explanation for what was happening to him, and what the cellar Storeroom really meant.
Pale, shaking, he reached the house’s main room just as someone rushed through the archway. Not his father, but his younger brother Tonius.
The boy was flushed and shouting. “Marcus, please, hurry. Father’s fallen, out in the field. He isn’t breathing, he won’t wake up, you must come help him—”
Marcus closed his eyes and wept. Bitterly, he wished his father had died slowly, of creeping old age, as fathers were supposed to. If Marcus had to carry this burden at all, he’d rather have taken it on in small parcels, so that he might not notice the growing weight of it.
12
A voice woke Sinon. “Come to me. I need you.”
It wasn’t a sound, but a thought in his mind, put there by Apollo. A holy summons.
Sinon rolled onto his back, folded his hands under his head, and stared at the ceiling, painted gray in the light filtering through the curtains hung around his pallet. It was never night in the Palace of the Sun, and he couldn’t sleep without the curtains. He sighed. We won the war, he thought. What trick of the gods made me a slave, then? I should have fought harder for my freedom.
It was a useless thought, which he nonetheless considered often.
He rose, dressed, and went to Apollo’s bedchamber.
One might have expected the place to be sumptuous, decadent. In fact, it was the opposite, simple and comfortable. This wasn’t where he entertained or impressed. This was where he lived. A table held cups and a pitcher, a pair of chests sat against a wall for storage, a wide pallet occupied a corner. The drapes over the windows were closed. A lamp by the bed cast a little light.
Apollo stood from the bed. “Pour me some wine.”
Sinon did so, bringing Apollo the cup.
Apollo took it and drained it in one go, then tossed the cup away. The bronze goblet clattered on the stone. “Tell me, Sinon. Do you like me?”
Sinon couldn’t lie. If he tried, his jaw froze. The no that he wanted to spit died on his tongue.
“I don’t know, my lord.”
“How can you not know?”
“You—you’re very difficult, my lord.”
Apollo grinned slyly. “But I’m not entirely unlikable?”
“No, my lord.”
Apollo tipped his head back, flexing his shoulders, stretching his neck. The god commanded him, “Make love to me, my Achaean warrior.”
This was an old routine by now. Apollo had once told Sinon he enslaved him because of his pride. Apollo occasionally wanted to feel weak—a difficult problem for a god. Sinon supposed Apollo thought he had solved it, in possessing a proud slave.
He was taller than Apollo, when Apollo was wearing what Sinon thought of as his human form. When the god had been mortal, this was how he had looked: slender and young. What he had learned, watching this god—this man—over the years: Apollo was lonely. For all his power, he had to command someone to make love to him. Sinon could almost feel pity for him. In that, he found some affection for his master.
Sinon touched Apollo’s chin, tilted his face up, and kissed his lips, long and lingering. Apollo melted into his arms.
He had some small power over a god, which when he thought about it was terribly ironic.
Later, Apollo slept curled against Sinon like a child, his head resting against the other’s shoulder. Sinon’s breath stirred his golden hair. Lightly, he ran a finger along the beardless cheek. The god fit so compactly in his embrace. It was almost enough to make him feel protective. He kissed the top of Apollo’s head.