He spoke confidingly, as if I understood. But all I knew of war came from my father’s stories of the Titans. I sipped my wine.
“War has always seemed to me a foolish choice for men. Whatever they win from it, they will have only a handful of years to enjoy before they die. More likely they will perish trying.”
“Well, there is the matter of glory. But I wish you could’ve spoken to our general. You might have saved us all a lot of trouble.”
“What was the fight over?”
“Let me see if I can remember the list.” He ticked his fingers. “Vengeance. Lust. Hubris. Greed. Power. What have I forgotten? Ah yes, vanity, and pique.”
“Sounds like a usual day among the gods,” I said.
He laughed and held up his hand. “It is your divine privilege to say so, my lady. I will only give thanks that many of those gods fought on our side.”
Divine privilege. He knew I was a goddess then. But he showed no awe. I might be his neighbor, whose fence he leaned over to discuss the fig harvest.
“Gods fought among mortals? Who?”
“Hera, Poseidon, Aphrodite. Athena, of course.”
I frowned. I had heard nothing of this. But then, I had no way to hear anymore. Hermes was long gone, my nymphs did not care for worldly news, and the men who sat at my tables thought only of their appetites. My days had narrowed to the ambit of my eyes and my fingers’ ends.
“Fear not,” he said, “I will not tax your ear with the whole long tale, but that is why my men are so scraggled. We were ten years fighting on Troy’s shores, and now they are desperate to get back to home and hearth.”
“Ten years? Troy must be a fortress.”
“Oh, she was stout enough, but it was our weakness that drew the war out, not her strength.”
This too surprised me. Not that it was true, but that he would admit it. It was disarming, that wry deprecation.
“It is a long time to be away from home.”
“And now it is longer still. We sailed from Troy two years ago. Our journey back has been somewhat more difficult than I would have wished.”
“So there is no need to worry about the loom,” I said. “By now your wife will have given up on you and invented a better one herself.”
His expression remained pleasant, but I saw something shift in it. “Most likely you are right. She will have doubled our lands too, I would not be surprised.”
“And where are these lands of yours?”
“Near Argos. Cows and barley, you know.”
“My father keeps cows himself,” I said. “He favors a pure-white hide.”
“They are hard to breed true. He must husband them well.”
“Oh, he does,” I said. “He cares for nothing else.”
I was watching him. His hands were wide and calloused. He gestured with his cup now here, now there, sloshing his wine a little, but never spilling it. And never once touching it to his lips.
“I am sorry,” I said, “that my vintage is not to your liking.”
He looked down as if surprised to see the cup still in his hand. “My apologies. I’ve been so much enjoying the hospitality, I forgot.” He rapped his knuckles on his temple. “My men say I would forget my head if it weren’t on my neck. Where did you say they’ve gone again?”
I wanted to laugh. I felt giddy, but I kept my voice as even as his. “They’re in the back garden. There’s an excellent bit of shade to rest in.”
“I confess I’m in awe,” he said, “they’re never so quiet for me. You must have had quite an effect on them.”
I heard a humming, like before a spell is cast. His gaze was a honed blade. All this had been prologue. As if we were in a play, we stood.
“You have not drunk,” I said. “That is clever. But I am still a witch, and you are in my house.”
“I hope we may settle this with reason.” He had put the goblet down. He did not draw his sword, but his hand rested on the hilt.
“Weapons do not frighten me, nor the sight of my own blood.”
“You are braver than most gods then. I once saw Aphrodite leave her son to die on the field over a scratch.”
“Witches are not so delicate,” I said.
His sword hilt was hacked from ten years of battles, his scarred body braced and ready. His legs were short but stiff with muscles. My skin prickled. He was handsome, I realized.
“Tell me,” I said, “what is in that bag you keep so close at your waist?”
“An herb I found.”
“Black roots,” I said. “White flowers.”
“Just so.”
“Mortals cannot pick moly.”
“No,” he said simply. “They cannot.”
“Who was it? No, never mind, I know.” I thought of all the times Hermes had watched me harvest, pressed me about my spells. “If you had the moly, why did you not drink? He must have told you that no spell I cast could touch you.”
“He did tell me,” he said. “But I have a quirk of prudence in me that’s hard to break. The Trickster Lord, for all I am grateful to him, is not known for his reliability. Helping you turn me into a swine would be just his sort of jest.”
“Are you always so suspicious?”
“What can I say?” He held out his palms. “The world is an ugly place. We must live in it.”
“I think you are Odysseus,” I said. “Born from that same Trickster’s blood.”
He did not start at the uncanny knowledge. He was a man used to gods. “And you are the goddess Circe, daughter of the sun.”
My name in his mouth. It sparked a feeling in me, sharp and eager. He was like ocean tides indeed, I thought. You could look up, and the shore would be gone.
“Most men do not know me for what I am.”
“Most men, in my experience, are fools,” he said. “I confess you nearly made me give the game away. Your father, the cowherd?”
He was smiling, inviting me to laugh, as if we were two mischievous children.
“Are you a king? A lord?”
“A prince.”
“Then, Prince Odysseus, we are at an impasse. For you have the moly, and I have your men. I cannot harm you, but if you strike at me, they will never be themselves again.”
“I feared as much,” he said. “And, of course, your father Helios is zealous in his vengeances. I imagine I would not like to see his anger.”
Helios would never defend me, but I would not tell Odysseus that. “You should understand your men would have robbed me blind.”
“I am sorry for that. They are fools, and young, and I have been too lenient with them.”
It was not the first time he had made that apology. I let my eyes rest on him, take him in. He reminded me a little of Daedalus, his evenness and wit. But beneath his ease I could feel a roil that Daedalus never had. I wanted to see it revealed.
“Perhaps we might find a different way.”
His hand was still on his hilt, but he spoke as if we were only deciding dinner. “What do you propose?”
“Do you know,” I said, “Hermes told me a prophecy about you once.”
“Oh? And what was it?”
“That you were fated to come to my halls.”
“And?”
“That was all.”
He lifted an eyebrow. “I’m afraid that is the dullest prophecy I’ve ever heard.”
I laughed. I felt poised as a hawk on a crag. My talons still held the rock, but my mind was in the air.
“I propose a truce,” I said. “A test of sorts.”
“What sort of test?” He leaned forward a little. It was a gesture I would come to know. Even he could not hide everything. Any challenge, he would run to meet it. His skin smelled of labor and the sea. He knew ten years of stories. I felt keen and hungry as a bear in spring.
“I have heard,” I said, “that many find their trust in love.”
It surprised him, and oh, I liked the flash of that, before he covered it over.