New to the story or need a refresher? Begin with the prologue:
I wasn’t happy about it. Waking up in a disorderly den, that is.
In another context, my palace was the pinnacle of taste. It was everything a gentleman’s lodging should be: stylishly furnished, spacious, gold-trimmed, and with that elegant look that only comes from people not actually living in the space. I have several bedrooms, endless bathrooms, a courtyard, a vineyard, and a cellar that holds over two million bottles. Usually, each room is tidy and perfect.
Now, the smell of cigarettes and wine wafted through the halls. Priceless tapestries were torn, the floors had been redecorated with dents and scratches, and the bodies of heroes and gods alike littered every conceivable cushion, half-naked.
Sprawled out on the floor, at the foot of my bed, was Pan, snoring loudly. I would have gotten up and kicked his little hoof but realized not one, but two nymphs were nestled on top of my arms, one per side. To my left was an unknown lass who had a nice figure. She classed up the standard of my surroundings quite a bit. I had half a mind to go back to sleep and continue a blissful morning snuggle, but to my right was...Polydora.
I can’t recall ever dressing in such a hushed hurry in my immortal life. As a rule, I’m what you call a slowpoke. I’m careful. I want to linger over the shirt and see that the trousers sit just right. But this morning, I shoved on my things any which way, grabbed a bottle of white from my nightstand’s emergency stash, booked it out of my place, turned around to put the wine back, completed a fabulous half-turn toward sobriety, reconsidered being wineless, reclaimed the bottle, and left.
All within two minutes.
The stale mayhem inside my abode was tomorrow’s problem, even though my mind was set on reminding me of the night’s events. How anxious I was at the prospect of war. How Pan appeared and plastered over that anxiety by inviting over more and more people to rouse the spirits, including Clytie—who I only then realized was the unknown lass in my bed.
By the end, Pan convinced me to tell everyone about Jaden and Apollo, and I had the whole viewing party leaning into the tale instead of the season premiere of Gladiator Resurrection. The remembrance of the night hit me like a dull wine. One that lacks a bit of freshness, no worthwhile finish on the palette.
This was all Pan’s fault, I noted, as I wandered and opened my morning bottle. I wanted a quiet night home, while he made it a personal vendetta of his to make the night one long scream from start to finish. He kept me trapped in this notorious form of nonstop revelry, proving to be a trying experience for even the toughest.
I sipped and reflected.
It was not until I got to Silenus’s forest that I noticed my feet had led me out of Olympus. On autopilot, I had stepped down on tufts of clouds turned steps, which carried me off to the grove that Silenus, my foster father and mentor, had spruced up and called home.
“You’re up early,” Silenus said.
He was already seated cross-legged in the clearing when I arrived, framed by a quiet ring of lotus trees. The morning light filtered through their leaves and patterned his shoulders.
“I know. It’s pretty gross,” I said. “But I needed some fresh air.”
“Nature’s panacea.” Silenus patted the ground next to his shaggy legs. “Come sit.”
I lowered myself to the earth and, without thinking, offered him the bottle.
To my surprise, he took it. “The Midas D’or. I remember this one. It was an arid year. We even had to pull the weeds so the vines could keep enough water.” He breathed in the open bottle. “Fresh basil. A little bit of pumice, maybe? Ash too.” He handed back the wine without drinking. “How is it?”
“You could take a sip and see for yourself.” I leaned in conspiratorially. “I won’t tell anyone.”
“No, thank you.” The old geezer said it lightly.
If one didn’t know any better, one might think he secretly chaired an anti-wine movement or a league for the suppression of grapes.
“C’mon. You used to say that ‘the man who does not enjoy drinking wine is mad.’”
“I did.” Silenus gave me one of those knowing smiles that reached both ends of his broad, flat face. Actually, he was good at smiling and nodding these days. Those understanding expressions. “And it is still true. I simply embrace my madness now.”
I tipped the bottle and poured some out on the ground. “For you.”
“Many thanks.” His ears fluttered forward. While mainly human, he had some endearing, horse-like attributes.
“I think I’ve lost track of things these past several centuries. I can’t even remember the last time I’ve paid you a visit, Pappo.”
I only called him that because he felt less like a satyr and more like something priestly.
“Well, you’re here now, and that makes me happy.” There was no accusation in his tone. Not even nostalgia really. Just the truth.
“Anyway,” I added quickly, deflecting before sentiment could settle too deeply, “you look like you’ve lost some weight since the last time I saw you, old man.”
“It’s amazing how much of that was from all that wine.” He grabbed his stomach where the familiar curve once lived and laughed and laughed and laughed. He was still old and balding, but he looked more refined with a thinner, rolled-out look.
Pappo had discovered that wine was a food well in advance of civilization. He’d taught me everything I knew about viticulture, fermentation, and how to properly drink, being that he was a minor god of drunkenness and winemaking. To see him now—vegetarian, teetotaler, utterly devoted to reading—felt like watching a river decide to flow backward.
He rested his hands on his knees, “And how are things on Shangri-La?”
I caught him up to speed on everything. Jaden and Apollo. Pan and the parties. The prospect of gods clawing their divine flesh off each other’s bones. I ended with the following: “I’ve been drinking since I was little to endure the divine politics, but as much as I love wine, tossing back glass after glass to cope is starting to feel synonymous with warding off a plague of locusts with a mere fly swatter.”
“That bad, eh?” He rose slowly, dusted off his legs, and pressed one furry ear against the base of the nearest lotus tree.
“Yes,” I swirled the bottle. “Something is shifting. I can feel it.”
“War?” he asked, head still parallel to the ground.
“Poseidon didn’t use the word,” I continued, “but he didn’t have to. He’s been meeting with the Titans. And Hera’s been holding quiet meetings with gods who no longer reside on Olympus. I’ll tell you more about that later. But yes. It feels like the major players are gearing up for something and nobody’s naming it.”
“Hmm.” Silenus moved tree to tree, ear against bark, pausing as if waiting for a confession. “I thought everyone learned their lesson last time during the Titanomachy.”
The War of the Titans—the Titanomachy, if you prefer the dramatic title—was a brutal battle that dragged on for ten ugly years. Zeus, his brothers and sisters, a vast number of minor deities, and the cyclopes on one side against Zeus’s father, Cronus. His father, of course, was backed by the other gods and goddesses, the Titans. While the whole production ran before my time, Zeus, during the few times he was around in my youth, raised my siblings and me on those stories of his glory days. He spoke about battles renting the skies with a sense of pride. Rehashing the time when the land was drenched in divine blood put a light in the eyes of Ares or Athena, but I came away from hearing those stories with a sense of, no, take that away immediately. That’s dreadful.
“What are you listening for?” I asked.
“The ripest one. I can hear it if I listen carefully enough.” He finally stopped at a squat trunk, knocked three times at its base, and the tree shivered. A branch lowered itself obediently and offered fruit into his hands.
Pappo returned and settled beside me again, prying the pod open with steady fingers.
“Tell me plainly,” he said. “What do you actually know?”
I took a long sip of wine. “Poseidon is circling old alliances. That much is certain. To build them against whom? He didn’t say. My guess is Zeus. If there were ever a moment to test the throne, it would be now. The Dodecatheon feels fractured. And ambrosia…” I hesitated. “Ambrosia isn’t flowing the way it used to.
That made him pause too.
“Some of us have had to make do without it for some time now.”
The further you are from the Dodecatheon, the twelve major gods and goddesses who reign over everything, the further you are from the source of power. My mentor looked aged because he had gone off into the woods, let go of his ties to Olympus, and forsaken divine possessions. While his laughs came easy, the lines in his skin creased more easily.
“And if war were to come against Zeus, who would you side with?”
“How could you ask me that? I can’t think about taking sides.”
Pappo broke open the pod. “And what if you can’t just peep in the window? What if you get pulled into the house?”
“I won’t.”
“Because?”
“Because—” Having finished most of the bottle of wine, I felt that I was now able to deal with life’s problems “—Because I’m going to stop it. Whatever it is. Coup. Revolt. Posturing. I’m going to prevent it from becoming war.”
“You?”
“Yes, me,” I said a little frigidly. “Why are you surprised?”
“I’m not surprised. Maybe…concerned.”
“About what?”
“That you’re stuck in a bit of a loop.”
Pappo met my eyes as he spoke plainly.
“The other satyrs stop by from time to time, and I hear about some of your escapades together,” he continued. “They make the stories out to be all frivolous and fun, but I know there’s a cost to running in those circles. I was once in them. I’m sure you remember that I was the drunkest person in your retinue. So drunk that I spent half my time either propped up by satyrs or slung over donkeys. I was a hollowed shell of a god—not present for much of my life. My concern is how will you find a way to stop a war if you’re not even participating in your own experience?”
“I am participating,” I wanted to retort, but I found it difficult to lie to Pappo.
The honorable Papposilenus taught me to stand up straight, you know? That I was mighty, I was strong. He was the closest thing to a father to me. From an infant until now, he’s always looked out for me. And he always would until the end of his immortality.
War changed things. And someone like Pappo, without ambrosia, wouldn’t survive divine carnage. Maybe it was the thought of ever losing him. Maybe I was tired of all the hedonism, but I meant what I said: “I will prevent this war, but I need your help to give up wine.”
Of course, like any good addict worth their addiction, it was easy to sacrifice my substance right after a fix.