Sons of Troy

Chapter One

It was no simple thing to stretch the life of a human beyond its natural measure. Kyros could feel her soul, like a sheet of silk made to cover too much and fraying at the edge. She had not been like this the first time. Then she had been bright and shining, a thing of drying lavender and honey, over-soaked in sunlight. He flexed his power, tugging at her mortality.

They all wanted to live forever, to cheat death as they liked to say; it made them happy to think of themselves as a stone in the river, resisting the current that drowned all the others. Except there was no cheating. The Fates never miscounted, and the ferryman was always paid.

There was little that he could do for her, but not nothing. She would live another year, but not longer.

He motioned for his assistants, they blew out the candles and opened a window to clear away the smoke. A cup of cool mint tea was placed in his hand on his way out of the room.

On to the next patient.

He saw 21 patients by the end of the day and earned millions for his house. The humans paid handsomely for the services of the nymphs and that had become their fate, after the gods died, bartering services to humanity. They were forced into the world, to live and die.

The fate of the lesser gods was not something the Kyros thought about much. He was barely sixty years old – born generations after the fall. The golden days of Olympus were stories to him, history even as they had been for his mother and his grandmother. There was no eye left in the world that had looked on the face of Zeus.

Kyros packed up his supplies; gathered the unused herbs, wrapping and storing them, placing the tools of his craft safely into their cases. The attendants would soon be by to collect them, ready for the journey home.

House Astara of Cyrene operated nine hospitals. They all employed human medical teams to assist their patients with simpler needs. Their doctors and nurses dispensed salves and elixirs of healing and recovery.

One day every three months, those nymphs graced in healing came and performed their works of divinity. The journey between facilities took them away from Cyrene for two weeks but the gold they were paid outweighed the risks in leaving the safety of the city.

They came and took his things, his bags and boxes, and he followed behind. Their ship called Adrestia, thankfully invisible to human eyes, was resting on the front lawn of the hospital. It was stunning. The body was blue, and the details were painted on in gold and silver. The sails were white and billowing out, itching to catch the wind.

They sailed by secret waters, on the path's unknown to humans. They lived there too, in the world beyond the earth. From the palace of Cyrene, on a clear and cloudless day, Kyros could see Mount Olympus; what was left of it. The top was jagged, now black and sharp and twisted by fire.

One of the crewmen called him over. "My Lord!" he said, "We are soon to depart."

Kyros nodded and boarded, eager for the journey, if not their destination. The other healers, his cousins many times removed, boarded the ship, and slipped below deck to their waiting fortress of plump silk cushions and heavy brocade curtains.

He did not join them.

Instead, after their door was closed and the guard was firmly stationed, he took off his robes, trading them for the lighter chiton worn by the sailors. It wrapped around his waist and was secured by a belt. He opted not to wear anything over his chest and kicked his sandals off into the chest.

The wind pushed through his golden hair and the sun warmed his skin - by the end he would be bronze, glowing in the afternoon light. He relished the feel of the wooden planks beneath his feet, the freedom of it all.