In Homer's Shadow (part 1)

There are things you know you should not want, but that doesn’t stop you from wanting them anyway. Case in point: I knew when she saw me walking that I should come no closer. I should have run, right then. A shadow seemed to fall over the area; I could have sworn it was brighter just a moment before. Even in the darkness, she seemed to glow more beautiful than anything I could imagine. She saw me, and stopped me, and asked me if I knew her name.

“I know,” I replied. “Perhaps I have always known it.”

She offered me her hand, but I refused to take it. She became angry, staring me down. “Perhaps you would prefer my sister,” she said, “for all the good she would do you.” I could hear the hatred and venom in her voice. Even that was not unattractive.

“She was Virgil’s Muse, after all,” I replied, “and Ovid’s as well.”

“Virgil! And who is Virgil?”

“Virgil was—”

“I know who he was, and what he tried to do. But in the end, what good was it?”

“Virgil—”

“If Virgil had done what he tried to do,” she said, “you and I would not be having this conversation.”

I looked up into the sky, at the stars, and focused on one—a little, flickering red star, high above me. “To answer your question,” I said, trying to take control, “I would not have Erato, either—or any of your sisters, for that matter. I would have nothing to do with any of you, were it up to me. You are nine in number, and the Greeks believed that to be a number of ill omen.”

“But the one you call ‘Master’ used it as a symbol of love, did he not? Why then do you not love us—why do you pretend you do not love me?” She reached out her hand again, and I pulled away. Her face twisted in rage (though it did not diminish in beauty) and she yelled at me in an angry, wounded voice: “Your sin against me is a greater insult than Madoc’s ever was.”

I tried to answer, but my mouth was dry. She held my gaze, eyes burning with rage. And she was so breathtakingly, agonizingly beautiful.

She must have seen the look on my face, confused at being compared to Madoc. “Are you surprised? You entered this world of ours when you first took up a pen.”

Suddenly I was surrounded—Minerva appeared out of the shadows, her arrow at my chest, ready to strike my heart. Jove was clearly seen over head, his lightning barely restrained above me, hiding the stars. Neptune and Pluto both came forward, standing far off. Juno looked at me with disdain. They were all around, the Muses ringing me—and Calliope still there, still utterly, painfully beautiful.

At the edge of the shadow, Dionysius danced around the circle, singing his song at the top of his lungs.

But I could hear Calliope all the same, offering me the world. Still I refused.

Then one of the gods stepped forward, and my heart sank. The Judge was there, the fullness of his light before me. He was standing just beside Calliope, the angry glare on his face matching hers. He held out his hand, and my heart jumped when I saw what he held. “Do you know what this is?” he demanded.

“It is a laurel crown.”

“Kneel before Calliope, kiss her, and I will give the crown to you.”