THREE

Phaeton’s stepfather hurried toward them at that moment, rolling up the scroll in his hand, an inventory of wheat bushels and breed-ewes, an estimate of the bountiful harvest to come.

Hearing the news, Merops asked at once, “Where is Cycnus?”

“I left him safe,” said Phaeton, realizing he had not given his cousin much thought, “in the apple orchard, I think.”

“Dear goddess of love,” breathed Merops, “I’m grateful for that.”

It was not the first time that the young man had felt impatience at his stepfather’s character. When confronted with bad news most men gave out a manly “by Hercules!” But quiet Merops whispered a prayer to the goddess Venus, like a philosopher.

Now Phaeton wondered as before why his mother hadn’t married a tough, sun-weathered adventurer with a hearty laugh – like the traders who bought horses from Merops early each summer, stallions bound for chariot duty in the far reaches of the world.

And so Phaeton’s heart leaped when Merops called for the farm-steward, and gave the command, “Arm the workers with scythes and axes.”

And Phaeton was glad to hear his stepfather add, “We’ll teach this griffin a lesson he won’t forget.”

Phaeton was proud of the sturdy band of servants and neighbors that marched quickly across the village square, brandishing scythes, boar spears, and cattle prods.

Old Aristander had donned one of his time-honored helmets, from the days when he crafted armor for sea traders and fought alongside them. The stout bronzesmith still fastened the fittings of his crocodile-skin armor as he outpaced all but Phaeton.

The veteran smiled at the young man and said, “We’ll cut out this monster’s gizzard, Phaeton, and have a tasty feast!”

The young man did not want to say what he was thinking, even as the old campaigner lifted his pelta – a crescent-shaped shield: Be careful, honored Aristander – your best fighting days are past.

Phaeton’s youthful half sisters joined them, long-limbed Phaethusa, nearly as fleet of foot as her brother, and Lampetia, who made birds and beasts out of red river clay.

Phaeton lifted a gentle hand to stay them. The anticipated violence was too dangerous for the very young, and Merops agreed, “Stay here in the village and guard the threshing ground,” said their kind-eyed father.

“Phaeton, bring me back a feather,” called Lampetia. “Please!”

Her half brother laughed and waved, wondering inwardly that his sisters knew so little of danger.

The band was a brave sight, Phaeton knew, and when Ino called out from the wellhead, where she helped one of her servant girls crank water out of the ground, Phaeton gave a wave.

“There’s trouble in the sheep field,” was all he would allow himself to say, imitating the terseness of warriors who had seen much violence.

“Phaeton, be careful!” called Ino, hurrying to join him.

The young woman had rarely spoken like this to Phaeton. They played drafts together, a board game with ivory pieces, and sometimes she sang for him, poems Phaeton had barely heard of, learned from ambassadors and river captains.

Some day he would write a song of his own, or memorize an epic, some artful way to prove his worth to her. But for now he could not trust himself to say anything further. Something about her struck him speechless, as so often before.

Phaeton was pleased to note, however, that the golden-haired young woman followed along, accepting a hunting lance from one of the field workers as the band stormed through the orchard, ready to battle the monster.

Perhaps, thought Phaeton, I’ll seize the griffin, and wound it somehow – as Ino watches.