Updates from Mount Olympus

The order came wrapped in the language of peace.

That was how Zeus preferred such things.

Not conquest.
Not punishment.
Especially not fear.

Order.

From his throne above Olympus, Zeus gazed westward toward the shining coast ruled by Poseidon, where the city beside the sea had filled with shouting voices and raised fists. Mortals crowded the streets beneath banners and smoke, angry over raids against poor foreigners carried out in the name of divine law. Some overturned carts. Some shattered windows. Most simply demanded to be heard before the heavens crushed them flat.

To Zeus, the distinction no longer mattered.

“They spit on authority,” he declared, lightning flickering lazily between his fingers. “They mock the law while hiding behind it.”

The lesser gods nodded quickly.
Some because they agreed.
Most because hesitation had become dangerous.

And so Zeus summoned the bronze-clad guardians.

Just enough force to remind mortals what power looked like.

When some tried to warn him against it, he only scoffed.

“Wisdom is what people call cowardice when they fear action.”

So the guardians marched.

Down from the hills they came, shields gleaming beneath the California sun, standing before government halls and detention chambers while mortals filmed them with tiny glowing mirrors held in trembling hands. The city stiffened at the sight.

Some cheered.
Many did not.

And from the western sea rose Poseidon.

Not from foam and myth, but from polished halls overlooking the coast he claimed as his own. The sea god carried no thunderbolt. He did not need one. The tide itself moved with him.

“You cannot simply deploy your guardians because the crowd embarrasses you,” Poseidon proclaimed. “This is not protection. It is theater.”

“Theater?” Zeus repeated. “Of course it is theater. Rule has always been theater. A throne is only wood and gold until someone fears the man sitting in it.”

But then came the judgment.

Not from Olympus.
From below.

Magistrates emerged from the marble halls of law and declared the decree unlawful. The words spread across the empire faster than wildfire through a dry field.

Orders he did not have the authority to give.
Violation of sacred balance.
An abuse of the powers entrusted to the heavens.

The mortals celebrated the ruling as though law itself had awakened from a long sleep.

Zeus did not celebrate.

The storm gathered instantly around Olympus.

“You dare lecture me on authority?” Zeus roared. “Without me there is no order. Without me your city would devour itself.”

But the decree lingered in the air longer than thunder ever could.

For the first time in weeks, the gods looked at one another before looking at Zeus.

And Zeus noticed.

That was what enraged him most.

Not resistance.
Not protest.
Not even disobedience.

The hesitation.

So he struck back the only way he could.

“If Poseidon obstructs divine order,” Zeus proclaimed, “perhaps he should be dragged before the courts himself.”

The words landed like a spear hurled into a crowded banquet.

“Yes, I would chain my own brother for obstruction,” Zeus declared, not waiting for anyone to ask the question.

There was always a correction.

Below Olympus, mortals argued endlessly over whether Zeus truly meant it. His followers called it strength. His critics called it madness. The scribes spent entire evenings debating whether the threat itself mattered more than whether it would happen.

But threats were never really about action.

They were about atmosphere.

And Zeus understood atmosphere better than anyone.

Still, the cracks widened.

The gods of distant provinces whispered among themselves now, wondering whether their authority existed at all beyond Zeus’s patience. Merchants grew nervous. Judges spoke more cautiously. Even the priests who praised Zeus each morning began choosing their words with greater care.

Because once a king threatens to chain another king for defiance, every throne hears the rattle.

Poseidon did not rage publicly at first.

He stood upon the western cliffs overlooking the sea, waves crashing violently against the rocks below and gave a dry laugh.

“The sea endured storms long before Zeus learned to throw lightning.”

Far below, the tide battered the shore with patient fury.

“He mistakes fear for loyalty,” Poseidon continued. “That is the mistake all leaders make when too many people applaud out of survival.”

But Zeus was already looking elsewhere.

To the east.

To the marble capital where monuments rose like temples to dead ideals and soldiers now lingered at every gate. Washington had always fascinated Zeus. Not because it resisted him, but because it once believed itself eternal.

And Zeus hated rivals to eternity.

So more guardians were deployed there too.

More shields.
More helmets.
More reminders.

Officially, it was precaution.
Protection.
Security.

It always was.

But the mortals walking beneath those pale monuments felt the same chill spreading through the empire—that strange sensation that Olympus no longer trusted the earth beneath it.

Soon the streets were quieter than usual.

Not calmer.

Quieter.

The taverns still served wine.
The markets still bustled.
The banners still waved.

But everyone now glanced upward whenever thunder rolled, even on cloudless days.

The city obeyed. But it only obeyed the way mortals seem to when they know a storm is coming.

Once, Zeus ruled through spectacle.
Then through fear.
Now through presence alone.

Guardians at every gate.
Thunder behind every sentence.
A warning folded into every proclamation.

And yet the strangest thing was this:

The more soldiers Zeus placed among the mortals, the smaller Olympus appeared.

Because thunder loses something when it must patrol every street corner.

And an empire that deploys its guardians everywhere eventually reveals what it fears most:

That without them, no one may listen anymore.

The break did not happen all at once.
But when it did happen, everyone noticed what it was.

It began, as so many quarrels did, with a message carried too far, too quickly and spoken too loudly. Some called it a joke. Others saw it as a tantrum. But in the halls of Olympus, where those who made the decisions lived, the truth was known, in all its context.

Prometheus stood in the agora below the mountain, no throne beneath him, no crown upon his brow. Only that restless glow behind his eyes and the disappointed lines etched into his face. Mortals gathered—not in worship, but in curiosity. They had learned, slowly, that when Prometheus spoke plainly, it was usually because something had already gone wrong.

“I am done pretending,” he said, voice ringing sharper than iron on stone. “I am done supporting his self-promotion.”

Word traveled quickly. These days, how could it not?

Zeus heard it reclining amid his clouds, a goblet in hand, laughter still echoing from the last feast. When he read the message repeating Prometheus’s words—embellished, sharpened, made cruder with every retelling—the laughter stopped.

Prometheus, they said, had called the King of Gods bloated with excess.
Orange with borrowed glory.
A tyrant drunk on his own reflection.

Zeus rose slowly.

“He forgets his place,” Zeus growled, smiling in the way that never reached his eyes. “He always does.”

But Prometheus had not finished.

“He wraps himself in strength,” Prometheus continued below. “But strength that serves only itself is just weight. Dead weight. The kind that sinks ships and calls it destiny.”

A murmur ran through the crowd.

“And let us speak plainly of virtue,” Prometheus said, his voice lowering. “Of the sacred oaths Zeus pretends to guard. Of the islands where shadows feast while thunder looks away. Of the friends he swears he never knew, until the wine loosens his tongue and the stories spill out.” He paused for effect. “Yes, I know he spent some time at Tartarus. His name is documented to have been there in the recent investigation.”

That did it.

The sky darkened instantly. Not with a storm—Zeus was not yet that angry—but with attention.

“You dare,” Zeus thundered at last, his voice crashing down the mountainside. “You, who would not be anything without the opportunity I gave you.”

Prometheus laughed.

“With or without you, I would have made it. If you hadn’t acknowledged me, if we hadn’t made our deal where you let me stay free in exchange for my knowledge, you know where you would be now.”

Zeus banged his fist upon hearing that. The gods took sides faster than they admitted.

Hermes continued carrying messages between them, but spent time he wasn’t working just on earth. The lesser gods whispered about who would be invited to which feasts next season, and which doors would quietly close.

Zeus tried mockery first.

“He’s angry,” Zeus proclaimed from Olympus. “Very angry. Always has been. Says he speaks for the people now. Very noble. Very sad.”

Thunder rolled on cue.

But Prometheus answered not with denial, but departure.

“I am building something else,” he declared. “Not for those who already sit at the table, but for the other eighty percent standing outside the hall. A place where resources are not hoarded and sold back at a premium.”

He gestured toward the horizon.

“And when I go, do not pretend you will not follow.”

The names fell like sparks.

Great merchants. Architects of markets. Men who once dined happily beneath Zeus’s clouds but now counted the cost of every thunderbolt. Hermes asked Prometheus one night, at a dinner, why it was happening like this.

“They will come,” Prometheus said calmly. “Because I build. He only frightens.”

“That’s not true,” Hermes replied. Prometheus chuckled.

“Zeus rules the sky. I provided the fire. But you, Hermes? Hermes owns the roads. And sooner or later, everyone kneels to the road. You live by your wits, say the right thing depending on the moment, knowing no matter what happens, you’ll get something. Must be nice.”

Hermes did not demand worship. He offered convenience. And soon no one remembered how to walk without him.

From Olympus, Zeus sneered.

“Let them go,” he said. “I don’t need them. Never did.”

But even as he spoke, the clouds shifted uneasily. Thunder is loud, but it is fleeting.

Zeus hurled a bolt—not at Prometheus, not yet—but into the sea, a reminder to the world of what rebellion earned. The waves boiled. The mortals gasped.

Prometheus did not flinch.

“Your father can strike if he must,” he said. “But know this: every time he does, more people will learn to see the storm for what it is.” Hermes relayed this to his father before returning to Earth.

For the first time since the decree, Zeus felt it.

It was not doubt from below.
It was something colder.

Abandonment.

Prometheus turned away from Olympus then, not cast out, not fleeing, but walking away by choice—already outlining a new city in his mind, already imagining a sky without thunder.

Behind him, Zeus stood alone on his clouded throne, lightning trembling in his grip.

He still ruled the heavens.
But for the first time, the fire was not his.

And thunder, without an audience, is just noise.

When the decree was finally etched into a stone tablet and carried down from Olympus, the mortals were told it would improve their lives. That it was a gift.

A great gift.
A beautiful one.

Zeus himself had signed it, his name pressed deep and jagged into the stone, as though the lightning had guided his hand. The scribes called it a single act, whole and indivisible, though anyone with eyes could see it was stitched together from many bargains, many favors, many debts owed to the powerful and the loud.

Below, the people squinted up at the mountain.

Some cheered. Some groaned. Most simply waited.

From his throne of cloud and gold, Zeus beamed.

“At last,” he declared, spreading his arms wide, thunder rolling behind him at his signal. “Relief for the people. Strength for the realm. Prosperity, tremendous prosperity.”

He did not mention the cost.

He never did.

The law promised lighter burdens for merchants and lords, smoother paths for those who already rode high. Money would flow faster where money already flowed. The clever would find new loopholes, wide enough to improve their livelihoods.

For the rest, there would be discipline.
Efficiency.
Sacrifice. For the greater good, if richer meant greater.

Zeus called it balance.

Prometheus did not.

Chained no longer to his rock—though the scars still marked him—Prometheus watched the signing from the edge of the divine court. He had been invited, though only as an advisor.

He had spoken then of waste.
Of excess.
Of fires burning without warming anyone.

Now he laughed, sharp and humorless.

“That is not balance,” Prometheus said, loud enough that a few lesser gods turned their heads. “That is a feast where the hosts eat first and tell the guests to be grateful for the scraps.”

Zeus’s smile tightened.

“You never were much for politics,” Zeus replied. “You have always been unnecessarily sentimental.”

Prometheus stepped forward, gesturing toward the decree.

“You call it one law, one big beautiful decree,” he responded, emphasizing the word “beautiful”. “But you know it is nothing more than a sack of bribes. You promise strength while bleeding the future. You boast of the world saving sacrifices while you get more than ever. This—” he tapped the stone “—is not restraint. It is disappointing pork-filled indulgence disguised as poetry which will undermine work that I have done to make their business more efficient.”

The court fell quiet.

Zeus rose.

The air thickened. Clouds darkened. Even the confident gods shifted their weight, remembering old stories about thunder hurled too casually.

“You presume much,” Zeus said. “You, who stole fire and think yourself the friend of mortals. They want this. They cheer my name.”

“Some do,” Prometheus answered. “Others will feel it later. When the healers close their doors. When the grain runs thin. When you tell them the treasury is empty—after you have given it all away.”

Zeus waved a hand in his usual dismissive gesture.

“Details. The future always complains. Have you forgotten that this decree is not just me, we all voted on it.”

“And it barely passed. If the non-voting members, including myself, had been given votes, it wouldn’t have. One could argue it didn’t even get a majority vote, like you when you first became the leader.”

“As I said, details,” Zeus replied, his eyes showing a frown as he was reminded of that day.

The decree descended into the world all the same.

In the days that followed, heralds proclaimed victory. Markets surged like worshippers at a festival. Lords toasted the wisdom of Zeus. Priests assured the people that any pain would be temporary, necessary for building the resilience that would carry them into the future.

But in quieter places, different conversations took root.

Physicians counted less money for more work.

Caretakers spoke of harder choices being made.
Tenant farmers wondered why the storm never struck uphill, at the houses of their lords.

Prometheus took to the roads, speaking not as a god, but as a witness.

“This was not forged for you,” he told artisans and soldiers alike. “It was forged over you.”

For this, Zeus mocked him openly.

“He’s just a bitter man,” Zeus told the masses, reclining once more. “Still angry I didn’t let him run Olympus.”

He sent thunder crashing nearby—not to strike Prometheus, not yet—but close enough to remind everyone who was really in charge.

But Prometheus did not recant. He did not beg for mercy or try to flee.

He merely repeated himself, over and over, like a man explaining gravity to those who didn’t care.

“Fire illuminates,” he said. “It also burns. What matters is who holds the torch, and who stands beneath it.”

From Olympus, Zeus watched the murmurs spread. Not panic. Not rebellion.

Doubt.

He scowled.

The law was signed.
The storm had passed.
The damage—or the triumph—would take time to reveal itself.

And Zeus, for all his thunder, hated waiting.

Long after his time as king of Pylos had ended, and the position was taken by another, King Nestor sat beneath the olive trees, his hands trembling as he read the message brought by his healers.

The message was clear:
A sickness stirred within him—a sickness born of time, that unchecked for too long, was already part of him, embedded in his bones.

He did not cry out.
He merely set the message aside and stared at the horizon, where the sun had always risen—slow, steady, inevitable, like fate.

The news reached the rest of the world soon enough. It is not possible to hide this information from the world.

In his sky-high palace of gold and storm, Zeus raised an eyebrow.

“Nestor?” he said, as he lounged on his throne, ideas forming in his head. “Still breathing? I thought time had claimed him already. That mind of his has been going for long enough.”

He laughed, a sound like thunder, and called for his scribes.

“Send word. Tell the people that the former king’s candle is sputtering.”

But Nestor wouldn’t go down without a fight. He met with the descendants of Hygeia, daughter of Asclepius. They spoke of treatments, of ways to manage his condition, but Nestor interrupted them with a raised hand.

“I am not afraid of this. I have had a long life, and I have carried heavier burdens—Troy, the Calydonian Boar hunt, journeying with Jason. This too, I will carry.”

Some debated whether a man should still assist the public, while ailing. Some thought he should withdraw—as they had thought for a long time—while others admired his fortitude. Warriors, in particular, said a leader who limps cannot truly lead. But philosophers noted he could still be wise as his body failed, even if he couldn’t dispense wisdom without first telling a story about how that particular wisdom had aided him in his youth.

But Zeus, seeing opportunity, began his own campaign.

“Look at the old man!” he shouted to the mortals below. “He forgets names, he limps through speeches, and now he battles a sickness of the loins. Is this who you want guiding the ship of state?”

He cast lightning—not at Nestor, but around him—hoping the fearmongering would be enough.

But on the day of the assembly, Nestor stood before the gathered kings and commoners. His voice, though softer than in youth, didn’t waver.

“I am unwell,” he said. “But illness does not strip a man of his honor.”

He looked up, not to the gods, but to the people.

As he said this, Zeus watched from above, his arms crossed in disapproval.

He did not smile.

Nestor had not fallen.
He had not hidden.
He had spoken.

When asked later what he thought of Nestor’s speech, Zeus scoffed.

“Let the old man talk. He’s not the storm.”

It wasn’t that long after the death of Tiresias that Zeus decided to
take more opportunities. The fires on Olympus still burned hot with
his ambition, as did the fires in the forge of his son, who he put to
work making gifts for his trip. An important trip, in which he would
strike deals for his own gain.

For word had reached him from the desert kingdom beyond the Pillars of
Heracles, where oil, gas and minerals were abundant in the sand. He
called this land Araby, the new land of opportunity, where he would
one day carve a palace from glass and oil.

He waited two weeks to let the excitement of his actions at Tiresias’
funeral die down, and then called forth his chariot and summoned his
horses.

“It is time to remind the world who rules the sky,” he said to
Hephaestus as he took the gifts and left. In his mind, the deal had
already begun.

When Zeus arrived in Araby only a day later, the local kings met him
not with spears, but with splendor. The high king of Araby bowed low
and presented him with a gift. It was a sword gilded with gold
filigree, a symbol of alliance, meant not for war, but for display to
show their partnership.

Zeus, flattered, roared with laughter. “They know how to host a god.”

The next day, in the halls of commerce, Zeus and the country’s
officials bartered not in money, but in plans. Zeus demanded that more
money be invested in Olympus, but also promised to gift hundreds of
flight capable chariots to the people of Araby—provided, of
course—that they paid full price for them, as was proper. And later,
he brought sorcerers and sages—thinkers and doers, conjurers of
artificial minds—who signed scrolls to provide truly intelligent
thinking and data storage to the rulers of Araby. He also swore he
would lift the curse—a longstanding sanction—on a neighboring realm
newly ruled by a younger prince, declaring: “They’ve changed. I know
this. It’s time we trade again.”

His actions and promises were recorded. The ink had barely dried
before new announcements echoed through the land.

At night, Zeus held court atop a tower of polished obsidian, flanked
by rulers and commoners alike.

He spoke not of peace, nor prophecy—but of the “greatness” of past
eras he sought to revive. He told tales of how he alone could do this.
And to the crowds, he asked for support, in the form of an order.

“Who among you will be part of my age of prosperity?”

Back on Mount Olympus, the other gods watched uneasily.

Prometheus gave a frown that may have been a smile, as he whispered,
unheard by the others.

“He’s not a god. He’s a merchant in robes.”

And the mortals cheered. The desert shimmered with promises bearing
the name Zeus. And somewhere, a new monument was carved—not to virtue,
but to victory.

Some said he had bought the favor of leaders.
Others said he sold the futures of the unborn.

But all agreed:
Zeus had come not to conquer—but to trade.
And in doing so, he left behind only his own brand.

It came that well into spring, the world was shaken by the death of the seer Tiresias. A truth-teller, a man who had known so much in his time, someone who even the gods asked the advice of, was now gone. The world paused for a few days to mourn for him, and even the gods looked down in humility.

At least, most of them did.

When Zeus looked down on the world that mourned the lost seer, his eyes shone not with tears, not with sorrow, only with the knowledge that he would soon have an opportunity, the opportunity to spread his ideas among the leaders of the world, when they were all in one place to mourn the man who had brought them all together while alive.

He had nothing against Tiresias, at least not that anyone could confirm or that he’d admit, but he wouldn’t ignore this glorious opportunity that had presented itself so suddenly.

And so it was that on the day of Tiresias’ funeral—held in a sacred place—Zeus arrived dressed differently from the other mourners, dressed in blue instead of the customary black, drawing attention to himself without speaking.

He arrived early, making sure that he was the first thing anyone saw, and the people came to know that he had pulled Athena aside to talk to her about other matters. All anyone knew was that Athena said it was “a good meeting” and that they “discussed a lot”.

While other mourners kept their heads down, Zeus kept his head up. He sat in the front row, not where he should have been, and made sure everyone saw him there. And then he cemented his position as the star of the event by leaving early in a way that ensured everyone would notice.

“Let us honor him,” he proclaimed, “by making deals in his memory!”

A hush fell, as the others clearly had something different in mind.

After the seer was buried, Zeus was reported to be seen mingling with agents who hadn’t come to mourn. He signed contracts with a smile, and suggested to reporters that the focus of the story of the burial should be him, not Tiresias, who of course, was only great in the first place because he advised the king of the gods.

Later that evening, while Zeus was alone on Olympus, the wind blew through the throne room, but none of the doors opened, all it did was freeze Zeus’ exposed skin and ruffle his hair.

And as it passed, it whispered something new.

“Beware the man who dances on the grave of wisdom.”

“Your time is up now. The world needs power, not wisdom,” Zeus replied unflinchingly.

“I saw beyond power, and I saw you in every warning,” the voice replied as the wind died.

Below the earth, the blind prophet smiled. One day, the truth would come out.

It always does.

In the halls of Olympus, Zeus leaned back upon his throne. His hair shimmered with borrowed lightning to keep the others out of the hall for his privacy, and his voice, as he whispered to himself, echoed with the power that he knew had made the Titans fear him.

But all that power didn’t comfort him now. His mind was, at the moment, occupied by another storm, a rare storm, a storm he didn’t often feel and never admitted to feeling.

A storm of doubt.

He had, on the advice of someone who had betrayed him and made up for it once, elevated a mortal who had rejected his son to a seat of influence among her people. It had been a smart move, as she knew the future and he knew how to make them believe her. The prophetess Cassandra, her tongue sharp with knowledge, would be their new secretary of health. He had known this would upset his son, but no decision pleases everyone. And Zeus was king of the gods, not Apollo.

“The world has changed,” he had declared. “We need a different way of looking at it. And she was ideal for the job.”

But now, Cassandra had stood before the assembly and called sugar—the sweet ambrosia of modern feasts—“poison of the plebs.”

The Senate had gasped. The people who received the news later had trembled. Merchants of artificial sweeteners had whispered curses as they predicted the end of their businesses.

“Poison,” she repeated, “It feeds not the body, but the market. It fattens not the people, but the profits of those who package addiction in pretty colors.”

Zeus felt the weight of the storm in his gut. He had chosen her because she spoke the truth, spoke boldly, and sowed chaos among his enemies. But now? She had turned her fire toward the temples of comfort and commerce—his temples.

And worse still: she might be right.

This simply would not do. Not for him.

He turned as he heard the door open and saw his sister Demeter enter. This was a surprise, at the coming of spring she usually stayed on Earth to meet her daughter, her hands among her plants, her ears listening to the whispers of hopeful mortals and shifting roots.

“Zeus, I’ve been informed by our brother that the road out of his home has been blocked, and it can’t get open for another week at least. Tell him he cannot do this, my daughter is due back today.”

“Demeter, I cannot do this right now. I have my own problems to deal with.” When she opened her mouth to protest, he raised his hand for silence.

 “Demeter,” he continued, “Cassandra speaks her visions again—this time against sugar. She says it is poison. I gave her a trusted position, and this is how she repays me. What shall I do now?”

Demeter smirked. “You regret promoting her because her words offend the rich?” she asked. “Or because you see her becoming a mirror to your own excessive desires?”

Zeus flinched as if struck—by the truth. He started to lift a thunderbolt but stopped when she spoke again.

“She just might be the oracle the people need.” She continued. “I may have a solution that will keep me busy even after Persephone gets back.” She took a breath and continued.

“If sugar is poison, then give the people their cure. Build gardens. Community gardens among empty spaces in the neighborhoods. Sow herbs where there is nothing now. Let the people grow food instead of buying it wrapped in needless packaging. It will encourage community pride, make people part of something, and keep them moving and fit. Let children see where life comes from. Let communities break bread they kneaded themselves.”

Zeus nodded slowly, the storm in him quieting.

“A community garden,” he murmured. “A thousand of them.”

“A million,” Demeter replied.

And so the word went out from Olympus: where there were parking lots, let there be rows of peas; where there were sugar carts, let there be berry bushes. Cassandra remained in the government, as fierce as ever, and though many still scorned her visions, they grew tomatoes with her warnings in mind.

And Zeus? He never had to say aloud that he had been wrong.

“No, no, he cannot do this! Enough is enough!” The angry man reached for the vase on the table and flung it across the room to watch it shatter and leave a dent in the wall.

Behind him, his comrade reached out a hand to steady him. “Menelaus, we cannot openly defy the gods. Remember what happened when they wouldn’t let us leave for Troy?”

Menelaus snarled as he turned on Odysseus. “They made my brother sacrifice his daughter. And he did. They made up rumors about foreigners eating cats and dogs. Have you ever eaten a dog!”

“No, I loved my dog. He was so loyal, he waited for me for so long. The first thing I did after coming back from my father’s house was give him a funeral.” But Menelaus didn’t seem to have heard him. He was still ranting.

“Now they want even more from us. We can’t live without the wheat that comes from Asia, and they want us to pay more for it. Not to mention all the machines that we’ve been using to create ways of growing our own in this rocky land. They’re making feeding ourselves more trouble than it’s worth. Zeus may be the god of gods, but I cannot support this choice. Sparta cannot afford the taxes.”

“That’s not going to be a problem,” replied Odysseus, his voice soothing and full of confidence. “We can get around this. There are legitimate ways to get out of paying taxes.”

Menelaus’ eyes narrowed. “We trusted your plan to defeat those thieves who spat on our honor, and it worked. I’ll trust you again now. What do you have in mind?”

Odysseus smiled. “We send a large certain shipment of the machine parts that don’t go together to Miami. We don’t pay the import tax on it, so it’ll get impounded. When it gets impounded, it is retained for a certain amount of time and then sold at auction. Tell me, Menelaus, what kind of person actually wants a large shipment of legal machine parts that don’t go together and can’t be sold on the black market?”

“No one,” Menelaus responded. “It takes up too much space and can’t be used for anything productive.” His eyes went wide. “So we’ll win it with an extremely low bid! And we’ll do the same for the other shipments of machine parts, send shipments that are useless without something else no one has, not pay the tariff, and get them with a low bid at auction, then we’ll bring them together and assemble them. We are kings, we have the resources to find what auction they will be sold at. And we are Greeks, we can build anything!”

“It’s how we built the horse,” Odysseus replied, smiling as Menelaus figured out the plan. “Once we have the machines, we’ll use them to grow the wheat ourselves. We’ll need less from Asia, even less on the tariffs.”

“Are you worried about angering the gods again, that didn’t work out so well for you last time?”

“No, no it didn’t,” Odysseus said, shuddering at the memory. “But I praise Athena and Hermes for making me clever enough to come up with this plan, and since I’m home now, I don’t think they can try making my way back hard again.”

From Olympus, Zeus watched with anger and concern as the mortals made their plans to thwart his progress while still showing him the necessary respect. Behind him Prometheus, who was done supporting him after the balance of power had shifted, smiled as the tables turned.

The halls of Olympus trembled with the sound of Zeus’s voice. The great god of the sky lounged comfortably upon his throne, thunder curling contentedly around his fingers. Athena stood before him, arms crossed, her storm-gray eyes blazing with fury. Below them, on the mortal plane, an army stood on the edge of destruction—her army, warriors who had prayed to her for wisdom and courage, now abandoned to the mercy of fate.

“The invaders wouldn’t honor their side of the agreement…” she continued.

“Daughter, this is not my concern, and it is disrespectful for you to come here and demand I do something about it when you are forcing younger men to partake in the army, without the choice, simply as conscripts.”

“Have you even taken part in…”

“I’ve seen it all from Olympus,” Zeus cut her off again. “I enjoy keeping tabs on my favorite daughter. And I know you and these people you favor have had difficulties getting new conscripts for their army.”

“It’s war, father, everyone has problems. Including you. These people worship you, the invaders do not. There are a lot less of them now. You don’t feel it now, but you will…”

“Don’t tell me what I’m going to feel. You came to me for help solving your problem. You are in no position to dictate what I’m going to feel.”

Athena continued as though he hadn’t interrupted. “If this doesn’t happen, you’re going to feel it.”

Zeus leaned forward, his golden crown glinting in the firelight. “Is that a threat, daughter?”

“It’s a fact,” Athena shot back. “You think you can sit up here and ignore this? If you don’t act, Olympus itself will suffer the consequences. You cannot refuse to help them.” Athena demanded, her voice cutting through the charged air. “You are going to feel very…”

Zeus interrupted yet again. “Don’t tell me how I’m going to feel,” he said, waving a dismissive hand. “I’m going to feel very good. You have to be thankful that I’m even listening to you after the others you spoke to gave you the opportunity to stop the war. You are not in a good position. You do not hold the cards.”

Athena tried to make a point, but her father went on. “You are gambling with the worst war this world will ever see. And what you are doing is disrespectful to me, and to the people, after I’ve backed you for so long.”

Athena clenched her jaw. “Do you really think that speaking loudly about…”

Zeus picked up the talk immediately. “I am not speaking loudly,” he interrupted sternly. “You’ve done enough talking. Your worshippers are in trouble. They are not winning. You have a chance of survival because of me. If I hadn’t offered my help, they would have already been defeated.” He leaned back. “They are dying. They are running low on men and weapons. You do not have the cards. I gave them the javelins and they know it. I have done enough, and you need to be thankful I’ve done that.”

“You haven’t done enough. They haven’t won, and the fighting only made the invaders more aggressive.”

Athena stepped closer. “This is not just any war. This is justice, Zeus. And you know it.”

Zeus looked away, tapping his fingers against his throne. The clouds outside darkened, as if sensing the unease in their king. “Perhaps,” he murmured, “but my decision stands.”

Athena exhaled sharply. “Then don’t come crying to me when the balance of power shifts. When your name is cursed instead of praised.”

Zeus chuckled. “Let them curse. Let them pray. The storm will pass, as it always does.”

Athena turned to leave. “Not all storms pass. Something tells me this one won’t.” And with that, she vanished, leaving only the echo of her defiance in the halls of Olympus.

---

“What have you done!” Zeus turned to see Apollo approaching him. “Do you even realize what you’ve just done, father!”

Zeus stretched to his full height and looked back at his son. “I’ve done a lot of things for our benefit. I’m sorry that you don’t understand that what I do is necessary, but very bad things are happening, and I am the one the mortals expect to keep them in check. What is it that you think I’ve done wrong?”

“You’ve replaced the successors of my son, the greatest doctor the world has ever known, with that woman I rejected. And she’s telling them to avoid doing the protocols that stop them from being sick, endorsing medical practices that my son showed were phony. You are destroying his legacy!”

“Your son’s time was long ago,” Zeus replied, not changing his tone. “The world has changed, and many of his practices don’t work anymore. We need a different way of looking at it. And she was ideal for the job.”

Apollo shook with rage, then looked away. “Why are they even believing her, I made sure she would never be believed again after she rejected me.”

Zeus responded in a voice that sounded as though he was taking credit for a brilliant idea. “Prometheus emphasized how right she was about Troy, and that if the mortals had listened to her then, a lot more people may have still been alive. They were willing to listen to her after that.” He smiled. “Especially when I told Ares to get Phobos and Deimos to back her words up.” Apollo looked back at his father, the rage returning to his eyes, as the king of the gods continued. “You were the one who told us that regardless of what Paris did, it didn’t justify what the people he wronged did to his entire home. Like I said, the world has changed.”

“That may not be for the better,” Apollo replied glumly.

Apollo looked down as his son’s work was undone. Before long, an outbreak of a disease eradicated in his son’s time occurred in Apollo watched with concern, and knew he had to fight back. He went behind his father’s back to have Hermes send his own messages to the mortals, and the truth of what was happening spread faster than the disease could.

“Outbreak could be perilous for Cassandra”

“Some experts question Cassandra calling outbreak ‘not unusual’”

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