Prologue — O Goddess, Sing of the Horse Stance
O Goddess, sing of . . .
Mycenae, the city cherished by Cronos's most noble daughter. To pass through its sky-high walls — raised by the one-eyed giants, the Cyclopes — and follow the great avenue, wide enough for two four-horse chariots to pass each other abreast, was to cross the whole of the city and arrive at a garden of fragrant flowering trees: the grounds of the ivory palace that stood closest to Olympus itself.
There, among the blossoming trees, stood a beautiful boy, his curls flushing deep russet in the light of dawn and blazing radiant gold beneath the noonday sun — brilliant as the city's own fabled epithet, golden Mycenae. He turned a cautious gaze upon his brother, who was hardly bigger than himself, and ventured a question.
"Brother... may I ask what you've been doing all this while?"
His young brother could not quite keep the bewilderment from his face — and in answer, the exquisite son of Atreus opened his mouth. He had been standing without so much as a twitch, knees bent and spine held straight in a bizarre posture, as though seated upon an invisible chair: for all the world like the ill-fated heroes who had met Medusa's gaze and been turned to stone.
"Horse Stance."
"Pardon?"
As though it were the most natural answer in the world, the boy gave a solemn nod and went on.
"Hmm. No, this isn't quite right. Come here and do it with me. When a man's lower body is weak, his wife runs off on him — that's simply the way of the world."
"No, I..."
"Menelaus."
"...Yes, Brother."
Unable to bring himself to defy him, the beautiful boy trudged over, one reluctant step at a time.
Toward a brother who had, at some point, become a little strange — in truth, quite a lot strange.