A Call to Darkness - Michael Jan Friedman [6]
And if it gave him a chance to try out this new holodeck simulation he’d put together… who was he to complain?
Not that it was the first time he had visited this hill-lord’s palace in ancient Thessaly. Nor was it the first time he had lost himself in the imagery of Homer’s verse. But it was the first time he had heard this particular passage-the story of the Trojan horse and how the Greeks used it to sack Troy-from… well, from the horse’s mouth.
And it was even better than be had expected. Whoever had invented the holodeck was right up there on Geordi’s list of mankind’s greatest benefactors.
At the height of the celestial display, three young girls came out from another part of the house. They went around to the fancifully sculpted golden pedestals that were scattered about the place and, standing on tiptoe out of necessity, lit the torches of pitch pine that gave the pedestals their purpose. The flames climbed, struck light off the silver dogs that stood just inside the entranceway, and guttered in the cool breeze.
Everything seemed so real, right down to the finest detail. The smell of the carved meats that sat on trenchers beside each guest; the taste of the honeyed wine, the soft feel of the fleece that covered his chair. Even the appreciative murmuring at a particularly witty turn of phrase.
But none of it was more remarkable than Homer himself. His face was long and supple, his brow a jutting precipice that somehow complemented his thick thatch of a silvery beard.
He was more than a poet. He was a performer. If he had been born in another place and time, he might have been a great Shakespearean actor. Or a pillar of the short-lived Thespocracy on Roper’s World.
That is, of course, if not for his blindness.
Geordi felt a light touch on his arm, glanced reluctantly at the man who sat in the chair beside him. Memnios leaned over and whispered in his ear.
“He’s in rare form tonight. You see the gleam in Leokritor’s eye? He doesn’t weep easily, you know.”
Homer had come to the part where Priam, Troy’s king, was found dead by his daughter Cassandra. It was poor, troubled Cassandra who had stood on one of the city’s watchtowers as her people dragged in the huge, wooden horse-supposedly a peace offering from the departed Greeks-and shrieked of impending disaster if the thing was not destroyed. But no one listened to her. And when the Greeks worked their treachery, pouring out of the hollow horse to slit throats and open the Scaean Gates, Priam had become one of their first victims.
The bard treated the situation curiously. Cassandra, distracted and bedraggled on the watchtower, was transformed. Calm, almost detached in a rare moment of clarity, she neither mourned her father nor called down curses on his killers; there would be time for that later. For now, she was thankful-that Priam had not lived to see his city go up in flames. And she was still expressing her gratitude to the gods when the Greeks found her and took her into slavery.
It was that approach that had brought a tear to stalwart Leokritor’s eye.
Too soon, the riotous sunset gave way to a starry darkness. And not much later, Homer brought his tale to an end. His signature was a certain bold chord; he plucked it now from the strings of his simple, wooden harp. It echoed, seeming to touch each enraptured face in the great room. Slowly, inexorably, it faded to silence.
“May the gods save me,” said Akaythyr, their host. There was plain, unadorned admiration in his voice as he addressed Homer from his throne. “You were right, my friend. That country harp of yours has a more pleasing sound than all the fancy instruments I offered you. I feel like a fool now for having spoken so highly of them.”
The poet laughed graciously. He had a naturally deep voice, and his laughter was easy to listen to. Like the music of a waterfall.
“You’re