Chapter 11: Bread And Blood
He made his way through the maze of alleys, following the river’s oily shine toward the stew house.
Voices drifted from its open front, a low, uneven tide of argument, laughter, then a sudden shriek that made the hounds at the stoop flinch but did not, apparently, trouble the patrons within.
Apollo ducked inside, scanning for a spot where the walls were less likely to collapse or the crowd to turn.
He found a place at the far end of the rough-hewn bar, where the wattle-and-daub wall formed a sharp corner with the windowless back.
The barkeep, a woman with arms like cured meat and a jaw that had clearly been put back together at least once, poured him a bowl of red stew that tasted, miraculously, of actual meat.
She added a mug of thin, bitter beer without being asked.
He ate slowly, surveying the other drinkers: dock hands in salt-stained canvas, a trio of market women with eyes like fish, a pair of city militia in mismatched blue.
None seemed to notice him except the hounds, who circled his legs in hopeful, arthritic orbits.
The warmth of the food hit his belly like an old friend, and for a while he simply let himself exist: not as a god, or an exile, or a scapegoat, but as just another animal grateful for calories and the illusion of safety.
He was halfway through the stew when someone took the stool beside him.
Apollo did not look up at first, but the newcomer’s presence was too forceful to ignore: a tang of sweat, cheap spirits, and the powdery aether odor of someone who trafficked in more than just mortal trade.