Daughter of Wine

Leo

The gold wings are overkill.

I can dig the chariot and the two white horses. I'm okay with Nike's glittering sleeveless dress and Nike's piled-up braids of dark hair circled with a gilded laurel wreath.

Her expression is wide-eyed and a little crazy, like she's just had twenty espressos and ridden a roller coaster, but all that does is once again remind me of Calli. I can even deal with the gold-tipped spear pointed at my chest.

But those wings—they're polished gold, right down to the last feather. I can admire the intricate workmanship, but it's too much, too bright, too flashy. If her wings were been solar panels, Nike could produce enough energy to power Miami.

"Lady," I say, "could you fold your flappers, please? You're giving me a sunburn."

"What?" Nike's head jerks toward me like a startled chicken's. "Oh...my brilliant plumage. Very well. I suppose you can't die in glory if you are blinded and burned."

She tucks in her wings. The temperature drops to a normal hundred-and-twenty-degree summer afternoon.

I glance at my friends. Frank stands very still, sizing up the goddess. His backpack hasn't yet morphed into a bow and quiver, which is probably prudent. He can't be too freaked out, because he's avoided turning into a giant goldfish.

Hazel is having trouble with Arion. The roan stallion nickeres and bucks, avoiding eye contact with the white horses pulling Nike's chariot.

As for Percy, he holds his magic ballpoint pen like he's trying to decide whether to bust out some sword moves or autograph Nike's chariot.

Nobody stepped forward to talk. I kind of miss having Piper, Calli, and Annabeth with us. They're good at the whole talking thing. 

I decide somebody had better say something before we all die in glory.

"So!" I point my index finger at Nike. "I didn't get the briefing, and I'm pretty sure the information wasn't covered in Frank's pamphlet. Could you tell me what's going on here?"

Nike's wide-eyed stare unnerves me. Is my nose on fire? That happens sometimes when I get stressed.

"We must have victory!" the goddess shrieks. "The contest must be decided! You have come here to determine the winner, yes?"

Frank clears his throat. "Are you Nike or Victoria?"

"Argghh!" The goddess clutches the side of her head. Her horses rear, causing Arion to do the same.

The goddess shudders and splits into two separate images, which remind me—ridiculously—of when I used to lie on the floor in my apartment as a kid and play with the coiled doorstop on the baseboard. I would pull it back and let it fly: Sproing! The stopper would shudder back and forth so fast it looked like it was splitting into two separate coils.

That's what Nike looks like: a divine doorstop, splitting in two.

On the left is the first version: glittery sleeveless dress, dark hair circled with laurels, golden wings folded behind her. On the right is a different version, dressed for war in a Roman breastplate and greaves. Short auburn hair peeks out from the rim of a tall helmet. Her wings are feathery white, her dress purple, and the shaft of her spear is fixed with a plate-sized Roman insignia—a golden SPQR in a laurel wreath.

"I am Nike!" cries the image on the left.

"I am Victoria!" cries the one on the right.

For the first time, I understand the old saying my abuelo used to use: talking out of the side of your mouth. This goddess is literally saying two different things at once. She keeps shuddering and splitting, making me dizzy. I'm tempted to get out my tools and adjust the idle on her carburetor, because that much vibration will make her engine fly apart.

"I am the decider of victory!" Nike screams. "Once I stood here at the corner of Zeus's temple, venerated by all! I oversaw the games of Olympia. Offerings from every city-state were piled at my feet!"

"Games are irrelevant!" yells Victoria. "I am the goddess of success in battle! Roman generals worshipped me! Augustus himself erected my altar in the Senate House!"

"Ahhhh!" both voices scream in agony. "We must decide! We must have victory!"

Arion bucks so violently that Hazel has to slide off down his back to avoid getting thrown. Before she can calm him down, the horse disappears, leaving a vapor trail through the ruins. 
"Nike," Hazel says, stepping forward slowly, "you're confused, like all the gods. The Greeks and Romans are on the verge of war. It's causing your two aspects to clash."

"I know that!" The goddess shakes her spear, the tip rubber-banding into two points. "I cannot abide unresolved conflict! Who is stronger? Who is the winner?"

"Lady, nobody's the winner," I say. "If that war happens, everybody loses."

"No winner?" Nike looks so shocked, I'm pretty sure my nose must be on fire. "There is always a winner! One winner. Everyone else is a loser! Otherwise victory is meaningless. I suppose you want me to give certificates to all the contestants? Little plastic trophies to every single athlete or soldier for participation? Should we all line up and shake hands and tell each other, Good game? No! Victory must be real. It must be earned. That means it must be rare and difficult, against steep odds, and defeat must be the other possibility."

The goddess's two horses nip at each other, as if getting into the spirit.

"Uh...okay," I say. "I can tell you've got strong feelings about that. But the real war is against Gaea."

"He's right." Hazel says. "Nike, you were Zeus's charioteer in the last war with the giants, weren't you?"

"Of course!"

"Then you know Gaea is the real enemy. We need your help to defeat her. The war isn't between the Greeks and Romans."

Victoria roars, "The Greeks must perish!"

"Victory or death!" Nike wails. "One side must prevail!"

Frank grunts. "I get enough of this from my dad screaming in my head."

Victoria glares down at him. "A child of Mars, are you? A praetor of Rome? No true Roman would spare the Greeks. I cannot abide to be split and confused—I cannot think straight! Kill them! Win!"

"Not happening," Frank says, though I notice Zhang's right eye is twitching.

I'm struggling too. Nike is sending off waves of tension, setting my nerves on fire. I feel like I'm crouched at the starting line, waiting for someone to yell "Go!" I have the irrational desire to wrap my hands around Frank's neck, which is stupid, since my hands wouldn't even fit around Frank's neck.

"Look, Miss Victory..." Percy tries for a smile. "We don't want to interrupt your crazy time. Maybe you can just finish this conversation with yourself and we'll come back later, with, um, some bigger weapons, and possibly some sedatives."

The goddess brandishes her spear. "You will determine the matter once and for all! Today, now, you will decide the victor! Four of you? Excellent! We will have teams. Perhaps girls versus boys!"

Hazel says, "Uh...no."

"Shirts versus skins!"

"Definitely no," says Hazel.

"Greeks versus Romans!" Nike cries. "Yes, of course! Two and two. The last demigod standing wins. The others will die gloriously."

A competitive urge pulses through my body. It takes all of my effort not to reach in my tool belt, grab a mallet, and whop Hazel and Frank upside their heads.

I realize how right Annabeth was not to send anyone whose parents had natural rivalries. If Jason were here, he and Percy would probably already be on the ground, bashing each other's brains out.

I force my fists to unclench. "Look, lady, they're not going to go all Hunger Games on each other. Isn't going to happen."