The dining hall doors swung open, and warm light spilled out like liquid gold. The murals of Trojan heroes flickered in the firelight, half-hidden in shadows. The long table was neatly laid with earthenware plates and clay goblets, while the rich aroma of stewed meat mingled with the scent of freshly baked bread.
Aeneas stepped across the threshold and immediately spotted his mother, Aresya, seated at the table, nodding at him with a gentle smile. At the head of the table sat Anchises, his beard streaked with grey, his hand resting on a sturdy oak staff. His sharp eyes, though, were all on Aeneas.
A tightening gripped Aeneas' chest. His memory whispered warnings—his father had always been stern, quiet, and unyielding, ever since the accident that left him partially crippled, long before Aeneas was born.
He drew a steadying breath and stepped forward, bowing respectfully.
"Father."
Anchises' gaze lingered for a heartbeat on the bandages wrapping his son's arms. Then he gave a slow, deliberate nod.
"Hm. I'm glad it's nothing serious. Sit."
Aeneas took his place beside his mother, sneaking a glance at the stew. If this were the modern world, it'd rival a Michelin kitchen, he thought, nose twitching at the rich aroma.
At first, the meal proceeded with a formal air. Silence draped over the table, punctuated only by the soft clink of pottery. Terani stood neatly at attention, eyes glued to the basket of golden-brown loaves.
Achates remained rigid as a statue by the wall, gaze sharp and vigilant.
"Master," Terani finally whispered, unable to resist, "that bread… it looks even better than this morning's."
Aeneas almost chuckled aloud. His mother gave her a pointed look, and Terani quickly hid her hands behind her back, pretending nothing had happened.
The tension in the room loosened slightly. Aeneas realized this was his very first proper dinner in this world.
He sat up straight, trying to recall the proper gestures of ancient Greek etiquette. The stew was passable, vegetables soft to the point of mush. But when he bit into the fragrant, under-fermented loaf, he couldn't help muttering under his breath: Bread? This is basically a weapon.
The wine smelled promising, but it had been watered down so much it was almost like sipping spring water—and it hadn't been filtered properly. Laid out on a modern table, the entire spread would have ruined the restaurant's reputation in an hour.
He bit back a comment, though he couldn't help noticing Terani's eyes fixed on the bread, throat bobbing with anticipation. Smirking, he tore off a small piece behind his back and slid it toward her.
Terani's eyes lit up. She snatched it in a flash and stuffed it into her mouth, cheeks puffed like a little hamster.
Everyone at the table had noticed—mother's lips twitched in amusement, Achates feigned interest in a mural—but Anchises stayed stern. Only when he cleared his throat did everyone straighten in attention.
"That boar," Anchises began, voice low and commanding, "was no ordinary prey. Your victory proves your honor."
Aeneas set down his spoon, focused.
"But honor," his father continued, "is not meant for the table alone. We must offer a sacrifice—to thank the gods for their protection, to pray for continued favor."
The table fell silent. The firelight flickered, catching the streaks of grey in Anchises' beard.
"My suggestion," he went on, "is to dedicate most of the boar to Athena—to thank her for granting you wisdom and strength."
Aeneas straightened instinctively.
"As for the wooden sword in your hand," his father added, eyes on the cracked oak blade, "it should be offered to your mother—Aphrodite—in thanks for her protection."
Aeneas blinked, mind racing.
Sacrifice? Old-school PR and a display of resources, then. Give the boar to the gods, show piety, flaunt family might…
He let a small smile curl his lips, face otherwise earnest.
Respect for the gods? Certainly. Superstition? Not in the slightest. In his mind, sacrificial scenes were always a little bloody.
But a dead pig beats a human on the altar any day, he thought, deciding to clarify the details before committing.
"Father," Aeneas looked up, voice steady and respectful, "after the sacrifice… what happens to the offering?"
Anchises set his cup down with quiet deliberation.
"After the ritual, the head and hide stay in the temple. As for the meat… one portion goes to the priests, one to our family, and the rest is shared among nobles and poor worshippers alike."
Aeneas' eyes widened in sudden understanding.
So, this is the ancient version of 'dividing the pig'! he thought. Offer it to the Temple of Aphrodite—basically Mom's turf. It's like putting the meat back in our own fridge!
He stifled a laugh, composed his face into a mask of solemn reflection, and spoke with careful respect.
"Father, I wish to dedicate the entire boar to Goddess Aphrodite. She protected me during the hunt, and I should repay her with the most direct offering. As for this wooden sword, I dedicate it to Athena—to show that my victory stems from her guidance. What do you think?"
A brief silence fell over the table. Anchises studied him intently, the weight in his gaze undeniable.
Achates lowered his head, pretending to examine the floor, though a faint blush colored his ears. Terani's eyes sparkled—she thought, Master is amazing.
Aeneas felt a rush of satisfaction. Keep the meat for the family temple, send the sword to Athena, and offend no one. Perfect.
Aresya, hearing her son's decision to dedicate the boar to Aphrodite, paused for a heartbeat. Then her face lit up with delight and pride.
"My child," she said softly, "your devotion will not go unnoticed by the goddess." She brushed a hand over the violet ribbon at her chest—the sacred relic from her temple wedding.
"I will personally perfume the divine cloak and present it alongside the boar. In addition, I'll lead the apprentice priestesses in gathering fresh flowers, weaving them into baskets. This is both the priestesses' respect and a mother's gratitude toward the goddess."
Aeneas nodded respectfully, heart quietly impressed. Professional-grade execution… and she's throwing in flower baskets. Classic Mom.
Anchises slowly inclined his head, the sternness in his eyes softening just slightly.
"That's very good," he said, his voice carrying the weight of approval.
The mood at the table lightened. The candle flames flickered, casting a warm glow across every face.
After dinner, Aeneas seized an excuse to "get some air" and slipped from the hall. The estate lay peaceful under the night sky. Hands on his hips, he wandered along the stone pathway, moonlight spilling across the ground like silver sand.
He tilted his head upward.
You wouldn't see a sky like this without driving hours in the future. Shame there's no telescope…
Passing behind the kitchens, he spotted two slaves clumsily handling grain—one pounding with a flail sending kernels flying, the other bending to sift through the wheat.
Aeneas frowned.
This efficiency is… charmingly tragic. If only we had a threshing machine.
Footsteps echoed, accompanied by a dog's bark. A night watchman appeared with a torch, followed by two black hounds.
Security relies on people and dogs… maybe I should rig some traps? Warning bells or something…
He paused, stretching toward the sky, mind already sharpening.
Well, then… Trojan infrastructure project, officially underway!
He ticked off his mental checklist: First, improve sanitation. Second, level up cooking skills. Third… start with paper. Without paper, the tech tree's stuck in the tutorial village.
A chuckle escaped him. The distant dogs barked in alarm. He quickly stifled it, gathering his cloak around his shoulders.
As he strolled, Aeneas was lost in his "grand blueprint," unaware that his lips were moving, muttering to themselves.
He first muttered in English, barely audible: Toilet revolution… flush system's simple, just a siphon… need cement first… oh right, they're still in the Bronze Age, must get a blast furnace going…
Then he switched to Ancient Greek: Wheat improvement's tricky, but easier than metallurgy… crop rotation, three-field system… wait! If war comes early, military reform takes priority…
His pace quickened and slowed, as if a priest were orally delivering divine secrets.
At that moment, Achates appeared carrying a clay jug. He froze in place at the strange words spilling from his master's lips.
Under the moonlight, Aeneas gazed skyward, eyes deep and thoughtful, his black-gold curls stirring in the night breeze. Each of those arcane terms seemed to hum with some unbelievable power.
Achates held his breath. An oracle! he thought. The gods must be speaking to Master!
He didn't dare interrupt—he even restrained his breathing, standing rigidly until he carefully edged away.
Aeneas remained utterly oblivious, still mumbling to himself: If I can make paper, I can record all knowledge… ink formulas still uncertain…
When he finally looked up, the courtyard was empty except for the wind. Achates had already retreated, heart full of awe. Master… is conversing with the gods.
He dashed back to the dining hall, nearly toppling the bronze candelabrum at the door. Breath ragged, eyes wide with panic, he blurted:
"Sir! Madam! Young Master Aeneas—he's out in the courtyard, speaking to the stars! In… in a language we can't understand at all!"
Anchises raised an eyebrow. "You're that flustered?"
"That voice… it sounded like the gods themselves! Like an oracle!" Achates gestured wildly. "He said… 'sanitation,' 'paper,' 'blast furnace'! Just hearing it… you feel the brilliance hidden within!"
Anchises and Aresya exchanged a glance, subtle shifts crossing their faces.
Aresya whispered softly, "Could it be the Goddess Aphrodite? Or has Apollo granted him wisdom?"
Anchises was silent for a long moment, thumb tracing the wood grain of his staff.
"Don't disturb him. Just watch. Perhaps… this really is divine will."
The dining hall fell into quiet again, only the fire crackling in reply.
Aresya added in a low voice, "If this is a sign from the gods, then our Aeneas… might be destined for a path far from ordinary."
Anchises nodded slowly, expression inscrutable.
From the hallway outside came the soft, urgent patter of tiny footsteps.