Unlike the other gods he had held himself aloof from this war. He had preened himself on being so far above the affairs of petty mortals that he might not stoop to take a hand in their quarrels. This was a unique position in the Pantheon; all the other gods had lined up one way or the other. And, for a while, this sense of uniqueness served his pride. But now of late he had felt a difference. The combatants, Trojan and Greek, offered him fewer prayers, less sacrifices, adorned his statues more meagerly, built him fewer altars. They implored his intercession only in specific sea matters—voyages, piracies, and the like. But this had developed into a land war, so Poseidon was feeling neglected. “All because of my impartiality,” he raged to himself. “An attribute I have always held truly divine. Instead of being thankful that I do not meddle in their battles, killing this one, saving that one, turning all their plans awry—instead of being thankful for my benign indifference, they have dared to neglect me.
