Zeus and Amphitryon

Greek Pride is my favorite event each year. It... What?

*puts hand over microphone*

Geek Pride

? Really? Oh, hell.

Alright, kidding aside, I've never met a geek, myself included, who didn't love mythology. Some of them even turn it into their careers! Therefore, I give you a story of a classics professor whose lifelong love of mythology gets him through some dark days... and into even darker ones. Much like the myths that inspired it, maybe don't take it too literally; this one's just for fun.

--

For as long as I can remember, I've always loved mythology. The kind didn't matter: Greek, Norse, Indian, Japanese; I devoured them all. Once I'd consumed every bit of a new-to-me set of stories that I could, I ran to my classmates, my parents, or just a random stranger on the street and deluged them with my new knowledge.

Looking back, my path was set even then: I'd be a teacher; a professor, as it happened. Once I received the sheepskin that read "Phillip Ambrose Nelson, Doctor of Philosophy in Classical Studies," I thought I had it made. I'd published moderately decent work to moderately decent journals, built up my network of contacts, and garnered referrals from a number of well-respected colleagues. When I got the offer from Brougham University, a private school of some small renown, I was sure all my hard work had paid off.

If only.

Whilst obtaining my degree, I also met my future wife, a pretty, dark-haired biologist named Alice. While no Helen of Troy, she certainly launched my ship. Unlike me, Alice didn't want to teach; she was at university to get her bachelors and get out, and biology just happened to be the discipline she picked. That didn't bother me; different strokes and all. We got along in all the ways that mattered, and she supported me in my goals. It was the easiest decision in the world to go down on one knee and ask her to marry me. We had one kid on the way before I took up my position at Brougham, and another came along my second year teaching there.

The school had a strange history. It had been a bit of a joke not five years before, but an "anonymous" donor had revitalized the university's College of Liberal Arts, overhauling buildings, bringing on fresh young staff, and generally creating an anchor point for the rest of the university to flourish around.

I put "anonymous" in quotation marks, because his identity was an open secret. Nolan Jost, third-generation German American and second-generation multimillionaire, had footed the bill. Everyone knew it, although the reason why eluded even those of us that knew the name of the university's most generous benefactor. None of his actions fit the pattern that most wealthy philanthropists followed.

Sometimes a donor wanted to rehabilitate their family name, and Jost's could certainly use a fresh coat of paint. His grandfather came over near the end of WWII as part of Operation Paperclip, the post-war scramble to grab as many "former" Nazi scientists as possible before the Russians did. Jost's grandfather, an optical scientist who worked on the Vampir IRNV infrared scope for the Stg-44 assault rifle, fit the bill as a scientist. As a Nazi, too; his family was one of the few old money German clans to embrace Hitler's pack of bastards early on.

Jost didn't seem to care about whitewashing his grandfather's name, though. Yes, a few buildings bore the name "Jost," but nothing like the number one would expect given the amount of money he donated to the school. Truth be told, though, the funds he gave, while enough to revitalize Brougham University, represented a drop in the bucket for his personal wealth, much less the family fortune that grandpa Jost allegedly squirreled away in Swiss bank accounts.

The other popular theory had to do with the death of Jost's wife, an American heiress from a family with blood so blue it might well contain cobalt rather than iron. Her death in a helicopter crash came less than a year before Brougham's blossoming, so that would make sense. However, while her name graced a charitable foundation dedicated to medical research, it had no connection with the university. That also led to more speculation.

The faculty in the College of Liberal Arts tossed around ideas about the impulse underpinning his largesse, with ideas ranging from genuine philanthropy to contrition over his family's role in the Holocaust to an arcane tax shelter of some sort. A handful of faculty wouldn't engage in the speculation at all, saying it didn't really matter as long as the checks kept coming. I didn't notice how many of my friends numbered among that select group until later.

I joined the faculty under contract as a lowly associate professor all the way back in 1996. The school had a marvelous childcare program, and Alice worked in the bursar's office during most of that period, taking very little time off for maternity leave. We were happy in those days, me merrily speeding along the tenure track, and her able to earn a little extra money for our family while also finding a social outlet working amongst the administration. If you'd asked me then, I'd have said I was living the life of Riley.

I believed that right up until the June fundraiser of 2002, near the end of my fifth year at Brougham. By that time, my tenure was almost assured. None of us ever liked to talk in certainties about the matter; even the most rigorously logical men have their superstitions. However, tenure is, at its core, a political process, and I was well-liked by those who would make the decision.

More importantly, I published research papers often and in journals that were, if I'm honest, more prestigious than my work deserved. Perhaps that should have been a red flag, but I was young enough--and arrogant enough--to simply pat myself on the back in private instead. While I recognized my good fortune, I didn't quite comprehend its magnitude, nor the hidden cost of this supposed blessing.

Alice and I attended the fundraiser as required. Oh, the school made noises about it being a voluntary event, but for someone on the cusp of tenure? You'd better believe attendance was mandatory. We ate, drank, and danced, schmoozing with faculty, staff, and, most importantly, potential donors. I tried to make the best of it, but my wife seemed distracted. We'd shipped the kids off to her parents for a few weeks, so I hoped it was only that she wanted to leave as quickly as I did, and for the same reasons.

At one point, as Alice and I moved about the dancefloor, Jost came up and asked for a dance. I didn't especially like the man; his family's history aside, he had a tendency to take over companies and demolish them. On top of that, he was many of the things that I was not: tall, ruggedly handsome, athletic, and, of course, rich. I won't deny that some of my dislike sprung from jealousy, but something else about him, even back then, gave me pause.

My wife hesitantly smiled, then gave me a brief kiss, parting from me with a murmured, "I love you, Phil." Her manner threw me, but I couldn't square the disquiet it evoked; she'd never given me any reason to doubt her love for me, after all. I stared, perplexed, as she took his hand, and they began their dance. Everything seemed normal as they glided across the floor, no different from any other time she'd danced with another man since we married, but something still felt wrong. I took one step towards them, opening my mouth to speak. Before I could, though, a hand lightly grasped my shoulder.

"Phillip." I turned to see Dorothea Green, the university's VP of Development, which is to say 'Chief Beggar.' "I need to speak with you for a few minutes." I looked back toward Jost and Alice, but they'd already disappeared into the crowd of dancing couples. "She'll be fine, Professor Nelson. I only need a moment of your time."

Putting my misgivings aside, I managed a pleasant smile. Tenure was political, after all, but the money people could always find a reason to cancel my contract before then. "Of course, Dorothea. Here, or...?"

"No, somewhere a little quieter, I think." She beckoned for me to follow, and I did so, half a step behind as she led me toward a door that took us away from the ballroom and towards her office.

I know that universities have a reputation for being bastions of unbridled progressivism, a reputation I find a bit unfair in general. In the business end of things, though, it's vastly overblown. A young, Black, out lesbian having a spot on the board all the way back in the 90s presented a conundrum almost as perplexing as Jost's largely unheralded donations, at least until one connected the dots.

Older than me by a handful of years, Dorothea had been part of the revitalization effort at Brougham that had brought me to the school. Not too long before I joined the faculty, the previous VP of Development vacated his office, and Dorothea, a former employee of Jost, took his place. No one ever explicitly said that he had a hand in that, but everyone knew.

When she first tapped my shoulder, I thought that perhaps it was simply to give me a "it's just a dance, don't make a scene" warning, but that made no sense; Alice and I had both danced with donors at previous fundraisers. Alice had even danced with Jost before, and, while I didn't particularly like the man, he'd been nothing but a gentleman, dancing to one song, then bringing her back to my side with a word of thanks for both of us. This felt different, though.

These thoughts already had me on edge as I followed her, especially given that she had picked exactly the moment that Jost danced away with Alice to take me aside. We walked further than we should have, too, as Dorothea led us around the halls in a circuitous route that someone unfamiliar with the university might have taken, but not a person that had worked there for over a decade. Just as I made to object, she smiled and said, "Here we are," then opened the door for me.

Inside, I found four men waiting. Three I knew well, considering them friends, each a professor in the College of Liberal Arts. They all bore hangdog looks, glumly greeting me as if in apology. The fourth man took me a moment to place before it hit me like a splash of ice water: Jost's bodyguard. Grigory or Dimitri or something. I'd only heard his name once or twice, and then only in passing. I'd seen him in the ballroom earlier, but such men are supposed to be invisible; it's no surprise I missed his exit.

His impassive face, combined with my friends' unhappiness and Dorothea's shift toward a cooler demeanor as she sat, took me from uneasiness to alarm. She indicated a chair across the desk and said, "Sit."

"What is going on?"

"Sit."

"I'm not going to--"

The bodyguard took a half step, but she raised a hand to still him. "Sit. Whether you do it yourself or Alexei forces you to, the outcome will still be the same."

John Mikkelsen, a professor of medieval history and the most senior of the faculty present, spoke. "Phil, just do it." He sighed a deep sigh. "Please. She's right. Nothing you can do is going to make the next few minutes any more pleasant, but you can make it a lot more unpleasant. Trust me."

I considered pressing the point, but, as I said before, I'm aware of my shortcomings. In a fight, I'd have no chance against someone like Alexei, and that was even before the possibility of John and the others helping him prevent my exit. Begrudgingly, I sat across from Ms. Green.

"Good." The warmth she'd displayed before had disappeared, leaving only a cool, calculating affect. "You need to understand some things, and the first is that you don't have a choice in what comes next. I don't say this out of cruelty; the opposite, in fact. The sooner you come to grips with that, the easier you will find this, as Professors Mikkelsen, Abernathy, and Post can attest."

"What is 'this,' exactly?"

"The culmination of your time here at Brougham. I know you think of that as tenure and then a long career teaching. That is part of the plan, but more a means to an end, at least as far as the university is concerned. At the end of the day, we are a business, and while the product we create is educated students, their tuition only goes so far toward the costs accrued. Hence, our donors, specifically Nolan Jost. He's why you're here."

I frowned but remained silent, letting her continue. "I don't mean to sound dismissive, Professor Nelson. You are a fine teacher, and any school would have been lucky to have you. But..." She shrugged. "Particular qualities you possess meant you were perfect for our program, and Mr. Jost took steps that you would be hired here and put on the fast track to tenure.

"For example, your papers have found publication awfully easily, wouldn't you say? Not that they're bad, but there are only so many slots available in journals each year, and you've never had any trouble with the submission process, have you? Nor have you had to struggle the way many young professors have, trying to deal with the financial and time-related difficulties of raising a family, at least not in the way your peers at other schools might have.

"You see, the university's primary benefactor believes the world would be a better place if more people were raised in happy families and educated by skilled teachers like yourself throughout their childhood, especially if the children possess certain desirable qualities guaranteed by their genetic stock. While the jury is still out on that hypothesis, Brougham is happy to partner with him in assessing the feasibility of his belief. Therefore, it was in all our best interests to make certain that you had a happy, stable family life before you take the next step in your time here."

The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. "What 'next step?'"

"Mr. Jost and your wife have come to an arrangement, one brokered by myself. I assure you, she was reluctant, but I made it very clear to her that your family's future rests on her decision and your ability to live with it. They have left for the airport, where they will board his private jet and head to another country; you don't need to know where, merely that Mr. Jost will treat her like a queen for the duration. When she returns in a few weeks, she will be pregnant with his child. The two of you will raise said child--"

"The fuck I will!" I shot to my feet, expecting the stoic Russian to come for me, but he didn't even twitch. Instead, as I turned toward the door, I found that Abernathy and Post had blocked the way. If I tried to leave, I'd have to force my way through them.

As I considered my odds, Mikkelsen quietly said, "Phil, I'm sorry. I know what you're feeling right now. But... Look, you're not the first. You're not even the fifth. Please, just listen to what she says, and then, I promise, if you want to go, we'll fight the ape for you. He'll kick our asses, but we will." Abernathy and Post nodded solemnly in agreement, Abernathy going so far as to glare at Alexei.

Green sighed, "There's no need for that kind of machismo, gentlemen. No one will be 'kicking anyone's ass' here. What would be the point, Professor Nelson? You'd have no idea where to go if you left now, and once I've said what I need to say, you're free to leave. The truth is, everything up to this point has been predetermined, and everything past this point... Well, that's what I'm here for. To tell you how things will be going forward."

"And how is that?"

"As I said, your wife will return in a few weeks, pregnant with Mr. Jost's child. You and she will raise him together as your own. You will remain married until the child is of age, and Mr. Jost will provide handsome compensation for this task. By the time the child is eighteen, you and April will be millionaires, and before that time, none of your children will want for anything when it comes to their health, education, or other developmental needs. And, of course, Brougham will also grant you tenure; that goes without saying."

I snorted. "Yeah, all I have to do is live with being cuckolded by a Nazi pervert."

Her face twisted into a scowl. "I suggest you learn to not throw such accusations about, Professor. Mr. Jost is no more a Nazi than I am, and he will not appreciate such aspersions."

With a roll of my eyes, I retorted, "Eugenics? 'Genetic stock?' Some perverse nature versus nurture experiment? If it looks like a goose and it steps like a goose--"

The Chief Beggar interrupted my rant. "This is a pointless waste of time. What you believe about him matters not one jot. What you choose to do next does. If you agree to abide by the terms, all of them very simple, you will be rewarded.

"In fact, the terms are so simple, I can tell them to you in one sentence: pretend the child is yours. That's all. When your wife returns, do what you need to assuage your wounded pride, then raise the child as your own. While you and Mr. Jost don't share the exact physical features, you're close enough that no one is likely to ever realize the child isn't biologically yours. Keep its parentage secret, don't get divorced, and live your life as if none of this ever happened."

"Until the sonofabitch wants to sleep with my wife again, right?"

"No. The terms are very clear. Neither you nor your wife may cheat, and that includes further liaisons with Mr. Jost."

"He made this bullshit up. He can change the terms again."

She shrugged. "Possibly, but he never has. I doubt he ever will. His goal is to create, as he thinks of it, the 'philosopher kings' that Plato spoke of, combining his natural talents with the loving tutelage he has neither the time nor skill to give. Creating dissension in a family doesn't further that goal."

I slammed my fists down on the desk, roaring in her face, "Then why do it this way in the first place, you fucking bitch? Why is he taking my wife out of the country to fuck her? There have to be people that he could find who actually want a rich asshole's bastard child!"

Green stared at me coolly. "I've told you as much as I'm authorized to. You don't need to understand his methodology, Professor. You merely need to get with the program."

"And if I don't?"

"If you don't..." She drummed her fingers on the desk. "I assume you mean if you divorce your wife? Then you won't receive tenure. You'll find those same journals that were previously so eager to publish your research will turn your new works down sight unseen. No four-year school will take you; you'll be lucky to find even an instructor position at a community college, and none within a day's drive of Brougham.

"Your wife will get the children, of course, and any assets your family has will be split 50/50, at best. If you attempt to make her infidelity a sticking point in the proceedings... Well, let's just say that the firms Mr. Jost employs are happy to work pro bono for the right cause, and they'll provide said pro bono work in such volume that no defense you mount could hope to stand a chance.

"I'm certain you're not foolish enough to make a claim in the press, either. That could be... mmm, let's say, 'career suicide.'" She emphasized the last word, and I glanced over at Alexei. He smiled for the first time that evening, and a shiver ran down my spine.

As Green seemed to have finished her spiel, I replied, "So, to be clear, my wife is flying off to some exotic location to fuck another man. I can't divorce her, I can't quit my job, I can't tell anyone about it, I have to raise a Nazi's son as my own, and my payout is... Tenure? Some money in a couple of decades?"

She tilted her head to one side; I wondered if I could snatch up a letter opener and slice her jugular before the Russian reached me. "Essentially. There are other benefits as well; Mrs. Nelson has agreed to do whatever you require in private, within reasonable limits, to salvage your pride. You'll be given a certain amount of leeway for the next few years when it comes to sabbaticals and the like as well. And it's not merely 'some money,' Professor; Mr. Jost will seed the trust with enough cash and see that it's managed in such a way that you receive a payout in the low double digits."