“My sweet Soterios,” Claudius says softly, eyes intent on Dionysus and yet not sharp. He wraps a comforting arm about Dionysus’s shoulder — convenient, that they’re of a height, and he can do this. “Cruel though it may sound,” he says, “I’m rather glad you feel responsible. A god less connected to his humanity could easily wash his hands of the whole affair, say something trite and unprovable like everything happens for a reason. Everything happens. We make our own reasons. Thou art a kind, unsuspecting man, and had no reason to think anything was amiss until someone had told thee. Thou art not like me, suspicious, spying into every shadow, interrogating even ghosts beyond the remit of inquiry.” Still softly, he asks, “If I find myself again planning in secret to forestall some hidden danger … wouldst thou have me find thee?”