before.
“Well, then, hurry home! But first give me my sandals.” He removed them quickly. “And the head,” I added, for he still held it. Eyes downcast, he coaxed the snakes off his wrist and worked the head into the leather pouch. When it was covered safely, he raised it to his heart, as a priest does with sacred libations. His face worked with guilt and sorrow. It was a painful combination, as I knew.
“I—Medusa saved my life three times,” he faltered. “After I—I . . .” He couldn’t say it:
After I cut off her head.
“You had to do it.” I made my voice brisk. “You had no choice. Anyway, you’re a hero now. Things could be worse.”
At this his mouth twitched halfheartedly. It was a feeble effort at a smile, but an effort nonetheless. “Promise me you won’t forget to offer to Athena,” I said, tying on my sandals. “You’ve seen what happens when she takes offense.”
“I promise.”
“Good.” I touched his shoulder the way Zeus so often touched mine, giving him my warmest blessing. Then I flew back to Olympus to return Ares’ sickle.
From that day on, I never killed again.
PART THREE
Mount Ida
NINETEEN
I returned home with a light heart. Zeus would praise me for my brilliant work with Perseus. Throngs of beautiful, elusive, horse-loving dryads would vie for introductions to Pegasus. After showing him off to my heart’s content, I would take a long, well-deserved rest.
How wrong I was.
Zeus, slumped on his wide marble throne, greeted me morosely. I wondered if I should try to cheer him with a joke, maybe the one about the mortal crossing the road. Before I could even open my mouth, he launched into a dark monologue about his least favorite child. Of many hundreds, her name was at the bottom of the list.
“Eris,” he said, fairly spitting her name, “has really gone too far this time. I’d hurl her down to Tartarus, but Hades would never forgive me.”
Eris, Ares’ pretty little sister, liked to stir up trouble. It was said that she’d persuaded Pandora to open the Box of All Woes, loosing misery on the world, and that she tattled to Hera whenever Zeus was unfaithful, loosing considerable misery on him.
“What did she do?”
“Came to Peleus’ wedding uninvited, brought a golden apple inscribed ‘To the Fairest,’ and pitched it right at the feet of Hera, Athena, and Aphrodite.”
Ouch!
I thought. The goddesses, all famously vain, were always competing with each other. “Let me guess. Each of them claimed it.”
“Exactly.”
“What a troublemaker she is!” I said, awed by her terrible cleverness. Whatever Eris’ reason for setting the goddesses against each other, she’d devised the perfect way of doing it. No wonder her nickname was Discord.
“It’s her only gift,” said Zeus with distaste, adding that Hera, Athena, and Aphrodite were no longer speaking. After disagreeing, bickering, and then quarreling over the apple, they’d resorted to high-decibel insults. Each of them had produced at least one memorable slur before stalking off in a fury. (Athena to Aphrodite: “You have the brain of a bedbug.” Aphrodite to Athena: “Go shave your mustache.”)
Now Olympus rang with an ominous silence.
“Where’s the apple?” I asked. Zeus drew it from his robe. It was a pretty thing to have caused so much unpleasantness. Then again, the same could be said of Eris. “Hera won’t give me a moment’s peace,” Zeus complained. “She’s pushing me to make the decision.”
“And give her the apple?”
His lip curled in assent. “I can’t do it, of course. I told her I’d arrange a contest.”
“A beauty contest? Good idea.”
“A fair beauty contest.”
“Even better.”
“So we have to find a fair judge.”
We?
Olympian rivalries make me queasy—they’re unpleasant and dangerous, even to innocent bystanders. “I’m sure you’ll think of the perfect person,” I said, eyeing the doorway.
But Zeus clapped me on the shoulder and
“Well, then, hurry home! But first give me my sandals.” He removed them quickly. “And the head,” I added, for he still held it. Eyes downcast, he coaxed the snakes off his wrist and worked the head into the leather pouch. When it was covered safely, he raised it to his heart, as a priest does with sacred libations. His face worked with guilt and sorrow. It was a painful combination, as I knew.
“I—Medusa saved my life three times,” he faltered. “After I—I . . .” He couldn’t say it:
After I cut off her head.
“You had to do it.” I made my voice brisk. “You had no choice. Anyway, you’re a hero now. Things could be worse.”
At this his mouth twitched halfheartedly. It was a feeble effort at a smile, but an effort nonetheless. “Promise me you won’t forget to offer to Athena,” I said, tying on my sandals. “You’ve seen what happens when she takes offense.”
“I promise.”
“Good.” I touched his shoulder the way Zeus so often touched mine, giving him my warmest blessing. Then I flew back to Olympus to return Ares’ sickle.
From that day on, I never killed again.
PART THREE
Mount Ida
NINETEEN
I returned home with a light heart. Zeus would praise me for my brilliant work with Perseus. Throngs of beautiful, elusive, horse-loving dryads would vie for introductions to Pegasus. After showing him off to my heart’s content, I would take a long, well-deserved rest.
How wrong I was.
Zeus, slumped on his wide marble throne, greeted me morosely. I wondered if I should try to cheer him with a joke, maybe the one about the mortal crossing the road. Before I could even open my mouth, he launched into a dark monologue about his least favorite child. Of many hundreds, her name was at the bottom of the list.
“Eris,” he said, fairly spitting her name, “has really gone too far this time. I’d hurl her down to Tartarus, but Hades would never forgive me.”
Eris, Ares’ pretty little sister, liked to stir up trouble. It was said that she’d persuaded Pandora to open the Box of All Woes, loosing misery on the world, and that she tattled to Hera whenever Zeus was unfaithful, loosing considerable misery on him.
“What did she do?”
“Came to Peleus’ wedding uninvited, brought a golden apple inscribed ‘To the Fairest,’ and pitched it right at the feet of Hera, Athena, and Aphrodite.”
Ouch!
I thought. The goddesses, all famously vain, were always competing with each other. “Let me guess. Each of them claimed it.”
“Exactly.”
“What a troublemaker she is!” I said, awed by her terrible cleverness. Whatever Eris’ reason for setting the goddesses against each other, she’d devised the perfect way of doing it. No wonder her nickname was Discord.
“It’s her only gift,” said Zeus with distaste, adding that Hera, Athena, and Aphrodite were no longer speaking. After disagreeing, bickering, and then quarreling over the apple, they’d resorted to high-decibel insults. Each of them had produced at least one memorable slur before stalking off in a fury. (Athena to Aphrodite: “You have the brain of a bedbug.” Aphrodite to Athena: “Go shave your mustache.”)
Now Olympus rang with an ominous silence.
“Where’s the apple?” I asked. Zeus drew it from his robe. It was a pretty thing to have caused so much unpleasantness. Then again, the same could be said of Eris. “Hera won’t give me a moment’s peace,” Zeus complained. “She’s pushing me to make the decision.”
“And give her the apple?”
His lip curled in assent. “I can’t do it, of course. I told her I’d arrange a contest.”
“A beauty contest? Good idea.”
“A fair beauty contest.”
“Even better.”
“So we have to find a fair judge.”
We?
Olympian rivalries make me queasy—they’re unpleasant and dangerous, even to innocent bystanders. “I’m sure you’ll think of the perfect person,” I said, eyeing the doorway.
But Zeus clapped me on the shoulder and
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