shook me. “Think!” he urged. “You’re clever! Who would be truly impartial?”
I was stuck. “Well,” I mused, “if it’s impartial we want, scratch the Immortals. As for generals and warriors, scratch them, too—they’d choose Athena.” The Goddess of Wisdom, a great military strategist, was adored by fighting men. They called her Athena, Hope of Soldiers.
“You’re right. She’d promise them invincibility.” Zeus knew his daughter well.
Because Hera granted riches and power to those she favored, I said, “No rulers or politicians, either—they’d pick your wife.”
“Right again.”
“So that leaves us with the humbler folk,” I said. “Farmers, shepherds, poets—”
“Shepherds?” Zeus snapped his fingers. “Wait! I’ve got it! There’s a shepherd in Troy who’d be perfect.”
“Really? Who?”
“Paris,” said Zeus. “Second son of Troy’s royal family, though he doesn’t know it. Thinks he’s a mountain boy. One of those raised-in-obscurity-for-their-own-good mortals, like Atalanta, Jason, Perseus . . .”
As Zeus spoke, the Sight came to me. A handsome, dark-haired young man stood on a pile of rubble. Devastation raged around him. Towers flamed, bodies fell through red smoke. The rubble, I saw, was layered with corpses.
The image disappeared as suddenly as it had come, leaving me with an aching gut and a dry mouth. It was a moment before I could speak. Then I said, “He’s handsome?”
“As a god! Even the sheep are lovesick!” declared Zeus, slapping his thigh cheerfully. “He’s the most beautiful of mortals. So of course he should choose the most beautiful goddess! Excellent! I’m glad I thought of him.”
I will always regret what happened next. The Sight had shown me Paris against a backdrop of disaster. I should have guessed that his judging had brought him there, and brought on the disaster, too.
I wasn’t quick enough. My nimble wits failed me, and the chance to suggest another judge was lost. Much else was lost, too, as I would come to learn. But at that moment, when Zeus said imperiously, “Don’t just stand there, Hermes! Get moving! Bring Paris the good news!” I felt I had no choice, and I obeyed.
TWENTY
He was indeed beautiful, a slim, peachy-skinned youth with dark eyes and long lashes. Such folk cause hearts to flutter and minds to stall. They command adoring attention, even if they’re doing something trivial, and so it was with Paris. When I arrived on Mount Ida, after a long, sky-coursing run in my winged sandals, he was lying in a meadow, surrounded by his flock. A lovely young nymph—a river girl, to judge by her webbed hands and feet—crouched behind him, assiduously picking lice out of his hair. The sheep, the nymph, and the lice, too, for all I knew, were alert to his every move.
When he shifted, the nymph implored him to be still, rapping him gently with her fine-toothed wooden comb. “Paris, please! I’m almost finished.” He shrugged restlessly. “Are you too warm?” she asked with concern. He nodded, pouting. “As soon as I’m done, I’ll fan you,” she promised, and he sighed. Then, like a child trading good behavior for a sweet, he closed his eyes and lay perfectly still. He was even more beautiful in repose.
At length the nymph put down her comb. “There. All done. The lice love you almost as much as I do.” She kissed the top of his head.
Paris smiled, sat up, and scratched his head vigorously. The nymph handed him a vial of sweet oil, and he ran the stuff through his hair. Then he took to twisting his fine dark curls into long ringlets, tossing them over his shoulder one by one until they covered his back like an exotic pelt. He did this with total self-absorption, and the nymph watched, enthralled.
She loves him and he loves him,
I thought.
But will it
last?
Long years of escorting the dead down to Hades had taught me that such pairings often end in murderous rage, at least on one side. At present, though,
I was stuck. “Well,” I mused, “if it’s impartial we want, scratch the Immortals. As for generals and warriors, scratch them, too—they’d choose Athena.” The Goddess of Wisdom, a great military strategist, was adored by fighting men. They called her Athena, Hope of Soldiers.
“You’re right. She’d promise them invincibility.” Zeus knew his daughter well.
Because Hera granted riches and power to those she favored, I said, “No rulers or politicians, either—they’d pick your wife.”
“Right again.”
“So that leaves us with the humbler folk,” I said. “Farmers, shepherds, poets—”
“Shepherds?” Zeus snapped his fingers. “Wait! I’ve got it! There’s a shepherd in Troy who’d be perfect.”
“Really? Who?”
“Paris,” said Zeus. “Second son of Troy’s royal family, though he doesn’t know it. Thinks he’s a mountain boy. One of those raised-in-obscurity-for-their-own-good mortals, like Atalanta, Jason, Perseus . . .”
As Zeus spoke, the Sight came to me. A handsome, dark-haired young man stood on a pile of rubble. Devastation raged around him. Towers flamed, bodies fell through red smoke. The rubble, I saw, was layered with corpses.
The image disappeared as suddenly as it had come, leaving me with an aching gut and a dry mouth. It was a moment before I could speak. Then I said, “He’s handsome?”
“As a god! Even the sheep are lovesick!” declared Zeus, slapping his thigh cheerfully. “He’s the most beautiful of mortals. So of course he should choose the most beautiful goddess! Excellent! I’m glad I thought of him.”
I will always regret what happened next. The Sight had shown me Paris against a backdrop of disaster. I should have guessed that his judging had brought him there, and brought on the disaster, too.
I wasn’t quick enough. My nimble wits failed me, and the chance to suggest another judge was lost. Much else was lost, too, as I would come to learn. But at that moment, when Zeus said imperiously, “Don’t just stand there, Hermes! Get moving! Bring Paris the good news!” I felt I had no choice, and I obeyed.
TWENTY
He was indeed beautiful, a slim, peachy-skinned youth with dark eyes and long lashes. Such folk cause hearts to flutter and minds to stall. They command adoring attention, even if they’re doing something trivial, and so it was with Paris. When I arrived on Mount Ida, after a long, sky-coursing run in my winged sandals, he was lying in a meadow, surrounded by his flock. A lovely young nymph—a river girl, to judge by her webbed hands and feet—crouched behind him, assiduously picking lice out of his hair. The sheep, the nymph, and the lice, too, for all I knew, were alert to his every move.
When he shifted, the nymph implored him to be still, rapping him gently with her fine-toothed wooden comb. “Paris, please! I’m almost finished.” He shrugged restlessly. “Are you too warm?” she asked with concern. He nodded, pouting. “As soon as I’m done, I’ll fan you,” she promised, and he sighed. Then, like a child trading good behavior for a sweet, he closed his eyes and lay perfectly still. He was even more beautiful in repose.
At length the nymph put down her comb. “There. All done. The lice love you almost as much as I do.” She kissed the top of his head.
Paris smiled, sat up, and scratched his head vigorously. The nymph handed him a vial of sweet oil, and he ran the stuff through his hair. Then he took to twisting his fine dark curls into long ringlets, tossing them over his shoulder one by one until they covered his back like an exotic pelt. He did this with total self-absorption, and the nymph watched, enthralled.
She loves him and he loves him,
I thought.
But will it
last?
Long years of escorting the dead down to Hades had taught me that such pairings often end in murderous rage, at least on one side. At present, though,
Similar Books
