*
When Athene and Hermes arrived to collect him, Perseus was sitting where they had left him. His curly hair was mussed, his tunic appeared to be back to front. He had a dazed expression and was holding the straps of a golden bag in his left hand. It was large and sturdy, decorated with silver tassels. Neither god needed to ask what it was for. In his right hand, he held a curved blade which – again, both gods knew – had once belonged to Zeus. He really did prize the bratty child if he had let the Hesperides give him this sword. On his lap, the boy held a winged cap, which Hermes recognized, having worn it many times himself. Hades was terrible at keeping track of his possessions: he really should be more careful.
‘Where are your shoes?’ asked Athene. Perseus looked at his bare feet as though seeing them for the first time.
‘I’m not sure,’ he said.
‘Typical,’ muttered Hermes. ‘They really will take anything.’
‘That’s why I don’t usually come here,’ Athene replied. ‘They can’t leave a single thing alone.’
‘You’d have needed new spears if we’d stayed any longer,’ said Hermes. Neither he nor Perseus noticed the expression of horror that appeared and disappeared on the goddess’s face.
‘I think they said you’d lend me your sandals,’ said Perseus. He shook his head slowly, as though trying to dislodge a strange dream or remember a long-forgotten name.
‘Did they indeed?’ said Hermes. He looked at Athene and she shrugged. ‘I’ll have these back when you’ve finished with the Gorgons.’ Hermes reached down and grudgingly loosened the ties around his ankles.
‘Yes, of course,’ said Perseus.
‘I mean it.’ The messenger god handed them to Perseus, jerking them away from him at the last moment. ‘You don’t bring them back here, do you understand?’
‘Yes,’ said Perseus.
‘Because if you do, I might never see them again,’ said Hermes. ‘They take everything for safekeeping.’ His tone did not suggest he considered anything to be safe with the Hesperides.
‘Perhaps they’ll give me my sandals back,’ Perseus said. He looked behind him towards the places where the nymphs played and hid around their trees and their lake. He turned back to Hermes with doubt in his eyes.
‘I’m sure they’ll consider it,’ said Athene. ‘But you’ll need something else to give them, and they might take that and keep the shoes anyway.’
Perseus tied Hermes’s sandals around his ankles, stroking the wings that now sprouted on either side of his calves. Hermes glared at him. Athene held her shield a little tighter.
‘Where are we going now?’ asked Perseus.
‘You’re going to the Gorgons,’ said Athene. ‘We just came to make sure you had everything you need.’
‘Are they nearby?’ Perseus looked foolishly from side to side, as though a Gorgon head might suddenly hover into view.
‘I’m not sure how long it’ll take you,’ said Athene. ‘But they’re that way.’
She pointed across the river which was not a river, to a direction lost in mist.
‘I don’t kno—’ Perseus began, but he was speaking to the breeze.
A Nereid, Unnamed
Well. This might be the most egregious insult any of us has ever sustained, and we’re immortal so there has been plenty of time. The Nereids are fifty in number and we are the daughters of the ocean. I’ll repeat this, because it seems that not every mortal has been paying attention. Nereids are immortal, and we are fifty, and so if you insult us as a group, you insult fifty goddesses at once. Ask yourself if that sounds like something you want to do.
And then ask yourself if it might be a little arrogant to compare yourself with us. Mortals have a word for this kind of arrogance: the kind that makes a person think she can compare herself favourably to a goddess. The word is hubris. And while I am all in favour of using precision to describe something, might I suggest that you would be better off not doing something so dangerous so often that you need a specific word for it? Perhaps develop your self-control, rather than your vocabulary.
What could she have imagined would happen to her? Cassiope, I mean. Is it possible you hadn’t heard? Cassiope, queen of Ethiopia. I’m sure you’re aware of her. She’s a famous beauty, apparently （by mortal standards）。 Married a king who doted on her, cherished her, indulged her. Allowed her to believe that she could keep her looks, no matter how many years went by. Since Cassiope believed this, she gained no humility as she grew older, only anxiety. She became more and more fearful that her beauty was slipping away, more in need of reassurance, more desperate to convince herself that the compliments she heard from her husband and her slaves were still true. And every day, she looked at her reflection and persuaded herself that somehow age had not touched her, the way it does every living creature. She looked at her daughter – who you might recall is named Andromeda – and believed they must look the same. While she was occupied with this delusion, she added another: she – and her daughter – were as beautiful as the Nereids. More beautiful, perhaps.
Can you even imagine? To have such a thought is madness and folly, equal and immense. To express such a thought? Tantamount to a death sentence.
Perhaps you are thinking: if the woman was so foolish, so deluded, what difference did her words make? Surely the gods would simply overlook them, because why would they concern themselves with the words of a stupid woman? If I know so much about her – about her frailty and her ageing – why am I angry? Carry on that way, and I’ll lose patience with you too. Nereids are not minor deities, and we will not be treated as such. We are the daughters of the sea. I bet you can’t even name one, can you?
You see, that is absolutely typical of you people. So you don’t bother learning fifty names （don’t pretend it’s so difficult; you can count to fifty, can’t you?）。 But I should just overlook any and all insults?
No.
The Nereids will not let these statements go unchallenged and unpunished. Cassiope is not now as beautiful as a goddess and nor was she ever, even when she was the age her daughter is now. Andromeda is not as beautiful as a goddess either. She is reasonable-looking, for a mortal. That is the best you could say about her. My sisters and I have convened and discussed the matter: we have come to several conclusions.
The first is that mortal women probably wouldn’t have these delusions of immortal beauty if gods did not take it upon themselves to seduce some of them. Of course, it is still hubristic. But you can just about understand how they could convince themselves that one or another of them is a rival to our great beauty, if she is the object of desire to Zeus or Poseidon or Apollo. Just about. So it is Poseidon who will rise up to punish Cassiope. Because otherwise his existence will become a constant trial until he does as we ask. Yes, he is a mighty god, the ruler of the ocean. But there are fifty of us and we’re all furious.
The second is that these slights against us must end. And therefore Cassiope will need to be punished in a way that resounds through the ages. Mortals have – it seems – forgotten the power of the Nereids. They will not do so again.