She wanted to scream and cry but there were so many people watching her. She did not want to humiliate herself any further, so she breathed in slowly and decided she would walk her way through the last two days, pace by pace. She would do it silently, and above all she would not look down. No matter what.
A breath out. She tried to remember which she had heard first: the pounding of leather on stone as men came racing through the palace halls? Or the terrified screaming as the waves pursued them? Or the sound of the water itself, suddenly and inexplicably filling the land between the sea and her home? The shouts and screams, she concluded. Then the sandalled feet. Then the angry tide. She felt a matching surge of fear rush through her, and tried to maintain her composure. Perhaps it had been the sea she heard first, she thought. But she hadn’t been able to identify the deep rumbling sound – deafening and out of place – so she had not realized until afterwards.
A breath in. And then there had been the panic, the hard bright contagion that filled the palace faster than water, faster than running, screaming men. The water was briskly destructive, smashing everything it touched. And yet, when it licked her feet as she sat on the roof watching it rise with a fascinated horror, it was warm and soft. She had expected to die alongside her parents, in the moments that followed. But as quickly as it invaded her home, the water retreated again.
A breath out. It did not retreat far. The palace was left with piles of splintered wood, fractured ceramics, sodden, stinking fabric, and a thin jagged crust of salt crystallizing along the walls. But the palace was the least-affected part of their kingdom, certainly of the area that spanned Andromeda’s home to what had once been the coastline. Much of this land was now underwater. Homes, livestock, people: all had been lost to the encroaching greed of Poseidon.
A breath in. Of course, they had tried to placate him. They had rushed to his temple, which the water had not even touched （skirting round the base of the hill on which it stood）。 Cepheus had given his priests whatever they asked for: cattle were in short supply now, but they sacrificed ten to the sea god straightaway. The king could hardly have done anything else, given that his surviving subjects were looking upon a vast plain of water that had swallowed their loved ones alive. What does the god say? Andromeda heard the panic in her father’s voice again. A man to whom everything had come easily was not made to deal with a crisis on this scale. He was dwarfed by it, emasculated.
A breath out. And his wife – who had been saved by her locked doors, which allowed only a trickle of water into her rooms – watched the whole thing in uncharacteristic silence. Cepheus had asked for her advice, but this opinionated woman had offered nothing. Andromeda could see her father struggling to make decisions without her mother’s customary contributions. Feeling that she should do her duty if her mother could not, Andromeda began to talk to her father about practicalities: where should people who had lost their homes sleep? How could they be fed now so many animals were gone? How would they be fed later, now so much grain was lost? She felt wholly unequal to the task of advising, but she knew her father needed her and she wouldn’t let him down.
A breath in. And then that night, the three of them sat together in a dingy chamber she could not remember ever noticing before. From the seeds that lay on the ground in the corners （swept there with a hasty broom） this had been a storeroom until today. It was, however, drier than any other room she had checked, and the musty odour of damp was fainter. A jar of oil lay on its side by one wall, impossibly unbroken. The table had been nailed together by slaves in a rush, and Andromeda watched as her father reached for a dented goblet filled with undiluted wine, snagging his sleeve. Always so fussy about his clothes, Cepheus didn’t even notice the tear. The palace steward brought them bread which had burned at the edges and a soup made from whatever had not been washed away: onion, caraway, chickpeas.
A breath out. Trying to eat because it seemed petulant to refuse when so many had lost so much, Andromeda discovered she was ravenous. She watched the same realization cross her father’s face, though her mother picked at the bread without interest. Andromeda wondered where they would sleep and then flushed in the dim light to be thinking about such a minor thing when half the kingdom was underwater.
A breath in. The sound of men’s footsteps hurrying through the halls, her father’s head turning as he leaped from his seat, the three-legged stool clattering over. But these men weren’t coming to warn of another tidal wave. Andromeda could hear the difference between purpose and panic, even if her father no longer could. The steward had returned, but this time he was accompanied by two priests from the temple of Poseidon. One was wearing an ornate headdress, and held himself with the air of a man who wanted to seem comfortable speaking to his king in a palace storeroom. The second man stood just behind him, like a fearful shadow. Cepheus recognized them both and waved them to come inside. But they stood awkwardly in the doorway instead. Andromeda did not know whether to stand herself, but stayed seated as her glassy-eyed mother showed no sign of moving and she did not wish to draw attention.
A breath out. Do you bring news from the god? asked her father. We do, sire, said the chief priest. His eyes darted around, seeking any possible route for escape. The message has come from Poseidon and it is unmistakable. Unmistakable, echoed the second man. We are punished for a crime committed in this palace, said the priest. Here? Cepheus’s bafflement was complete. What crime, when?
Seated behind him, his wife let out a harsh, keening cry.
Elaia
Oh, come on. You must have realized an olive tree was the way Athene won Athens. We’re an integral part of the city’s identity. We’re even on the coins. Well, just behind the owl. We still grow here now, everyone knows us: our grove is sacred and has been since that day. And we’re not just important to Athens, we matter to the whole of Hellas. What do you think of when you think of Greece? Don’t pretend. Fine, you might think of blue oceans lapping sandy shores, yes. Sure. But when you want to recreate the feeling of Athens, it’s olive trees you see in your mind’s eye, and olive oil you taste. To pretend anything else is foolish and insulting.
Now where were we? That’s right, the gods’ decision. The Olympians looked at the sea Poseidon had created and they looked at Athene’s magnificent olive tree. They saw another expanse of salt water, as if any part of Hellas required another drop of brine. And they saw a sturdy tree with silver leaves. Then – because they are gods – they saw us in the spring, covered with tiny white stars. Then they saw us in the autumn, our boughs sagging under the weight of our fruit. Then they saw the olive presses. They saw their temples flickering in the light of torches burning olive oil. They saw offerings made of honeycomb and grapes with oil poured over the top. They saw the bodies of athletes gleaming with oil, they saw funerary rites performed with oil. They saw men consuming the oil and cooking with it too. They saw huge amphorae filled with liquid gold. They realized that there was no future for this city without us.
No, it wasn’t a unanimous decision, since you ask. But it obviously should have been, and it was perfectly clear to all of us that the gods who voted for Poseidon had an ulterior motive.