Athene considered how she might punish the gods who had voted against her. But mostly, she showered love on her new trees for how we helped her humiliate her uncle.
Andromeda
Andromeda jumped when she heard the inhuman sound. She watched her father do the same, almost laughed to see the alarm she felt appear on his face too. Mirror images, they both turned to see that the source of the noise was her mother, her face a mask of pain and fear.
‘Dearest, what is it?’ asked Cepheus. Neither he nor his daughter moved towards Cassiope. There was nothing about her expression, her posture, that suggested she would welcome it. Her voice eventually faltered and there was a brief silence, before her body convulsed with sobbing. Andromeda had never seen her mother in distress before: she was always so poised. And she too had felt like screaming when she saw the water running through their halls, sweeping bodies and belongings away.
But she didn’t feel like that now: now she was numb with shock and fatigue. The priests stood in silence at the door, beside the steward, all of them staring at the queen. Had the events of the day suddenly crushed her mother beneath their weight? Cassiope’s hands were clawing at the air as she tried to take a few juddering breaths. Andromeda felt quick irritation seize her in its warm grip. Her mother could even make a disaster on this scale all about her.
‘Dearest.’ Cepheus had broken free of his stupor and kneeled before his wife, taking her face in his hands. ‘Please, enough of this. It has been a long, terrible day. But you are safe and we are unhurt and tomorrow we will begin to rebuild our kingdom.’ Cassiope’s racking sobs began to subside. Cepheus held her gaze and stroked her hair.
‘These men will tell us what we must do to appease the gods,’ he said. ‘All will be well.’ He paused. ‘Or at least, all will be better.’ Andromeda felt the same as her father: no longer able to be certain of things. Cassiope renewed her weeping, and Andromeda wondered if she should tell the steward to escort the priests to somewhere safe and dry enough and offer them refreshments. But she felt uncomfortable issuing orders with both her parents present: the whole dismal wedding proposal had made it all too clear that they didn’t trust her to make decisions for herself. So she stood awkwardly, while Cepheus murmured comforting words to his wife.
‘Tell me how I can help,’ he said. ‘The priests did not mean to upset you, I am quite sure.’ Andromeda watched the visitors in silence. They offered no reassurance.
‘The crime was committed here, my lord,’ said the chief priest. ‘There can be no doubt.’
‘What crime?’ asked Andromeda. The two men looked at her in alarm, unused to being addressed by a young woman, even if her father was the king.
‘The blasphemy,’ said the older one.
‘The provocation,’ said the younger.
‘Someone has offended Poseidon?’ asked Andromeda, wishing that they would just say what they meant. They nodded vigorously. ‘In word or deed?’
‘Speaking the words is a deed,’ said the younger one. Andromeda wondered how the god tolerated such servants. Then she wondered if that was the sort of thing that counted as blasphemy.
‘Speaking which words?’ asked her father, groaning slightly as he stood up again.
‘She knows which words,’ said the older man. Andromeda felt a shock of fear, thinking he meant her. But both men were staring at her mother. Cassiope began to shudder, first in her hands and then her whole body. The stool on which she sat rattled against the stone floor. Andromeda could not bear it and moved in to embrace her, holding her tight until the shaking eased.
Her father disliked the priests, Andromeda realized. He wanted to have them both thrown out of the palace, but he did not dare to treat the emissaries of Poseidon with such disrespect. ‘When you address the queen,’ Cepheus said, ‘you will call her that.’
‘Forgive me, sire.’ The older priest was dripping contempt. ‘The queen knows which words. She has offended the king of the waves, and she has offended his queen.’
‘She will make it right,’ Cepheus replied. Andromeda felt the tension in her mother’s body. ‘We will make offerings in the temple immediately. Why aren’t you doing that now?’
‘We have made offerings,’ said the younger man. ‘That is how we know what has angered him, my lord.’
‘This is what you asked us to do,’ said the older one. ‘It is hardly our fault if you do not like the answer we bring.’
‘My wife will make the offering then,’ Cepheus said. ‘She will offer her finest jewels and you will sacrifice a hundred oxen.’
There was silence. Andromeda didn’t even know if her father still had a hundred oxen, or if her mother now possessed a single jewel. Everything had been washed away: perhaps Poseidon had already taken by force what her mother was supposed to give him by volition.
‘That is not enough,’ said the younger priest. Andromeda could see how much both men were enjoying this moment, wielding their power so cruelly. She wondered why they hated her mother.
‘Then what?’ asked Cepheus. He sounded so weary that Andromeda worried he might collapse where he stood. ‘What did you say, my love?’ he asked his wife.
Andromeda expected her to scream again, or start shaking, but she did not. Instead, Cassiope rose to her feet and stared at the men who were so enjoying her downfall. Both men tried and failed to meet her gaze. ‘I made a mistake,’ she said.
Andromeda could not recall hearing her mother ever say these words before. Cepheus nodded. Everyone made mistakes. ‘What did you say?’ he asked.
‘I told my reflection that I was more beautiful than a Nereid,’ said Cassiope.
Andromeda watched the spasm of fear and sorrow pass over her father’s face.
‘I see,’ he said.
‘I understand what I have done,’ Cassiope continued. ‘I must pay for my hubris, of course.’
‘Of course,’ said the older priest, still unable to look at her.
‘I will give myself to the sea.’ The queen stood tall and proud, and in that moment Andromeda thought she might have been right. She was more beautiful than anyone – goddess or mortal.
Cepheus closed his eyes. He could not save her and he could not look at her.
‘That won’t be necessary,’ said the younger man, reassuring words seasoned with the cruellest smile. Her father understood; she saw his shoulders slump.
‘It isn’t you they want,’ said the priest.
Medusa, Sthenno, Euryale
Medusa did not dare leave her cave. She would not unbind her eyes; she only unwound the cloths to sleep and even then she kept them right beside her, wrapped lightly around her hands. No matter what reassurances her sisters offered, she was plagued by one thought: what if she could turn them to stone?
‘It’s impossible,’ said Sthenno. After all these years of being scared for her sister, she could not be scared of her now.
‘We’re immortal,’ added Euryale. ‘Your gaze would have no more impact than a sword thrust or a twisting knife.’
‘You don’t know that,’ said Medusa, her head turned to face the wall.
And she was right: they did not know.