He cries out and men turn to look at him, which means they see me, which costs them dear. One man is turned to stone as he jabs a short sword into his countryman. The dead man – whose eyes had glazed before he could turn his head – has to be lifted off the statue which had killed him. Blood is shed, but there are dozens of bodies amid hundreds of statues.
*
When Andromeda opens her eyes again, she does not scream. She looks around and tries to comprehend what has happened: the loss of almost everyone she knows. The girls with whom she had planned weddings are all dead. Their brothers and parents are dead. Her uncle and all his men are dead, but she doesn’t notice because she is desperately searching the rooms for her parents. Perseus has replaced me and hooks the bag over his shoulder and wonders at the clean resolution he has achieved. No more men demanding his bride as their own. No more fighting. He wonders why Andromeda isn’t more grateful, like she was after he killed the sea monster.
He thinks of Dictys, and how he had been so concerned about burying the statues in the sand of Seriphos, rather than leaving them on show for all to see what happened when you crossed the son of Zeus. Perhaps that is what is bothering Andromeda, who now appears in the hall again, holding on to her parents as though they might run off. Perseus supposes they have lost a lot of slaves with the floods and now the fighting and so perhaps she and her parents are wondering how they can empty their halls of the statuary. He will help them, of course: there’s no need for them to look so stricken. He doesn’t like her parents. Perhaps he will just take Andromeda away with him and leave them to clean up the mess.
Athene
‘I don’t know why you want him to stop,’ Athene said. ‘It’s the first interesting thing he’s ever done and now you don’t like it.’
‘Hera advises me that he should give up the Gorgon head,’ said Zeus. He stroked his beard so his daughter would know he had given it a great deal of thought himself, and decided to heed his wife’s advice.
‘Because he killed a few Greeks,’ said Athene. ‘Hera doesn’t like competition, that’s all.’
‘I don’t think it was just the Greeks that concerned her,’ Zeus replied. ‘It was the culling of so many Ethiopians. The Gorgon head wiped out more than Poseidon’s tidal wave, and his sea monster too.’
‘He has ensured a trouble-free succession for generations to come,’ said his daughter. ‘It is the only time he has ever reminded me of you.’
Zeus nodded slowly. He was torn in this matter: it was always easier to do what Hera wanted, and it was certainly the case that he could do without Poseidon complaining about being overshadowed by a mere mortal. He knew that would be coming if he failed to act now. But at the same time, it was a moment of some paternal pride. That his son – a mortal who had needed divine assistance just to get off his own island – had managed to slaughter hundreds of people. And at a wedding! When they might least have expected it. There were always good reasons for reducing mortal numbers. Imagine how many lightning bolts Perseus had saved him with a quick flash of the Gorgon head.
‘Do you think he would still remind you of me if he gave up the Gorgoneion?’ he asked Athene. She tilted her head slightly, as she thought about it. She reminded him more and more of her precious owl.
‘He would be dead in a month without it,’ she said. ‘If he carries on picking fights the way he has been. You can’t be petulant and angry all the time if you haven’t got a much more powerful weapon than everyone around you.’
Zeus frowned. ‘That doesn’t answer my question.’
‘Oh, doesn’t it?’ Athene asked. ‘Well then, yes, in some ways he would continue to remind me of you. He’s not like his mother at all: she isn’t interested in killing anyone as far as I can tell. She didn’t even try and kill the king of Seriphos, she just waited until Perseus came and did it for her.’
‘I see,’ said Zeus. ‘I don’t suppose you could go and tell him not to use the head unless there’s no choice?’
‘He already does that,’ said Athene.
‘Really?’ her father asked.
‘Yes, he’s quite cowardly and stupid, so he can hardly ever choose to do something difficult or brave,’ she explained. ‘The head really has made all the difference.’
‘He might learn to be brave.’
‘No,’ said Athene. ‘He won’t. He’s more the kind of person who doesn’t learn anything. He takes easy shortcuts whenever they’re offered and gives up when they aren’t.’
‘Take it from him.’
Athene nodded. ‘Very well,’ she said. ‘And then what should I do with it?’
Zeus had already lost interest. ‘Whatever you want,’ he said.
Iodame
Her father had built the sanctuary to Athene before she was born, so she was a priestess from the beginning. She grew up shadowing the footsteps of the women who served the goddess, hiding in the recesses to witness their observance. She wanted so much to serve alongside them, she would stand on her tiptoes whenever the chief priestess walked past, determined to be older. Iodame loved her goddess and loved her temple.
As a junior priestess, she worked harder than anyone. The older women loved her, even when they grew tired of the questions she always had about one or another part of their religious practice. No one could fault the child for enthusiasm, they would say. And she enjoyed even the hardest, most painstaking tasks. They had her carding wool for months at a time, so they could weave the finest and most beautiful robe for their goddess. She never complained that her hands were scratched by the burrs, or that the grease from the wool was staining her tunic. When the carding was completed, she sought to learn spinning, so she might be closer still to her goddess.
Boys came sometimes, from the surrounding neighbourhood. They watched the young priestesses as quietly as they could, knowing that the moment they were discovered, one of the old women who swept the sanctuary steps each day would be after them with her broom. But the lure of young women who had turned their back on future marriage was too great, and the boys would return even when the bruises from last time had yet to fade. Some of the girls would encourage them, but not Iodame. She had a brother: boys held no mystery for her.
And anyway, she loved Athene. She had little interest in anything else. She felt a great warmth towards her parents that they had given her this life, even as her siblings rejected it. Let them lead the lives they chose, Iodame thought. The life of the temple was the one for her. The older priestesses were so impressed by her focus that they taught her to weave: the youngest girl ever to assist in the making of Athene’s robe.
Each year, they made a new peplos for the goddess they served. Her statue – larger than life, if Iodame could think such a thing about her goddess – was taken from the temple, paraded through the streets for all to see her lapis eyes and golden skin. Every year on this day, her dress was made anew, so she was always as perfect as she could be, in honour of their always-perfect goddess. Music was played by her devotees, although Iodame had yet to learn the flute. She could sing, at least, and she would be a flute-player next year. The music teacher had promised her.