*
Iodame wove the finest, neatest cloth she could make. She worked until it was dark and then by torchlight. She knew if she made it perfect – or as close to perfect as anyone who was not Athene could achieve – she would see the dress adorning the statue for a whole year, a dress she had helped to make. Even flute-playing could wait. When she finally completed her work, she knew it was good.
On the morning of the festival, she watched the priestesses draw the old dress over the statue’s head. They were careful not to snag it on the helmet Athene wore. They had to remove her spear and return it to her grasp once the new peplos was in place. Iodame felt oddly impertinent, seeing the statue naked. But the light reflected off the goddess’s golden skin and Iodame glowed like the one she served. She had told her family that her weaving would adorn the goddess this time. Her father had squeezed her shoulders, mute with pride.
The ceremony was formal and joyful. It was the moment when the priestesses were closest to the people who lived around them, and when the people were closest to their goddess. When the statue was finally returned to the precinct, the shadows had grown long and the cicadas were adding their own hymn of praise. Athene stood in her recess once again, spear in hand, helmet tilted back at the characteristic angle.
The priestesses now had their own, more private celebrations. They poured wine and made offerings to their goddess, and then they ate and drank together in her honour. Iodame was tired and elated in equal measure. She did not want the day to end, and yet she could not keep her eyes open. She edged away from the other women and hid herself behind a pillar. She sat leaning against it, its warm curve fitting neatly into the curve at the base of her spine. She allowed her head to droop until her chin rested on her knees. She closed her eyes just for a moment.
When she woke, the precinct was dark. The music had stopped, and the torches had died. She wondered if she was in trouble. But how could she be? She felt suffused with love for her goddess and she could not believe she was anywhere she was not supposed to be. She crept around the pillar and blinked. She looked up at the sky: it was cloudless, but the moon was only a sliver. An owl flew overhead, pale in the dim light. She smiled: she always loved to see Athene’s favourite bird.
Iodame looked again across the precinct. She must still be dreaming. Because she could see, quite clearly, the back of her goddess standing in the middle of the sanctuary, admiring her statue’s new dress. Athene mirrored her mannequin perfectly. Iodame thought it must be a trick of the light, and she crept up the colonnade, trying to untrick her eyes. But the goddess did not disappear or resolve into a mass of shadows. Iodame was now almost level with her, and she could see Athene’s face in profile.
The other priestesses had talked about Athene sometimes coming to visit her sanctuary, but Iodame had thought they were speaking of their hopes, and nothing more. She stood gazing at the goddess in silence. Her jawline, her nose matched the statue exactly. Iodame felt her devotion more powerfully than ever, but there was another feeling too. She was disconcerted by the uncanny sense of the familiar. The goddess was right there in front of her, and she knew her intimately. Yet she was also a stranger, huge and imposing. She didn’t know whether to hide or reveal herself, to worship or retreat. When the goddess turned her head, Iodame stood her ground. She did not run or fall to her knees. She bowed her head and then returned the bright blue-grey gaze. Athene smiled. ‘You’re my priestess,’ she said. ‘The one everyone loves.’
Iodame could feel herself blushing in the darkness. ‘I think so,’ she said.
‘You are,’ said Athene. ‘I wanted to see you for myself. Come here.’
Iodame stepped out of the shadows of the portico. Her goddess shimmered with a golden radiance that the gold-encrusted statue could never match. Iodame looked at the glittering helmet, the glinting spearhead, the braided hair, and she felt pride that their feeble lifeless copy of the goddess was as accurate as it could be, given the impossibility of trying to replicate perfection. But she was especially glad that Athene had chosen to visit on a day when her statue wore a new dress not much shabbier than the one she wore herself. How hard she had worked to contribute to their offerings.
There was only one thing the real goddess had which the statue did not. Iodame was sorry to see that the priestesses had missed a garment the goddess wore over her dress. An aegis, was that the word? Her brother would know. It was armour, anyway, covering Athene’s breastbone. It made her look more warlike than ever: Iodame wanted to make one of those next, even if she had to learn leatherworking first. But what was the decoration in the centre? A huge mass of snakes? Or was there something else?
But of course, she was stone before she could see.
Athene and the Gorgoneion
‘Turn her back,’ said Athene. ‘I didn’t mean for that to happen.’
‘Neither did I,’ replied the head of Medusa.
‘Then turn her back.’
‘I can’t.’
‘What do you mean, you can’t? You made her stone, make her flesh again.’
‘I don’t have that power.’
‘Well, you should have thought of that before you looked at her.’
‘Perhaps you should have thought of it before you secured the head of the Gorgon to your breastplate.’
‘It’s too late for me to think of that now.’
‘Yes.’
‘You won’t bring her back?’
‘I would if I could.’
‘It’s very inconvenient. She only looked at you for a moment.’
‘That’s all it takes.’
Athene lifted off her helmet and rubbed her brow bone. ‘So you can’t look at anyone without them turning to stone?’
‘You know I can’t.’
‘How would I know?
‘You cursed me.’
There was silence.
‘I didn’t know it would be so quick,’ Athene said. ‘I thought you’d have to really stare at something.’
‘Now you know,’ the Gorgoneion replied. ‘Why did you mention her now?’
‘Who?’
‘The priestess. That’s who you meant, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, of course it is. What do you mean, why mention her now?’
The head of Medusa stared out over the sea. Athene’s breastplate was propped up against the trunk of a wizened olive tree.
‘You asked me to change her back as though it had just happened.’
‘It did just happen.’
‘No,’ said the Gorgoneion. ‘It happened centuries ago.’
‘I don’t know what that is.’
‘A century is a hundred years.’
‘Is that longer than an hour?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh.’ Athene thought for a while. ‘Could you have changed her back if I’d asked you sooner?’
‘No.’
‘So it doesn’t make any difference how long it’s been?’
‘No, not really.’
‘I wish I hadn’t turned round,’ said the goddess, all the words at once. ‘But she’d be dead now anyway, if it’s been hundreds of years. They die, don’t they?’
‘Yes, they do. And the priestesses at your temple have kept a flame burning for her ever since they found her statue.’