‘To the priestess?’
‘Yes, her statue stands where it was made.’
‘In my sanctuary?’
‘Yes.’
Athene frowned. ‘I thought that the fire was for me.’
‘It’s for the girl.’
‘I suppose that’s not blasphemy.’
‘Her statue serves yours,’ said the Gorgoneion. ‘It isn’t blasphemous at all.’
‘I’m bored of it now. I don’t care about the statues any more.’
‘Bored of the girl we killed?’
‘Yes. And everything else.’
‘I see.’
‘I don’t remember when I wasn’t bored.’
‘That must be painful for you.’
‘It is. Are you mocking me?’
‘No. Immortality must be a painful business for you.’
‘There’s no one to talk to.’
‘Because they die?’
‘Yes.’
‘There are other gods.’
‘They don’t like me. I don’t like them either.’
‘You’re lonely.’
‘I am not.’
‘You are. That’s why you’re talking to me.’
‘I don’t know who else to talk to.’
‘If you’re not lonely, then what are you?’
The goddess blinked once or twice as she tried to find her answer. ‘I helped so many men find their way home,’ she said. ‘Because they had lost themselves on a quest or in a war and all they wanted was to return home. No matter what adventures they had, what riches they held, what wonders they saw, what they really wanted was to remember those things from the safety of their homes. Do you understand?’
‘I do.’
‘That’s how I feel.’
‘You want to go home?’
‘Yes.’
‘To Olympus?’
‘No, to . . .’ Athene watched the waves breaking softly in front of her. ‘I don’t know where home is. I don’t have a home, really.’
‘You have many homes: Olympus, Athens, the sanctuary where the girl died.’
‘Those are places other people call my home. But they don’t feel like it to me. I want to be somewhere else, but I don’t know where. And I want to know when I reach it that I have come home.’
‘So you’re homesick for somewhere you’ve never been?’
‘Yes. Where do you think it is?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You could help me find it.’
‘Perhaps.’
‘Now?’
‘If that’s what you want.’
‘It is.’
‘I can only take you to one place,’ said the head of Medusa. ‘And if it isn’t home, I can’t bring you back. You understand that?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then look.’
Gorgoneion
You have seen this statue before. It has been copied many times. Athene stands comfortably: her weight on her right foot, left heel slightly raised, left knee bent. Her dress drapes over the outline of her knee. If you only glanced at her, you might think she was mid-step. But look at the way her arms fall. Look at how her head is half-turned. She isn’t walking anywhere. She is standing as if she has decided that this is the most flattering pose she could think of. And looking at her – youthful, careless, beautiful – you might conclude that she was right.
Her helmet is tilted back, the way she always liked to wear it. Her hair coils beneath the rim, snaking over her ears. Her blind eyes stare into nothingness, her mouth forms a perfect bow. Her skin looks so soft, it makes you want to reach out and stroke the marble to check if it is warm. Although she was never warm to the touch, even when she wasn’t made of stone.
Her head is facing down: she is looking at something on her left, on the ground, not far away. People will spend lifetimes arguing about what the sculptor was trying to convey with this choice, this angle. But you know the truth. She is looking down to her left because that is where she had placed her aegis. The one with the Gorgon head at its centre.
And what happened to the Gorgon head? The final part of the story. It was carried out to the sea eventually. It is enmeshed in seaweeds and coral, which have hardened around it, like stone. The Gorgoneion is lost beneath the waves, and no one can reach it, not even the creatures of the sea. It has closed its eyes, one last time.