Percy Jackson's Greek Gods (7 page)

Now you’re thinking,
Why didn’t he just refuse to hold it, and let the sky fall?

I did mention the chains, right? He couldn’t run away without getting flattened. Also, it’s hard to appreciate unless you’ve done it (which I have), but holding the sky is kind of like being stuck under a loaded barbell during a bench press. All your concentration goes into keeping that thing from crushing you. You can’t lift it, because it’s too heavy. You can’t release it, because it will squash you as it drops. All you can do is hold it in place, sweating and straining and whimpering “Help!” hoping somebody will walk through the gym, notice you being slowly pressed into a pancake, and lift the weight off you. But what if no one does? Imagine being stuck in that situation for
eternity.

That was Atlas’s punishment. All the other Titans who fought in the war got off easy. They were pitched headfirst into Tartarus.

Which leaves us with the million-drachma question: What happened to Kronos?

There are a lot of different stories. Most agree that the Crooked One was dug out of the rubble and brought before Zeus. Most say he was bound in chains like the other Titans and tossed into Tartarus.

According to some later traditions—and I kind of like this version—Zeus took his father’s scythe and sliced him up the way Kronos had sliced up Ouranos. Kronos was thrown into Tartarus in teeny-tiny pieces. Supposedly, that’s where we get the idea of Father Time with his scythe, being deposed every January first by Baby New Year—though it’s difficult to imagine Zeus in a diaper and a party hat.

Some versions claim that Zeus released Kronos from Tartarus many years later—either to live out his retirement in Italy, or to rule the Isles of the Blest in Elysium. Personally, I don’t buy that. It doesn’t make sense if you believe that Kronos was chopped to bits. And if you know Zeus, you know he’s not exactly the forgive-and-forget type.

Anyway, Kronos was done. The age of the Titans was over.

The Titans who
didn’t
fight against the gods were allowed to stick around. Some, like Helios and Selene, kept their jobs. Some even intermarried with the gods.

Zeus named himself the new king of the cosmos, but he was smarter than Kronos. He sat down with his brothers and said, “Look, I want to be fair about this. How about we throw dice for control of different parts of the world? Highest roll gets first choice.”

Hades frowned. “I have rotten luck. What parts are we talking about?”

“The sky, the sea, and the Underworld,” Zeus offered.

“You mean Tartarus?” Poseidon asked. “Gross!”

“I mean the
upper
Underworld,” Zeus said. “You know, the
nice
part nearer to the surface. That’s not so bad—big caves, lots of jewels, riverside real estate on the Styx.”

“Huh,” Hades said. “What about the earth itself? Greece and all the other lands?”

“That will be neutral territory,” Zeus suggested. “We can all operate on the earth.”

The brothers agreed. Notice how the sisters were not invited to this little dice game? I know. Totally unfair. But that’s how it went down.

No surprise, Zeus got the highest roll. He chose the sky for his domain, which made sense because of the lightning bolts, and all. Poseidon got the second-highest roll. He chose the sea and became the supreme god of the waters, above Oceanus, who got pushed ever farther to the margins of the world, and Pontus, who was mostly asleep in the muck all the time anyway.

Hades got the worst roll, as he expected. He took the Underworld as his domain, but it kind of suited his gloomy personality, so he didn’t complain (much).

The Hundred-Handed Ones built Zeus the gleaming palace he’d always dreamed of at the top of Mount Olympus. Then Zeus sent them back to Tartarus—but this time as jailers to watch over the Titans. The Hundred-Handed Ones didn’t really mind. At least now
they
were the ones with the whips.

The Elder Cyclopes went to work for the gods. They constructed a workshop at the bottom of the sea near the island of Lemnos, where there was lots of volcanic heat to power their forges. They made tons of special weapons and other fun collectibles, and had a good health package with a week of paid vacation every year.

As for the gods, Zeus invited them all to live with him on Mount Olympus. Each of them had a throne in the main hall, so even though Zeus was in charge, it was more like a council than a dictatorship. They called themselves the Olympians.

Well…I
say
they were all welcome in Olympus: but Hades, not so much. The guy had always creeped out his siblings. Now that he was lord of the Underworld, he seemed to bring doom and darkness with him wherever he went.

“You understand,” Zeus told him privately, “we can’t have an Underworld throne up here on Mount Olympus. It would make the other gods uncomfortable, and the skulls and black stone really wouldn’t go with the decor.”

“Oh, sure,” grumbled Hades. “I see how it is.”

Anyway, that’s how things got started with the gods on Mount Olympus. Eventually there would be twelve thrones in the council chamber, and a whole bunch of other gods who
didn’t
have thrones.

The Olympians figured that now they could settle down and rule the world in peace.

There was only one problem. Remember that the Earth Mother Gaea was taking a nap all this time? Well, eventually she would wake up. And when she got home and found out her favorite kids, the Titans, had been thrown into Tartarus, Zeusie was going to have some explaining to do.

But that’s a tale for another day.

Now it’s time to meet the gods, up close and personal. Just be warned, some of their stories might make you feel like Kronos after a big glass of mustard nectar.

ZEUS

W
HY IS
Z
EUS ALWAYS FIRST
?

Seriously, every book about the Greek gods has to start with this guy. Are we doing reverse alphabetical order? I know he’s the king of Olympus and all—but trust me, this dude’s ego does
not
need to get any bigger.

You know what? Forget him.

We’re going to talk about the gods in the order they were born, women first. Take a backseat, Zeus. We’re starting with Hestia.

HESTIA CHOOSES BACHELOR NUMBER ZERO

I
N SOME WAYS,
Hestia was a lot like her mom, Rhea.

She had an honest smile, warm brown eyes, and black hair that framed her face in ringlets. She was gentle and good-natured. She never said a bad word about anybody. If you walked into a party on Mount Olympus, Hestia wouldn’t be the first girl who caught your eye. She wasn’t flashy or loud or crazy. She was more like the goddess next door—sweet and pretty in an unpretentious way. Usually she kept her hair tucked under a linen shawl. She wore plain, modest dresses and never used makeup.

I said earlier that nobody took her seriously, and it’s true the other gods weren’t good about taking her advice. Kronos had swallowed Hestia first, so she’d gotten barfed up last. Because of that, her siblings tended to think of her as the youngest rather than the oldest—the last one to emerge. She was quieter and more peaceful than her siblings, but that didn’t mean they didn’t
love
her. Like Rhea, Hestia was a hard person not to love.

In one important way, though, Hestia was
not
like Rhea. Her mom was known for being…well, a mom. The Great Mother. The Ultimate Mama.
La Madre Grande.

Hestia wanted nothing to do with being a mom.

She didn’t have a problem with
other
people’s families. She loved her siblings, and once they started having kids, she loved them, too. Her fondest wish was for the whole Olympian family to get along and spend quality time together around the hearth, chatting or having dinner or playing Twister—really any wholesome activity.

Hestia just didn’t want to get married herself.

If you think about it, you can see why. Hestia had spent years inside Kronos’s
gut. She had a very good memory, and could even recall Kronos gulping her down when she was a newborn. She remembered the sound of her mother wailing in despair. Hestia had nightmares that the same thing might happen to her. She didn’t want to get married only to find out her husband was actually a baby-swallowing cannibal.

She wasn’t being paranoid, either. She had
proof
that Zeus could be as bad as Kronos.

See, after the war with Kronos, Zeus decided it would be a good idea for him to marry a Titan, sort of to show there were no hard feelings. He married one of Oceanus’s daughters, a girl named Metis, who was the Titan of good advice and planning—kind of like the Titans’ life coach.

Metis was smart about advising others, but apparently she wasn’t so bright when it came to her own life. When she was pregnant with her first kid, she told Zeus, “My husband, I have good news! I foresee that this child will be a girl. But if we have another child together, it will be a boy. And—you’re going to love this—he will be destined to rule the universe some day! Isn’t that awesome?”

Zeus panicked. He thought he was going to end up like Ouranos and Kronos—chopped into little pieces—so he took a page out of Kronos’s playbook. He opened his mouth super-wide and created a tornado that sucked Metis right down his throat, compressing her so small that he could swallow her whole.

That kind of freaked out the other Olympians, especially Hestia.

What happened to Metis and her unborn child down there in Zeus’s gut? We’ll get to that later. But Hestia saw the whole thing, and she said to herself:
Getting married is DANGEROUS!

Zeus apologized to the Titans and the gods for swallowing Metis. He promised never to do it again. He decided to marry another Titan, but as you can guess, there weren’t a lot of volunteers. Only one agreed: Themis, the Titan of divine law, who happened to be Hestia’s favorite aunt.

Themis had sided with the gods in the war. She understood right and wrong, and she knew that the gods would be better rulers than Kronos. (Notice I said
better
,
not
good
.)

Like Hestia, Themis was modest and veiled and wasn’t interested in marriage, especially after what happened to Metis; but in the name of peace, she agreed to marry Zeus.

(And yeah, Themis was technically Zeus’s aunt, so feel free to get sick about them getting married. But let’s move past that.)

The marriage didn’t last long. Themis had two sets of triplets. The first set wasn’t so bad—three sisters called the Horai, who ended up being in charge of the changing seasons.

(You’re thinking,
Wait, only three seasons?
But remember, this was Greece. I guess they’ve never had much of a winter.)

The second set of triplets, though—they gave everyone the creeps. They were called the Morai, the Three Fates, and they were
born
old. Right out of the cradle, they grew from three shriveled babies into three shriveled old grannies. They liked to sit in the corner and make thread on a magic spinning wheel. Each time they snipped a piece of the line, some mortal down in the world died.

The Olympians quickly realized that the three Fates could not only see the future, they could
control
it. They could bind anyone’s life to their magical yarn—literally making a lifeline—and when they snipped off that piece? Sayonara! Nobody was sure if they could do the same thing with immortals. But even Zeus was afraid of those girls.

After fathering the Fates, Zeus pulled Themis aside and said, “You know what? I’m not sure this marriage is going to work out. If we keep having more kids like those Fates, we’re all going to be in trouble. What’s next—the Three Doomsday Bombs? The Three Little Pigs?”

Themis pretended to be disappointed, but actually she was relieved. She didn’t want any more kids, and she definitely didn’t want to get sucked down the tornado of Zeus’s throat.

“You’re right, my lord,” she said. “I will gladly step aside and let you take another wife.”

Hestia witnessed all this, and she was thinking: I never want that to happen to me. With my luck, I would marry some god and give birth to the Three Stooges. No, the possibility is too horrible.

She decided it was much better to stay single and concentrate on helping her siblings raise
their
families. She could be the cool aunt. The single aunt. The aunt who did not have terrifying shriveled granny babies.

There was only one problem: some of the guy gods had other ideas. Poseidon kept looking at Hestia and thinking, Hey, she’s kind of pretty. Good personality. Easy to get along with. I should marry her.

Yeah, we’re back to the whole brother-marrying-sister thing. Let’s get it out of our systems—all together, One, two, three: “GROSS!”

A younger Olympian, Apollo, also wanted to marry Hestia. We’ll talk more about him later, but it would’ve been a weird match, since Apollo was one of the flashiest gods. Why he wanted to marry quiet, plainspoken Hestia, I don’t know. Maybe he wanted a wife who would never upstage him.

As it happened, both gods approached Zeus on the same day, asking his permission to marry Hestia. Seems weird that they would ask
Zeus
instead of Hestia but, as you might have noticed, the males weren’t real sensitive about stuff like that. Zeus, being the king of the cosmos, had the final say on all marriages.

Meanwhile, Hestia was sitting at the big hearth in the middle of the throne room, not paying much attention. Back then you needed a central hearth, like an open fire pit, in your main room, because it provided warmth on cold days. It was also where you did your cooking, your water boiling, your chatting, your bread toasting, your marshmallow roasting, and your sock drying. Basically, it was the center of family life.

Hestia always hung out there. She had sort of taken over responsibility for keeping the home fires burning. It made her feel good, especially when her family gathered around for meals.

Zeus yelled, “Hey, Hestia! C’mere.”

She approached his throne warily, looking at Poseidon and Apollo, who were both grinning at her, holding bouquets of flowers and boxes of candy. She thought, Uh-oh.

“Great news,” Zeus said. “Both of these fine gods want to marry you. Because I’m a stand-up king and an all-around thoughtful dude, I will let you pick. Bachelor Number One, Poseidon, likes long walks on the beach and scuba diving. Bachelor Number Two, Apollo, enjoys music and poetry and spends his free time reading prophecies at the Oracle of Delphi. Who do you like better?”

Hestia sobbed in horror, which kind of surprised the bachelors. She threw herself at Zeus’s feet and cried, “Please, my lord. No-o-o! Neither of them!”

Apollo frowned and checked his breath.

Poseidon wondered if he’d forgotten his underarm deodorant again.

Before they could get too angry, Hestia collected herself and tried to explain. “I have nothing against these gods,” she said. “But I don’t want to marry
anyone
! I want to be single forever.”

Zeus scratched his head. That idea simply did not compute. “So…
never
get married? You don’t want kids? You don’t want to be a wife?”

“That’s correct, my lord,” Hestia said. “I—I will take care of the hearth for all time. I will tend the flames. I’ll prepare the feasts. Whatever I can do to help out the family. Only, promise me I’ll never have to get married!”

Apollo and Poseidon were a little miffed, but it was hard to stay mad at Hestia. She was so sweet and earnest and helpful. They forgave her for the same reasons they wanted to marry her in the first place. She was genuinely nice. Among the Olympians, niceness was a rare and valuable commodity.

“I rescind my offer of marriage,” Poseidon said. “Furthermore, I will protect Hestia’s right
not
to marry.”

“Me, too,” Apollo said. “If that’s what she wants, I will honor her wishes.”

Zeus shrugged. “Well, I still don’t get it. But okay. She
does
keep an excellent hearth. Nobody else knows how to toast marshmallows just right—not too soft, not too crispy. Hestia, your wish is granted!”

Hestia breathed a huge sigh of relief.

She became the official goddess of the hearth, which may not seem like a big deal but was exactly what Hestia wanted. Later on, people made up a story about how Hestia used to have a throne on Mount Olympus and gave it up when a newer god named Dionysus came along. It’s a good story, but it’s not actually in the old myths. Hestia never wanted a throne. She was way too modest for that.

Her hearth became the calm center of the storm whenever the Olympians argued. Everyone knew the fire was neutral territory. You could go there for a time-out, a cup of nectar, or a talk with Hestia. You could catch your breath without getting accosted by anyone—kind of like “base” in a game of tag.

Hestia looked out for everyone, so everyone looked out for her.

The most famous example? One night Mother Rhea had this big party on Mount Ida to celebrate the anniversary of the Olympians’ victory over Kronos. All the gods and the friendly Titans were invited, along with dozens of nymphs and satyrs. Things got pretty wild—lots of nectar drinking, ambrosia eating, and crazy dancing with the Kouretes. The gods even convinced Zeus to tell some of his infamous satyr jokes.

Hestia wasn’t used to partying so much. About three in the morning, she got light-headed from the dancing and the nectar and wandered off into the woods. She bumped into a random donkey tied to a tree; probably one of the satyrs had ridden it to the party. For some reason, Hestia found this extremely funny.

“Hello, Mr. Donkey!” She giggled. “I’m going to—
hic!
—I’m going to lie down right here and, uh, take a nap. Watch over me, okay? Okay.”

The goddess fell face first in the grass and started snoring. The donkey wasn’t sure what to think about that, but he kept quiet.

A few minutes later, this minor nature god named Priapus came wandering through the woods. You don’t hear much about Priapus in the old stories. Frankly, he’s not very important. He was a country god who protected vegetable gardens. I know—exciting, right?
Oh, great Priapus, guard my cucumbers with your mighty powers!
If you’ve ever seen those silly plaster garden gnomes that people put in their yards, that’s a holdover from the days when people placed statues of Priapus in their gardens to protect their produce.

Anyway, Priapus was all about parties and flirting with the ladies. He’d had a lot to drink that night. He was roaming the woods looking for some unsuspecting nymph or goddess he could get cuddly with.

When he came to the clearing and saw a lovely goddess passed out in the grass, snoring alluringly in the moonlight, he thought, YES!

He sneaked up to Hestia. He didn’t know which goddess she was, but he didn’t really care. He was sure that if he just cuddled up next to her, she would be delighted when she woke up, because hey, who wouldn’t want to get romantic with the god of vegetables?

He knelt next to her. She smelled so yummy—like wood smoke and toasted marshmallows. He ran his hand through her dark hair and said, “Hey, there, baby. What do you say we do some snuggling?”

In the darkness nearby, the donkey apparently thought that sounded like an excellent idea. He brayed, “HHAWWWWW!”