Quicksilver (5 page)

FIFTEEN

I learned that the ceremony—performed in haste, in the courtyard—had just taken place. I also learned that Queen Cassiope was responsible for the sea serpent.

“We were strolling on the beach after the storm last week,” one lady of the court informed another after they’d clinked wine goblets. “She told me she’d seen some Nereids and wasn’t impressed. ‘They’re grotesque, Amenia!’ she said. She didn’t even lower her voice! That did it.”

“What did what?” asked her companion.

“They heard her.”

“No!” This was said with mock horror and genuine delight, and I wondered if everyone in the room disliked the queen as much as these two did.

The woman called Amenia rolled her eyes. “Carpa, you know how vain they are,” she said. “They must have gone straight to Poseidon.”

You’re probably right,
I thought. Nereids are sea nymphs, odd, beautiful creatures with silky fins on their backs and long, rainbow-hued limbs, who spend most of their time lolling in the ocean like seals. They appear affable, but they can be as touchy as goddesses. I think they’re spoiled from all the tribute they receive. Nobody ever offers much to the river-and-stream nymphs, but Nereids get hefty sacrifices all the time because the oceans are so perilous. It’s made them arrogant.

“After all,” noted Amenia, “the serpent came the very next day.” She and her friend then compared notes about its activities. Apparently it had eaten every fish within miles, drowned scores of luckless fishermen, and chewed up many fine vessels in the harbor, including one belonging to Carpa’s husband. “Terrible loss to us, not that
she
cares,” she said, indicating the queen.

Amenia leaned closer to Carpa. “Do you know what she said when the oracle told them to appease Poseidon by sacrificing Andromeda to the serpent?”

Carpa shook her head, rapt.

“She said, ‘We can’t sacrifice her! She’s got to marry Agenor! That match is worth a fortune to us!’ ”

“No!”

Hearing this, I was a little shocked, too.
Not exactly
a loving mother,
I thought.

Despite her objections, King Cepheus had gone ahead with the sacrifice, and the princess was duly chained to her rock. Perseus had appeared only moments later.

As for him, he demanded—and got—the promise of Andromeda’s hand in return for killing the serpent. Now, listening respectfully to the singer’s ancient ode, he seemed weary but happy. Andromeda, resplendent in a gold-trimmed gown, was no longer the dazed, distant girl I had seen earlier but bright-eyed and vividly beautiful. She held on to Perseus’ arm as if she would never let it go.

He has certainly put in a full day,
I thought, seeing him try to conceal a yawn. When the ode finally ended, he and Andromeda stood. They thanked the singer, who told them his name was Molpus. After Perseus poured him some wine—which he sniffed, pronounced excellent, and drank eagerly—the young couple started toward the front of the hall.

They were not far from the king and queen when shouts came from the other side of the room. Someone cried, “I won’t stand for it! She’s mine!” and there were angry sounds of assent, the kind men make when they work themselves up before battle.

All the joy left Andromeda’s face.

“No stranger can take her!” Again the voice rose above the din. “She was promised to me!”

Andromeda moved closer to Perseus and whispered to him. His face tensed. He looked far less boyish than he had only a few hours ago, when I’d first met him.
Well, why not,
I thought.
He’s certainly been doing a man’s work.

Perseus stepped in front of her, hand on his sword. When he was in the clear—many guests moved away, smelling trouble—I could see the makeshift strap slung across his chest and the leather pouch tied to it. Inside was Medusa’s head.

Shoving Molpus aside, a tall, heavy-jawed man strode up to Perseus. “I am Agenor,” he announced, chest heaving. “Andromeda is mine. We are betrothed.”

He was roughly twice Perseus’ size. The men with him—half a dozen glowering drunks—were not exactly dainty, either.

“You were her betrothed?” Perseus asked mildly. “Do you love her?”

Agenor sneered in confusion, as if he had never heard the words
love
and
betrothal
in the same sentence before. “Of course,” he replied dismissively.

“Not enough to save my life,” Andromeda pointed out.

True,
I thought.

There were a few sympathetic murmurs from the guests, and somebody slurred, “Coward.” A woman giggled. In the ensuing silence the air thickened with dire possibilities.

Then the queen called out, “Our promise to Perseus means nothing! He forced us into it.” She lifted her chin at Agenor, prompting him, and he reached out for Andromeda. She recoiled; once again Perseus shielded her.

“You heard the queen,” said Agenor.

Perseus kept silent, and his face was impassive, but I could swear he was thinking of his own mother, Danae. She too was a queen, but how unlike Cassiope! She disliked Polydectes and didn’t want to marry him, yet she’d begged her son not to go after Medusa’s head. His safety meant more to her than her own happiness.

And here was Andromeda’s mother, casually discarding her daughter for the second time that day.

Perseus drew his sword.

Agenor struck at him and he parried. Then Perseus went on the attack, beating the larger man back and drawing blood with his third quick stroke. Agenor screamed, rage and surprise purpling his face. Seeing him bleed, his cohorts scattered.

I had been poised to intervene, but Perseus was holding his own perfectly well, and Agenor, clutching his wounded arm, looked as if he were reconsidering his claim on the princess.

Then, after a quick exchange with the queen, King Cepheus stepped in.

SIXTEEN

The king leaped to his feet, braying, “Perseus must die!” Perhaps thinking that her husband’s statement needed clarification, Cassiope shrilled, “Kill him!”

A good many guests were too drunk to fight. They contented themselves with mumbling and staring and shifting in their seats. But a few energetic revelers managed to swarm Perseus and wrest his sword away. Ignoring Andromeda’s horrified screams, Agenor jumped in for the kill.

It was time for me to reveal myself. I was just about to doff the Cap of Invisibility when I saw Perseus say something to Andromeda. She covered her eyes, Perseus pulled out Medusa’s head, and Agenor saw it.

The man didn’t even have time to blink. Hardening into stone as if the Gorgon’s glare had blasted and baked him, he toppled with his sword upraised. The echoing crash of his fall drew everyone’s attention.

Then came a long, eerie moment. It began with screams and shouts when Agenor shattered; continued as Perseus turned slowly in place, displaying Medusa’s head to the king and queen and their guests; and ended when they obliged him by falling silent and dying, one by one by one.

Andromeda wept bitterly, her sobs unnaturally loud in the hall’s stony hush. I suppose she was grieving for her parents, though they had treated her very badly. Mortals are odd that way.

“What happened?” A man’s voice came from a corner, startling us all. “Tell me!” It was Molpus the singer, who had been saved by his blindness. His appearance so astonished Andromeda that she stopped crying.

“Tell me everything!” he demanded, turning his head this way and that like an inquisitive bird.

“Everything? That would take a long time.”

“Tell me so I can sing of it,” insisted Molpus.

“Will you remember?” Perseus asked, almost sternly.

“I am a poet,” Molpus replied, with just a hint of sharpness.

So Perseus began his story, telling of Polydectes’ passion for Danae, of Danae’s resistance, and of Polydectes’ request that Perseus bring him Medusa’s head.

“Nobody has ever lived after seeing the Gorgon’s face,” said Molpus. “He was trying to kill you.”

“Yes.”

“But you survived,” said Molpus. “How?”

Anticipating a glowing description of my incredible generosity, I wondered if I should stop Perseus before he wept with gratitude, thus saving him from embarrassing himself before his new bride. Zeus says I am capricious, but I am actually very thoughtful.

“The goddess Athena gave me her shield to use as a mirror,” said Perseus. “Without it I would have failed.”

“Praise her!” cried Molpus piously. “Praise Athena the Wise, Athena the Warrior, Athena the Victor!”

“Praise her!” sang the newlyweds.

Praise
her
?
I thought.
What about
me
?

I began to make lists in my head.

What I Used to Think of Perseus
Clever
Clearheaded
Persistent
Nimble
Daring

What I Think of Him Now
Stupid
Ungrateful
Addled
Disloyal
Smelly

I toyed with the idea of turning him into a skunk, just to teach him a lesson. But before I could do anything, he said, “As grateful as I am to Athena, I owe even more to Hermes, my half brother,” so I forbore.

“Your half brother?” Andromeda stared at her new husband as if he had just turned to gold. Few things are more entrancing to mortal women than the possibility that their men are Zeus’ offspring. The faintest whiff of divinity makes them swoon.

“Yes.” Then—finally!—Perseus returned to the vital subject of what I had done and how wonderful I was. Listening, Molpus nodded and swayed, as if hearing music. Once or twice he interjected, “Praise Hermes! Praise the Song Maker!” This pleased me greatly. Not all poets remember that I invented the lyre and the pipes, though they should, considering how dreary their lives would be without them.

Perseus went on, lauding me with agreeable frequency. By the time he finished describing the death of Medusa, the appearance of Pegasus, and our cloud-swept journey from Arcadia to Joppa, he and his audience were positively a-tremble with devotion.

It seemed like the perfect moment to reveal myself, so I did.

SEVENTEEN

Andromeda moaned as if she were about to faint, then sank to her knees, dropping forward so that her forehead knocked the floor. Perseus exclaimed with such genuine pleasure that my annoyance with him melted away like spring frost. And Molpus fairly shook with awe once he learned who I was. It was all very agreeable.

After a round of worshipful introductions, I commended Perseus for his actions.

“You have been heroic,” I said, just to see if he would blush. He did. So did Andromeda, very prettily. Molpus was listening hard to every word, memorizing for future audiences, so I added that Perseus had another, equally daunting task ahead of him. “He must confront Polydectes,” I said.

Andromeda blinked rapidly. The threat of losing her brand-new, semi-divine husband, after all she had experienced that day, was clearly testing her limits.

“He will face the task bravely and perform it well,” I assured her. “Won’t you?” I asked Perseus.

“I will,” he vowed, looking at his bride. Her eyes were brimming.

“Polydectes will never dream you have the head,” I said, for her benefit as much as his. “You’ll surprise him, and the whole thing will be over before you can say ‘large-animal sacrifice.’ Meanwhile, I’ll take Andromeda to your mother. She’ll be safe there.”

Leaving the newlyweds to say their farewells, I guided Molpus out of the palace. His sandals were worn, his robes threadbare, and he himself was very thin. Judging by his appearance, the life of a poet was not an easy one.

When we reached the doorway, I touched his forehead, giving him the gift of perfect memory.

“To help you sing of this,” I said, opening the door.

After I picked up the sickle and reclaimed Pegasus, our journey to Seriphos went swiftly. Andromeda and I rode Pegasus, and Perseus followed wearing my sandals. The princess was silent all the way from Joppa to Crete—out of exhaustion or shyness, I could not tell. When we flew over the Sea of Cyrene, I urged her to rest and then composed a little tune for Pegasus. It was about mares romping in fields of sweet grass, their arching necks and flying tails. I crooned it to him, and his ears flicked back and forth in enjoyment, which was very satisfying. I like a good audience.

When I saw the broad shape of Lower Hellas below us, I said to Andromeda, “We’re not far from Seriphos. There it is, to the east.” I pointed. “The small island shaped like a teardrop.”

“I see it,” she said quietly. Then she asked, “Is Perseus Danae’s only son?”

“Only child,” I said. “Much beloved.”

“Ah.” I heard worry in her voice. No doubt she was wondering how Danae would receive her and expecting the worst.

She’s a far better woman than your mother was,
I thought, but I said, “You two have a lot in common. Danae will welcome you as her daughter.”

This was true. I saw a brief image, framed by shimmering patches of light, of Danae embracing Andromeda tearfully. This was the way my prophetic gift worked, in bright mind pictures that came and went as unexpectedly as sneezes. I had never been able to summon the Sight, the way Apollo could; mine had a will of its own. Seeing the future this way was more like an irritating physical ailment than a power. Still, I had learned to trust what I saw: it always happened.

EIGHTEEN

As I predicted, Danae welcomed her new daughter-in-law with much tearful emotion, just as she had in my vision. Then the two women began conversing as if they had known each other all their lives. I tend to forget that all mortal women do this. Whenever I witness it, I am bemused.

“Excuse me,” I said, cutting short a rapt discussion of Perseus’ eating habits, “I must go.” This was true. Ares would certainly be wanting his sickle by now. “When he returns from the palace, tell Perseus to leave my sandals—”

“The palace! Is that where he is?” exclaimed Danae with horror.

“Of course,” I replied. “He’s giving Poly—” I got no further: Danae, clutching Andromeda’s arm, fell to her knees, pulling the poor girl down with her.

“Lord Hermes!” she cried. “Help my son! Polydectes is a brute! He’s capable of anything. He may kill Perseus on sight!”

“But he has Medusa’s—”

“Help him, I beg you!” Andromeda heard Danae’s pleas and stiffened. Then she, who had endured so much that day with unshakable composure, suddenly lost every shred of it and began to shriek. Her awful cries inspired Danae to scream even louder.

I should have dropped the girl in a tree and kept on going,
I thought, clapping my hands over my ears. I can’t bear dissonance.

“All right, all right,” I told them, “I’ll make sure he’s safe! Just stop your wailing!” I left before they could think of anything else to cry about and jumped onto Pegasus. As we flew to the palace, I told myself that their fears were groundless, that Perseus, by now an old hand at wielding Medusa’s head, had overcome Polydectes with ease. But I hurried inside anyway and found the throne room as quickly as I could.

It was utterly silent. Perseus stood before Polydectes with eyes averted, showing him Medusa’s head. Her glare had done its work, preserving every detail of the king’s astonished rage, down to the dangerously swollen veins on his forehead. If she had killed him before apoplexy could, it mattered little now. He was well and truly dead.

Those few guards who had dutifully come forward to help their master were stone now, too, as were the others in the room: a servant girl bringing wine, a little boy with a finger up his nose, and a man with the weathered face and bandy legs of a groom. Only Perseus was still alive. Seeing me, he murmured a greeting.

“Well done, Perseus!” I said. “Your kin will rejoice. They await you anxiously.”
To say the very least,
I thought.

“I am glad that this is over.” His voice was somber, deeper than before.

“Well, then, hurry home! But first give me my sandals.” He removed them quickly. “And the head,” I added, for he still held it. Eyes downcast, he coaxed the snakes off his wrist and worked the head into the leather pouch. When it was covered safely, he raised it to his heart, as a priest does with sacred libations. His face worked with guilt and sorrow. It was a painful combination, as I knew.

“I—Medusa saved my life three times,” he faltered. “After I—I . . .” He couldn’t say it:
After I cut off her head.

“You had to do it.” I made my voice brisk. “You had no choice. Anyway, you’re a hero now. Things could be worse.”

At this his mouth twitched halfheartedly. It was a feeble effort at a smile, but an effort nonetheless. “Promise me you won’t forget to offer to Athena,” I said, tying on my sandals. “You’ve seen what happens when she takes offense.”

“I promise.”

“Good.” I touched his shoulder the way Zeus so often touched mine, giving him my warmest blessing. Then I flew back to Olympus to return Ares’ sickle.

From that day on, I never killed again.