Quicksilver (6 page)

PART THREE

Mount Ida

NINETEEN

I returned home with a light heart. Zeus would praise me for my brilliant work with Perseus. Throngs of beautiful, elusive, horse-loving dryads would vie for introductions to Pegasus. After showing him off to my heart’s content, I would take a long, well-deserved rest.

How wrong I was.

Zeus, slumped on his wide marble throne, greeted me morosely. I wondered if I should try to cheer him with a joke, maybe the one about the mortal crossing the road. Before I could even open my mouth, he launched into a dark monologue about his least favorite child. Of many hundreds, her name was at the bottom of the list.

“Eris,” he said, fairly spitting her name, “has really gone too far this time. I’d hurl her down to Tartarus, but Hades would never forgive me.”

Eris, Ares’ pretty little sister, liked to stir up trouble. It was said that she’d persuaded Pandora to open the Box of All Woes, loosing misery on the world, and that she tattled to Hera whenever Zeus was unfaithful, loosing considerable misery on him.

“What did she do?”

“Came to Peleus’ wedding uninvited, brought a golden apple inscribed ‘To the Fairest,’ and pitched it right at the feet of Hera, Athena, and Aphrodite.”

Ouch!
I thought. The goddesses, all famously vain, were always competing with each other. “Let me guess. Each of them claimed it.”

“Exactly.”

“What a troublemaker she is!” I said, awed by her terrible cleverness. Whatever Eris’ reason for setting the goddesses against each other, she’d devised the perfect way of doing it. No wonder her nickname was Discord.

“It’s her only gift,” said Zeus with distaste, adding that Hera, Athena, and Aphrodite were no longer speaking. After disagreeing, bickering, and then quarreling over the apple, they’d resorted to high-decibel insults. Each of them had produced at least one memorable slur before stalking off in a fury. (Athena to Aphrodite: “You have the brain of a bedbug.” Aphrodite to Athena: “Go shave your mustache.”)

Now Olympus rang with an ominous silence.

“Where’s the apple?” I asked. Zeus drew it from his robe. It was a pretty thing to have caused so much unpleasantness. Then again, the same could be said of Eris. “Hera won’t give me a moment’s peace,” Zeus complained. “She’s pushing me to make the decision.”

“And give her the apple?”

His lip curled in assent. “I can’t do it, of course. I told her I’d arrange a contest.”

“A beauty contest? Good idea.”

“A fair beauty contest.”

“Even better.”

“So we have to find a fair judge.”

We?
Olympian rivalries make me queasy—they’re unpleasant and dangerous, even to innocent bystanders. “I’m sure you’ll think of the perfect person,” I said, eyeing the doorway.

But Zeus clapped me on the shoulder and shook me. “Think!” he urged. “You’re clever! Who would be truly impartial?”

I was stuck. “Well,” I mused, “if it’s impartial we want, scratch the Immortals. As for generals and warriors, scratch them, too—they’d choose Athena.” The Goddess of Wisdom, a great military strategist, was adored by fighting men. They called her Athena, Hope of Soldiers.

“You’re right. She’d promise them invincibility.” Zeus knew his daughter well.

Because Hera granted riches and power to those she favored, I said, “No rulers or politicians, either—they’d pick your wife.”

“Right again.”

“So that leaves us with the humbler folk,” I said. “Farmers, shepherds, poets—”

“Shepherds?” Zeus snapped his fingers. “Wait! I’ve got it! There’s a shepherd in Troy who’d be perfect.”

“Really? Who?”

“Paris,” said Zeus. “Second son of Troy’s royal family, though he doesn’t know it. Thinks he’s a mountain boy. One of those raised-in-obscurity-for-their-own-good mortals, like Atalanta, Jason, Perseus . . .”

As Zeus spoke, the Sight came to me. A handsome, dark-haired young man stood on a pile of rubble. Devastation raged around him. Towers flamed, bodies fell through red smoke. The rubble, I saw, was layered with corpses.

The image disappeared as suddenly as it had come, leaving me with an aching gut and a dry mouth. It was a moment before I could speak. Then I said, “He’s handsome?”

“As a god! Even the sheep are lovesick!” declared Zeus, slapping his thigh cheerfully. “He’s the most beautiful of mortals. So of course he should choose the most beautiful goddess! Excellent! I’m glad I thought of him.”

I will always regret what happened next. The Sight had shown me Paris against a backdrop of disaster. I should have guessed that his judging had brought him there, and brought on the disaster, too.

I wasn’t quick enough. My nimble wits failed me, and the chance to suggest another judge was lost. Much else was lost, too, as I would come to learn. But at that moment, when Zeus said imperiously, “Don’t just stand there, Hermes! Get moving! Bring Paris the good news!” I felt I had no choice, and I obeyed.

TWENTY

He was indeed beautiful, a slim, peachy-skinned youth with dark eyes and long lashes. Such folk cause hearts to flutter and minds to stall. They command adoring attention, even if they’re doing something trivial, and so it was with Paris. When I arrived on Mount Ida, after a long, sky-coursing run in my winged sandals, he was lying in a meadow, surrounded by his flock. A lovely young nymph—a river girl, to judge by her webbed hands and feet—crouched behind him, assiduously picking lice out of his hair. The sheep, the nymph, and the lice, too, for all I knew, were alert to his every move.

When he shifted, the nymph implored him to be still, rapping him gently with her fine-toothed wooden comb. “Paris, please! I’m almost finished.” He shrugged restlessly. “Are you too warm?” she asked with concern. He nodded, pouting. “As soon as I’m done, I’ll fan you,” she promised, and he sighed. Then, like a child trading good behavior for a sweet, he closed his eyes and lay perfectly still. He was even more beautiful in repose.

At length the nymph put down her comb. “There. All done. The lice love you almost as much as I do.” She kissed the top of his head.

Paris smiled, sat up, and scratched his head vigorously. The nymph handed him a vial of sweet oil, and he ran the stuff through his hair. Then he took to twisting his fine dark curls into long ringlets, tossing them over his shoulder one by one until they covered his back like an exotic pelt. He did this with total self-absorption, and the nymph watched, enthralled.

She loves him and he loves him,
I thought.
But will it
last?
Long years of escorting the dead down to Hades had taught me that such pairings often end in murderous rage, at least on one side. At present, though, these two seemed quite content.

I whipped off my Cap of Invisibility to make them jump, and they did. It’s a cheap trick, but sometimes I can’t resist.

“Lord Hermes!” Paris knelt with easy grace.

“Good day,” I said. “You are Paris?”

“I am.”

“And you are—?” I asked the nymph.

“Oenone,” she said, “of the river Oenus.”

I recognized the name; I had heard it from Apollo. Long ago, when he himself was living as a shepherd, he’d taken a liking to the nymph and taught her the art of healing.
And now you devote your time to Paris,
I thought,
who doesn’t seem to appreciate you.

“I come with a message from All-Powerful Zeus,” I told Paris, and his eyes widened. “He wants you to judge a contest.”

“Livestock?” he asked eagerly.

“Not exactly,” I replied. “Beauty.”

I told him about the apple and its inscription and the uproar it had caused on Olympus. “Because you possess great beauty yourself, Zeus thinks you can be impartial in the judging of it,” I said.

A rosy flush crept up his neck. “I—I am so surprised!” he said with emotion. “This is a great honor! And—and I will do my best to be fair and impartial, as Lord Zeus wishes.” He touched his hand to his heart, as men do when they make a vow.

Until this moment Oenone’s eyes had never left Paris; now they closed, hard.
She’s afraid of losing him,
I thought.
And she may.
The nymph was lovely, but the goddesses were magnificent, and all of them had dallied with mortals—even, it was rumored, solemn, virginal Athena. Seducing mortals was one of the great guilty pleasures of the gods, second only to tipping cattle and ruining the weather. Paris might tempt any one of them. He did not seem the type to resist any beautiful female, much less a divine one.

I pitied Oenone.

“The goddesses may try to sway you,” I warned Paris, knowing it was more than a possibility. “Don’t let them!”

“I won’t, I swear,” he promised.

TWENTY-ONE

I can’t really blame Paris for what happened next. He did try to be fair. But the goddesses were at their worst that day—working the poor fellow like wet clay, twisting and bending and pulling at him until he didn’t know what to think. It was sad. And I couldn’t do anything about it, because I wasn’t supposed to be there.

I meant to return to Olympus after escorting the goddesses to Mount Ida, truly I did; once they had met Paris, my job was over. But after introducing everyone, saying goodbye, and bounding into the air, I changed my mind. The three Immortal Ones, fixed on Paris like cobras on a baby bird, looked so resolute, so splendid!

Why shouldn’t I watch?
I thought.
There’s no harm in
it.
I was flying over a stand of tall cypresses, hidden from view, when I decided. So I put on my Cap of Invisibility, doubled back to the spot where Paris stood with the divine trio, and settled down to spectate.

I had barely made myself comfortable when Aphrodite did what she does best: she disrobed.

“You can judge me better this way,” she said to Paris, shrugging off her diaphanous gown and stepping out of her tiny golden sandals. “Don’t you think?” She turned with practiced languor, showing off her glorious body, which was bare except for her magic girdle. Fashioned by Hephaestus of fine gold mesh set with gems, the girdle made its wearer completely irresistible. Hera borrowed it sometimes when she wanted Zeus’ undivided attention, but it usually stayed where it belonged, around Aphrodite’s waist. At the moment, it was having a very strong effect on Paris. He looked as if he’d been poleaxed.

Hera and Athena looked stunned also, but for a different reason. They never gave Aphrodite much credit for intelligence—they considered her an ornamental scatterbrain—and now she’d truly put them on the spot. Unclothed, she was as radiant as an ocean pearl, and Paris’ eyes were riveted to her. His shapely legs actually wobbled. If Hera and Athena didn’t undress too, he’d never even look at them.

Hera made up her mind first.

“What a clever idea,” she purred, throwing a very polished, very insincere smile in Aphrodite’s direction. “I should have thought of it myself. Though you really must take off your girdle, Aphrodite. It’s giving you an unfair advantage.”

“I agree,” said Athena, who had gone as far as removing her gauntlets.

“Ooh, we can’t have that.” Aphrodite’s husky sarcasm was not lost on her rivals, who waited pointedly for her to pull off the girdle. This she did slowly, almost teasingly. The girdle slithered to the ground, and Athena glared at it.

Now Hera moved closer to Paris, undoing the brooches and pins that fastened her robes. As she approached him, they drifted onto the grass like great silken petals, until she was entirely bare. I’d never seen her like this, and I was impressed: she was stately and voluptuous, her incandescent skin a testament to milk baths, royal jelly, and massage.

Even so, Paris seemed more inclined to look at Aphrodite. In her girdle or out of it, she was bewitching. I myself never failed to pulse with longing when she smiled at me, even though she’d been doing it for centuries. She was having the same effect on Paris.

Undaunted, Hera took his arm.

“Come. Let’s chat,” she said, leading him to a spot very near me. On the way she managed to retrieve her shawl, and now she draped the purple silk around herself in such a way—slowly, carefully—that Paris’ eyes were drawn to her bosom. She gave him a few moments to appreciate its gentle rise and fall, its bounteous contours, its perfume. When he was fully attentive, she said, “I’m impressed with you, Paris, really I am. I know a born leader when I see one.”

“You do?”

“Oh, yes. Believe me, you’re not what you think you are. You’re destined for great things. Fate has much more in store for you than this. . . .” She gestured dismissively toward the flock.

“Really?” Something in his voice told me he might have entertained such thoughts himself. Shepherds often daydream—about riches, about glory, about life without biting insects. According to Apollo, they all think they’re destined to lead men, not sheep. He calls it an occupational delusion, whatever that is.

“. . . provided you make the right decisions,” Hera continued, “if you catch my drift.”

Paris swallowed. “Uh . . . what are you . . . I mean, are you saying that . . .?” Behind that perfect forehead, the mind was struggling.

“I’m saying that I can give you power and riches if you give me the apple,” Hera replied smoothly. “Think about it.” She gave him the full benefit of her turquoise gaze. “You’ll be a prince of Troy and live in a palace of at least two stories, perhaps even three. You’ll have hot food. Warm baths. Fine clothing. Personal groomers. People will obey you. They’ll satisfy your every whim.” She leaned toward him, leading with her breasts. “There’s absolutely nothing like it,” she whispered. “Nothing!”

“It sounds wonderful,” Paris said enthusiastically. “Warm baths? Fine clothes? I would give almost anything . . .” He caught himself. “But . . . I swore to Hermes and Lord Zeus that I’d judge fairly. So I really can’t accept . . .” He faltered, swiping at the droplets of sweat on his brow. Not quite daring to look Hera in the eye, he asked, “Did . . . did you say personal groomers?”

“As many as you like,” she assured him.

His handsome face puckered with indecision. “Well—”

“Excuse me for interrupting.” Athena, bareheaded and wearing only her white linen undergarments, appeared between them suddenly.

“Oh! You frightened me!” cried Hera.

“Really.” The Goddess of Wisdom, self-possessed even in her underwear, did not apologize. “Your husband has arrived,” she said crisply. “He’s come as an eagle, and he’s waiting for you.” She pointed. A fierce-looking bird surveyed the countryside from the top of the tallest cypress. Zeus often took the form of an eagle. He liked the improved eyesight—it helped him to find pretty girls. But sometimes he just felt like soaring. Perhaps today was one of those days.

“Then I must go.” Unless Zeus had been philandering—at which times she let loose like an undammed river—Hera was a model wife. She retreated hastily but not before mouthing the words “Personal groomers!” to Paris behind Athena’s back.