Quicksilver (7 page)

TWENTY-TWO

The Goddess of Wisdom waited until Hera was out of earshot. Then she said to Paris, “I’ve come under false pretenses. I lied. That bird’s not really Zeus. But I know as surely as I sprang full-grown from Zeus’ head that Hera’s been trying to bribe you.” She waited for Paris to deny this. When he didn’t, she said, “As I suspected. I was right to stop her. If she’s inventing new rules for this contest, we all get to play by them. Including me.”

Right you are,
I thought. Athena has her faults, but she is nobody’s fool.

“Now,” she said, straightening and raising her chin commandingly, “judge my beauty.”

“Y⸍yes, Goddess.” Paris stepped back, and so did she. After standing for a moment with her knees locked and her hands at her sides, she turned stiffly in place. When she was once again facing Paris, she halted. Staring straight ahead like a soldier on review, she allowed him to inspect her. “Here I am,” she seemed to be saying, “so pay attention.”

Athena’s erect bearing and no-nonsense delivery were about as seductive as an ice bath, and her voice was field commander–brusque. But her brow was noble, and her hair, which was always tucked into her helmet, proved to be thick and heavy, a pure silvery white that was startling against her smooth, sun-browned skin. Her wide-set gray eyes—Zeus called them “all-seeing”—shone like silver. Free of armor, her long, straight limbs were lithe and strong, lovely to see. It had never occurred to me that Athena was beautiful. Now I saw that she was.
All this and a mind like a bronze trap,
I thought.
Well, well.

“Have you finished?” she asked Paris crisply.

“Yes, Goddess.”

“Then I’ll be brief. You look like a sensible fellow. You must want advancement in the world; it’s only natural.”

He nodded, simply to agree with her, I think. Her manner said it was foolish not to.

“Good. I can promise you a generalship, forty horses, and an unbroken string of military victories. Entire territories will fall to you. Shrines will be raised in your honor. I’ll have my very own armorer make you a sword. He’s a genius. You’ll be free to plunder and maraud at will. And you can storm out of meetings whenever you like—all in exchange for the apple. What do you say?”

Once again Paris’ brow was beaded with sweat. He wiped it away and collected himself before replying. “I— I thank you for your offer,” he said slowly. “It’s most generous. But”—and here he took a very deep breath—“I’m not a military man, Goddess. The truth is, I don’t really like to fight. I’ve never even wanted a sword.”

Athena stared at him as if he’d just coughed up a lizard. But before she could say anything, Hera descended.

“You lied to me, Athena!” she hissed. “That wasn’t Zeus, it was a field hawk, and you knew it!” She turned on Paris. “What’s she been saying to you?” she demanded.

Athena gave a nearly imperceptible shake of her head, warning Paris to keep silent. If Hera learned that he’d rejected her offer, she’d gloat, and Athena couldn’t tolerate that. Seeing Athena’s warning look, Paris had the good sense to hold his tongue, but Hera pressed him. “Well?” she asked sharply.

At this moment a melodious “Eu-hoo!” came from Aphrodite, who was once again clothed, sandaled, girdled, and waiting under the cypresses. “What are you doing over there?” she called. “Is the contest over?”

“Not yet,” responded Paris. Seizing the chance to escape before Hera questioned him further, he bolted and was at Aphrodite’s side before anyone could stop him. The Love Goddess greeted him warmly and asked him something that none of us could hear. He responded with a shake of his head, which seemed to please her.

Meanwhile, Hera and Athena stood near me, seething. The air between them fairly rippled with bad feeling, and I wondered if they’d start arguing again. I half hoped they would—I was still sorry I’d missed their slang fest over the apple.

But at that moment we all saw Aphrodite pull Paris down beside her and whisper in his ear. Whatever she said made him nod happily, which he continued to do even as Athena and Hera, noting this exchange and fearing the worst, bore down on him together.

They were too late.

By the time they reached Paris, he had made his judgment, and the coveted golden apple lay in Aphrodite’s lap.

TWENTY-THREE

Everyone behaved well, at first.

“I see you’ve won, Aphrodite,” said Athena as Paris helped the victor to her rosy little feet. “Congratulations.”

“Thank you, Athena. I
am
pleased,” replied Aphrodite, emphasizing her victory by fondling the apple ever so gently. “Though I know Paris had a very hard time making his decision.” Her sea-green eyes gleamed under her lashes as she delivered this patently false statement, which ended with the hint of a mischievous smile.

“Is that so.” It was not really a question. “Tell us how you made it,” Hera said to Paris. “That is, if you don’t mind.”

“Yes, do,” seconded Athena, planting herself next to Hera so that their arms touched. Surprisingly, neither backed away. There was a new alliance forming between the two sore-losing goddesses, a formidable one.
Doesn’t
bode well,
I thought, not knowing exactly why.

“Well, uh, you are all very beautiful,” Paris began, “and I would give an apple to each of you if I could, believe me.” He offered them a quick, ingratiating smile, but Hera and Athena remained unaffected.

This must be a first for handsome Paris,
I thought. He’d probably never met resistance in his life—never from a female, at any rate.

He swallowed nervously, squirming under the searing stares of the two goddesses. “But as that isn’t possible,” he continued, “I, uh . . .” He gave up, casting a pleading glance at Aphrodite instead. Whatever her promises to him, they had not covered this—two powerful, resentful goddesses, simmering hotly in defeat.

He looked as if he wanted to jump into a hole.

Then Aphrodite—in her leisurely fashion—came to his rescue.

“Oh, all right,” she said, heaving an exasperated sigh, “I’ll tell you if you really want to know. I think Paris deserves the most beautiful woman in the world. After all, he’s the handsomest man. It seems only fitting.”

Paris’ rapturous expression said that he agreed completely.

“And they’d make such a dazzling couple,” Aphrodite went on. “Like gods! Or demigods at the very least. . . . So that’s what I promised—the love of the world’s most beautiful woman.”

“
That’s
what you chose?” Athena asked, with mingled scorn and disbelief.

“Helen of Sparta?” asked Hera, at the very same moment.

Aphrodite stared at Hera. “How did
you
know?” she demanded.

“I know more than you think,” replied Hera with an air of mystery.

You know because you watch your husband like a hawk,
I thought. My guess was that Zeus had mentioned Helen’s beauty at one time or another, and jealous Hera had never forgotten it. Unlike Athena, Hera had a prodigious memory, especially when it came to her husband’s roving eye. She could reel off the names of all the girls he’d chased for the last three hundred years. She’d tormented many of them personally.

“Has Aphrodite mentioned that Helen is married?” Hera asked Paris. “No—let me guess—she forgot to tell you.”

Paris’ flawless jaw dropped, confirming Hera’s suspicions. “Shame on you, Aphrodite!” She wagged her finger playfully, but there was venom in her voice. “You’ve deceived the judge!”

“You really are despicable,” commented Athena, who was once again wearing her breastplate and helmet.

“Oh, stop it!” protested Aphrodite. “The two of you are such hypocrites! What claim do you have to the moral high ground? None! You tried to bribe him, too, I’d stake my girdle on it. You’re just angry because he took my offer instead of yours.”

Neither goddess responded. “You see,” she said to Paris, “they don’t deny it.” She gave him a reassuring pat on the back. “Yes, it’s true, Helen is married, but Menelaus is a terrible husband. Most of the time he ignores her. If not, he’s showing her off to his kinsmen like a trophy. The woman is lonely. She needs some loving attention. And when you offer it, Paris, believe me, she’ll follow you anywhere—even to Troy.”

I couldn’t believe that Aphrodite would really fulfill her promise, but Paris was practically panting with eagerness.
You’re in for a big disappointment,
I thought.
Good thing you have Oenone, though you don’t deserve
her.

“If you think it’s going to be that easy, you’re even stupider than I thought,” Athena muttered, crouching to buckle up her greaves.

“What did you say?” snapped Aphrodite.

Athena’s reply was a quick, contemptuous shake of her head. She turned to Hera and they shared a look of dark complicity. Then, all differences forgotten, they linked arms, nodded a curt farewell to Paris, and— without saying a word to Aphrodite—strode away together.

There’s a not-so-pretty picture
, I thought, watching them go. The alliance of Hera and Athena against Aphrodite disturbed me, and I found myself wondering what they would do to punish her.

But Aphrodite paid them no mind. She was used to getting her way, and if her caprices caused trouble, she refused to worry—there were more amusing things to do. Besides, worrying caused unsightly frown lines. I had heard her say so myself.

Now, happy with her stolen victory and oblivious to its consequences, she coaxed Paris into a game of catch-and-toss with her shiny new toy.

TWENTY-FOUR

I reported to Zeus right away.

“Aphrodite, eh?” He lowered his voice, though we were alone in the throne room. “Hera would kill me for saying this,” he confided, “but Aphrodite really is the fairest.” I told him how she’d disrobed, forcing Hera and Athena to follow suit, and he smiled broadly.

“Athena undressed? Good thing you were wearing your cap, son. She might have run you through!” Then he caught himself. “Or are you teasing me?”

As we strolled out of the throne room, I assured him I was telling the truth, and after many extravagant oaths—I even swore on my sandals—he believed me. By then we were on the western parapet, a large circular overhang paved with malachite. My father liked to sit here at sunset with a goblet of ambrosia; every now and then he invited me to join him. It always felt like a privilege, a reward for some accomplishment or other, though he seldom praised me. When he did, I cherished his words. When he didn’t, I enjoyed sitting with him in amicable silence, admiring the view. From these heights earth and its deep blue oceans looked both picturesque and deceptively serene.

Now Zeus took his favorite lapis chair, patting the one beside it. I sat. “I’m pleased this thing has been resolved,” he said. “It’s definitely cleared the air. I could hardly believe my eyes when I saw Hera and Athena walking arm in arm a few hours ago, whispering like schoolgirls.” He shook his head. “I can’t imagine what they were talking about, but at least they weren’t squabbling.”

They were plotting against Aphrodite,
I thought, wanting very badly to tell him about my misgivings, yet reluctant to cloud this happy moment. Then he smiled and said, “You did well, son,” and in my infinite pleasure at his words the thought flew out of my head.

The next day my misgivings about the goddesses returned, and when I couldn’t find Aphrodite, I decided to visit Apollo. My brother isn’t only the God of Prophecy, he also has the ability to view things clearly, no matter what he feels about them. I was not above mocking his cool, dispassionate ways, but when I needed a good, sharp insight or two, I always sought him out. His mind is as keen as a blade.

I found him in one of his many hunting camps on the forested slopes of Olympus. Apollo likes to rough it. He will sometimes retreat to the wilderness for weeks on end, eating mushrooms, drinking only water, no wine, and sleeping on the ground with his dogs.

They barked madly when I appeared out of the air. “Greetings, Lord of the Silver Bow,” I said, landing on a tree trunk and bowing deeply.

“Wayfinder! You found me!” he retorted, and we both smiled. I told him he was looking very fit—he was—and asked him if he happened to know where Aphrodite was.

His smile faded. “Gone to Sparta,” he said. “Took Eros with her.”

“Really?”

“Mischief is brewing.”

I heaved a sigh. My brother and I are very different. He is sober; I am cheerful. He sees darkness coming when my skies are bright. His gift of prophecy is strong and reliable; mine is fitful. We often disagree. But at this moment we saw eye to eye. Eros, Aphrodite’s son, would shoot Helen with one of his golden arrows, making her fall head over heels in love with Paris. With this, Aphrodite’s promise to Paris would be fulfilled.

The adoring couple would be happy.

The rest of the world would not.

When I told him everything that had happened on Mount Ida, Apollo said, “If Helen runs off with Paris, Menelaus won’t stand for it. Neither will his brother, Agamemnon. They’ll call on all their Achaean allies and go after her.”

Paris’ homeland was a long way from Sparta—on the eastern side of the Aegean. “To Troy?”

He nodded. “They’re fighting men, they’ve been itching for a brawl, and Troy is famed for its riches. Helen’s desertion would be the perfect excuse to attack.”

I knew, even before he said the word, what that meant: war.

PART FOUR

The Trojan Plain

TWENTY-FIVE

Apollo’s prediction came true. Handsome Paris fell in love with beautiful Helen and enticed her to Troy. Helen’s husband, Menelaus, helped by his brother, Agamemnon, mustered an army and sailed across the Aegean to bring her back. When their great black warships were beached within sight of Troy’s walls, Menelaus demanded his wife’s return.

She refused, and the fighting began.

Naturally, the Immortals took sides.

Aphrodite, Apollo, and Artemis backed Paris and the Trojans; Athena, Hera, and Poseidon supported Menelaus and the Greeks.

Ares helped both armies; he was the God of War, after all, and he reveled in organized carnage. So when he figured out that the war would last much longer if he helped everybody, that’s what he did. First he fought with the Trojans. After a few years, he switched to the Greeks.

Once, grinning down at the fighting, he shouted, “I hope it goes on forever!” I liked him even less after that.

I wanted no part of the war and remained neutral, as did Demeter and Hades. I was hoping my father would stay out of it, too, but I hoped in vain—as soon as the fighting began, he allied himself with the Trojans. Perhaps it was out of loyalty to Paris, his choice to judge the goddesses, or to Paris’ father, King Priam, his devoted worshiper. Whatever the reason, Zeus helped them win a string of battles, which enraged Hera and Athena and saddened me. In my opinion, his actions set a bad example for the other gods. If he’d remained aloof, they might have restrained themselves, too. But he didn’t, so they didn’t, either.

While they fanned the flames of war and danced around the fire, I skulked in the shadows, choking on my objections.

And then there was my guilt.

Gods don’t suffer guilt, because they never question themselves. Self-examination is beneath them. After all, they’re perfect.

I seemed to be the exception.

When the fighting began, a voice in my head kept whispering that I was far from perfect, that I could have prevented the war if only I’d kept Paris from judging the three goddesses. It was an insistent, coldly emphatic voice, and I didn’t want to believe it, but I did. It made me feel terrible, worse than when I’d killed Argos so long ago, worse than when I’d watched Medusa die. It was as if I’d been assigned my own private Fury or found myself afflicted with some painful, shameful disease.

I fell into a state of perpetual gloom. The other gods avoided me—I couldn’t stop complaining about the war or trying to convince them to stay out of it. Hera told me I’d turned into a hideous bore. Ares was less gracious; he threatened to split my skull with an ax. Zeus heard me out exactly once. Then, for some reason, he never had time for me again.

So I drifted away, and nobody noticed.

I told myself I was needed elsewhere. And that’s how I ended up back in Hell, working like a donkey.

Every soldier killed in battle—and there were throngs of them—had to be escorted to the Underworld. This was my responsibility as Head Psychopomp. So if I wasn’t in Taenarus Cave greeting the dead, I was leading them down to the River Styx. It was back and forth, back and forth, every day, all day. I was at the riverbank so often that Cerberus stopped growling at me. He even wagged his tail once or twice.

That made me feel worse.

I reflected morosely that guiding the dead had once been easy, humdrum work—almost boring. Before the war, most of my charges were old and feeble, more than ready for a nice long rest in the Asphodel Fields. I joked with them, they laughed and smiled, and we all had a fine time.

No longer. Now the dead were men in their prime, or youths, or smooth-faced boys, who staggered into the cave coated with dirt and blood. Greeks and Trojans, they all came with mangled limbs, smashed skulls, and bright, gaping wounds, stupefied that their lives were over.

When they began to heal, on the way to the Underworld, they found their voices, too. Some told me urgently that they had fought hard and died bravely. Others wept for their families. Still others voiced regret or confusion or shame. I gave what consolation I could. “You died with honor,” I said; or, “Your kin will always remember you.”

A few were bitter. They always asked the same question: “Why?” It always filled me with dread, because I’d never been able to come up with a soothing answer. So I’d tell them it was Fate and change the subject.

One day, when I found myself idle for a moment, I sat down and made a pair of lists.

Bad Things About War
Constant bickering and scheming on Olympus
Widespread suffering on earth
Hordes of unhappy dead needing escort service
Overcrowding in Asphodel Fields
No time to play music
No time to ride Pegasus

Good Things About War
Ares overjoyed
Eris elated
Hades happy

Dismal
, I thought. And that was the end of my list making.