Clash of the Titans (6 page)

"I apologize for all this dramatic finery and the theatrical effects I was compelled to greet you with," the poet explained. "I am forced to utilize them now and then to frighten away the curious. Thieves would gladly carry off what little I have been able to preserve of the theater though there is not much left of real value. Not much to them—priceless to me.

"I'm an old man and it's how I protect myself. Trumpets and masks. Besides, I always fought better with words than sword." He chuckled at his own humor.

"They think the amphitheater is haunted, that human sewage. And they're right. Though a writer first, I'm not such a bad actor. I've become very proficient at doing spirits and ghosts, for example."

"I can attest to that." Perseus grinned down at him Then his attention was drawn to the weeds and roots poking busy green heads through cracks in the masonry.

"Why is everything so neglected? This looks to have been a fine theater once."

"So it was, my boy, so it was." Ammon let out a discouraged sigh. "The finest theater in Phoenicia, I dare say. But its current state is a sign of the times. The whole kingdom lives under a curse and the populace lingers always on the edge of despair. The people walk around muttering, 'call no man happy who is not dead.' "

"Did you write that?"

Ammon gave him a reproving look. "Hades, no. Though it's actually not such a bad line. But terribly pessimistic. I write comedies, remember? I am an optimist, though I know better. But I can't help it—an endemic condition. Anemic, my colleagues would say. I'm probably the last optimist in Joppa." He shook his head sadly.

"They all think of a half cup of wine as half empty. I think of it as half full. There you have the difference between optimist and pessimist, my boy."

"If you say you know better, then why do you remain an optimist?"

"Because it's nicer. They all say I'm mad, though." He burst into a raucous cackle that echoed off the walls as they started down a flight of rotting steps.

Perseus saw that the rock was dry and knew they were not close to a river or the sea. Like any good fisherman he'd developed an outstanding sense of direction. He decided they were now somewhere beneath the facade leading out onto the amphitheater stage.

Soon torchlight revealed the precious relics Ammon guarded so devotedly. There were devices for raising and lowering painted scenery, collections of masks and armories of fake weapons. Chariot fronts leaned uncomfortably against thrones, and costumes lay heaped in open chests. There were mounds of paint crucibles and the chamber was thick with the must of old makeup.

A lean, carnivorous shape slipped wraithlike from beneath a broken-legged couch, skittered across the floor like a great black cockroach. It was an old cat, skinny and tough and still full of fight. Much like its master, Perseus thought.

"Make yourself comfortable," Ammon said as he dug through a mass of papyrus scrolls. There was ink on a table nearby. From the size of the pile Perseus knew the poet to be prolific if not famous.

"If you can, that is," the old man added. "A cup of wine, perhaps? Half
full."
Again the wizened grin. "And I'll see if the cats have left us anything to eat. There was a chicken here earlier, cleaner than most. But my feline friends have the same affection I do for that noble fowl, and they are no less greedy." He turned away from the mass of writings and busied himself at a cabinet. Plates and other utensils clattered noisily as they tumbled from shelf to floor.

"Now then, my young friend, you truly claim to be Perseus, heir to the unfortunate kingdom of Argos?"

"Yes. Up to now I have lived in Seriphos." Pride filled his voice. "But some day I will return and reclaim Argos. You see, after I was born my mother and I—"

Ammon interrupted him with a casual wave. "Oh, I know about all that. Save your breath. Though I admit it is fascinating to meet one of the participants in so famous a tale. Yes, I know your history, my boy."

"You do?"

Ammon returned to the table with cups of wine, a clay amphora, olives, and a few fragments of chicken.

"Certainly." The poet looked roofward as he recited. "The beautiful princess. The jealous, demented tyrant. You and your mother thrown into the sea, the judgment of the priests and the people. The subsequent destruction of the city. Oh, it's been a very popular story these past twenty years. Very dramatic—plays well on the stage!

"I wrote a poem about it myself, when the tale first arrived in Joppa." He sounded wistful. "Rather moving, as I remember."

"Ammon, you're a wise man . . ."

"Tut, my boy." The poet looked embarrassed.

"Educated, familiar with history. Can you explain what happened to me tonight? For I swear by all the gods that less than an evening ago I was asleep on a beach on Seriphos and have no idea how I come to be here."

Ammon looked thoughtful as he sipped at his wine which, like himself, was well aged. "We are fairly certain it was not by boat. Nor, I would wager, by any other means mortal man might use." He turned serious.

"The gods of Olympus are unfathomable, their motives erratic, their methods mysterious. It is best to avoid their attention whenever possible, for those who come to their attention are as often as not punished rather than rewarded.

"My advice to you, Perseus, would be to treat this little shift of sleeping place as temporary, to return to the calm of Seriphos as quickly as you can, and to forget the entire matter. Treat it as a dream, my boy, and you will wake from this experience the healthier. That is what I would recommend."

"But what if I was brought here for a reason?"

"Reason or whim, what does it matter, so long as the gods trouble you no more?"

"My mother's last wish was that I should restore her honor and claim my birthright as heir to the throne of Argos. Perhaps Joppa would be a better place to begin than a remote little island. I am tired of moving slowly through life. Seriphos is a kind home, but a futureless one." He pushed his chair away from the table, stood, and began wandering around the chamber studying the dusty costumes and props.

"Better inertia than death," Ammon muttered, but Perseus did not hear him. "Well, my boy, if you are determined on this course . . ."

"I am."

". . . then you will need weapons, advice, counsel and knowledge. And something more important still."

"And what might that be?"

Ammon's tone shifted from serious to sprightly. "Something to wear." He gestured at Perseus's fisherman's loincloth. "Something rather more appropriate to a prince, even if he remains as yet only prince of a hopeful vision."

Leaving the table, he walked to a high pile of costumes. After several minutes of searching he excavated an embroidered royal cloak of the Tyrian purple for which Phoenicia was famed throughout the world.

Setting it across Perseus's shoulders, he moved the youth back until he was standing awkwardly before one of the prop thrones. The boy's expression spoke of youth and inexperience, but Ammon could see real courage there, and a burning desire to learn.

He nodded, satisfied at the sight thus presented. "That will do. Welcome to Joppa . . .
Prince
Perseus!" And he executed a mock bow.

Both men laughed, old poet and young prince, and each saw a little of himself in his companion.

Perseus removed the old loincloth and threw it away, to stand grinning in front of the throne. "Am I properly dressed, then?"

Ammon laughed so hard the tears ran down his face and salted his whiskers. "For success in the city, yes, but for a prince I fear still somewhat underclad. We have begun from the outside. Now we must dress inwards—unless you will settle for being prince only among the ladies."

They worked with the costumes by torchlight, joking and swapping tales as they sought to complete Perseus's attire . . .

There is always rage in a thunderstorm: black clouds shot through with lightning, unstable winds, capricious vortices of energy.

All that and more was reflected in the face of Zeus as he confronted Thetis, Hera, Aphrodite, and Athene. The anger in his voice ruffled the feathers of the owl seated on the shoulder of the goddess of wisdom, and the immortal bird sought shelter behind his mistress's long tresses.

"You set him down half-naked, alone, ignorant, and hungry outside a strange, accursed city!"

"You once said that chance would rule his future, Father Zeus." Thetis looked away from him, not quite able to meet the accusation in his eyes.

"This had nothing to do with chance, and well you know it!" He leaned back in the throne, fuming and fighting to control his temper. "This was a deliberate and malicious act unworthy of a goddess!"

"You accuse
me?"

"And not wrongly, I think." He glared a moment longer at the sea goddess before turning his attention to the motionless statuette standing on the floor of the pulsing amphitheater. "Who else would have reason?" His gaze traveled over the other three. "And the rest of you have connived in this. I sense it."

"Nonsense," Hera said, staring back reprovingly. "We have done nothing."

"Precisely my point, Hera. In doing nothing you have allowed this unfortunate intrusion into the affairs of men. No reaction is the same as bestowing one's approval." He took in a deep breath and wind whistled outside on the mountain.

"Nevertheless, it is done. I cannot reverse it. Now truly will chance control events.

"But one thing is certain. He needs and now deserves, because of your actions, more than an actor's dyed cloak and a wooden sword to defend himself." He smiled warningly.

"I will shield him from otherwordly interferences, but he will be forced to defend himself against the threats of the Earth and his fellowman. I charge you all to provide him with suitable weapons. You claim to have done nothing. I now give you something to do.

"Athene, from you a proper helmet. Aphrodite, send him a sword suitable to his heritage—one that will not shatter at the first parry of an opponent. And should he mis-parry," he concluded, speaking now to Hera, "you will give him a shield. These he must have with all speed."

Bundling his robes about him he turned and stalked out of the chamber, to brood on the solitary throne which crowned the very crest of the mountain. There he would commune silently with his friends the winds and perhaps cast earthward the occasional angry thunderbolt for which he was famed among mortal man.

When he was long departed, Thetis unclenched her teeth and muttered in frustration, "All this anger and trouble for the love of Danae."

"No." Hera smiled knowingly. "Not for the love of Danae. Not for the love of any woman. So many have beguiled him that he couldn't possibly become so attached to one. No, it's simply his foolish pride in a handsome, half-mortal son. That is all he remembers, all that concerns him now, and that is what rouses him to such unusual solicitude." Her smile twisted.

"He would never admit that, of course. That would be a sign of weakness."

"Your husband can be curiously mortal at times," Aphrodite observed, tapping her lower lip with an exquisite finger. "All the faults of an ordinary human. But a great deal more stamina."

"What exactly do you mean?" Hera turned a sharp eye on her fellow immortal.

"Oh, don't play coy with us," Thetis said loftily. "Don't try to match your husband at the art of not admitting things you know. It is as you say . . . so many women." She shook her head in puzzlement.

"All these transformations and disguises he concocts to protect his identity and godly dignity while he seduces them. Imagine making love to a shower of gold!"

Aphrodite looked thoughtful, finally said in a languorous sigh, "It may have its merits, sister."

"To you anything has its merits!" Thetis spoke sharply but not maliciously. "He becomes a bull, a swan—Why, once long ago he even tried to ravish
me,
disguised as a cuttlefish."

Aphrodite finished a catlike stretch and frowned. "I think I should prefer a shower of gold."

"Did he succeed?" Hera asked the question with more than casual interest.

"Certainly not." Thetis appeared insulted. "I have more will than to permit that, nor am I as vulnerable to such advances as a mere mortal."

"What did you do?" asked Athene, ever questioning.

"In the first place, cuttlefish are not among my favorite watery denizens. I could not, however, confront him as a goddess there in the depths. So I beat him at his own game. I turned myself into a shark. Cooled more than his ardor, I can tell you!"

The laughter that filled the chamber was rich and feminine, and in its own way even more human than Zeus's outrage.

It is in the nature of dust that it can seem a drab covering or a golden glaze, depending on its constituent components and the time of day. What had looked filthy during the night took on a warm luster with the rise of Apollo's chariot, a quality imparted to the old theater not by godly condescension but by the amount of mica in both its dust and building stones.

Birds appeared—the only audience the amphitheater now played host to—and began to play out their own small individual tragedies with the insects and the worms hiding in the weeds. A thousand little deaths occurred as the sun rose higher in the Mediterranean sky, and no playwright was present to document them.

Rock was already becoming hot to the touch when Perseus emerged from the entrance leading to the stairwell. He stretched, lifted his face to the morning sun. His belly was full; he'd found an erudite and interesting friend; he now knew where he was though not how he'd arrived there; and all in all the world seemed a far more hospitable place than it had the night before.

The nightmare had melted into a mere puzzle, and he'd always liked puzzles. The explanation for his present peculiar situation could surely not be better hidden than the secret places of Seriphos's tastier reef dwellers. Seeking it out might prove exciting.

How exciting, he could not begin to imagine.

In the fresh light of morning the amphitheater no longer appeared forboding. The scrub brush poking persistent frazzled crowns through the decaying masonry no longer looked like anxious fingers waiting to drag the unwary down to Hades. Flies and bees buzzed over the paving stones, the one hunting carrion, the other flowers.