Percy Jackson and the Greek Heroes

  Andromeda slipped her hand into Perseus’s. ‘Time to cover my eyes, babe? Because that king over there needs killing.’

  ‘Agreed,’ Perseus said. ‘Polydectes, you will never marry my mother. You’re not worthy of her, or of being king. Give up your crown and I’ll let you go into exile. Otherwise –’

  ‘Ridiculous!’ the king shrieked. ‘Guards, kill him!’

  A dozen soldiers levelled their spears and formed a ring around Perseus and Andromeda.

  ‘Don’t do this,’ Perseus warned them. ‘I’ll turn you to stone.’

  ‘Yeah, right!’ the king yelled. ‘Bring it on!’

  Which, again, is a terrible last statement to be carved on your tombstone.

  ‘Anyone who is with me,’ Perseus yelled, ‘close your eyes now!’

  Andromeda, Danaë and Dictys closed their eyes as Perseus brought out the severed head of the Gorgon.

  A crackling sound spread over the room. Then there was absolute silence.

  Perseus put away Medusa’s head. He opened his eyes. The entire crowd (except for his friends) had been turned to stone, which meant the price of marble statuary on Seriphos was going to crater.

  Polydectes sat on his throne, frozen mid-scream. The guards looked like oversized chess pieces. The snotty nobles who had laughed at Perseus would never laugh at anyone again.

  ‘Well, that was awesome.’ Andromeda kissed her husband. ‘Good job.’

  Perseus made sure his mother was okay. She gave him a big hug. Then he pulled the old fisherman Dictys to his feet.

  ‘Thank you, my friend,’ Perseus said. ‘You were always kind to us. You’re a good man. Now that your brother is dead, I want you to be king of Seriphos.’ He called out to the throne room. ‘Any objections?’

  None of the frozen nobles said anything.

  ‘I …’ The fisherman looked bewildered. ‘I mean, thank you, I guess. But what about you, Perseus? Shouldn’t you take the throne?’

  Perseus smiled. ‘Seriphos has never been my home. Argos is where I was born. That’s where I will become the king.’

  He left his mom in Seriphos, because she had no desire to go back to her childhood home. (Can you blame her?) He promised to text and Skype as much as possible, because he was a good son. Then he and Andromeda flew off to the Greek mainland.

  As it turned out, Perseus’s grandfather – you remember old Acrisius with the bronze cell and the screaming and the yelling? – got advance warning of his grandson’s plans. I don’t know how. Maybe he had a prophecy or a bad dream. By the time Perseus got there, Acrisius had fled the city.

  Nobody objected as Perseus and Andromeda became the king and queen of Argos. They had a wonderful marriage and loads and loads of children. Perseus gave his magic items back to Hermes (because you can’t be greedy about stuff like that) and gifted the head of Medusa to the goddess Athena, who liked it so much she had it bronzed at the centre of her shield, the Aegis, to terrify her enemies when she charged into battle.

  At this point maybe you’re wondering about the prophecy that started the whole story. Wasn’t Perseus supposed to kill his grandfather?

  He did, later on. And it was a total accident.

  Several years after Perseus became king, he was attending these athletic games in a neighbouring kingdom. A bunch of nobles were competing to show off their coolness and win sweet prizes. Perseus signed up for the discus throw.

  The old king Acrisius happened to be there. He’d been hiding in the kingdom for a while, disguised as a beggar, but he made his way to the front of the crowd to watch the games, because they reminded him of the good old days when he’d been a king, not living in constant fear for his life.

  Perseus got ready for his turn. If you’ve never seen a discus, it’s basically a three-pound metal Frisbee. The idea is to chuck it as far as you can to prove how strong you are.

  Acrisius hadn’t seen his grandson since Perseus was an infant. He didn’t know who the athlete was until the announcer called, ‘Give it up for Perseus of Argos!’

  The old man’s eyes widened. He muttered, ‘Oh, crud.’ Or maybe something stronger.

  Before Acrisius could get away, Perseus tossed his discus. A freak gust of wind caught it and hurled it straight at Acrisius, killing him instantly.

  ‘OUCH!’ the crowd yelled.

  Perseus felt terrible, having killed an old man like that. But once Ancient Greek CSI identified the body as Acrisius and the death was ruled an accident, Perseus decided it was the will of the gods. He went back home to Argos and had more kids with Andromeda.

  They had such a big family that half of Greece claimed to be descended from Perseus. One of his sons, Perses, supposedly started the line of Persian kings. One of his daughters was named Gorgophone. Like, seriously, why? Doesn’t that mean Sounds like a Gorgon? Was she named after his emergency hotline? Quick, King Perseus, you’ve got a call on the Gorgophone!

  His most famous descendant was a guy named Hercules.

  We’ll get to him later.

  Right now, let’s leave Perseus enjoy his happy ending with lots of hugs from Andromeda and lots of little demigod babies.

  Because I want to prove that Andromeda’s mom Kassiopeia was not the worst mother-in-law in history – that honour belongs to the love goddess Aphrodite. She made life so tough for a girl named Psyche … well, if you’ve got the stomach for fighting dragons, enduring torture, taking a trip to Hades and facing a herd of killer sheep, read on.

  It’s not pretty.

  Psyche Ninjas a Box of Beauty Cream

  It must suck to be born super gorgeous.

  No, I’m serious. Think about it.

  Psyche should have had a happy childhood. Her parents were the king and queen of a Greek city. She had two older sisters, so the pressure was off about how well she did in school and who she would have to marry. She should’ve been able to kick back, enjoy being the baby princess and live life however she wanted.

  Unfortunately, she was beautiful.

  I’m not talking about normal human-level beauty. Her sisters were normal beautiful. If Psyche had been as attractive as them, or even slightly more attractive, that would’ve been okay.

  But, as soon as Psyche became a teenager, she went from being ‘That little kid is so adorable!’ to ‘Oh, my gods. Oh, WOW. She is SUPER HOT!’

  She couldn’t open her bedroom window without a hundred guys gathering in the street below, clamouring and applauding and throwing flowers (which really hurt if they happened to smack her in the face). Whenever she walked through town, she had to take four bodyguards with her to keep admirers away.

  She wasn’t stuck-up about it. She didn’t feel like she was better than anyone else. She didn’t want the attention. In fact, she wished she was a normal girl with normal looks, but she couldn’t exactly complain to anyone about her problems.

  ‘Oh, poor you!’ her friends would say, their faces green with envy. ‘You’re too gorgeous! That must be a terrible burden.’

  The older she got, the more trouble she had keeping friends. Everyone at school started treating her cruelly. They excluded her and spread rumours about her, because that’s what people do when they feel threatened. But I guess if you’ve ever been in any school anywhere, you already know that.

  Psyche’s two sisters were the worst. They pretended to be nice, but behind her back they said the meanest things and encouraged everyone else to be mean, too.

  Oh, well, you’re thinking, at least being super gorgeous she could have any guy she wanted, right?

  Wrong.

  Psyche was so beautiful – so intimidatingly awesome – no guy dared to ask her out. They admired her. They threw flowers. They sighed and gazed at her face and drew pictures of her during study hall, but they loved her the way you would love your favourite song or a fantastic movie or the best pictures on DeviantArt. She was above reality – perfect because she was unattainable, unattainable because she was perfect.

  Psyche’s parents kept waiting
for marriage offers to roll in. None did. Her sisters, who were just regular-old mortal beautiful, got married to rich husbands who were kings of other towns, but Psyche remained in her parents’ palace, all alone, without friends or a boyfriend or anything.

  This made Psyche miserable, but it didn’t stop the adoration of the crowds.

  By the time she was seventeen, the townsfolk had constructed a life-size marble statue of her in the public square. Legends started spreading that she wasn’t even human. She was a goddess come down from Mount Olympus – a second Aphrodite, an even better Aphrodite. People from the surrounding kingdoms started to visit, hoping to catch a glimpse of her. Her hometown got rich off Psyche-centred tourism. They made T-shirts. They offered guided tours. They sold a full line of cosmetic products guaranteed to make you look like Psyche!

  Psyche tried to discourage this. She was pious and smart (qualities no one ever seemed to notice since she was also beautiful). She always said her prayers and left offerings at the temples, because she didn’t want to upset the gods.

  ‘I’m not a goddess!’ she would tell people. ‘Stop saying that!’

  ‘Yeah,’ they muttered as soon as she left. ‘She’s a goddess, all right.’

  Psyche’s popularity went viral. Soon throngs of people from all around the Mediterranean were making pilgrimages to see her rather than going to the temples of Aphrodite.

  You can probably guess how that went over with Aphrodite.

  One day the goddess looked down from her personal beauty spa on Mount Olympus, expecting to see hordes of adoring fans at her main temple on her sacred island of Cythera. Instead, the temple was deserted. The floor was caked with dust. The altar was empty. Even the priests were gone. A sign on the door read: GONE 2 WORSHIP PSYCHE. BBL.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Aphrodite bolted upright, nearly ruining her manicure. ‘Where is everyone? Why is no one worshipping me? Who is Psyche?’

  Her servants didn’t want to tell her because they’d seen the goddess get angry before, but it didn’t take long for her to find out. A few minutes watching the mortal world, a couple of hashtag searches, and she knew all about the upstart Psyche.

  ‘Oh, Hades, no,’ Aphrodite growled. ‘I am the most important and beautiful goddess in the universe, and I’m getting upstaged by a mortal girl? Eros, get in here!’

  According to some legends, Eros was even older than Aphrodite. According to other legends, he was Aphrodite’s son. I don’t know which is true, but in this story Aphrodite definitely treats him as her son. Maybe he was, or maybe Aphrodite just thought he was, and Eros was too afraid to correct her. Either way, the dude was the god of romantic love, kind of the male counterpart to Aphrodite. He’s better known by his Roman name, Cupid.

  Does that mean he was a chubby Valentine baby with teeny wings, a tiny bow and cute little arrows? Not so much.

  Eros was devilishly handsome. All the ladies wanted his photo as their home screen. You want details? Sorry, I’ve got none. Like Aphrodite, he sort of appeared however you wanted him to appear. So, ladies, imagine your perfect guy … and that’s what Eros looked like.

  He sauntered into his mom’s audience chamber, rocking the skinny jeans and the fashionably ripped T-shirt, his hair tousled perfectly and his eyes gleaming with mischief, his theme song, ‘I’m Too Sexy’, playing in the background. (I’m making that up. I wasn’t actually there.)

  ‘What’s up?’ he asked.

  ‘What’s up?’ Aphrodite screeched. ‘Have you heard about this girl Psyche? Are you even paying attention to what’s going on in the mortal world?’

  ‘Uh …’ Eros rubbed his handsome chin. ‘Psyche? No. Doesn’t ring a bell.’

  Aphrodite explained how Psyche was stealing all her followers and their offerings, as well as the headlines in the gossip magazines.

  Eros shuffled nervously. He didn’t like it when Aphrodite got upset. She tended to destroy things with pretty pink explosions. ‘So what do you want me to do about it?’

  Aphrodite glared at him. ‘What do I want you to do? Your job! Your arrows cause mortals to fall in love, don’t they? Find this girl and teach her a lesson. Make her fall for the most disgusting, horrible man in the world. Perhaps a smelly old beggar. Or a violent murderer – I don’t care about the details. Surprise me! Be a good son! Make her regret her beauty!’

  Of course, Psyche already regretted her beauty, but Aphrodite didn’t know that. The idea would not have computed in her immortal brain.

  Eros flapped his feathery white wings. (Oh, yeah. He had huge wings. Did I mention that?) ‘I’m on it … uh, Mom. Don’t worry.’

  Eros flew out of Aphrodite’s Day Spa. He spiralled down towards the mortal world, anxious to complete his mission. He was curious to find this girl and see what the fuss was about. He absolutely adored shipping people with unlikely partners. Maybe he’d make her fall in love with a used-chariot salesman, or some geezer with an infectious skin disease. That would be hilarious.

  ‘Oh, yeah,’ Eros chuckled to himself. ‘Psyche’s going to wish she never saw me!’

  It turned out he was right, but not in the way he imagined …

  Meanwhile, down in the palace, Psyche hated her life.

  Her sisters were married and gone. She had no friends. She was alone with just her parents and a bunch of bodyguards. She spent most of her time in bed with the shades drawn and the covers up over her head, weeping and heartbroken.

  Naturally, her parents were concerned. Also, they’d been hoping to make a good marriage for her, because that brought lots of bennies like military alliances and positive buzz in the media. They didn’t understand how such a beautiful, famous daughter, the Next Aphrodite, could be so miserable.

  The king came to visit her. ‘Honey, what’s wrong? What can I do?’

  Psyche sniffled. ‘Just let me die.’

  ‘I was thinking more along the lines of a cup of hot cocoa. Or a new teddy bear?’

  ‘Daddy, I’m seventeen!’

  ‘I tell you what. How about I go to Delphi and consult the Oracle? The god Apollo should be able to advise us!’

  Did I mention that going to Delphi is usually a bad idea?

  The king went anyway. He asked the Oracle how to get his daughter a good husband.

  The Oracle lady inhaled some volcanic vapour and spoke in a deep male voice – the voice of Apollo.

  ‘Despair, King!’ she bellowed, which is never the opening line you want to hear. ‘Your daughter shall marry no mortal. She is destined to marry a monster – a fierce, barbaric beast even the gods fear! Dress her for her wedding as you would dress her for her funeral. Take her to the tallest spire of rock in your kingdom. There she shall meet her doom!’

  DOOM! DOOM! DOOM! echoed through the cavern.

  The Oracle’s voice returned to normal. ‘Thank you for your offering. Have a nice day.’

  Once the king returned home, he went to see his daughter. ‘Honey … I have some good news and some bad news. The good news is you’re going to get a husband.’

  When Psyche heard the prophecy, she became still and quiet, which was scarier to her parents than the weeping. She accepted her fate. She’d asked to die, hadn’t she? Apparently the gods had granted her wish. She was going to marry a monster, and she assumed marry was a euphemism for get torn apart and devoured as part of the monster’s balanced breakfast.

  Her parents wept, but Psyche took their hands. ‘Don’t weep for me. This is what happens when mortals challenge the gods. I should’ve put a stop to the “New Aphrodite” nonsense sooner. I knew it was going to cause trouble. I’m no goddess. I’m just a girl! If my death puts things right again, and spares the city from the wrath of the gods, then I’m okay with that. It’ll be the first good thing I’ve ever done with my life.’

  Her parents felt horrible. But they’d got direct orders from the god Apollo, and you can’t ignore Apollo unless you want to get vaporized by a rain of fiery death arrows.

  When news got out, the whole
city went into a state of mourning. Their divinely beautiful princess, the goddess of love reborn, was going to be sacrificed to a monster on the tallest rock spire in the kingdom. This would not be good for the local Psyche™ cosmetics industry.

  Psyche’s parents dressed her in a black silk funeral gown. They covered her face with a black bridal veil and put a bouquet of black flowers in her hands. They escorted her to the edge of the kingdom, where a five-hundred-foot spire of rock jutted into the sky. Centuries ago, narrow steps had been carved around it so it could be used as a watchtower. Psyche climbed these steps alone until she reached the top.

  Here goes nothing, she thought, looking at the rocky ground far below. I hope I get reborn with average looks. Or ugly. I would love to be ugly for a change.

  She felt no fear, which kind of surprised her. In fact, for the first time in years, she felt at peace. She waited for a moment to see if some monster would swoop out of nowhere and bite her in half. When that didn’t happen, she decided to take matters into her own hands.

  She jumped.

  As far as her parents could tell from their vantage point behind the spire, Psyche had plummeted to her death. They never found her body, but that didn’t mean anything. It was a windy day, and they were too upset to launch a full-scale search. Besides, if Psyche hadn’t died, that meant the monster of the prophecy had taken her, which was even worse. The king and queen returned home, broken-hearted, convinced they would never see their beloved daughter and favourite tourism magnet again.

  The end.

  Not really.

  In the long run, Psyche would’ve suffered less if she had died, but she didn’t. As she fell from the rock, the winds swirled around her. Forty feet from the valley floor, they slowed her fall and lifted her up.

  ‘Hi,’ said a disembodied voice. ‘I’m Zephyrus, god of the west wind. How ya doing today?’

  ‘Um … terrified?’ said Psyche.

  ‘Great,’ said Zephyrus. ‘So we have a short flight this morning, heading over to my master’s palace. Weather looks good. Maybe a little turbulence on our initial ascent.’