Clash of the Titans

  Then a peculiar groaning heralded the shattering of the roof. The falling stone slabs spared him long enough so that he had a single glimpse of the awful visage of the Kraken, towering above.

  With that sight came the knowledge of the source of his sudden downfall. He cried out a curse against the gods who had chosen to punish him so; then he died, crushed like a beetle beneath a section of roof weighing half a ton. To the implacable, efficient Kraken, his was merely another corpse.

  That night it seemed that evening came early to the Gulf of Argolis. A thick red sun oozed slowly into the western horizon, throwing vermilion across a scene of desolation. Within the once proud city, nothing moved. Not a horse, a dog, a rat.

  From nearby Navplion and Mikinai travelers arrived to view the destruction. They made large offerings for many nights thereafter to appease the anger of those they knew to be responsible for Argos's fate, lest it later lap over to consume them as well. And there was less talk in the cities bordering the gulf of taking up the mantle of conquest that had so enriched the great city.

  Zeus opened his hand and blew the dust that had been Acrisius to the four winds. In his mind he saw the Kraken reluctantly return to its abyssal lair, once more to be shut in by Poseidon.

  It was done.

  Somewhere far below and away, far from ravaged Argos, a battered and seaworn wooden chest drifted on a calm evening sea.

  Eventually it grounded gently on a white sand beach. No storm raged here, no howling wind or monstrous shape of vengeance. A small boat, skillfully guided, could not have made a better landing. For a moment, nothing could be heard save the soft lullabies of wind and surf. Then the cry of a waking child rose above the lap of the advancing tide.

  Damp with the smell of his recently visited kingdom, Poseidon stood once again in the home of the gods. His expression was grim and it was clear to his fellow immortals that he wished to be elsewhere.

  "It is finished," he told the figure standing next to the flickering silhouette of the amphitheater. "Argos is punished and Danae and her child have been carried safely to the island of Seriphos."

  Zeus nodded approvingly. "A good choice."

  "I did not choose it," Poseidon muttered, distressed by the whole business. "The waves chose it. They have mind and will and direction of their own."

  "Nevertheless, it is a good place; its people kind and better than most men. It will serve. There let Danae and her child live safe and happy."

  "And what of Argos?" Hera asked bitterly. "What of its history and those who once faithfully worshiped the gods?"

  "Its history is one of murder and pillage and is best forgotten," Zeus replied angrily. "Let the men who live near its site look upon it from time to time and remember the wrath of the gods. Let them know that worship does not excuse evil. I want no such worshipers as lived in that accursed city. Let it thus remain."

  "For how long?"

  " 'How long'?" For the first time in a while, Zeus smiled. "You speak like a mortal, wife. What is time to us? It can be whatever we wish. A mortal day, no more here than the wink of an eye. Twenty years, one night of love. Time is the human tragedy. But to us it has no more meaning than shape, which we can alter at will and whim. I am surprised to hear you speak of it, Hera.

  "Aphrodite's beauty need never fade. Your hair need never turn to gray. But poor earthly man is in the grip of age the instant he is born. In the end he passes into the grim lands of the dead and the rule of my brother Hades and he is forgotten—nothing more than a shadow in a dream. I feel for poor man, trapped by the memory of Cronus."

  "At least he knows his destiny," Hera countered. "His boundaries are finite."

  "Would you then trade yours for his, sweet Hera?" Zeus chided her gently. "Would you abandon immortality?"

  "No. But sometimes I wish I had mankind's certainty."

  "About what? About death?"

  "No. About purpose. Man always seems to have purpose. We have only time." She eyed him sharply, challengingly. "Tell me, great ruler of Olympus: what lies waiting for the gods at the end of time?"

  He looked away uncomfortably. "Mother of women, I like not your questions. There is no end for the gods. We are immortal and eternal."

  "You believe that," she replied. "I believe that. But does man?"

  "Who cares what man believes?" Thetis looked disapprovingly at her friend. "You worry too much, Hera."

  The queen of the gods shrugged, looking very human. "It's my nature to worry, Thetis. One of us must."

  Nothing more was said. Their attention turned back to the amphitheater of life. The first act had come to an end. Would there be more, or was the play short and already finished? Time meant nothing to them and did not pass as man knows it to, but down on Earth it was otherwise. Those crowded around the symbolic amphitheater watched with considerable interest to see what might happen now.

  Even a god can get bored.

  No matter what the gods thought of it, the passage of life was still called time by men. It turned its steady pirouette, setting the pace of the world. Cities rose and fell, great works of art were created and lost. All these things and more marked the passage of time in Hellas.

  Children rose from infancy to adulthood. Those in Athens or Corinth, in Sparta and the other great cities of the Peloponnesus became schooled in the ways of statesmanship or literature, sculpture or commerce. They were being groomed to become leaders of men.

  On a small island another child was blossoming. His library was the sea; his study, the many manifestations of a bountiful nature; and his mentors, the simple, pastoral people of the isle known as Seriphos.

  From his mother he learned much of statesmanship and of how falsehoods can raise a massive city on shaky foundations. He learned that power supported by corruption is doomed to collapse, and that morality is the difference between strength and tyranny. Surprisingly, from her he also learned compassion.

  He grew up with little knowledge of fear, living closely with the most violent storms the Aegean could raise. He swam like a dolphin and ran like the horses he mastered at an extraordinarily young age.

  Once he broke both legs attempting to fly after a thieving gull. More than the pain, there was simple astonishment at failure, for having so successfully emulated runners and swimmers, he had thought flight simply another skill to master.

  The people of Seriphos, who had taken in the castaways many years earlier, took personal pride in his progress. He had a whole village of mothers and fathers. The island children, who instinctively knew themselves to be less than he, played freely and delightedly with him, for he was open and guileless and free of pride. He was a friend to everyone and everyone was his friend, but for all that he held no false illusions about the nature of man. His mother's instruction was too thorough for him to grow up innocent of evil and duplicity.

  On an island of fishermen it was only natural that when grown he too would practice the skill of coaxing from the sea its finny bounty. He often went out alone, to return with catches twice the size of those brought in by well-crewed, much larger craft.

  Still, the islanders did not envy him, for he shared much of his catch with those whose luck had been bad, and so he was praised for his generosity as much as he was admired for his skill. It was even whispered by some that he was a favorite of Poseidon, that the sea god assured the boy of a good haul every time his boat set out.

  That was not the case, however. It was simply that the boy was a good fisherman.

  He lay down on the deck of the boat, his eyes closed against the glare of the summer sun. With only a loincloth on his body browned by Apollo's radiance, he was as lean and muscular as the traveling dancers who sometimes visited the island. His hair was thick and curly, dark as the sea on a moonless night. It was a man's body now, though the face still held some of the joy and freshness of adolescence.

  Sweat rolled hotly from his sides and he used an arm to shield his face from the sun. Soon he would have to rise to pull in the net. The salty a
roma of seaweed and fish rose from the small hold, already half full of blue-scaled captives.

  He squinted at the sun. For an instant, he had the strange sense of staring into a face—the face of an old man with a thick white beard. But the face quickly vanished, it was only the sweat stinging his eyes.

  He sighed, thinking of the cool wine he would drink in the taverna when he had disposed of the day's catch. He did not know that that small pleasure would elude him tonight. He did not know that his destiny was near.

  His name was Perseus.

  Zeus held the statue of the lithe young man in one hand, eyeing it without expression. He felt oddly ill at ease, as he often did when important events were about to unfold—events which sometimes even he, king of the gods, could not control. It was an awkward sensation for one with an eternity of accomplishment behind him.

  Everything had gone so well, but he was still bound to act only within his own laws; and something seemed to be threatening them now, perhaps threatening even his very rule.

  Then again, it might only be his stomach, which was subject to depressingly humanlike convulsions from time to time. Such discomforts were only indications of internal upset, not harbingers of the future.

  A little less ambrosia next time, he told himself firmly. You're not the god you used to be.

  His awareness of presence was as keen as ever, though. He turned to see Hera walking toward him, accompanied by Thetis, Aphrodite and Athene. It was good to see Athene with them. She was his favorite child and always supportive of his actions, though she from time to time displayed a disconcerting tendency to act on her own initiative.

  He wished for Poseidon's gruff council, but his brother preferred the ocean depths to the rarefied coolness of Olympus. Oftentimes he envied his brothers their limited, special domains, even that of dark Hades. Their problems seemed simple, their eternities uncomplicated.

  But someone had to rule, and he had taken the responsibilities upon himself. He smiled slightly, trying to imagine Poseidon coping with sweet Hera's intricate plots.

  "Greetings, Father Zeus," said Athene brightly.

  Ah, sweet daughter and fount of wisdom, Zeus thought. How I would like to set aside the mantle of ruler for a while, to be free of these devious dealings and decisions. You alone understand the reasons for my occasional sojourns down to earth to live and love among the mortals. Goddess of wisdom, you would make a fine ruler.

  But he knew that could not be. The mantle of ruler was fixed. He would have to carry it, no matter how it tired him, until the end of time.

  Hera was staring at the statuette her husband still held.

  "Perseus," he told her. "Grown to a young man. Honest and caring, athletic and intelligent despite his lack of a formal education."

  "Handsome, too." Aphrodite eyed the statuette appraisingly, her lips pursed.

  Zeus glared at her warningly. "None of your games, now. The boy is uncomplicated. Save your wiles for more experienced mortals."

  "But Father Zeus, surely a little innocent divine inspiration could but help speed the boy's maturation."

  "You'll mature him beyond his time, and he doesn't need that. Stay away from him."

  "Oh, very well." She crossed her arms and looked piqued.

  Aphrodite's interest only annoyed Hera. "Since you've taken such an interest in his life, what do you plan to do with him now that he's become a man?"

  "I have done enough," Zeus said, sounding quite pleased. "He has enjoyed a happy childhood, something which escapes most men. He has the advantages of a strong body, a handsome face, and a sharp mind. What more could I give any mortal, what more could one desire or deserve? Now he is a young man. The rest must be left to him . . . and to chance."

  "Since when did you ever leave anything to chance?" Hera murmured, but too softly for anyone to hear.

  "We are not here to discuss the future of this boy," said Thetis, "but that of my mortal son, Calibos." Her tone was stiff and anxious. "That is why we were summoned."

  "Yes," Zeus agreed, placing the figure of Perseus carefully in its niche in the wall and choosing another from the endless rows. "That is a future that cannot be left to chance." His expression changed abruptly, darkening like one of the storms he so often raised over the Earth.

  "His crimes are unforgiveable. They are too many and too monstrous to be ignored any longer. I have overlooked them, allowed them to pass unnoticed until now, but I can no longer continue. To do so would make the laws of the gods less than a mockery among men. This cannot be permitted. We must abide by the laws set down amongst us and so must our minions on mortal Earth."

  "Be merciful to him! Show pity, I beg of you."

  "Do not beg me, Thetis." Zeus eyed her distastefully. "It is unbecoming for a god to beg, even of another god. I have said that I have overlooked the crimes of this Calibos again and again. I cannot do so any longer. He has exhausted my patience and spat on my charity."

  "One more time," she pleaded desperately.

  "Impossible!" He waved angrily and thunder echoed through the halls of Olympus. "Calibos has had every advantage a mortal could ask for. As patron goddess of the wealthy city of Joppa you have spoiled and indulged him since birth, Thetis. Perhaps that is part of the trouble. Mortals seem to turn out better when compelled to earn their fame and wealth.

  "You gave him the Wells of the Moon near Joppa to rule. No lusher place existed on Earth, and what has he done with this gift? Hunted down and destroyed every living creature of beauty for sport and personal pleasure."

  "He has always been high-strung."

  "That hardly excuses turning a paradise into a wilderness. He even dared to trap and kill the sacred herd of flying horses who dwelt there. For their meat!" The massive head shook slowly in disbelief. "One of the wonders of the Earth, obliterated to sate the palate of a single perverse gourmand, for such is what Calibos fancies himself. He left only the stallion Pegasus; because of him the race of men will not know the beauty nor have the services of the race of flying horses.

  "Well, my dear Thetis, he has fancied himself too much. He thinks himself handsome and intelligent as a god. Even if it were not for his other repulsive crimes, this blasphemous assumption alone would be sufficient to damn him.

  "It is for this and many other obscenities that he must be punished."

  "No . . . be merciful, Father Zeus. Do not kill him."

  "I do not intend to kill him, but not out of mercy. His noisome habits and likes disfigure his mind and thoughts. So then I command that his form be changed to reflect his thoughts. He shall become abhorrent to human sight."

  Carefully he set the statuette of Calibos on the floor of the amphitheater of life.

  Zeus glared at it, his eyes glowing as he pronounced his verdict. "He will be shunned by all, forced to live as an outcast in swamps and vile places. No longer master of the Wells of the Moon he shall henceforth be Lord of the Marshes. He will be transformed into a mockery of man. Let his own cruelty be mirrored by his appearance. Let him appear as his own thoughts reveal him to be!"

  A different thunder rumbled around them. The figurine shimmered and shifted, its outline contorting beneath a baleful light. What finally coalesced might once have been a man. Now it sported a horribly deformed face topped with horns, a lizard's tail, one cloven foot: the reptilian part of Calibos's nature had flowed out of his mind to wash over and alter his body.

  "This is my judgment." Zeus turned away from the amphitheater to place the distorted figure of Calibos back into its niche.

  Thetis gazed down at the floor, unable to look any longer at the deformed statuette. She knew full well Calibos's crimes and sins, but if he was guilty, then at least some of the fault was her own.

  Nevertheless, she knew he was not, could not be wholly evil. If he was damned, it was by being part mortal. She would not abandon her son, not even at the risk of facing Zeus's wrath.

  "I implore you to reconsider, Father Zeus. Calibos was to marry the Princess Andromeda, hei
ress to Queen Cassiopeia of Joppa. He would rule all Joppa and Phoenicia."

  "I will not stand in the way of an honest marriage," said Zeus formally. "Let the princess look on him now, as he truly is. Let her see his thoughts reflected in his face. If she still desires to marry him, then let it be so." He smiled thinly.

  Turning away from them, he strode implacable from the sanctuary.

  Hera moved to comfort the distraught Thetis, putting a reassuring hand on the sea goddess's arm. "Be comforted, my dear." She looked after her departing husband. "He can be as unpredictable as he can be vengeful. He may yet change his mind and give Calibos back his former shape."

  "Never." Thetis's anger was subdued but no less deep than that of Zeus. "Had it been his own mortal child Perseus, he would have forgiven him. But for my son Calibos he has neither mercy nor hope."

  "Be careful, my dear." Hera looked at her hard. "You cannot go against his will. That is the law. There is no connection between the life of Perseus and that of your offspring."

  "Is there not?" Thetis became thoughtful. "Examples have a way of affecting decisions. Perhaps . . . oh, don't look so alarmed, good Hera. I would not dare to oppose the will of Father Zeus. I know I cannot help Calibos. But I have not been forbidden certain other actions."

  "What 'other actions'? No, don't tell me. As you say, you cannot help Calibos. So there will be no marriage then to the Princess Andromeda for your son?"

  "How can there be . . . now? Yet, if my son is not to have her, then no man will! There has been no talk of the woman in this, only of Perseus and Calibos.

  "My priests in Joppa are loyal and responsive to their goddess. I will speak to them in dreams and omens. As my Calibos suffers, so will this Andromeda. I promise you."

  "You should not kill her."

  "Kill? Who speaks of killing? Not Father Zeus, and not I. I will not touch her. But it may be that, given time, even Calibos as he now appears will seem a better and better match to her. Zeus has said he would not oppose an 'honest' marriage between them. Perhaps events can be managed to induce such a seemingly unlikely joining to take place."