Clash of the Titans

  Hera smiled approvingly at the sea goddess. "I can see that my husband is not the only master of deviousness on high Olympus."

  Thetis was not looking at her. "The law must not be broken," she was muttering, "but it can be avoided."

  The catch had been good. Perseus felt the strain in his shoulders and biceps as he fought his way back to the beach. Dripping, he stood on the sand and glanced around for a second to orient himself. The glow of the driftwood fire was off to his right. He thought he'd emerged directly in front of it, but the ways of the currents could be capricious. He smiled to himself at his mistake and jogged toward the friendly light.

  The night was warm, but the fire still felt good after the refreshing swim. Mossolion would distribute the surplus catch to those villagers who needed food. It was a task Perseus did not mind passing on to another. After all, it hardly mattered who received praise for distributing the fish as long as the fish went to those who needed it.

  The moisture warmed away, he lay down on the sand next to the fire and studied the stars through the olive branches overhead. There was great Orion preparing to battle Taurus. There was the scorpion, and far away the others who'd been chosen to serve Zeus as beacons in the heavens. They were pleasant companions to have on a comfortable night.

  He sighed, stretching luxuriously on the sand, and closed his eyes.

  Thetis stared down at the perfect, limber shape of the young mortal and thought angrily of the punishment Zeus had inflicted on her own son. There was little she could do. But Zeus had said that Perseus's future was now in the hands of chance. Why should she not give chance a helping hand?

  She refocused her gaze. The sanctuary was deserted, the amphitheater of life empty and glistening in the Olympian night. Moving furtively, she edged close to the structure. Her powers were but a pale fraction of Zeus's, but there was the amphitheater. Could it be different from another?

  She knew of another amphitheater, one fashioned by men and not gods. What is one amphitheater to another but a chance of location?

  She reached into the wall and chose the statuette of Perseus. She could not break it; that would truly bring the anger of Zeus down upon her. But she could place it somewhere else, unharmed.

  The figurine could neither respond nor hear her as she spoke to it. "The son of Zeus is to be left to the whims of chance while mine is punished with deformity and disgrace. It is time for chance to make itself felt.

  "You shall see something of the real world, Perseus. It is rather different from Seriphos. It is time you came face-to-face with fear instead of fish; time to know the terrors of the dark and to look on death, as other mortals must do; time your eyes were opened.

  "Reality, yes. I know something of reality, Perseus. It does not lie on the idyllic isle of Seriphos. It lies far to the east, across the sea. In Joppa, in the kingdom of Phoenicia. See then what you can make of yourself in reality, Perseus, and not in your little paradise! See if you fare as well there as my son!"

  Checking one final time to make sure she was alone, she set the statuette down on the floor of the amphitheater. What indeed is the difference between one such structure and another? They are all settings for plays, stages to be performed upon.

  The play's the thing, she thought with satisfaction. I have merely moved it to another stage.

  Her fingers freed the figurine . . .

  III

  Perseus stirred uneasily in his sleep. Something was different. The rich smell of the sea had faded and the crackle of the olive-wood fire no longer sounded in his ears.

  Of course, the untended blaze might have sputtered out. He ought to make sure, for though the night was still warm he could take a chill. It had definitely grown cooler since he'd lain down.

  He opened his eyes, and sat up quickly. Utterly bewildered, he gazed around at what shouldn't have been.

  Row on row of white stone benches rose in a vast semicircle around him. They were overgrown with weeds and the beginnings of bushes. Only the moon and constellations overhead were unchanged, though the branches of the old olive tree no longer framed the stars.

  The fire was not simply out: it had vanished completely. So had the sea and its sad song. In their place came the plaintive chirps of crickets and the occasional croak of a bullfrog. They were far more at home than he.

  He rose and turned in a slow, baffled circle. The amphitheater was deserted. Underfoot the old stone paving was cracked and filthy with dust. Columns and arches were broken and evidenced signs of long neglect. Decorative statues still stood, but many were missing arms or heads. Clearly it had been some time since any plays had been staged here.

  Perseus knew what the place was from stories told to him by the more worldly citizens of Seriphos, those who had traveled to other parts of the world. But he had never expected to see one. Certainly it seemed more appropriate as a background for a nightmare.

  Something stung his left arm and he slapped at it. The slap felt as real as the bite, and the crushed, bloated smudge that had been a mosquito looked very familiar. If this was a nightmare, it was replete with an extraordinary amount of detail.

  It didn't make any sense, this place. The philosophers sometimes said the same thing about life. He decided it was not a nightmare, for all that he might wish it was.

  "WHO ARE YOU?"

  Perseus whirled, but could not locate the source of the booming challenge. Echoing off walls and seats, it seemed to rise from all around him. He was too astonished to be afraid.

  Again the demand: "WHO ARE YOU?"

  The fishermen of Seriphos had told Perseus that when faced by a marauding shark, it was acceptable to feel fear, but most important not to show it. So he cupped his hands to his mouth and yelled back as bravely as he could.

  "Show yourself first!"

  "WHO ARE YOU?"

  "First tell me where I am. Where is this place? Or at least tell me whoever or whatever you are."

  "WHERE?" Forsaking its former challenging tone, the mysterious voice was now plainly as astonished as Perseus.

  "Yes, where, Where am I?"

  By way of reply several torches flickered into sudden, dancing life. From the shadows masking the primary stage entrance a bizarre figure abruptly appeared. It was clad in a splendid costume and richly woven cloak. In front of its face it carried a classical tragic mask topped by a tall false crown and fringed with golden whiskers.

  The figure walked steadily toward Perseus, with all the dignity of a god . . . or a fine actor. Perseus could not tell whether the figure behind the mask and voluminous robes was male or female. But while that did not matter to him, he sincerely hoped the figure would turn out to be human.

  The source of the powerful voice which had challenged him was also evident, in the form of a twisted speaking trumpet made of metal. It was a bit dented and looked well used. Perseus relaxed just a little: demons were notoriously skillful smiths.

  The approach soon degenerated into a half-march, half-shuffle, further hinting at the mortality of the figure. Soon it became evident the figure was walking with some difficulty. It then dropped all pretense at dignified posture and came to an awkward halt.

  "WHAT DO YOU mean . . . MEAN?" There were some muffled sounds that might have been concealed cursing as the figure inspected the speaking trumpet and then set it aside.

  When it spoke again, it was in a crusty, normal, and slightly, irritated voice: "What do you mean, boy? You say you don't know where you are?"

  Perseus shivered, beginning to feel the chill of the night as well as forces he did not understand. "That's right, I don't. I must have fallen asleep under the olive tree. Then I woke up here. Wherever 'here' is."

  "That makes no sense." The apparition let out a groan of exasperation. "Curse this fool facade!" The figure struggled with the bulky mask, lifted it off and set it aside.

  Its wearer stood revealed, an elderly gentleman of slight stature with no demonic pretensions. He was bearded and gray as the back of an old dog, but the eyes
were still as blue as the Aegean with sparkle enough to match the light that sometimes bounced off the waves of that gentle sea.

  He shuffled closer, inspecting Perseus with interest. The boy was an intriguing curiosity. If he was telling the truth, then his manner of, and reason for, being so peculiarly set down here promised nothing if not a subject for entertaining speculation.

  "Now then, lad, where did you say you . . . no." Stroking his beard, he studied Perseus as a scholar might the pages of a rare book. "Let us be patient for a moment."

  "But I am being patient, sir."

  "Not you, not you," said the oldster, waving a hand irritably. "Me. My desires tend to race ahead of my thoughts. Especially these days." He chuckled. "Though it was often the same when I was your age, but the desires were different then.

  "Now, never mind about this olive tree you say you were sleeping under. First we must exchange some necessary preliminary details."

  "Whatever you think best, good sir."

  " 'Good sir' . . . I like that. Now, I will explain first. My name is Ammon." He smiled and bowed slightly. "I am a poet and a playwright. I write comedies, which some sneer at as banal populist entertainment but which is a truer reflection of man and life than those endless, moaning tragedies. Though if you read carefully through all of the—"

  "Excuse me . . . sir? Ammon?"

  "Oh! Sorry, boy. My mind has a regrettable tendency to wander."

  "I am called Perseus. I am heir to the ruined kingdom of Argos but have lived all my adult life on the island of Seriphos."

  "Seriphos!" The old poet frowned uncertainly at the tall young stranger. "By all the gods, then how did you get here?" He looked Perseus up and down.

  "It's evident enough you haven't just stepped off a ship. And I would have seen you approach the theater. Yet you're hardly dressed for a journey of such length. In fact, you're hardly dressed at all. How was this miracle managed, my boy?"

  "I don't know." Perseus spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness. "I'm still not sure where 'here' is, remember."

  "Your pardon. I forgot my own admonition, so overwhelmed am I by amazement. 'Here' is a long way from your Seriphos. This is the old amphitheater of the city of Joppa."

  "Where?" Perseus sounded confused, though not embarrassed. "I confess I know little of the geography of the world, Ammon."

  "The great trading city of Joppa," Ammon explained, "is part of the kingdom of Phoenicia. Surely you know of Phoenicia? You do not have the aspect of an idiot."

  "Phoenicia! Yes, I know of that . . . of this land." He gazed again at the unkempt arena. "But how? Phoenicia lies many days by ship across the seas from Seriphos. I have not been on any ship. I was lying by the seashore, warming myself to sleep by a fire, studying the moon."

  Ammon brightened. "Ah, the moon! That might well explain things. Moon affects the mind, you know. Well-known medical fact. Perhaps we'll think more clearly inside, out of its influence." He reached for the youngster's arm.

  Perseus pulled away. "I'm not crazy, old man."

  "Of course you're not," Ammon agreed. He threw a conspiratorial glance skyward. "It's just that eyes which can see the surface of the earth can't always perceive as clearly beneath rock and stone. If you follow me."

  "I'm afraid I don't, sir."

  "No matter. Just follow me,"

  This time Perseus didn't resist. Ammon led him through a series of once-grand arches whose delicate friezes were beginning to flake away. A magnificent charioteer with no head drove horses possessing fewer than the requisite number of legs. The reliefs were of plaster rather than marble, but to see such workmanship fallen into disrepair was enough to make an outsider wonder at the future of Hellenic art.

  Past the arches appeared a stone staircase that led down below ground level. Ammon took up one of the spitting torches and continued downward.

  "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 moth
er 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 . . ."