"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.
Perseus inspected his false finery. The short kilted tunic,
the wide gilded belt and thonged sandals contributed to the illusion if not the reality of a true prince. The costume would surely make more of an impression on any people he met than would his dubious pedigree.
"Impression and appearance are everything in this world, my boy," Ammon had said the night before while they'd been scrounging up a royal wardrobe from among the costume finery. "Substance is nice but affects only the perceptive. For the great majority, impression is what matters."
This morning the young man did not convey an impression of royalty as he ran joyously down the steps into the arena and turned a couple of backflips for the sheer pleasure of it. He was exulting in a new day and the knowledge that, while displaced and alone, he was not mad.
Something among the broken columns and decapitated statues was shining into his eyes, making him blink. It was brighter than the sun. Raising a hand to ward off the glare, he tried to make out the source, but it was far too bright.
Hesitant, he glanced around the amphitheater in search of his newfound mentor. Ammon was not to be seen, still somewhere below in his subterranean haven. Something told Perseus that the glare did not arise from some forgotten piece of scenery or costume buckle.
Still trying to shield his eyes from the glare, he walked toward it. As the angle of his approach changed, the glare lessened and he was finally able to see its source—sources, rather, for there were three.
Among the statues ringing the amphitheater were those representing the major gods and goddesses. Aegyptian, Phoenician, Minoan and others mixed with the more familiar deities of Hellas. Origin notwithstanding, few had escaped unblemished, having been desecrated with varying degrees of imagination and obscenity by callous unbelievers.
Ahead of Perseus stood the damaged images of the goddesses Hera, Aphrodite and Athene. Scattered among them were the three sources of light which had brought tears to his eyes.
Against the chipped and fractured form of the goddess Hera lay a highly polished shield. A sword hung balanced in the cracked arms of Aphrodite, and a helmet sat askew on the mutilated head of wise Athene. Perseus was an intelligent lad, but just then it did not occur to him to wonder at this democratic distribution of artifacts. He was too absorbed by the mystery and wonder of the objects themselves.
As was natural for any young man of his age, he inspected the sword first. The chipped, cracked statue remained nothing more than a damaged hunk of marble as he carefully took the weapon from its arms.
It threw aside the sunlight with all the haughtiness of the goddess of love's own mirrors. The amphitheater might be old, the statues older, and Ammon positively archaic, but this weapon was new. Perseus was no smith, but even to his untrained eyes the sword looked to be a masterpiece of the forger's art. The blade was straight, flawless, and gleaming—it might have been tempered in the heart of the sun itself.
He'd handled swords on Seriphos, mostly in play, though at his mother's insistence he'd received serious instruction in the arts of warfare from an old soldier who'd retired to the island. A gruff, unfriendly sort, the old warrior had been warmed like everyone else by Perseus's good nature and open friendliness.
"The village folk say that you're an expert at war. How do you come to be considered an expert?" Perseus had asked one day when he'd been learning the use of spear and shield.
The old man had wiped sweat from his chin and grinned ruefully. "Boy, some day you'll learn that all old soldiers are experts in the art of war. If you're not an expert you never get to be old . . ."
IV
Perseus considered that advice now as he studied the strange sword. There would be time enough later to consider how it came to be deposited here in the deserted theater.
He touched the edge with his left index finger and drew it back in surprise. But a more cautious second touch revealed that the blade was not heated, as he'd first thought, but was sharp beyond belief.
Searching the ground, he came up with a thick piece of wood that had once supported some painted backdrop for a Sophoclean tragedy. He took a casual slash at the section of post, curious to see how deeply the blade would penetrate.
To his considerable amazement the sword cut clean through the tough hardwood as though it were made of cheese. He was so startled that he dropped both pieces of wood and nearly cut off his own foot with the follow-through of the gentle swing.
"You're up with the sun, then. A wonderful morning, my young friend."
"More than wonderful," Perseus told the approaching playwright. His eyes were still held by the gleaming sword. "Magical would be a better word. Come close and see what wonder I have found."
Ammon threw aside the bone he'd been gnawing and came alongside. "Well?"
Perseus held out the sword, careful to keep the edge away from the old man. "I found this," he said, gesturing back over his shoulder, "here by the statue. There was no one around. The reflection caught my attention." He indicated the statue. "It was in her arms."
"A likeness of the goddess of love." Ammon sighed, looking at the statue. "Ill-treated by the rabble who sometimes infest the theater despite my tireless efforts to protect it.
"A much admired work once upon a time, but no longer maintained. I'm no stone mason. I've neither the skill nor the muscle to repair the damage. But you found this sword by it, you say?"
Perseus nodded. "In the statue's arms. It's not an ordinary sword, old friend. See?" He reversed it so that Ammon could take it by the handle. "Be careful. It cuts with all the gentleness of a kiss."
"The two are not always mutually exclusive," Ammon replied, eyes twinkling. He tilted his head slightly back and squinted as he examined the blade.
"Strange. I'd say it's neither bronze nor iron. It might almost be silver, but that would mean it's no working sword, and you say it has a fine edge?"
Perseus nodded vigorously.
"Then it's no kin to any metal I know." Ammon scratched his thinning hair.
Curious to see if the point was as sharp as Perseus insisted, he prodded a fallen marble column. Not only did the point not break off against the stone, it chipped away a chunk of marble as easily as if the column were a loaf of bread.
"By the gods!" Ammon looked respectfully at the blade.
"And there's more." Excitedly, Perseus pointed to the flanking statues. "Look, there's a shield, and over there a helmet on poor Athene."
Ammon moved from one statue to the next, carefully studying each artifact in turn. When he'd finished, his attention went back to the sword he still held.
"Perhaps I was right to mention the gods."
"These are only old statues."
"Yes, but this weaponry is not. No citizen of Joppa would abandon such valuable items. My cats would have warned me if someone had been poking around the theater last night. And we overheard no sounds of fighting. Besides, any victor would surely have taken such spoils as these away with him. We heard nothing.
"But the gods can be as silent as they can be noisy." He held the sword high and let the sun dance on the blade.
"Who else could have fashioned a sword that slices through solid marble without leaving so much as a blemish on the edge?"
"It is truly unnaturally sharp," Perseus agreed.
"Unnatural is the right word, I should think." He handed the weapon back to its discoverer. "Here. I want as little to do with the manifestations of the gods as possible."
"If the sword can do so much, then what about the helmet and the shield?"
"I prefer not to speculate," said Ammon dryly, "but surely they were placed here for a reason." He indicated the sword. "If that were an unnaturally facile stylus, then I'd worry about it. But the sword can only be intended for you, my boy. I suppose we'd better . . . you'd better find out about the rest."
Perseus nodded enthusiastically. "I'll try the helmet, I think." He turned and started toward the cracked statue of Athene.
"No, try me first."
He turned, looked curiously at Ammon. "What did you say?"
"
I didn't say anything." The poet's face was pale. "I wish I had. But it came from over there, by the statue of Hera. From the shield, I think, not from the statue."
Perseus remained motionless. "What do you think I should do, wise friend?"
"I think that when shields begin to talk, mere mortals would do well to pay attention to whatever they might say, my boy."
Perseus changed direction and approached the shield. Ammon followed reluctantly, wishing silently for the legs and wind of a twenty-year-old.
His young companion lifted the gleaming, round shield. The convex front was decorated with the raised likeness of a peacock. Unusual decoration for a war shield, Ammon thought.
"Turn me around," said the shield.
Perseus looked back at Ammon, who had no advice to give. Carefully the youth turned the shield, to reveal not the usual lining of leather and sheepskin padding but bare metal, polished to a mirrorlike finish. Both men leaned forward to stare at their own reflections.
"Curious," observed Ammon. "A shield without padding or lining. Only the arm-straps."
"Nothing," agreed Perseus.
"Nothing at all."
"What about me?" came the voice once again.
Something was forming in the reflective inner surface. Ammon fought down a sudden urge to test his legs. As ever, his curiosity had the better of him. Perseus simply stood and stared, fascinated by the face crystallizing in the shield.
It was the wavering image of an old man, but one of much stronger constitution than Ammon. It was weatherworn and aged like a mountain, with a beard like gathering storm clouds. It floated in the shield as it talked to them.
"Perseus . . . Perseus . . . mark me, Perseus. Mark me well and never forget the words I have for you. These weapons are the gifts of the gods. Guard well this shield, for one day it will guard your life."
"Guard my life? When?"
"You will know when the day comes."
Ammon nodded mentally. Truly the gift of the gods, he thought sardonically, for only gods and writers love to terrorize and confuse straightforward speech with mystery and rhetoric.