Shapers of Worlds Volume II, page 36
As in the other versions, the three goddesses sent messengers to offer Paris bribes. The prince smiled fondly when Aphrodite tempted him with visions of an ardent young beauty, but the woman merely reminded him of his granddaughters. Nor was Paris at all tempted by Hera’s offer of ruling all of Eurasia. While the prince retained ambitions, they were not for ruthless conquest.
Instead, he took the bribe from the goddess Athena: the gift of never-failing wisdom. Athena also offered skill in war, and the prince said, “Sure, why not?” No point in turning down presents—that wouldn’t be wise. Paris had no hunger for battle, but perhaps “skill in war” included the knowledge of how to soothe sore knees and aching feet.
The world was older now. Its greatest heroes, Trojan and Greek, had aged just like Paris.
In this version of history, the Trojan War never happened. Those who might have been enemies met as friends instead. Greek Achilles and Trojan Troilus, for example, got together every year to drink wine and hunt boar. At night around the campfire, the two felt sorry for themselves; shouldn’t two such peerless warriors be slaying monsters instead of mere dumb animals? But they never found a single magical beast who needed killing. Earlier heroes—Heracles, Theseus, and many others—had dispatched every epic horror years before.
Meanwhile, on the island of Ithaca, clever Odysseus grew bored of idling time in his gilded palace. He bequeathed his crown to his son, then set sail with his wife, Penelope, to explore the world and raise a legend or two. Aeneas of Troy did the same. When they crossed each other’s paths, they traded stories, bragged about their children, then set off wandering again.
In Sparta, King Menelaus, married to Helen, treated her badly until she walked out. Menelaus announced to anybody who’d listen he didn’t care that she was gone; Helen was old and definitely not beautiful anymore. Menelaus wouldn’t take her back, even if she came crawling. Then he took up with slaves and concubines, as one does.
In Troy, Athena’s gifts had made Paris feel no different. Was he wise? Not that he noticed. But Paris continued to help his brother, King Hector, rule Troy, and the city was blessed with peace and prosperity.
Even so, Paris knew this golden age wouldn’t last. When he’d given Athena the apple, he’d offended two other goddesses. Hera was famous for being vindictive, and Aphrodite, Goddess of Passion, was not apt to be a good-tempered loser.
Paris wondered what the goddesses would do. At first, he worried they’d rile Greece into a full-scale invasion of Troy. But that wasn’t likely. Greece was a jumble of city-states, Sparta, Athens, Corinth, Thebes, squabbling among themselves. The Greeks would never form a united front unless someone from Troy did something foolish.
So, what else could the goddesses do? Paris thought the question over. And after he thought, he planned.
A beast slouched out of the sea in front of the walls of Troy. The beast had three heads: a lion, an eagle, and a crimson dragon. Its body resembled a rhino, and its tail a cobra. Its back was covered with razor-sharp quills, standing straight and tall and fierce.
Within seconds, the beast had murdered a group of fishermen who were on the beach patching their boats. Some of the victims were pierced with quills; others died of cobra venom; others were trampled to death. Then, the dragon head of the beast gave a roar and opened its mouth. Flames shot forth and set the fishermen’s boats on fire.
Atop the city’s ramparts, a sentry raised his bugle and blew a warning. Guards drew their bows and rained arrows down on the beast, but none could penetrate its hide. Other guards readied their spears; others boiled cauldrons of oil; but all of them feared the beast would easily shrug off every attack.
Paris and Hector stood on the city wall above the beach. They could see the terrible beast devouring the men it had just slaughtered. Hector sighed. “You were right, my brother. I’d hoped you were mistaken.”
Paris said, “I’d hoped the same. Those men are dead because of me.”
“No,” King Hector said, “because of Aphrodite and Hera. Also because of Zeus, who forced you to judge that ridiculous contest. Any dunce could see what Eris was trying to do.”
“The gods are not what they were,” Paris replied. “Zeus, Hera, all of them. Their wits are slow and they’re set in their ways. They’re all just rolling downhill now, like stones.”
King Hector looked at his brother in surprise. He’d never before considered that gods might age and fade. But Hector knew his brother was wise; perhaps Paris was right, and the Time of the Gods was waning.
Down on the beach, the beast gave a hideous cry: the roar of a lion, the scream of an eagle, the hiss of a dragon combined. The beast stomped one last time on the devoured fishermen’s remains, then turned toward Troy. Its thunderous feet pounded the sand as it headed for the walls.
“It’s time,” Hector said. He donned his helmet, then went down the stairs that led to the beach.
Paris put on his own helmet and waved a signal to the bugler. As Paris hurried away, the bugle blared out a clarion call to glorious battle.
The gates of Troy flew open, and every hero in the world came charging forth.
Achilles and Ajax, Glaucus and Memnon . . . in another reality, they’d fought on different sides, but now they were here as allies. Paris had asked if they’d come to protect his beloved city of Troy. They’d said yes as soon as he mentioned, “A monster might show up and try to kill me.”
A monster? Was there truly a monster left in the world? The warriors had scraped the rust off their armour and sharpened their aging weapons. One last surviving monster! There might never be another. One last chance to fight and live or die as legends!
They fought on the beach before the walls of Troy, with boats still burning on the sand. Using swords and spears, cunning and strength, they assaulted the beast with decades of pent-up zeal. For many, a whisper of foresight told them this was the end of an age. In future, combat would lose all sense of splendour. It would become the business of soldiers, not warriors—pragmatic, bloody slaughter. But for now, these fighters were heroes facing a monster: a nightmare that damned well needed slaying.
They attacked it with joy. Together. One last time.
Many died . . . even the great Achilles, pierced with a poisoned quill that struck his heel. But in the end, the monster perished, as everyone knew it must. Paris and the other survivors marched back into Troy to heal their wounds, mourn their dead, and celebrate their triumph.
That night, under a sky that was milky with stars, Paris sat on the beach with Odysseus. They passed a wineskin back and forth as they leaned their aching bodies against the dead beast’s carcass.
Odysseus slapped the monster’s flank. “What do you think?” he asked. “Another child from Echidna?”
Paris nodded. Echidna was famed as the Mother of Monsters. She’d birthed the chimera, the hydra, the sphinx, and dozens more.
“Might there be more on the way?” Odysseus asked.
“No,” Paris said, surprised at his own certainty. “Echidna was already past her time. I think Hera, the Goddess of Childbirth, helped her squeeze out one monster more, but now it’s over. Echidna’s womb is truly barren.”
“That sounds like Athena’s wisdom talking,” Odysseus said.
“Do you think so?”
Odysseus nodded. “I’ve been Athena’s golden boy for ages. It takes one to know one.” He swigged deeply from the wineskin. “So, what are your plans now? If Echidna has finished, Hera and Aphrodite won’t find another monster to send against you.”
“I still have to leave,” Paris said. “People died because I was here. And this pack of heroes will soon go home—they’ve had their victory moment in the sun. If they stick around, they’ll only start picking fights with each other, and Hector will kick them out.”
“I can believe that,” Odysseus agreed. “So, where will you go?”
“I have no idea. Even without any monsters left, Hera and Aphrodite will try again. A plague, perhaps. A swarm of rats. I’ll have to go on the run.”
Odysseus handed Paris the wineskin. “I’ve got a ship.”
They departed two days later: Odysseus at the helm and Penelope charting the course. “My husband’s a terrible navigator,” Penelope told Paris. “If we had to rely on him, it would take us years to get anywhere.”
But with Penelope handling the maps, they’d never get lost. She let Paris choose where to go . . . and after discussing the world’s many wonders, he decided to head for Egypt. “The pyramids and the sphinx really are amazing,” Odysseus told him. “And there’s quite a pleasant Greek community in Rhakotis at the mouth of the Nile. You never know who you’ll run into.”
They ran into Helen.
Despite what her husband claimed, Helen was still quite handsome at sixty. Then again, Helen’s beauty had never been purely physical. Many women have clear complexions, expressive eyes, and well-built figures, but a woman needs more to deserve being called “the most beautiful in the world.” She needs grace, kindness, intelligence, and the unrestrained bloom of life. Most of all, she needs spirit . . . and even though Helen’s beast of a husband had done his best to extinguish her light, she still had spirit enough to shine like the blazing Egyptian sun.
Odysseus and Helen had known each other when they were younger. Way back then, Helen wasn’t just a beauty, she was heir to the throne of Sparta; the man she married would become the city’s next king. So, when Helen came of age, a host of suitors came begging to win the princess’s hand. Young Odysseus was sent by his father to do his best to woo the girl . . . but Odysseus hadn’t tried because he already loved Penelope.
Helen had always liked him for not treating her like some prize. Of all the young nobles thronging the streets of Sparta, Odysseus was the only one who didn’t disturb Helen’s sleep by throwing jewellery or poems through her window.
So, when Helen and Odysseus met in Rhakotis, they greeted each other warmly—old friends from old times. Helen invited Odysseus and those who travelled with him to visit her at her house and stay as long as they wanted.
After Odysseus and Penelope went to bed, Paris took a midnight stroll around Helen’s estate. The grounds were impressive. During her marriage, Helen had managed the city of Sparta with skill and prudence, while her husband spent all his time on pointless wars. Helen made friends with merchants and traders; without telling Menelaus, she invested in various businesses. By the time she left her husband, Helen was a very wealthy woman. Her property in Rhakotis included orchards, gardens, a stable of spirited horses . . . and a combat training ground.
Paris heard the noise of swordplay while he was still some distance off. He knew the sounds well: a bronze blade slamming into a shield, then into armour, then into a block of solid wood. Someone was striking a wooden practice dummy.
Paris followed the sounds of training and discovered what he’d expected: Helen holding a short-sword and slashing a mannequin armoured in bronze. He’d heard that the girls of Sparta were taught to fight as adeptly as boys. Apparently, too, they never stopped training—not even when they were grandmothers.
Helen stopped striking the dummy. “I know you’re out there,” she said. “For someone just walking, you make a lot of noise.”
Paris chuckled. “I thought it best not to sneak up on someone with a sword. Although I thought Spartans preferred spears.”
“I’ve already finished spear practice.” Helen took off her helmet and shook out her sweat-damp grey hair. “What about Trojans?” she asked. “Swords or spears?”
“Usually spears, except royal princes,” Paris replied. “We princes prefer swords because you can cover the hilts with jewels.”
“Ah, yes,” Helen said with a laugh. “Nothing improves your fighting like diamonds jabbing into your palm.” She rolled her shoulders to stretch out the kinks, then leaned back against the dummy. “I’ve heard Troy hasn’t gone to war in ages. Have you ever been in a real battle?”
“Just once,” Paris said. “And you?”
“Never. A Spartan queen must look like she can fight an army. But Spartan kings make sure that never happens.”
“They’re afraid you’d show them up.” Paris crossed the gravelled training ground and approached a weapon rack. “What about sparring for practice with wooden swords? Do Spartan queens do that?”
Helen smiled. “Spartan queens do lots of things. We can start with a bit of sparring.”
Paris’s wife Oenone had died of a fever ten years earlier. He’d never found anyone to replace her . . . until that night.
Paris, Helen, Odysseus, and Penelope travelled south along the Nile. Soon enough, Paris caught a glimpse of crocodiles in the river. When Helen saw him watching them, she said, “Don’t get ideas about slaying any more monsters. Crocodiles are sacred to the god Sobek; you have enough gods mad at you already.”
Paris thought for a moment, then asked, “How well do Egyptian gods get along with Olympus?”
“Some respect each other, some don’t,” Helen replied. “But there’s a story that most Greek gods were forced to stay in Egypt a while. The titan Typhon attacked Olympus, so all the gods except Zeus had to flee. The Greek and Egyptian pantheons lived together while Zeus battled Typhon. After a thousand days and nights, Zeus won the fight, and the Olympians finally got to go home.”
“Still,” Paris said, “that means that Hera and Aphrodite may have friends among the Egyptians.”
“It’s possible,” Helen agreed.
Paris and Odysseus exchanged glances. That night, they talked until dawn—Paris wise, Odysseus cunning—making plans for what they suspected would happen next.
Days later, they reached Giza. They camped by the Nile and took their time exploring the pyramids, large and small, as well as the sphinx. Luckily, this sphinx was just a huge construction of stone, not a living monster. Paris worried the goddesses who hated him might bring the sphinx to life, but it didn’t happen. Perhaps they no longer had enough power to do so.
But when the group returned to their camp just before nightfall, they noticed far too many crocodiles in the river. Penelope made a face and told her husband, “You were right.”
Helen said, “I’m disappointed. I’m not surprised when gods are predictable, but I expected more from goddesses.”
Paris and Odysseus just smiled smugly.
The crocodiles attacked at midnight. They slid from the river and waddled in slow silence toward the camp. But halfway to their target, they discovered a dead horse lying on the sand. Its bloody meat was fresh and tempting. Despite being led by a god’s divine will, the crocodiles were normal animals; none could resist taking a bite as they passed.
By the time they reached the camp, the fast-acting poison in the horse meat was taking effect. Few of the crocs had swallowed enough to kill them outright, but all were disoriented and slow. They were easy prey for humans rushing out of the darkness with spears in their hands.
When the massacre was over, Odysseus said, “I’ve always liked booby-trapped horses.”
“Well, I don’t,” Penelope said, wiping her spear off. “I feel ashamed. It’s disgraceful to slaughter a horde of debilitated animals.”
“I imagined my first real fight would be more heroic,” Helen agreed. “On the other hand, I’ve lived in Egypt long enough to know what crocs can do. If they hadn’t been drugged, they’d have ripped us to shreds.”
“Even so,” said Paris, “this has to stop. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life killing innocent animals.”
“What can we do against goddesses?” Odysseus asked. “Not even Heracles could defeat a deity.”
“I’m not trying to defeat them,” Paris said. “I just want to talk. Work out a truce.”
Odysseus rolled his eyes. “You may be wise, Paris, but you’re also boring.”
“Rhakotis has a temple to Aphrodite,” Helen said. “Maybe there’s one for Hera too, but I’ve never bothered to look—it’s been a long time since I cared about marriage or childbirth.”
“I’ve tried their temples,” Paris said. “The moment I gave Athena the golden apple, I made huge offerings to both Aphrodite and Hera. But it didn’t help, did it? I need to talk with them directly.”
“Could Athena set something up?” Helen asked.
“They hate Athena more than they hate me,” Paris told her. “They’d never do anything she asked.”
Penelope looked at Odysseus. “Would Circe know how to talk with goddesses?”
“Who’s Circe?” Helen asked.
“A witch,” Odysseus said. “Half-goddess herself. We’ve known her for years—we got shipwrecked on her island, but she and Penelope hit it off.”
Penelope patted her husband’s arm. “You’re lucky you had me along.”
Odysseus told Paris, “Circe might be able to help. Can’t hurt to ask.”
They hurried north again, keeping well away from the Nile. When they reached Rhakotis, all four boarded Odysseus’s ship—Helen said she wouldn’t miss this for the world.
“It’s been dull,” she told Paris.
“It has,” he agreed. They held hands.
With Penelope charting the course, they reached Circe’s island in less than a week. The witch was happy to see them: “It’s nice that I still have friends.”
Circe, too, had grey in her hair, even though she was half-divine. The old world is winding down, Paris thought. But was that thought Athena’s wisdom, or just a projected reflection of his aging self?
When Paris told Circe why they’d come, she said she knew a way to call deities to Earth. “But it’s dangerous,” she added. “It’ll make them angry.”
