Clash of the Titans (7 page)

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 . . ."

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.

"And the helmet," Perseus asked the face, "what of that? What does it do?"

"It has the power to render its wearer invisible,"
the face told him.
"There are all kinds of shields, Perseus, and the helmet is but another."

"Invisible?"

"Invisible. Not there. Nonexistent to those who might harm you. That is the shield most men desire but few ever master. Guard it well."
The face shimmered like a reflection in rippling water, and was gone.

"Wait, wait! Who are you?"

"Find and fulfill your destiny."
This last admonition was barely audible.

Perseus put the shield, now a thing of only metal, back down on the stones. "What did it mean by that?"

"Who can say?" Ammon wore a rueful smile. "Many things, perhaps. In any case, a divine gift should never be questioned. Simply accepted."

"But I was taught that everything should be questioned."

"Then question the purpose, if you must question, but not the gift. Now . . . let us see to this helmet."

Perseus moved to the statue of Athene, trailed by the anxious playwright. Carefully the youth removed the helmet from the head and slipped it onto his own. For an instant he was unchanged. Then the tall, muscular figure vanished like a forgotten dream. Only his voice remained to remind Ammon that he was not dreaming himself.

"Can you see me, Ammon?"

The playwright looked toward the source of the question, saw only stone seats and blue sky, blighted grass and a mockingly silent statue.

"No, nothing," he replied excitedly, "nothing of you at all." There was no immediate response and he turned in a nervous circle.

"Where are you? Don't play tricks on an old man, Perseus." Then he noticed the shifting patterns forming on the dusty floor of the theater.

"Ah, all I can see are your footprints. The gods are truly remarkable! Even if maddeningly uninformative. They have given you the means to make yourself hidden from your fellowman, but have not told you why this might be necessary."

The footsteps began to move away, hurrying toward the amphitheater exit. The distance between them lengthened with every stride.

Panting hard and holding his tunic away from his feet, Ammon raced after the footprints.

"Perseus! Where are you going? Slow down and wait for me, boy."

"No time, friend Ammon. I'm going to Joppa, into the city."

"But it's too dangerous . . . too soon for you! You don't know the ways of the city folk or how to get about. Impossible!"

The receding voice seemed to pause a moment, and said laughingly, "I'm invisible! You can see that. A moment ago you'd have sworn before all the gods that this was impossible too. But look at me now."

"You infernal imp, I can't
see
you now!" Ammon was furious both with the stubborn youngster and with his own failing strength. He stumbled to a halt, wheezing and wide-eyed.

A last exultant shout reached him from beyond the exit arch: "Then nothing's impossible!"

Maybe not, you young fool. Ah well, that was important too, he mused. Invisibility's nice, but it's not as important as youth's eternal optimism. That was what made the boy so strong-headed: youth, not the gifts of the gods.

Perhaps it was for the best. Perseus would have to enter Joppa soon enough. He might as well do it while he was feeling so confident and pleased with himself. He would learn about the dangers and sorrows of the city soon enough.

Ammon thought back to his own first contacts with Joppa and other great cities, and how confident he had been in his own ability to conquer the world of stage and poetry. Time puts us each in our proper place, he thought. It will wear down Perseus eventually, as it does all men. Leave him to his youthful enthusiasm and happiness.