Clash of the Titans Read online

  "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.

  He turned to go back down to his study, but stopped as something bright caught his eye. He walked hastily to it, then turned and yelled toward the exit.

  "Perseus, your sword!" But there was no answer, the fleet-footed youth having long since passed out of earshot

  The playwright turned once more, muttering tiredly. "Foolish, impetuous . . . why do the young never listen? When will they ever learn?"

  He continued on to his study, bemoaning the vagaries of youth in the time-honored manner of the aged, which is to say fondly and without real bitterness.

  There were greater cities in the ancient world than Joppa, cities of greater size and more enduring monuments. But there were at that time not many as prosperous.

  Joppa rode high on the ministrations of its merchants, bold seafarers who sailed the length and breadth of the Mediterranean in search of new lands, new tales—and new markets. These fearless explorers touched distant Italy and far Hispania, made forays to the villages lining the sun-kissed coast of southern France-to-be, and dealt for ivory and slaves with the peoples of North Africa.

  They carried the famous Tyrian purple dye throughout the ancient world, a color much sought after by kings and despots. They traded as far as ancient Britain and swapped beads and trinkets with the barbarians of that impossibly distant, primitive land. The amber they brought back from the Baltic decorated the necks of Joppa's most beautiful women. Even great Aegypt envied the city her fine walls and palaces.

  Joppa was also a meeting place for distant caravans from the far deserts. Occasionally one could listen to a tired cameleer as he sat by the piers or in the marketplace and told tall tales of a land where the people had yellowish skins and slanted eyes, or of the ruins of a great city called Mohenjo-Daro.

  The little alcove was momentarily un-watched, so none saw the royal figure that magically appeared therein. Perseus removed the helmet and tucked it beneath one arm. His eyes roamed over the thick walls, the Assyrian-influenced statuary, and the polyglot mob that milled in the streets.

  Eventually his gaze turned to the vast open area off to his left. He started toward the central marketplace. No one stared or thought to question him. In Joppa, Greeks were as common as olives.

  He blended naturally into the crowd, differing from those around him only because he was handsomer than the average and smelled far better than most. Camels, merchants and peddlers jostled for room all around him, arguing, fighting, bargaining, and cursing in a multitude of tongues.

  The marketplace backed like a lake up to a high, curving archway. Palms and an occasional massive cedar offered shade, together with the transient awnings of the vendors. Beyond the arch lay the main square of the city. A thin pillar of black smoke rose from its center.

  This open area was devoid of merchants and gave every indication of being used for ceremonial functions. Presently it was filled with an anxious throng of men, women and children. Their conversation was low and nervous, their attitudes suggestive of a not entirely healthy anticipation.

  The buildings and walls enclosing the square showed the African and Asiatic influences that had spilled over into the Middle East. Some of the decorations did not reflect the gentlest of those influences.

  More than a dozen soldiers ringed the large bonfire that blazed in the center of the square. They kept the crowd at a distance. Curiously, their expressions hinted that they were as unhappy as the people.

  Perseus moved through the arch and paused. An officer of the royal guard leaned casually against a nearby wall. Perseus started through the crowd toward him, reasoning that he would be the likely one to have an explanation for whatever ceremony was taking place. It did not occur to Perseus that the soldier might regard his questioner with any suspicion.

  The babble of the expectant masses became a worried buzz. Straining to see over the shifting heads as he continued working his way toward the soldier, Perseus noted a cluster of priests standing near the fire. Standing alone and apart from them was the striking figure of a mature woman. She appeared to be in her early forties, a regal silhouette clad in rich attire, laden with jewels and gold.

  "Who is that?" he asked one of the onlookers.

  The man did not turn his gaze from the spectacle. "Stranger indeed is he who does not know the glorious Cassiopeia
, queen of Joppa and ruler of all Phoenicia! Where be you from, boy?" he asked curiously.

  Perseus quickly moved away without answering, but kept his eyes on the woman. She was standing as motionless and straight as a column of marble. Trying to see the details of her face, he thought he could sense more than just beauty there. There was ambition, and desire, and a great capacity to rule. His mother had shown him how to recognize such things. A queen indeed, he thought.

  At last he was able to make out the object of the queen's attention, of the priests' and of the crowd's.

  In the center of the bonfire, concealed from view until now by the post and thick smoke, was a burning man.

  His stomach turned slightly and his expression fell. All the initial wonder and glory of Joppa, all the magnificence of the city and its teeming markets were wiped out by that single gruesome sight. Such sacrifices and cruelties were not unusual in Perseus's world, but they were certainly new to him personally.

  He watched several moments more, until the thing tied in the middle of the blaze was no longer human. Then he resumed his walk until at last he stood beside the still lounging soldier.

  The guard had reached that point in his military career where he no longer entertained false illusions about promotion or glory. His uniform and armor were clean but not spotless. Sandals and sword both looked worn and well used. He was a blocky, dark-haired veteran of many battles, as indicated by his surfeit of scars.

  To Perseus he looked Macedonian. He might even be from farther south than that mountainous province. A fellow kinsman, even. Despite any such ethnic relationship, Perseus knew this man to be a loyal soldier of his city.

  While Perseus was studying his quarry, the soldier was also sizing up the young man standing next to him. Despite his curiosity about the richly clad young stranger, the soldier held his silence and his pose. In one hand he held a horsehair whisk. This was in constant, irregular motion, doing futile but hopeful battle with the flies that infested the marketplace. At the moment, it was the smoke from the fire that was keeping those pests down.

  Unable to restrain himself any longer, he turned to stare into Perseus's face. After a moment's hesitation, he asked, "A stranger here? I can't identify the markings of your raiment, young sir, but your skin and face mark you as Greek."

  "I am that," Perseus replied readily. "As for my clothing, it is of no particular significance except to my mind."

  "A good country to give allegiance to." Despite his appearance it was clear to Perseus that this officer was better educated than most of his kind.

  "I am a stranger to Joppa, yes." Perseus nodded toward the bonfire, his expression twisting. "And a stranger to sights like that. Why is the man put to so horrible a death? Was he a criminal?"

  The soldier shook his head. "No. It is all a part of a nasty business, my young friend." The officer pointed toward the blackened corpse, now hanging limp from the center pole. "He was a suitor for the hand of the Princess Andromeda." His hand moved to point out another figure. "That tall woman over there now conferring with the priests is her mother, Queen Cassiopeia of Joppa."

  Perseus looked confused and sounded a little angry. "I don't understand. If he committed no crime save that of seeking a princess's hand in marriage, why should he be condemned to death? Is it a crime in Joppa to seek love?"

  "Love!" The officer laughed. "You are young indeed, my friend."

  Upset, Perseus started to turn away. The soldier reached out to stay him.

  "Nay, I meant no offense, friend." He smiled. "My name is Thallo, of the city guard. Do not think I or anyone else in Joppa takes joy in these spectacles, least of all the queen."

  "Then why do they occur?"

  "I do not entirely understand myself. These are strange times, my friend. Andromeda was destined from birth to marry a great lord named Calibos. This was arranged, you understand. I did not know the fellow myself, but from what marketplace and barracks gossip indicates he was handsome of face and body, but dark in mind and heart. An evil, powerful man.

  "As the rumors go, he offended one of the gods—no difficult task, given their temperaments."

  "Beware of blasphemy, Thallo, or you may offend them as did this Calibos."

  The old soldier shrugged uncaringly. "I'm not afraid of the gods. One quickly loses respect for them on the battlefield. Their favorites seem to be chosen indiscriminately. I've seen them let too many good men die and too many tyrants come to power.

  "But it seems no one regretted the punishment of this man Calibos."

  Perseus considered. "It seems strange to me that a queen would promise her daughter an evil marriage."

  Thallo tried to explain. "Did you not understand what I meant when I said the marriage was 'arranged'? No, I see you are not familiar with such things.

  "The marriage promises were exchanged when both the princess and the lord were infants. Calibos's true nature did not reveal itself until he grew much older. By then it was much too late for the queen to break her promises."

  "How did the gods punish him, if he indeed offended one of them?"

  "Turned him into a reflection of Hades, I'm told. Part man, part beast, and part something no decent soldier like myself would ever hope to see. I've fought forty campaigns, my young friend, and I'm afraid of no man. But this Calibos is no longer a man. Those few who claim to have espied him out in his lair have a hard time talking of it." Thallo slapped angrily at one biting insect undeterred by either the fading smoke or the steady swish of the whisk.

  "Well," he continued, "it takes no oracle to imagine what happened afterward. One sight of Calibos as he truly was, his outer self now reflecting the inner, and the good Andromeda understandably refused steadfastly to marry him. Queen Cassiopeia, bless her, was torn between a promise decades old and love for her own daughter. Eventually, despite what the bets in the barracks said would happen, she sided with her daughter and called the marriage off.

  "Well, the priests were called in fast to read the signs and omens and generally do their usual mischief. They declared that the goddess Thetis, the patron goddess of Joppa, by the way, was angry. There's some loose talk that this Calibos is somehow related to the goddess. So that made things doubly difficult.

  "Since then, it seems that any man can present himself as a suitor for the princess. But the courting is cursed by Calibos; therefore, by declaration of the priests, any man who fails the marriage testing is fuel for warming."

  "Have many failed?"

  Thallo nodded somberly. "Too many."

  "I wonder that any would continue to try."

  Thallo's face brightened and he looked wistful. "Andromeda's very beautiful, my friend. Beautiful as a goddess. I've seen her myself, and she's worth the risk.

  "Besides, whoever succeeds in passing the test and marrying her will eventually become king—the queen has no other children—and rule the city and the whole kingdom."

  "If there's so much to be gained," asked Perseus innocently, "and you say she's worth dying for, why not try for her yourself?"

  "Who . . . me?" Thallo held his sides and almost dropped his whisk as he roared with laughter.

  "Bless me, my young friend, but I'm near as ugly as this Calibos himself! She'd never have me. And I'm not so old that I'm ready to give up my life. I don't like the odds. Seen too many good men fail.

  "No, I'll wait out my pension, thanks, and retire to my family's fruit orchard near Tyre. Besides, I'm already wedded. I don't need a great beauty and a kingdom to keep me happy. Some men might."

  Perseus was still listening, but now he was staring down into the crowd surrounding the queen. "Where is she, then?"

  "Not here." Thallo moved away from his wall to gesture past the square and the enclosing ramparts. "Over there, in the highest tower of the palace, above the smoke and stench. She's got no stomach for this carrying-out of the curse's provisions.

  "It's said she will no longer eat or speak, in protest of this damnable ritual. So she remains up there alone—a
way from these accursed, hell-sent, blood-gutted, putrid, bloated swarms of rotten marsh flies!" and he danced violently as something attacked the back of his neck.

  Perseus stepped back. No one was watching, and Thallo was momentarily occupied. All other eyes were still on the center of the square, where a tall priest was reciting a last litany over the ashes of the most recent royal suitor.

  Slipping the helmet over his head, Perseus turned to depart. Thallo turned to continue the conversation, startled to discover that his friend had vanished.

  Nice enough young fellow, that stranger, he mused. Now, where has he disappeared to? A naive young man like that could run into trouble in a city as frenetic and sophisticated as Joppa.

  On the other hand, old soldier, he told himself, was it not he who asked the questions and you who willingly supplied all the answers? Maybe he isn't quite as innocent as he seems.

  No matter. He turned back to the square, the conversation forgotten. What mattered now was not catching the eye of the queen; that, and preserving at least a little blood from these damnable marsh flies.

  Marketplaces are wonderful, Perseus had decided by that night. You can find anything you need in them: food, clothing, drink . . . and information. Even information detailing the layout of a palace. Queen Cassiopeia was well liked by her people. Many of them had sought and been granted audience with her inside the confines of the great palace. A few of these fortunate supplicants had good memories of the physical layout.

  That information was passed on to him with surprising readiness. His innocent face and mannerisms, his curiosity and apparent harmlessness had always stimulated in others a desire to help him, and to show off their own knowledge and wisdom. So he'd had no trouble sketching out a crude plan of the palace's interior and then making use of it.

  Once he almost stumbled into the royal kitchens, a region of wondrous aromas which he'd been loath to depart empty-handed. But he had no time to stop and snack.

  Now he found himself crouching behind an enormous marble urn in a long corridor. Ahead to his right should be a guardroom, and beyond it, storage and cleaning rooms. On the far left at the end of the hall would be a stairway leading up to a square tower.