Stone Blind(22)

But she had barely begun before she was plunged into darkness. She looked up, blinking: had Helios travelled across the sky more quickly today? Not a sign of the sun. She looked the other way: then where was Selene? There were plants that only flowered by the light of her moon. Was that what she was looking for? But there was no moon so she could not find it. Angered, she turned again to look for Eos. If Helios was absent and Selene was missing, it must be almost dawn. Her pink streaks must be just about to light up the sky. Which would give Gaia enough time to find this precious plant. But the sky didn’t lighten, and it did not turn red. Gaia had little idea of the passage of time – even less so than the other gods, perhaps – but she knew the sky had been black for too long. And she knew what had happened.

Zeus had moved against her. She cursed his name. The sun, the moon and the dawn were all hiding. By the time it was light enough to see, he would have stolen the plant for himself. She wept fat, flooding tears. Her children were about to go into battle unaided against all the Olympian gods. And now they could not even rely on her protection.





Gigantomachy


It was the mortal who made the first strike. He and Athene had arrived on the Phlegra peninsula; she was only just getting a sense of where the battle would be fought. She was standing on a broad high plain, a dark curve of trees falling away to her left and a steep drop of scrub down the hillside to her right. Far ahead of her was a gentle slope but she could not see it, because between her and its distant trees, the giants had made their battle line. These children of Gaia were vast, as big as the Olympians, near enough. And ranged out across the plain they would intimidate anyone except the gods they had come to fight. Huge torsos, strong arms, bulging thighs. But then – Athene looked again, she had heard them called snake-footed by her father but she hadn’t realized what this would look like – each thigh became a scaly, muscular coil. The giants had the heads and bodies of men but they slithered along the ground. Athene was both appalled and compelled by their monstrosity. This was the war she had been born to fight, this and every one that came after it. She could feel the thrill rising within. The giants drew their strength from the earth, from their mother: she knew that. And yet she felt as though she was doing the same. The fertile soil beneath her feet was full of power, full of life. And all of it was for her. She lifted her head; the sun glinted off her helmet. She turned, looking for the owl who was always perched on her shoulder, or on a branch nearby. She did not want him to be scared by what was to come. But then she remembered, she had left her owl on Olympus, murmuring to him that he should stay there out of harm’s way. The thought of him being injured made her almost dizzy with rage. If one of those snake-giants even thought about her owl she would—

But her thought went unfinished, because the giants had begun advancing towards her. She had positioned herself as near to Zeus as she could, although Hera – her chariot pulled by four winged horses – was between them. Athene turned to look at them all – the Olympians and the other deities who had come out alongside them – lined up to crush this impudent rebellion. Every one of them was ready to fight: Apollo and Artemis with bows raised and arrows nocked, their mother Leto beside them with a blazing torch, Ares in a chariot, brandishing a spear. Even Demeter had a wooden stave made of a fat tree trunk and you could hardly call her a fighter. Rhea was riding on the back of a huge lion, Nux had brought a vat of snakes. They had spread themselves across the width of the plain: no giant would escape them. As Hera’s horses flew forward, Athene caught sight of her father, his expression one of concentrated anger. Small sparks of lightning were glittering in Zeus’s hands as he readied himself.

But in spite of all their prowess, all their weapons, the mortal was the first to claim a kill. Athene had almost forgotten about him as she revelled in the strength of her comrades and the imminent death of all their enemies. She had brought the man here, set him down away from lions and chariot wheels so he would not be crushed by mistake. And like a gadfly, he had all but disappeared from view, before suddenly stinging a creature far larger than himself. Before a single thunderbolt had struck, the giant Alcyoneus was grabbing at his side, roaring in pain. His eyes were on the Olympians, none of whom was close enough to have hurt him, save the Archer and his sister, and neither of them had yet loosed an arrow. Alcyoneus was shot twice more before he collapsed, writhing on the ground. Only now did he see who had shot him and his face creased in fury. And in shock. His mouth was gaping as he tried to breathe but could not: the arrows had pierced his lung. The mortal looked up at Athene, craving her approval. She shook her head and let her voice carry across the distance between them.

‘No,’ she said. ‘Look.’ And as they watched, Alcyoneus wrenched the arrows from his ribs and started to revive. He began to sit up. ‘You see?’ she said. ‘He draws his strength from Gaia: they all do. You see the rocks over there?’ She pointed at a craggy place off to the side of the battlefield. The mortal nodded. ‘Drag him to the rocks,’ she said. ‘Separate him from the earth.’ And the man raced off to do her bidding. Athene watched him with surprise: he was remarkably strong for a human. And though she didn’t really care whether the man died or the giant (since the man would die soon and the giant would die today), she found herself cheering on the mortal as he hauled Alcyoneus onto the rocks. The giant’s borrowed strength ebbed away: his arrow wounds proved fatal, now he had lost Gaia’s help. One down, Athene thought.