A Thousand Ships(62)

The Olympian gods had a tendency to treat the previous generation as rather lofty and uninvolved. The early gods were so unspecific. At least with Aphrodite, or Ares, or even Zeus, a god knew what he was getting. They had particular areas of interest – love, war, perjury, or whatever – and they stuck with them. The gods did not always have much respect for one another, but if one had a matter to discuss, whether it was an extramarital affair or a martial engagement, a god would be in no doubt over whom to approach. But the early gods were not like that at all. What could a god find to talk about with the three Seasons, say? The weather?

So it was not surprising that Hephaestus gave no thought to Themis. Themis, the deity responsible for the divine order of things, attended the odd banquet or wedding but she never involved herself in petty squabbles with Hera, or the day-to-day annoyances of the other gods. This was all the more curious when one considered that Themis had been married to Zeus before his Olympian wife took on the frustrating role herself. But where Hera was all slights and jealousies, Themis was unconcerned. Perhaps they had no place in the divine order of things. And where did the older gods call home? Hephaestus could not even have said when he last set eyes upon Themis. He had only ever dwelt – feeling like an outsider, even so – on the heights of Olympus. Where else might a god live?

He would have been startled if he could have looked back to see Themis a few days before Thetis and Peleus were due to be married. She was sitting on a large, shallow tripod, as though it were an ornately carved chair. The tripod was placed in a temple, its three sturdy feet next to a slender column, which supported the finely decorated frieze that ran around the edge of the roof. The pattern was regular – alternating stripes of red and white – exactly as Themis liked things to be. And the tripod was perfectly symmetrical, its legs evenly spaced around the shallow bowl on which Themis liked to perch. Her long feet, with the slender toes which Zeus had so admired once upon a time (and would admire again now, if his eyes were not perpetually in thrall to the foot not-yet-seen), swung free, as she crossed and uncrossed her ankles. Even so, she had noticed Zeus noticing them when he approached her to ask for her advice. Advice, for the king of the gods himself! Themis would have been flattered, had she not considered flattery a disruptive emotion. She preferred to think of herself as unruffled. But she swung her feet a little higher, just the same.

Themis was pleased (not delighted, it would have been too much) with her new gown, which had a regular, repeating pattern of antelopes upon it. One row marched from right to left, and the row beneath marched in the opposite direction. Nothing unbalanced about that: each antelope’s head dipped towards his front hooves, each set of antelope horns pointed neatly upright. Her black hair formed perfect, repeating circles from the midpoint of her brow down to each ear. And she smiled at the unchanging, bearded face of her once-husband.

‘You need my help,’ she said. Themis preferred statements to questions.

‘There are too many mortals.’ Zeus nodded. ‘Far, far too many.’

‘Gaia has told you she suffers,’ Themis said. ‘Their weight is too great for her to hold.’

‘So she said. We must take many thousands of them.’

‘Plague,’ she suggested, but the king of the gods shook his head.

‘Too inexact. Sometimes it just picks off the old, who would be dead soon anyway.’

‘Flood,’ she said.

‘Too indiscriminate. It’ll take out the livestock as well.’

‘Always so mindful of your sacrifices,’ she laughed. He licked his lips at the thought of calf fat sizzling in flames.

‘Volcano.’ She followed his thoughts towards fire.

‘Too local.’

‘Earthquake.’

‘Too low a death toll.’

‘Large earthquake.’

‘Poseidon is too prone to partiality. You know how he is. He will obliterate Athene’s or Apollo’s favourites and keep his own intact. It will cause more trouble than it’s worth.’

Their eyes met. ‘War, then.’

He nodded. ‘It must be a war. Does it matter where, do you think?’

She stretched her legs up until they were parallel with the floor, gazing at her own feet. ‘I don’t suppose so. It depends if you prefer the idea of civil war or . . .’ She searched for the right term, and eventually shrugged when she couldn’t find it. ‘Or ordinary war.’

‘Not a civil war, I don’t think.’ Zeus stroked his beard.

‘East against west is a good one,’ she said.

‘Tried and tested,’ he agreed.

‘Troy would work.’

He nodded. ‘How do we get the Greeks to invade Troy?’

‘Isn’t your daughter married to a Greek king?’

Zeus took on a hunted expression.

‘Helen,’ she clarified. She should have remembered that Zeus had only the haziest notion of the number of sons and daughters he had sired over the years, let alone what had become of them all.

‘Oh, Helen.’ The king of the gods allowed himself a moment of wistfulness. Helen’s mother really had been the most beautiful woman. Worth becoming a swan for. ‘Yes, she’s married to some redheaded fool.’

‘Send a Trojan prince to steal her away,’ said Themis.

Zeus barked with glee. ‘Good idea!’ Then he frowned. ‘For that we would need the help of Aphrodite.’