Then the actors took the stage, and all fell silent. Pandora listened to the chorus intone about how Atlas had begun the Ambrosial War by trying to seize control of all Ambrosia, which flowed from this very island. The main actors then began—only three of them—with men playing even the female Titans Artemis and Khione, as well the Titan Helios.
Kalliope had apparently dramatized a story Pandora knew only in song, of Khione’s assault upon the polis of Helion. She had somehow blanketed the city in snow, for which the crew showered what looked more like sand upon the stage. Then Artemis, Helios’s daughter, had hunted Khione and slain her, saving the city from winter and death.
It was, more like than not, based upon some kernel of truth. “Do you think it really happened?” she found herself asking as they rose from their seats.
“Not exactly like that,” Prometheus answered.
The way he said that had Pandora faltering, looking over her shoulder at him. “You were there.”
“Hmm.”
Thousands of years ago. Gods, she didn’t even know how many thousands of years. Was it four thousand? She had seen that, once. The Ambrosial War was mostly considered legend. Yes, many historians agreed it had happened, but details were scant, and those who experienced it said little of the lost Golden Age. It was before the time of the Muses, and thus even their writings offered but speculation.
When the drama had finished, they paused atop the steps, Pandora watching Prometheus, who seemed focused on the departing audience.
“Thank you,” she said.
He turned, offering her a smile in return. “May I give you some advice, Pandora? When Zeus comes here, if you see him, guard your feelings. If a man like that sees your antipathy, he will play on it for the perverse joy of enhancing it. You do not want his attention.”
Oh, that was one thing Pandora knew better than most any other. She had seen the cataclysm of Zeus’s wandering eye.
4
Athene
1570 Silver Age
A warm, southern wind swept over Ogygia as Athene stepped onto the pier. Across the strait, Atlantis loomed, with Brizo’s temple rising from the promontory. From nigh there Athene had sailed the narrow waters.
She tossed a rope to the first dockhand she spotted. “Tie it up,” she snapped. While she lacked the icy blue eyes of her father’s genos—indeed, no genos favored gray eyes like her own and it made her stand out—she trusted her bearing to inform these people she was a Titan. Not giving them a second look, she strode from the harbor, following a pitiful dirt path that led to the town of Marsa, nestled beneath the mountain’s shadow.
On her way, she passed a handful of travelers bound for the port, most with donkey-drawn, overburdened wagons. Athene couldn’t imagine what these islanders possibly exported that anyone would want. But then again, until she’d gone looking for Kirke and learned she had been lodging here with Kelaino’s daughter, Athene had never given Ogygia a second thought. The little island meant less than naught in the scheme of Elládosi politics.
When she reached the village—mostly a collection of small homes and shops surrounded by miles of outlying farms—she saw a great many more people bustling about. She knew, of course, they had their own lives and had not even noticed her, but still, her skin crawled with the sensation that every single one of them stared at her and knew her shame. As when she had come to Atlantis, the urge to seize one by the shoulders, heft him off the ground and shake him, came upon her so powerfully she had to clench her fists to suppress it.
Standing apart from the village, she turned, slowly surveying it. An estate lay upon a hill between here and the mountain, the only home remotely worthy of aristoi, and Kalypso was the daughter of one of the Pleiades. Banished here or not, no Titan, not even a Nymph, would live in squalor. Nymphs lacked the significant Pneumatikoi of greater Titans like Athene, but still, traces of divine blood ran through their veins, and older ones like Kirke and Kalypso probably even had ichor instead of blood. It would be the estate.
Resolved, Athene made her way purposefully up the hill. Beyond, upon the mountain slope, she could just make out the outline of what she assumed was Prometheus’s famed Aviary. Under other circumstances, she might have even called upon him, but at the moment, she had no desire to see anyone save Kirke.
She reached the house in the waning afternoon. The main gate stood slightly ajar, and Athene slipped inside without announcing herself. Even calling out to let Kalypso know of her presence seemed too painful at the moment, the effort to form words feeling monumental. Everything felt that way these days, especially if she let slip her anger. That heat was all that kept her walking.
She approached the house proper and caught wind of voices within, laughter, from two women. She knew she should knock, but instead Athene found herself easing the door open, telling herself it was no voyeuristic urge prompting her. No, that might almost have been better, if this was something other than crippling ennui making speech seem impossible.
The estate was modest for a Titan, suitable more for low ranking mortal aristoi than a Nymph of Kalypso’s stature. Still, painted frescoes and intricately woven tapestries decorated the walls, giving it a warm touch.
Years of practice had made moving in silence second nature, so when she came upon the two Nymphs reclining by the hearth, neither seemed to have noticed her. Both had their khitons disheveled, and the empty bowl between them glistened with the amber residue of Ambrosia. Kalypso’s hand rested upon Kirke’s knee
