She passed beyond the courtyard, where the mighty Parthenon dominated the plateau. Even with much of its facade covered in scaffolding, the floodlights still illuminated the yellowed marble so brilliantly that the entire building glowed with the power of a goddess’s aura. Statues of Athena and Poseidon no longer adorned the pediments, but the thick Doric columns remained, their careful proportions—swelling in the middle, tapering at the top—lending an illusion of lightness to the massive facade.
Three walls of the temple’s inner sanctuary, the cella, remained intact. A Venetian cannonball had collapsed the fourth wall in the seventeenth century, when the occupying Ottomans had used the Parthenon as a gunpowder depot. The Athenians, it seemed, had been trying to reconstruct the temple ever since. More scaffolding filled much of the interior, and a line of tarps obscured the far end of the cella.
Selene stole up broad stairs worn smooth by countless Athenian pilgrims and ducked under the scaffolding. The murmur of urgent voices floated from behind the tarps.
She pushed aside the plastic sheeting to find Flint and Theo standing on either side of Sister Maryam, who knelt with her hands clasped before her, every inch the prayerful nun, right down to the black habit and wimple.
“What the hell is she doing?” Selene asked in an angry whisper.
Flint just grunted in answer.
Theo, of course, was more specific. “We tracked her up here, but now she refuses to leave.” His eyes kept roaming to the tall walls of the cella. Despite the precariousness of the situation, he looked positively enraptured. All signs of his earlier apathy had vanished. With the temple’s interminable restoration, even a classicist of his stature had likely never stood in the Parthenon’s interior. “This is where her statue was, you know,” he said, his voice hushed with more wonderment than caution. “Athena Parthenos, Athena the Virgin. A spear in one hand and winged Victory in the other. Forty feet tall with flesh of elephant ivory and a helmet and gown of beaten gold.”
“Yeah, I remember,” Selene said, unimpressed. “But it’s long gone, just like the bronze statue of her as the Frontline Solider that used to stand in the courtyard—the Athena Promakhos. The Athenians ripped the gold sheets off their Virgin to pay their army in the third century BC. They probably abandoned my Brauronia even earlier.” She strode over to her half sister. “So whether you’re praying to your Christ or your missing statue or someone else entirely, snap out of it, Maryam. Because none of it’s real anymore.”
To her surprise, Maryam looked at her with an expression more wrathful Olympian than pious Christian. “I’m not praying to my missing statue. I’m listening to the Athenians’ prayers to it.”
Selene looked around the empty cella. “You can do that?”
Maryam closed her eyes. “As Athena, I heard their prayers. As Mary, I did the same. You might’ve stopped listening long ago, but I never did.”
She said it more as a fact than an accusation, but Selene felt its sting nonetheless. Until recently, she’d shown little care for the mortals around her.
Maryam’s head tilted as if to listen more closely to voices only she could hear. Flint opened his mouth to protest, but Selene gestured him to silence.
After a moment, Maryam’s stern mouth softened into a smile. “They never stopped praying to Athena,” she murmured. “They come by the hundreds of thousands to my Parthenon, even now. They visit by day; they light it up by night.” She took a quick breath, her eyes twitching beneath closed lids as if watching history play out before her. “The Nazis occupied it—they knew what it symbolized. But rather than lower the Greek banner that flew over the Acropolis and raise the swastika, an Athenian soldier wrapped himself in his country’s flag and jumped from the cliff. Freedom or death.” She shuddered visibly. “That’s what this place means to those who still bear my name.” Her eyes flew open, and she thrust her arms straight out before her. “Give them to me now,” she said urgently. “My spear and helmet.”
“I don’t have the helmet,” Selene whispered to Flint while digging through her pack. She unwrapped the pitted spearhead. “But the prophecy only mentioned the spear, so let’s hope this does the trick.”
Flint pulled his hammer from the sling across his back and an awl from a pouch at his waist. Wielding the massive hammer with a jeweler’s care, he began to knock away the green corrosion from the blade. Selene and Theo both moved closer to watch.
Theo whispered, “I thought divine weapons never rusted.”
Flint grunted. “They don’t.” He didn’t explain further.
“Wow.” Theo cast an awed glance at Maryam. “At some point, she must’ve covered it in normal bronze to hide its true nature. That’s pretty brilliant.”
Selene rolled her eyes, trying not to feel jealous of his obvious admiration.
“Stop talking, Schultz,” Flint said. “And find me a shaft.”
He chipped away another large flake of green. The centimeter of gold beneath gleamed brilliantly even in the dim light. Selene caught her breath as the full spearhead came into view: Now she knew their delay in Athens had been worth it. The blade was smaller than it had looked when encased in bronze, but sharper. It bore no intricate engravings or inlaid designs. Instead, Metis’s hammer marks had rippled the gold like the surface of a sun-bright lake, glinting and glimmering while hinting at a vast depth and darkness underneath.
Theo unfastened a long wooden support pole from one of the scaffolds and handed it to Flint, who widened the blade’s base just enough to slip the pole inside. He handed the spear to Selene, who placed it in her sister’s hands.
Maryam’s fists closed over the shaft. The light from the spearhead played over her face, illuminating its sharp planes. “Where’s my helm?”
“I … couldn’t get it,” Selene admitted.
Maryam’s lips tightened. She reached for her nun’s wimple and pulled it off. She ran a hand still stained with clay over hair as black as Selene’s but chopped short against her scalp. “My mother gave me this, too. It will be my only helm.”
She rose to her feet in one graceful movement and turned to stand before her kin. With her spear clutched in one hand and the other outstretched toward them, she mirrored her ancient statue’s pose. But surely no creation of ivory and gold, even one forty feet tall, had eyes that flashed like storm-shrouded lightning.
“Take me to Olympus. You have found your Promakhos.”
Chapter 40
SHE WHO DWELLS ON THE HEIGHTS
Hiking boots. Hiking boots. Hiking boots, Theo thought every time the blisters on his heels slammed against the back of his canvas sneakers. Which happened every time he took a step. And he’d taken hundreds of thousands of steps so far. He took another step anyway.
Next time, don’t travel without hiking boots, because you never know when you’ll be scaling the highest mountain in Greece while carrying one end of a stretcher holding a hundred and fifty pounds of god-flesh. Without Scooter to help, he and Selene had decided to simply carry Zeus up the mountain on their own. They’d lugged the litter straight uphill for six hours, and they still weren’t above the tree line.
I should be taking careful notes, he knew. Zeus had summoned him to bear witness to their conclave—to record it as the ancient poets had done. But all he could think about was the pain in his feet. Carrying the damn stretcher is giving me blisters on my hands, too, he decided, clenching his teeth against a gasped, “Are we there yet?” I’m only thirty-three, he reminded himself. I am a fit person. I really am. I’m not going to pass out. But hiking with a goddess was enough to make any man question his abilities.
Neither Selene’s knee-high leather boots nor the fact that she’d been carrying the heavier downhill end of Zeus’s litter seemed to have any effect on her. In fact, he’d rarely seen her looking so at home.
Of course, he realized. This is her home. Not just Mount Olympus, where she theoretically had a palace above the clouds, but all mountains were home to She Who Dwells on the Heights. Selene
no longer seemed a jaded New Yorker, closed off to everything around her. The higher they climbed, the more at ease she appeared. Only when she glanced down at her unconscious father on the stretcher did the usual scowl crease her forehead. Otherwise, she barely looked like the woman he’d fallen in love with. It made it easier to remember he wasn’t in love with her anymore.
The last two nights, he’d lain in his hotel bed—first in Turkey and then for a few hours in a small town at the base of Mount Olympus—knowing that Selene lay on the other side of the wall. The tiny soapstone Artemis statue he’d bought in Ephesus stood on the bedside table, staring at him sternly from beneath her tall crown. He imagined the real Selene wasn’t asleep either—she’d always been nearly nocturnal—but he could picture her trying to rest, her long limbs sprawled across her bed, her breasts falling to the side as she rolled … Stop it, he told himself sternly, taking another step up the mountain.
He’d found it disturbingly easy to slip back into their old partnership during their hunt for Athena. Piecing together clues with her reminded him of their first week together, when he’d learned to love her. He’d spent the flight from Turkey to Athens repeating the same phrase to himself: Don’t do it, Theo. Don’t forget that she lied to you and never apologized. She doesn’t even really understand that what she did was wrong—which means she’ll just do it again. Let her go.
A dozen times the night before, he’d almost gotten up and knocked on her door anyway. He wasn’t even sure what he’d say to her. In case you’re lying there wondering—yeah, I’m still pissed. That was one possibility. Screw you for hurting me like that. That was another. Or, he could just take her in his arms and run his hands down her back and bury his face in her neck and tell her how much he—STOP IT.
He took another step. Then another. Hiking boots. Hiking boots.
Optimism was a new emotion for Selene. Fierce confidence in her own abilities—yes, that she could usually summon. But blind faith that everything would work out all right, even things beyond her control? That was something she’d lost around the time Emperor Constantine converted to Christianity. Yet the minute she’d stepped foot on the mountain, she couldn’t suppress a surge of elation. Everywhere in Greece had changed over the millennia—except here. Mount Olympus had always been a wild place, and it still was. No temples or shrines had graced its slopes; the mountain itself was a temple, its towering pines and jagged spurs of rock the only columns it required.
She knew Theo was still angry. He’d barely spoken to her all day, just trudged before her, dutifully carrying the other end of the stretcher. But neither his reticence nor their delayed arrival on Olympus could dampen her spirits. Theo will forgive me, she knew somehow. And Father will be strong again. The mountain will make it happen.
They’d started their hike before dawn. They needed to arrive at the summit before the almost daily storms moved in to make the ascent impossible—there was a reason Olympus was known as the home of He Who Marshals Thunderheads. But despite slowing her pace to match Theo’s, Selene felt absolutely sure they’d make it to the top in time. There, they would reunite with Scooter and the other Athanatoi. With Maryam and her spear, Selene decided, we will cast Saturn into Tartarus and cure Father of his weakness at the same time.
As the sun rose, the mountain burst into color around her. Wildflowers carpeted the slopes: bright clusters of sunny yarrow, waving stalks of magenta fireweed, delicate chandeliers of purple and white columbine. She passed a patch of sky blue flowers no bigger than raindrops. She could almost hear them whispering their name to her: Forget-me-not, forget-me-not, forget-me-not. We’ve been here all along, they seemed to say. You abandoned us. Don’t do it again.
I won’t, Selene thought, breathing the scent of the pine trees, the hot earth, the blooming flowers. Of Theo’s sweat, floating toward her on the warm air. Musky and sweet and familiar.
She looked down at her sleeping father on his stretcher. The wind tossed his beard, its strands only a shade darker than his chalky face.
“We’re almost there,” she murmured to him. “You’re going to be just fine.”
“I know you’re talking to your dad,” Theo panted without turning around, “but I’m taking that as encouragement for me, too.”
“Go right ahead.” Selene looked at Theo’s sweat-drenched neck, knowing he was struggling under the weight of the stretcher. Maybe it’s a good thing he refused to lug Orion’s sword and Hades’ helm up here, too, she decided, despite trying to convince him otherwise that morning. “I’m done with divine weapons,” he’d insisted. “I’m here as a witness, not a warrior.”
So far, despite his obvious exhaustion, Theo hadn’t complained. He wants to help bear my burdens—what better sign that he still cares? Either that or he’s persevering out of sheer stubbornness.
Stubbornness was certainly all that kept Flint going. Despite his titanium leg braces, he was obviously in extreme pain. He’d fallen farther and farther behind over the last hour. She glanced through the thinning trees to watch him plodding up the switchbacking path at least half a mile back.
Maryam fared better. She walked just behind Selene, using her spear as a trekking pole. Unsurprisingly, she’d somehow managed to procure sturdy boots, lightweight hiking pants, and a large pack—she’d always known how to plan ahead. After the dramatic investiture in the Parthenon, Selene had expected Maryam to act like the Athena she remembered: smug, self-righteous, and maddeningly bossy. But instead, despite her newly sensible outfit and the spear at her side, the former nun walked silently, head bowed like a penitent. Selene found her obliviousness to the landscape’s beauty personally offensive. Athena had always been a city goddess, but how could anyone be unmoved by the mountain’s glory?
“Hey,” Selene said, drawing Maryam’s attention. “The shelter isn’t far away now. How about you go down and help Flint while we carry Father the rest of the way?”
Maryam looked thoughtful, then said, “Yes.” She turned around abruptly and marched back down the path.
Selene wondered if Theo found the Gray-Eyed Goddess as odd as she did, but from his labored breathing she got the feeling he cared only about his next step. She shifted her hands on the stretcher handles to take a little more of the weight. We’ll have time to compare notes about my family when this is all over, she decided.
After another twenty minutes, they finally reached the mountain shelter at the edge of the tree line, where hikers could spend the night before their final ascent. A wooden building roofed with solar panels stood in the center of a wide terrace. The slope dropped off before it, allowing a view back down the gorge, and rose precipitously behind, promising a steep climb to the summit.
Scooter lay on his back on a picnic table, basking in the sun. He bounced up when Selene called his name and yelped, “Where have you been?”
Before she could answer, he looked at their father, eyes widening. “You said he’d gotten worse. You didn’t say he looked like Bela Lugosi on a bad day.” Despite his levity, she caught a flash of real concern on his face as he stared at Zeus’s unconscious form. “Why’d you carry him all that way when you could’ve just taken one of the mules?”
Theo gave a sound halfway between a shout and a sob. “Are you kidding me?” He collapsed on a nearby bench and eased off his backpack. “What mules?”
Scooter jerked a thumb toward a small paddock holding a dozen pack animals.
Selene glared at her brother. “You’re such an asshole.”
Scooter threw up his hands. “Don’t blame me! I told you to meet me at the base of the mountain yesterday. Mules for all and a nice overnight in the shelter! Not to mention a helicopter for the final ascent to the summit.”
“Helicopter, huh?” Theo asked eagerly.
“Yup. We already took a trip hours ago. That’s how I got the old folks up to the top—including Saturn. He’s all ready for his little joyride to Tartarus. Just waking up from his gin and morphine cocktail. But don’t worry; he’s tied up t
ighter than a Botoxed forehead, and I left our blue-haired uncle to guard him. I gave him back his trident, and he’s having way too much fun poking the tines into Grandpa’s spine whenever he gets feisty.”
“Please tell me the helicopter’s coming back for us,” Theo pleaded.
“Sorry, my friend. Way too late in the day—not enough visibility for a flight. And the mules can’t do the final ascent, so we’ll have to hoof it on our own.” Scooter narrowed his eyes at Selene. “Why are you all so late anyway?”
“We made a little detour to fill out the pantheon.” Selene was looking forward to seeing his face when Athena arrived.
“Finding our missing kin is my job, darling.” He looked mildly offended. And worried. “Who did you—”
“Bonjour, mes amis!” a cheerful voice interrupted. Philippe Amata—previously known as Eros, God of Love—stood in the doorway of the mountain shelter, waving his lit cigarette merrily. Blond hair as spiky as usual, slender frame garbed in formfitting jeans and an even tighter shirt. He hurried forward and kissed Selene soundly on both cheeks before she could stop him, then repeated the process with Theo, who stiffened in his embrace—no doubt remembering the love dart Philippe had shot into his arm after Selene’s “death.”
Philippe held Theo at arm’s length with a bashful smile. “I’ll have you know I told her not to lie to you.”
Selene wanted to tell him he wasn’t helping, but Philippe had already turned to Zeus with a gasp of dismay. “He looks terrible!”
“I know,” Selene growled. “Which is why we don’t have time to waste. We’re only stopping here long enough to gather everyone together. Then we keep going. Helicopter or no.”
Philippe nodded. “But where’s Papa?”
“Your stepfather’s about half a mile behind us,” Selene told him.
“Ah, merde,” he cursed. “I will go help.” Philippe trotted off to the paddock and led the sturdiest mule back down the path.
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