FRAGMENTS OF THE PAST

2

Hercules is still talking, doing his best to explain the urgency of Zeusī command. He wants him back, he tells me, surely I would understand that, it contradicts my responsibilities, but Zeus is the King of the Universe, and he wants his son back. I do my best Lord of Death impression, cold and unmoved like a block of marmor. This, I reply coldly, is the Underworld. What goes in here, stays in here! Poor Herc. He is not doing a very good job, he hates to use his fatherīs authority as a weapon, and Iīm pretty sure heīs not that enthusiastic about getting Ares back from me either. I donīt look at him. My eyes are fixed on the calmly flowing water of Lethe. To the mortals, this river is the end of all memory - to me, it is a mirror of remembrance. The pictures keep appearing, dancing in the silvery water, I could show Herc, I realized. Show him some things to let him understand how stupid his little speech sounds now. I will. But I do not feel like sharing yet. The memories are still too close to my heart. So I turn my back on him, and close my eyes. And I remember Ares. _________________________________________________________________

Five years went by till I was to renew my aquaintance with the little god of war. And a god of war he would be, the Fates had prophesied even before his birth. Zeus had been ecstatic. What better way to secure his sovereignity than to provide the next defender of his race, the glorious warrior who would secure the perfect order that Zeus wanted to establish under his rule. He had very twisted ideas about what a god of war was supposed to be.

He had asked me to become the godfather of his son, and I had gladly accepted, though my duties had kept me from attending the celebration of Aresī name-giving. Two other children had been born to Zeus and Hera - Eilithya was three years old now, and little Hebe just a few months old - though their birth hadnīt been anounced with as much pride and glory as that of Ares. Zeus wasnīt much interested in daughters - yet another slight to Heraīs pride. Since the most ancient times, the royal dignity had been passed on from mother to daughter, as Rhea had inherited it from Gaia, and Hera from her mother Rhea. Zeus rise to power had put an end to that. His enforced marriage to Hera had been a true strike for the ultimate power, and the end of the old ways.

I hadnīt been present on Aresī third anniversary either, where he had been acclaimed as crown prince and his future role as god of war officialy anounced, though I had heard the whole story later. Apparently an ugly moment had overshadowed the festive atmosphere, when Hera had first met Zeusī latest flame from face to face. Young Metis had been pregnant by that time. She had a little daughter now, Athene, the first of Zeus many bastards to be raised on Olympus, under Heraīs fuming gaze.

The day I first met Ares again, was the day of the Wolf, which by Zeusī command was never to be mentioned again. It was also the day when Okeanos died, and I have to tell you, witnessing a godīs death is a impressive thing. My siblings like to hide behind the myth of the immortality of the gods, but I know better, since I have a couple of them here in my kingdom. Okeanosī time had simply come. He was one of the last remaining Titans, and in the new order, there was no place for them anymore. Poseidon was now the ruler of the sea. The few remaining Titans held powers and duties for which no gods had been provided for yet; as we grew in number they were gradually replaced and becoming useless to the Universe, they simply faded away. But this didnīt go unnoticed. We would never achieve the balance and harmony that had linked the Titans to the powers of creation. They were born from Mother Earth, part of life itself, dancing with the elements, where we merely stumbled over them and tried to subdue them with crude force. Maybe the reason why Zeus was so posessed by the idea of order, was the knowledge, that he would never truly be a part of this elementary wilderness and beauty - Zeus had always hated what he couldnīt control.

How it must have vexed him that the last thing Okeanos asked for was to see Ares. The old god raised his frail hand and placed it on the boyīs head in a blessing gesture, and looked at him as if enormously pleased with a joke only he could understand. But it was a strange gesture, with a power we all could feel but not comprehend. We were all family, but for this short second, the old man and the little boy seemed more related to each other than to any of us. Then Okeanos raised his dying eyes to Zeus and smiled. "See? You canīt keep everything under control," he whispered. "Your kid here will understand that."

Zeus looked like he was going to throw a thunderbolt at him. He glared at Okeanos with blank hate and pulled his son away from him, shoving him away a little too harshly. Then he threw a wrathful glance around the room, as if he would dare one of us to speak out what we had just seen, that his son, the heir of Zeusīnew order, was closer to the Old Ones than any of us. All of us kept our eyes down to avoid his gaze.

And then Okeanos died. And Tartarus broke loose. Okeanos had been a major god, and the consequences of his death were devastating. We all felt the tremble in the ground as the golden halls of Olympus moaned under the pressure of awe-inspiring powers. The unleashed forces tore the sky apart with lightning, shaking the very roots of the earth with cataclysmic tremors. A whole island, Thera, trembled in helpless terror and exploded with a deafening thunderous roar that reached the furthest corners of the world, while the wild powers of the volcanic eruption swept over the Aegean sea, destroying the coastal towns of the mortals and wiping away every trace of the vast Cretan fleet that had once so proudly ruled over the sea, calling the end of an era of peace and beauty. The time of Poseidon, the Earth-Shaker had arrived.

And when the earth was calm again, and the lights stopped flickering, and the storm was over, we realized Ares had disappeared.

3

When I saw the wolf for the first time I knew what mortality felt like - an awkward moment in the life of a god! It was a female, so huge, so overwhelming. The aura of power that surrounded her made the cool night air around her sparkle with electricity. A single look was enough to tell you that she was old beyond thought, with a power that went back to the age of Chaos. She had seen whole dynasties of gods coming and fading into oblivion, and she would still be here when Olympus itself would be a forgotten place. She had been venerated by humans in a time before words were invented. She belonged to a world separated from ours, where the thin layer of order that we forced upon the world meant nothing. Maybe she had been attracted by the dying of Okeanos from the north, where the power of the old ones was still unbroken. Maybe the vast outburst of chaotic forces and energy that had followed the Titanīs death had brought her here. I never found out. She was here now. And Ares slept peacefully with his head resting on her huge dark flank, curled into a little exhausted ball.

He must have run out of the door when the storm of destruction started and looked for a sheltering place. I realized that once the thundering and lightening and screeching in the sky had stopped and I looked at the other children in the hall, with their little terrified faces - and I cursed myself and all my siblings for fools. Not one of us had considered what impact this frightening event would have on a child. They were obviously terrorized by the earthshakes and the loud crashing of the thunder. We were immortals. We didnīt know much about children back then. Itīs no wonder how the new generation of gods has turned out under our tutelage.

Had Ares found the wolf, or had she found him? He was obviously not harmed, the terrifying creature looked rather protective as she curled slightly around the sleeping child. But when she raised those glowing, savage eyes and looked directly at us, growling dangerously, baring her huge fangs which meant the entry to the underworld for mortal and immortal alike, there was also something else lying in them. Possessiveness! A claim, so powerful that it made Zeusī own hunger for power seem small and irrelevant. I looked at the little godling cuddled up in her thick fur like a cub, and I knew she would never let go of him. Even if we got him back now, she would never renounce him.

Zeus was of course the first to recover from the shock. He straightened and raised his chin, and I could feel the divine energy that he gathered around him, like a cat bristling its fur to intimidate an adversary. He took a first step towards the wolf. Her powerful muscles tensed and her growl deepened. Unexpectedly her head flew up and in a fraction of a deadly second those terrible fangs snapped after Zeus, with the terrifying speed of black lightning. Zeus stumbled back in horror, hearing the fangs crashing together in the place he had stood just one eyeblink before. My shoulders were so tense they hurt. Zeus had regained his breath and threw the wolf a hateful glance.

"He doesnīt belong to you!" he burst out, sounding like a frustrated child. That was the second creature today who claimed his son for powers Zeus didnīt understand.

*Yes he does.* The voice of the she-wolf crept in our heads like a dark shadow. *This one belongs to me, and I claim him as my own.* Zeus' nostrils flared with aggression.

"He will never belong to you. He is a GOD! Your time is over. We rule now."

*You rule?* The she-wolf gave something like a feral snort. *You cower behind titles and the illusion of control, little king. The powers of life canīt be controlled. Creation is glorious wild disorder, passion and abandon, you need to have something of that inside you to truly grasp it. It creates its own champions. This little one is untamed life; he belongs to me.*

"He is my son." Zeus pointed out with hate at the obvious lack of control he had over this situation, and made another step towards her. This time she didnīt snap at him. I was stunned, but not horrified. For some reason I knew that Ares was not in any kind of danger. The wolf wouldnīt take him with her. And she didnīt need to either. He would be hers from now on wherever he went. She was just here to make her claim known.

*He shouldnīt have been born to you* the wolf jeered. *He isnīt part of your little golden dream of Olympus. He will rule virility, the unextinguishable impulse to survive and the heat of the blood that keeps the heart beating. He will rule in the seething rush that rules a warriorīs blood in battle, and in the wild chase of the untamed stallions, when the earth thunders under their pounding hooves. When he understands his inheritance he will come to us willingly.*

Zeus looked at her, suddenly filled with a calm coldness that would never leave him again when dealing with his son.

"I will make him strong," he let the wolf know with a hissing voice. "Stronger than you and your primitive ideas of divinity. My son will be the heir of Olympus, and your age will only be a rumor at this time." He stepped forward and picked up his sleeping son, and the wolf didnīt try to stop him. They looked at each other for a time, then Zeus turned around and marched towards the palace without looking back.

With somewhat more veneration I looked at the wolf and bowed my head respectfully before leaving. As a matter of fact, I was elated. A little prince of Olympus with the powers of the old ones, imagine that. This child could be the bridge between the world of the Olympians and the powers of life they had slighted, a link that healed the vicious conflicts of the immortals that had injured the earth so severely and a connection to the ancient powers and knowledge we had lost. Zeus would have to bow down eventually to the fate that had put that wild drawback in his nest, he couldnīt reject the old ways forever. They were what kept our world going.

*Send him to Thrace when heīs old enough.* I heard the voice in my head. I stopped and looked back at the she-wolf. She was shimmering in the night-air, her appearance fading, already transparent, only her eyes still burned with the same intensity. I turned my head to Zeus, but he kept marching on. The wolf had spoken to me alone. *Itīs his home. Heīll need to know his roots at some point.*

I nodded shortly and followed Zeus. And while I hurried after my brother and my little sleeping nephew, I heard her last command like a fading whisper.

*Watch over him*.

4

I spent that night with Zeus in the deserted megaron of Olympus. The royal hall, supported by solid round pillars, had always been the center of each clan, the middle of the family, the heart of each kingdom. But ours was now empty and cold and the sacred hearth in the middle, around which gods and immortal heroes gathered for celebration and council was cold and orphaned of the warm flames.

"No one will know about this." Zeus said in a hollow voice that echoed strangely through the vast empty hall. He sat on his throne, not looking at me. His head rested on his right hand and he was staring into the semi-darkness. "This night never existed."

I should have kept my mouth closed. But this night had been too special and full of unique revelations for me to sacrifice it to my brotherīs dynastic dreams. I went to the long table and poured myself a cup of wine. Good dark wine from Phrygia - I was never one to be too crazy about Ambrosia. Maybe because in my job I was always reminded that nothing really granted immortality.

"You canīt suppress the nature that the Fates gave him, forever, Zeus," I answered calmly after taking a first gulp. His head went up and he looked at me with something very close to hate.

"He is my son!" he growled at me "That is his only nature. He is a god, and an Olympian at that!" Oh, that had been a smart addition. There were a lot of old gods in Greece apart from us, still ruled by the old ways and forces, but Zeus had created the new elite of Olympus, which excluded these minor deities whose divinity he could not deny. But the people still remembered and worshipped them.

"He IS my son!" Zeus suddenly repeated hotly, looking at me with wary eyes as if expecting me to contradict him. I looked at him with mild astonishment. After a while he turned his gaze away. This was the first, but not the last time that Aresī parentage would be questioned. "He will not be part of that primordial chaos that ruled before us! He is the heir of Olympus, a living sign of the victory of the gods! I wonīt let those obscene relics triumph over our achievement!!! They wonīt have the satisfaction of having one of theirs on the Olympian throne. Whatever twisted traits might have been implanted in him can be polished out. No one will even notice. Give me some of that wine, will you?" I filled a cup for him and watched him drinking.

"He will be a god of war, Zeus. A certain degree of savagery and abandon in him will be inevitable," I pointed out. Gods presiding over the heat of battle belonged most commonly to the old order.

"Not this one." Zeus shook his head and refilled his cup. He looked at me and that shrewd look of his appeared on his features. "This one will be a novelty. He will be different from these little tribal demons, he will be a god fitting for the new age. Have you taken a look at the mortalsī world lately? The Sumerians, the Babylonians, Egypt, the Hittite empire? Kingdoms of fame and glory beyond thought! Next to them Greece is a primitive village. Because Greece has ignored the signs of time. A new kind of warfare has emerged among the mortals. One of order and discipline, huge armies, in perfect lines, marching as one, obeying the same steady beat. Masses of people moving like one body, devoid of their own ambitions and desires, acting on the command and vision of one leader. Control and obedience. These are the pillars of glory, brother. They are the future. Not bersek warriors, rushing into battle with seething blood and uncontrolled emotions. I will teach my son this new kind of warfare; this has been the dream I followed since his birth. He will master this art and lead Greece into a new era of glory."

I was perplexed. Zeusī and my ideas of a war-deity were decidedly different. The war gods of old had never been reduced to this sole function to start with. They held the same powers of life, death and procreation that all gods did, and mostly those who reigned over the red raging fury that drove a warrior into battle, also presided over the stormy, ecstatic stirrings of fertility and new life. What Zeus planned was... unforgiveable. You couldnīt mess with the functions that nature had attributed to a god. She had good reasons to create the beings she brought forth, she knew what she was doing. To forcefully change or repress the nature of a god was an irreparable damage, the consequences were awful. Madness and pain were inevitable, we had seen it before, not in our family, but in many of the foreign pantheons that had reformed to new ways in recent times.

"You canīt cheat Fate!" I protested. "Itīs not up to you to decide what sacred functions a god has to carry. Creation brings forth what is needed !"

"Of course I can, what are you talking about ?" He looked at me in mild annoyance and refilled his cup. "Had I listened to Fate Iīd be an insignificant weather deity now, Poseidon would still be cowering like a minor servant around Crete and you..."

Me ? Let me guess, Iīd probably be a minor fertility god somewhere in Arcadia, dancing with squirrels and caring about nothing but my little crops; instead I rule over a solitary, cold, dark place shunned by the light of the sun. Guess I was the lucky one.

"Creation... creation is a mindless process, without will. We are the ones who give a face to it! We take it and form it to perfection. It is up to us to decide how we want to use its powers. We form this world after our own conceptions," Zeus went on preaching. "This is the inheritance I am passing on to my son. Control over his own fate." Yes, but whose control, I wondered. What say would my nephew have over his own fate? My mouth felt dry again, and not all the wine in the world would help me now. Suddenly I felt longing for my abode of darkness and eternal silence.

"Hades," my brother called softly. "I will need your help. Ares will need your help." Ares, I thought, would definitely need any help he could get considering his fatherīs plans for him. But how was I to help him? "I will need you to watch over him." Zeus continued in the same pleading tone that he used sometimes to let us know that we were all one happy, united family. I shivered when I heard the same words I had heard before that night, spoken by an ancient creature belonging to a different world. "You would want the Lord of Death as the protector of your child?"

"I would want my brother as the protector of my child," Zeus said warmly, and his hand clasped my shoulder in a firm, assuring grasp. I would have laughed if I had had a sense of humour. "Will you do it brother? Will you give him your guidance and protection?"

I closed my eyes. Then I gulped down my wine and turned to go. He watched me marching towards the door, still waiting for my response. He knew damn well I couldnīt leave this way, not without answering, and as the wide gates of the megaron swung open to let me pass through, I knew it too. I looked down on the floor, without turning around to face him. What kind of protection could I give this child against the King of Gods? What feeble authority would be granted to me in this matter? Would I be a tutor or a gloryfied babysitter? But in spite of all hopelessness I knew I had to try. I took a deep breath.

"I will always be your sonīs protector, Zeus," I promised silently.

And left.

5

Donīt get me wrong now, I came to love the little guy in the end, but the first time I met Ares as my pupil, he had already been his fatherīs son for seven long years. Ten minutes with him and I wanted to rub his little face against the next wall. He didnīt remember me too well either - well that was understandable, after all we had met only twice before and not under favourable circumstances. In time I was to learn that Aresī arrogant behaviour was just a mask behind which hid a very insecure, thoughtful child, who tried to keep his distance from a bothersome adult world that always tried to peek inside his mind and influence him in some way. Zeus and Hera were having major problems at that time. Hera was pregnant again, this time with a son, as Zeus assured. His pride about the next male member of his line didnīt keep him from yet another adulterous affair, and this time with a mortal, the first in a long line to follow: Niobe, daughter of Phoroneus, their sons would be known one day to the world as Argos and Pelasgos. From what I had heard, Hera and Zeus had gotten in a huge fight, after which Hera suffered some kind of seizure, that should prove devastating to her unborn child, Hephaistos. I guess that was the reason why Zeus finally decided to call me to Olympus to spend some time with Ares.

I went to meet my young protegee on the exercise field, where he was all alone, practicing with his bow. He gave no sign that he had noticed my approach, and I did nothing to interrupt him in his doing, but he knew I was here, and I knew that he knew. I leaned against a tree and watched him for a while. His talent was impressive for a child of his age. His face showed perfect concentration as he took his aim and let the arrow fly. Together we waited for the metalic sound announcing that his arrow had hit the middle of the brazen target. After that he put the bow down, perfectly disciplined, and turned around to face me. He looked very, very serious for a seven year old.

"I do not require a tutor," His Majesty, the Prince of Olympus then announced with dignity. "My training in the arts of war is of foremost priority, and I already receive an appropriate education in philosophy, history and rhetoric from the Muses. I am afraid your services here are unnecessary."

"I regret your objections to this arrangement," I retorted very unconcerned.

"Besides," Ares continued while retaking his position and carefully placing a new arrow in his bow, "I fail to recognize in which way your teachings could be relevant for a god of war. Youīre not even a warrior."

"Maybe not," I admitted, then I frowned as if I had just stumbled over a perfectly insignificant realization. "But in my position I happen to be acquainted with some of the former greatest warriors in history." That got his attention. He looked at me as if estimating my possible value under those new circumstances. Then he noticed he had showed interest and turned back to his archery.

"Well," Ares retorted with slight contempt in his voice, "if theyīre dead they canīt have been that good." went the target.

"Thatīs true. Of course, learning from someone elseīs mistakes can help you avoid stumbling over your own."

"I donīt make mistakes," Ares announced calmly. I didnīt answer.

He waited.

I waited longer.

"Who?" He felt forced to ask eventually.

"Who what?"

"Whoīs down there?"

"Oh, I donīt know... lots of guys... Krius and Enyalius for instance."

"Whoīs that?" Ares asked with some suspicion.

"Your predecessors," I said cheerfully. Ares head flew up in surprise and he looked at me with an open mouth. No one had told him that there had been war-gods before him, of course.

"How did they die?" He asked with calm interest.

"Krius was a Titan. He was killed in the war against the gods."

"And the other one?" Suddenly I felt sorry I had mentioned these names. What was I to say now - Enyalius died because you took his place?

"His time had come," I said morously. Ares shook his head in contempt.

"When I die, I will fall in battle," he said full of conviction.

"Youīre a gloomy little guy, arenīt you?"

"There is nothing cheerful about the godhood of war," Ares retorted with severity. I had almost laughed out loud. Here I was, the God of Death, taking lessons in sobriety.

"I think I would like to meet those warriors some time," he graciously admitted

"Then I guess my services are required after all." I realized my mistake the second the words went out of my mouth. A short look of hurt and disappointment flickered over his features before his expression simply shut down behind a mask of absolute disinterest and he turned away from me. I had tried to manipulate him. I had almost managed to soften his defenses, to kindle his curiosity, and now I showed that I wasnīt better than any other adult around him.

"Iīm sorry," I said and meant it, but of course Ares didnīt turn around anymore. "Look kid, it is not my intention to talk you into anything. I only feel there would be a lot of things I could tell you, just as you would have a lot of things to tell me. Not about history and rhetorics... though frankly yours are far from perfect... or stuff your father wants you to know about... but about whatever happens to matter to YOU. But this is your decision, not mine and not your parents. Yours alone. And if you donīt want to, Iīll accept that." Ares still made no attempt to interrupt his exercises. „Iīll be around if you feel like talking," I told him and turned to leave.

"Uncle Hades?" He called over his shoulder and I stopped dead and turned to face him. "Is Tartarus a really gruesome place?" I grinned. There was a subject no godling could resist.

"Yeah, really terrible. Blood and slime everywhere you look and guys with their entrails hanging out of their stomach," I told him confidently in a disgusted voice. Ares smiled. His eyes shone brightly and he looked at me with some kind of new reverence.

"Cool," he whispered.

I had found my pupil.

6

Educating Ares. There wasnīt much I could give him as a tutor. But then he demanded so little! Sometimes all he needed was a silent companion. Someone who didnīt try to force something inside his mind. Ares had very little time for himself, his day was strictly divided between weapon practice, lessons in warfare, strategy and history, and all the rest of the noble skills Zeus insisted upon. Most of them were in my opinion unnecessary, and only served to keep the boy under strict observance and discipline.

Ah, discipline! To my great regret, Ares was a very disciplined and reserved child, much too serious for his years, and always mindful of the policy of self-control and restraint that Zeus had hammered into him - which was a pity, really, because deep down inside him I could sense a very rare, delicious talent for mischief, that I would have loved to see released. Once, just once I would have liked to see Ares hidden behind some bushes and throwing raw eggs after Heliosī chariot. A mischievious child would have done Olympus really good at that time, but we still had to wait for little Hermes to teach us that. It was hard to break through Aresī shell and see him behave like every other normal child of his age. But when he did he was a joy to behold, a warm-natured, sensitive child, sparkling with curiosity and a hunger for life that Olympus could not satisfy. In those moments he would pour out questions like a waterfall - Ares was a smart little boy, and he always felt it when adults tried to keep something from him.

I learned quickly how to read his mood, to understand when he only longed for a wordless hand on his shoulder, when I found him aimlessly wandering through the halls of the palace, or staring in silence at the closed portals of the throne-room and listening to the echo of his parentsī latest fights. Zeusī character had started to change in an appalling way by that time. His furious outbursts and tyrannical behaviour had reached a dangerous level. I had long suspected him of using physical violence against his wife and children, but my suspicions would be confirmed only many years later, when the barbaric punishment to which Zeus sentenced his Queen after a failed rebellion of the gods, repulsed all inhabitants of Olympus. Ares would never talk of what was going on inside his family. Later, when he would try to defend his mother from Zeusī fury he would get his own share of brutality and punishment. It was no wonder that during Aresī adolescence, his closest confidant next to me would come to be Paion the healer.

Ares worshipped his mother. All of Zeus' children tried in one way or another to cope with their fatherīs omnipotent threatening presence. Athene sought safety in her strange kind of obsessive loyalty and reverence, living her life as her fatherīs submissive shadow and over-zealous champion. Hebe found her haven in her youthfulness and childlike innocence. It saved her from Zeusī violence, but not from his indifference. Hephaistosīsalvation was his work, surrounding himself with little mechanical friends in a perfect emulation of a loving environment. Ares took his strength from Heraīs idealized picture that he secretly nourished in his heart. For him his mother was the luminous, radiant pole that formed the contrast to his fatherīs dark dominance. It is a strange tendency of the youth, to desperately love and give our hearts uncritically to those who hardly think about us. He adored her fervently, famished for every little sign of careless affection she sometimes decided to bestow on him. Ares strove desperately for her appreciation, trying to placate her cold indifference with his hard earned accomplishments, driving himself to sheer perfection in whatever he did, whether sword-fighting or philosophy, and Hera accepted these shy offerings laid at her feet with a disinterested little pat on his head, that made him deliriously happy for the rest of the day, yet nothing he ever achieved seemed to give her real pleasure. She conquered his loyalty forever by calling him her little champion and defender, allthough she kept him in the permanent knowledge, that he was Zeusī son, forced upon her as a sign of her submission, and Ares always tried to somehow make amends for the fate to which his birth had doomed her, and felt personally responsible for every new humiliation that Zeus brought to his wife.

He probably would have loved his father too, regardless of the hardships he forced on him, simply because he was his father, but Zeus didnīt ask for love - what he wanted was fear and obedience, so Ares gave him that. He hated the way his father treated Hera, even though it would have never occurred to him to question the treatment he received himself. It was all he knew. Yet there was one thing Ares could never deal with, and that was Zeusī attitude to women. Zeusī libido had always seemed insatiable, and he never bothered to keep his numerous affairs hidden from the public or his humiliated wife, but lately his inclinations started to move towards rape and domination, and most female immortals lived in constant fear. I will never forget the look in Aresī eyes as we encountered one of Zeusī latest objects of desire, stumbling silently out of the throne-room with dishevelled hair and red eyes, clutching the shreds of her gown around her trembling body. We had just been summoned from the exercise-field to inform Zeus about his sonīs latest progresses. Ares had to step aside to let her pass, and he never dared look up from the floor until her fleeing steps couldnīt be heard anymore. He gave me a silent, almost pleading look, filled with shame that I had to witness this, and I recognized that this must have been a familiar scene for him. Then he turned around and marched on towards the throne-room and we never mentioned that incident again.

Zeusī sexual adventures influenced Aresī own relationship with women a lot. I wouldnīt say he was inhibited as a boy, but in a way he always felt... guilty for his fatherīs behaviour - though to what frightening degree, I was to find out only much later. Maybe as a consequence of these early experiences Ares always abhorred rape, and did so for all his life. And as much those eager to vilify him hate to admit, no matter how cruel and evil his endeavours during his long reign as God of War eventually became, among all Olympian gods, myself included, he is the only one who never forced himself upon an unwilling partner. As a young boy he treated women with a reserved, if not shy kind of courtesy, that although he didnīt realize, they found very appealing. Yet he kept his distance and preferred to set his own pace. Zeus of course had his own opinion about the course his sonīs love-life should take. In a probably well-meaning attempt he presented Ares on his fourteenth birthday surprisingly with three lascivious Nymphs sent to his chambers, who were to take care of his virginity. After sending them off, Ares stormed furiously to my residence where he spent the rest of the day in a fit of rage, marching up and down the hall, while I listened to his tirade of threats and curses. This was the first time I ever witnessed my nephew exploding in such an aggressive way, and I took advantage of his loss of control, by reporting it to Zeus, and presenting it as a consequence of his interference - my brother never attempted anything of that kind again, but Ares never forgave him for it.

But all this I was yet to learn over the next eight years I would have the privilege to spend as Aresī tutor, and when this time ended so tragically, I turned my back on Olympus and my family and never looked back again. I didnīt needed to be told by Zeus that my time as his sonīs protector was over when the end came - he had fired me twice before from this position, and I still had found a way each time to fight my way back to Ares. I recognized the end in my nephewīs eyes, as he laid beaten and defeated in that same room in which Hercules now walks up and down, arguing with me about the necessity to let his half-brother return to the realm of the living. The end came on that black day after Erebus, when I tasted the defeat of a eight yearsī struggle. I had lost and Zeus had won, and that day every trace of the boy I had known and fought for was burned out of existence, and the God of War was created. And here I am now, listening to a foolīs rambling, and fighting the last battle for Aresī soul. And isnīt it strange, how the first struggle began, and the last one will end in one and the same place. In the Underworld.

7

"Ares, what is a bastard?"

It is this question that I see revolving over and over again out of the dark confines of his consciousness, hurting him to no end.

I always shy away from touching his personal memories in this swirling dance of fragments, yet some of them appear from time to time, too strong and too intense to be ignored, demanding attention and their rightful place in the final mosaic of the past. How could I force the waters of the Lethe to keep those things from flowing? They carry the entire memories of every soul that has passed away, and as such, every little shred of his remembrence, his hopes and fears, his dreams and torments are gathered here.

Ares is dead.

His past is part of Lethe now.

And he wants to be heard.

I take hold of this special, so insistant memory, of all the little fragments it contains, and together with my own impressions, I remember.

Hercules is still waiting for me, waiting for my answer. It is time to give him some. I look at him with a blank expression. And I motion him nearer.

"Youīve never known him, have you?" I ask. "Well, hereīs the chance."

Meet Ares. My nephew. My son. ___________________________________________________________________

"Ares, what is a bastard?"

Ares, fourteen year old now, looked at the little girl with annoyance. His long, dark hair was kept together in a ponytail, and a thin leather band around his forehead kept the shorter rebellious curls from his eyes. He was sitting on a low branch in the shadow of a plane-tree, the bow he had just been about to put together, leaned forgotten against his knee.

"Whoever tells you words like that?" He demanded to know, a dark frown on his handsome face. Artemis hesitated, biting her lip. She was about ten years old at the time - but it had been less than a year since Zeus had brought her and her twin-brother to Olympus, and the established family of the gods was giving them both a hard time adjusting. Apollo reacted to the palpable hostility with an arrogant, glamorous, outrageous aristocratic behaviour, that would eventually conquer him his place in the hierarchy - little Artemis had a harder time. She was a sensitive, lonely little girl, longing for warmth and acceptance, and Olympus took special pleasure in mocking her shy, hopeful attempts to reach out to them in any way. Ares had treated her decently, because he rarely took part in the familyīs power-games, and little Artemis loved him fervently for this. Ares was everything a little girlīs shining hero needed to be, he was handsome and strong, and his reserved, serious way gave her a sense of security. Ares was the undisputed leader of the children on Olympus, even though he rarely mixed in among them, his time being taken completely by his training and studies. He had accepted her hero-worship and adoration with amused desperation, and somewhere along the way, this shy, lost little girl had conquered his heart completely. He tried to protect her from the sneers and insults of Olympus, but he couldnīt be always around when they tried to hurt her. Like they had now.

"It was my mother, right?" He asked, knowing the answer, then with a sigh, leaped from his branch and sat down next to his little half-sister.

"A bastard... is someone who has no father," he said softly, trying to explain it without hurting her.

"But I have a father," Artemis retorted. "My father is YOUR father." Ares let out a deep breath.

"But my father... isnīt married to your mother," he explained, carefully searching for the right words. "He is married to my mother, and... he shouldnīt have children... with other women... except her." Artemisī small forehead frowned as she grasped the meaning of his words.

"Ares... does this make me... bad or something?" She asked worriedly. Ares swallowed. He thought of his motherīs pained expression each time Zeus paraded some new offspring of his passion around Olympus. He thought of all the faces of those unknown women, who were causing his mother so much suffering. She called him her champion, defender of her honour, and the one who would avenge her on those who tried to replace her and her legitime children. He looked at his little sister, the fruit of such a despicable union. And his heart ached inside of him as he laid an arm around her small shoulders, giving her a fierce hug.

"Oh gods, of course not!" He whispered in her brown hair. "Youīre my little sister, and it wasnīt right of my mother to say that word to you." He could still feel her insecurity, and struggled to find something else to say, to give her safety, her own place in the world, but the only thing he seemed to find, was his own refuge in times of trouble. And so he stood up, reaching for his bow.

"Hey, you wanna learn to use this?"

Artemis looked at her big brother adoringly and nodded.

8

"You have disappointed me to no end, boy!!!"

"Yes sir," he whispered without moving. He was still wearing the Corinthian armour from his campaign, now mud-covered and battered, his long black hair, damp with sweat was falling into his eyes and hid his face. He hadnīt looked up even once, since he had entered the throne-room to await his sentence.

"I gave you a simple order and you couldnīt even carry out that much!!!"

Ares swallowed, his head sinking even lower. His eyes closed for a moment

"Yes sir," he whispered again, sounding even more miserable than the first time. Even from here, from the entrance at the other end of the hall, where I awaited the end of Zeus' sermon I could hear the tremor in his voice. He felt like crying, but he wouldnīt show it.

"Eight years of most elaborate training, and the first time you have to prove yourself on a battlefield, you are a failure. Maybe I should have sent your sister instead!" He didnīt answer this time, he didnīt even move. Just stood there with his head hanging low.

His campaign had been a glorious victory.

It had been disaster.

Two hunderd chariot-fighters and one thousand infantrists had embarked in Pylos for Crete. The preparations for the first over-sea conquest in Greek history had been carried out smoothly and with discipline. Zeus wanted the island conquered, the palaces and settlements untouched - the first of his envisioned new-styled military victories that would finally secure Olympian supremacy on this last harbour of the old religion. Ares as his war-leader, was to land his men at Knossos, defeat the foreign defenses and seize control over island and population. Mindful of Zeusī explicit orders, Ares had carefully worked out elaborate plans of attack for days, designed to take the cityīs defenses by storm with a minimum of losses. Everything was perfect. Ares held his warriorsī minds and aggressions in a firm grip, focusing them solely on the moment of their attack, just as he had learned in his training. And then everything went wrong. They had stormed the shore, forming their lines in perfect discipline, blood pounding to meet the opponent that had occupied their minds for days.

And nobody came.

And with stunned incredulity and bewilderment, Ares recognized, that the island had no defences.

And then he had lost it.

It was just this one little moment of shock and surprise, of absolute confusion, that all the plans and tactics and precautions he had planned and designed and set his hope on, should suddenly vanish into thin air, his focus wavered for just a second. But this was enough to let the minds of his followers slip out of his grip. The restraint that had kept their aggressions concentrated on the coming confrontation was gone, and in one instant, his army of disciplined soldiers turned into a raging horde, howling for their promised fight. The absence of the enemy they had all prepared for changed their focus into a feeling of hate and betrayal. In a storm of blood and fire they swept over the island, as if to punish the blameless population in their frustration.

Ares fought to regain his focus, but my nephew had never been born to control. His mind understood what his father wanted from him, but his body didnīt, not really, nor did his soul. He was born to abandon, the pounding of the blood, the instincts of survival, and the feverish storm swept through every corner of his being. The cries of his warriors, invoking his name in the rush of madness inflamed his soul to a white devouring flame. Maybe it happened because his true nature had been surpressed so long by his fatherīs demands. Maybe it happened, because he was sixteen years old, and totally unprepared for the seering fire, that overwhelming tugging at his soul each time his name was called upon in prayer and triumph, relentlessy urging him on. The rush caught him and engulfed the world from his thinking.

When he regained control over the troops, the palace of Knossos was burned and the few surviving inhabitants that didnīt litter the streets with their bodies, cowered in terror in nearby Phaistos, and waited for the next storm of destruction.

Crete was conquered.

"You are a shame to your house and your title," Zeus declared without emotion.

Ares swallowed down his misery and answered nothing, enduring his fatherīs rage in silence.

He had done everything he could to repair the damage. I had warned Zeus. Oh we had fought about this for weeks. I told him that Ares was too young. That it was short of criminal to expose him unprepared to the reverence and demands of thousands of warriors, ravenous for victory. He was not yet installed as god, he had no cult in Greece as yet. The improvised invocations and offerings, brought to him before the campaign had been designed by Zeus, befitting his idea of what was suitable for an Olympian god of war. The soldiers who had gathered to perform them, had been chosen by Zeus. Not one of them had been dedicated to Ares before. I had begged Zeus to let me take him to Thrace first, where his own followers waited, as the Wolf had said. Zeus had almost struck me down with a thunderbolt at this reminder. Zeus had caused that mess, and Ares was paying for it. I shuddered at the thought of what Zeusī miscalculation had cost him. No other god of his tender age, and not many of the old ones would have managed to fight back this elemental rush, but he had done it. The effort had cost him every drop of energy.

I wished Zeus would finally let him go. Couldnīt he see that his son was staggering with exhaustion? Didnīt he notice the paleness of his face? He went on and on, while Ares stood there like a beaten puppy and took one punch after the other.

After a while Zeus stopped talking, and simply stared at him in silence, which was probably even worse for the boy. In the end he staggered back one step to keep his balance, and even Zeus noticed his miserable condition..

"Go see the healer," he ordered coldly, and Ares nodded unhappily. Paion was already waiting. I had summoned him as soon as I knew that Ares had returned. My nephew didnīt even look at me, as he passed by me and limped out of the hall.

"Ares!" I called gently, but he didnīt turn around, so I followed him through the corridor, adjusting to his pace and silence, as he walked slower and slower and finally stood still. He tilted his head a little to the side and looked up for the first time.

He turned around to face me.

And opened his mouth, as if he wanted to tell me something.

The sheathed sword fell from his hand and landed on the floor with a startling crash.

And with horrifying slowness, my nephew slid down the wall and collapsed on the floor. ___________________________________________________________________

The mortals would call it the "Sacred Disease".

Hippokrates would write about it.

It would become a close companion of those close to the God of War, the ones he had chosen, the special ones he had touched.

Alexander the Great. Julius Caesar.

All this I didnīt know, nor cared about as I materialized in the healing room, my nephewīs limp body resting in my arms.

Did I tell you about the nature of the gods? About the dangers of manipulation? When I mentioned the pain and the madness I didnīt mean it in a metaphorical way. I had warned Zeus to no end about his plans with Ares. Nature creates each god according to her needs, each performing a necessary function, a catalyst for the forces of creation, and when these forces are supressed or change, the reactions to this corruption are violent and painful.

I was witnessing them right now.

They were raging through my nephewīs body, making it arch and shudder in agonizing spasms of pain, while I could do nothing more than try to keep him down and wipe away the sweat from his face. Paion the healer did his best to sooth the furious vengeful forces with his gentle powers, but he could bring only small comfort. The pain and the fear Ares had to face alone.

The attacks should return in periodical intervals in years to come, especially after the major campaigns which Zeus' new order made possible. He would outgrow them eventually, escape them once he gave himself over fully to the rage and the darkness of soul Zeus had instilled in him since his childhood.

Pain he had to suffer. Madness was spared him. I think.

The spasms gradually subsided, and his body came to rest. I was as scared as he was, as I bent over him, stroking his damp hair, murmuring soothing words to calm him as he just lay there, completely exhausted by the excruciating attack.

And then he started to cry.

He was a sixteen year old child and he cried softly, suppressing all noise. I wanted so much to tell him that the pain would go away eventually, and never come again, that there was no reason to be frightened, but he only looked at me with tormented eyes.

"It was beautiful," he whispered hoarsely.

"What?" I asked, uncomprehending

"The island was beautiful." he sobbed. "It had... soft green hills... and trees... and the palace was... dazzling white... covered with alabaster... and it was shining... so bright... like the sun."

I looked at him, feeling faint.

"It was beautiful!!!" He shouted at me furiously. And then he closed his eyes and curled himself up, with his back turned to me, not wanting to face me anymore.

"It was beautiful, and I destroyed it."

9

I look at Hercules and his eyes gleam at me with something close to hate. This has probably been the last thing he had wanted to know. I sigh. These last few weeks have marked him too. Somewhere, deep inside him, this wall of security, the deep apparent knowledge about his half-brother, that he has slowly built up over the years to serve as a shelter and a explanation for all the hate that Ares had showed him has shattered, and suddenly Herc finds himself standing on new ground, bereft of any kind of orientation. He isnīt here on Zeusī demand alone. He is here to find an answer, something to put things back into their right perspective, something to make sense of all that has happened. I look at the dark rings under his eyes, and they tell me all there is to know about every sleepless night he has spent rolling around in his bed, his mind repeating the same short scene over and over and over again, examining it from all sides, trying to get it into his head, to find a explanation for what had happened so abruptly.

The iron grip immobilizing him. Ephialtesī sword at his throat. Death only a heartbeat away.

"Youīre not after him, you know that. Itīs me you want, isnīt it?"

Ares raising his arm at Ephialtes in an almost inviting gesture, almost smiling, his sword falling to the ground.

"Take me instead."

Take me instead. The last words I have ever heard from Ares. I was with him when he died, of course - but he couldnīt talk then anymore. Hercules closes his eyes, lightly shaking his head. In the end he makes his decision, and he turns his eyes to me. He wants answers, and I am the only one willing to give them to him.

"Can I see more?" He asks shyly. ____________________________________________________________

Of course the whole episode was never to be mentioned again, and Zeus admonished me to keep absolute silence about the whole thing. The King of the Gods had just suffered a serious drawback as it became clear, that his second son Hephaistos, born under such unfavourable circumstances, would remain a limping invalid for the rest of his immortal life, in spite of all his divinity. The offending child had been removed from court and sentenced to be raised by two of his aunts on faraway Lemnos, before too many rumours started to mar the shining surface of omnipotence and perfection Zeus demanded be upheld on Olympus.

To his great misfortune Ares didnīt have the advantage of a disfigured body that would have safely removed him from his fatherīs attention. He was the living proof of Zeusī superiority, the embodiment of perfection, sired by his fatherīs divine seed. What a horrible blow to my brotherīs pride to find out, that his beautiful, immaculate son was in his way just as much of a cripple as Hephaistos was. No, the world was never to find out that Zeusī heir was tainted with the stain of imperfection. At the same time his conduct towards Ares in private changed in a critical way. I could see it in his eyes when he looked upon his son, there was something like a disgusted wariness, always mindful of his ... delicate situation, and eventually he stopped looking at Ares directly altogether. The consequence was that Ares maneuvered himself into an obsessed state of secrecy about his attacks, rejecting any kind of help and hiding them even from me and Paion, prefering to endure them alone in his rooms, sheltered from all eyes.

"Iīll tell him!" Paion announced.

"You will do nothing of that sort, you moron!"

"Heīs his father! He will have to accept this! Heīll have to find a solution or he will lose him."

"Heīs Zeus and he doesnīt care one bit! Donīt you think I tried? Heīll never let Ares go."

"But this canīt go on like this! Itīs killing him!"

"Yeah, and if you go and tell him, itīs going to kill you!"

But Paion went and told him. And two weeks later he was kicked out of his place and Apollo was installed as the new God of Healing, and the only reason why my old friend didnīt fade away into oblivion once he had found his replacement, was that not even the chaotic forces of nature could take Apollo seriously as a healer... in fact Apollo forbade any sick or dying people to ever enter his temple, and the truth is that all of us knew exactly where Paion could be found in Arcadia whenever we needed a healer, because no one of us would trust Apollo with it.

Ares of course was crushed. Paion had been next to me his best friend. His small circle of confidants dwindled away - Paion was gone, Artemis refused to live on Olympus, preferring the serenity of the forests, and I... I would never have left him of course, but in a way I too longed for the day when I would be able to leave Olympus behind me and return to my own secluded kingdom, far away from the intrigues and family feuds. Ares had a very lonely adolescence. He was still the undisputed leader among the youngsters, no one would have dared to question his command, but the unity and trust that had formed between them in their childhood was gone, as soon as they were old enough to be dragged by the oldtimers into the different cliques and feuds existing on Olympus. Hephaistos, the only one of Aresī siblings who might have become his friend, had been removed before that had been possible, Hermes was fun, but untrustworthy, Apolloīs guts he hated... and Athene... Athene could never see anything else in Ares than an obstacle to the position she desired, to the respect she thought would go along with this. Her powers of cold rationality and balanced thinking were much closer to Zeusī envisioned order that my nephewīs wild nature, and of course she took great care to prove this to Zeus over and over again. When Zeus announced the new step of his campaign two months later, she was the first to hail it with enthusiasm.

"He wants me to attack Tiryns," Ares said quietly, as I entered his room, watching him as he leaned over a heap of maps he had been studying for the better part of the morning. He turned around, looking at me as if waiting for a explanation. "But Tiryns belongs to us."

"Zeus has decided that Greece is in need of new blood. The new invasion of the Dorian tribes will provide this," I replied, trying my best not to sound too cynical. There was no need to make the boyīs duty even harder than it was.

"But I canīt lead foreigners against our own people!" Ares said, almost pleading.

"They are not really foreigners, Ares. Merely... distant relatives." Ares shook his head, pointing at his map in silence. I leaned over him to see what he meant. My eyes fell on the red line, marking the invadersī future direction and the cities standing in their way... Tiryns... Argos... Mykenae.... I sighed. The military structure of the Dorians was much more appealing to Zeus than that of our Achaeans who had intermixed with the old population and adopted many of their gentler elements- he thought that a mixture between their culture and the already existing one would prove supportive to his rule. Besides they had something he desired more than anything for Greece. Iron!

Ares leaned back, silent for a long time, already wearing that slight severe frown on his young face, that would in time become his trademark expression.

"I wonīt do it," he said then, very slowly and deliberately.

"What???"

"I wonīt lead them. I wonīt lead any Dorians. Let Athene take them," Ares said again.

"You donīt really mean to repeat that in front of Zeus!" I stammered worriedly.

Of course he did.

That day Zeus struck Ares almost senseless. Even Hera was scared by her husbandīs violent rage, and Zeus would probably have even fired that thunderbolt that seethed in his hand against his son if Hera hadn't stepped between them.

"A cripple and a rebel too!!!" He thundered so loud that the very walls of Olympus trembled under his fury. Ares slowly climbed to his feet, brushing away the hair from his swollen eye and looked straight at him.

"I regret you see it this way," he said with cold politeness.

"You dare to question my orders?"

"I am the God of War. Burning the land I am bound to protect does not belong among my duties."

"YOU ARE THE GOD OF NOTHING!!!" Zeus raged. "Where is the realm youīre ruling over? Where are your temples and your worshippers? Your power comes from ME and ME alone, and serving ME with it is your ONLY DUTY!!! And should you refuse to do so, then I will get myself another who WILL!!!"

Ares didnīt say one thing. He stood proudly, chin raised, his flashing eyes wrestling with his fatherīs. It was the first time that he stood up to Zeus, and he relished that feeling.

"Leave this room," Zeus hissed with difficulty. "You will not enter it again until you know to whom your loyalty belongs."

Aresī jaw clenched and he bowed curtly. Then he turned around and stormed out of the hall. ______________________________________________________________

"Ares!" I called softly. "Wake up."

He stirred unwillingly and murmured a sleepy refusal to do so. After the scene with his father he had retired frustrated to the weapons room and worked himself into exhaustion. I grimaced and gently patted his shoulder. "Ares," I called again. Gradually the sheets started to move and his dark head with sleep-mussed hair appeared from under the covers. He blinked a few times in the darkness until he recognized me and what I was wearing.

"Whatīs up?" He whispered, instinctively lowering his voice as if knowing that we shouldnīt be discovered. I started to unfold the travelling-cloak I carried over my shoulder, the dark, heavy material matching the one I wore.

"We have to hurry," I whispered back. "I told your father I was taking you on an educational visit to the underworld, to show you the how the Fates punish those who strive against their god-given place in the world." My voice trembled with mocking awe to let him know I didnīt mean it. His eyes immediately flashed with excitement, even the black one that still bothered him.

"And where are we really going?" He asked. I raised my head and looked at him directly, maybe asking myself for a last time if I really knew what I was doing. I had waited a long, long time for this moment to come. I took a deep breath and smiled at him a little grimly.

"We," I finally answered, "are going to Thrace."

10 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Euripides : Rhesus

Hail, all hail! O mighty prince! Fair the cub you have bred, O Thrace! A ruler in his every look. See his stalwart frame in golden corslet! A god, O Troy, a god, a very Ares, Strymon's colt has come to breathe courage into you. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The chill air of the night, cutting to the bone, still haunted us as we materialized between the primeval ridges of Mount Rhodope. Far away, the first rays of early dawn descended on the wintry peaks of the eastern mountains, covering them with an incandescent rose-golden glow, that slowly crept over the ashen sky, announcing the first light of early morning. Below us, the fast-flowing waters of god-like Strymon thundered by, catching fire from the first rays of the sun. Soon Helios would rise, and the light of day would fully enter the magnificent valleys and rugged hill-sides, the wide-reaching fertile grasslands on both sides of the mighty river, dark forests, rich in game, which now, surrounded by the rolling mists of early morning, seemed like part of another world, a world of giants and primordial forces.

We had reached storm-ridden Thrace, mother of steeds.

Our people had traversed these lands in ancients times before arriving in sun-loving Greece, the slumbering call of her rough-hewn mountain crags still lingered in the blood of the Olympians, even if weakened by the flow of the millenia and our persistent struggle to wipe out every trace of our savage past. Nature ignored our childish efforts with an indifferent shrug, knowing us for what we were, carelessly allowing us to stroll away from her and play the masters of the universe; yet sometimes, as if to mock our vain attempts, her forces melted together to create a drawback in our middle, like my nephew, unaffected by the change of times, with ardent blood still pulsing with the fire of untamed life.

I smiled. Even with my weakened senses I could feel my blood rush faster each time I took a breath, filling my lungs with the invigorating stream of life that filled the air around me. If I was so affected, how much would Ares be so then? I felt him quivering beside me like a restless colt with nervous, untried limbs that he yearns to put to test in heedless race. The heavy cloak had slipped unnoticed from his shoulders, exposing his bare arms to the cutting, sharp wind that he barely noticed under the overwhelming torrent of new sensations.

That was the moment I had waited for all these years, and I felt like watching the first shy steps of a young wolf-cub that I had nursed to health and returned now back to wilderness. He looked around with wide-eyed wonderment, lost in the mile-wide sweep of the Strymon-valley, that fell away green under the grey and blue of the mountain; his nostrils flared, inhaling the scents of the forest and the promise of fresh snow carried by the wind from the high rocky crests above us. He could hear noises all around, a bush scratching a rock as it tussled with the wind, delicate rustling sounds of some small animal sneaking through the thicket behind us, the sleepy chirping of the first birds, stirring to the light of the new morning. His senses seemed sharpened and expanded. Everywhere he could feel life, see the luminous glow surrounding it, in the trees, in the rocks, in the hunters he could feel on the other side of the mountain, preparing for the early boar-hunt; and I, the intruder in this world, could feel it through him too, like a weak echo of the true unity that binds a god to the earth of his own realm. Ares shivered under the sweet power that stole through him, not knowing if he controlled it, or if it controlled him, his body tensed like the string of a bow, waiting for release.

"What is this?" He whispered softly in awe, his head slightly tilted to the right, watching his own hands against the blue haze of the mountains, as if the motions of his fingers would leave phosphorescent trails in the air before him. I smiled with a calm happiness at his fulfillment, not only because he was my nephew, and the child I loved who had finally found his place in this world, but because I was witnessing something of such etheral beauty, something that we had lost so long ago: a young god melting into the living, breathing embrace of his very own realm.

"Home." I answered his question. "This is home."

"Home," Ares repeated silently, as if trying out a new-learned, foreign word. The sun shone brightly upon us now, and as he raised his face to meet it, his brown eyes seemed like melted honey in the warm light. I knew there were people waiting for us - at my short announcement the Thracian tribes had gathered downstream in honour of their god, and I could feel the immortal creatures of this land coming together throughout the forest to welcome their lost brother. Ares could feel them too, a stirring in the air, a feeling of anticipation, though he couldnīt have named the reason for it. I didnīt want to rush him. There was so much for him to discover.

The last five days of my time with Ares had begun.

11

It seemed as if the whole land had risen to greet Ares on his home-coming; our fellowship grew with every step, the very wild beasts of the mountain forests were our first escorts. Lynxes and gray wolves on silent feet followed us with glowing eyes, hidden by the shadow of the woods, their howling announcing our arrival to those waiting further down, some close enough to walk beside Ares for short lengths of the way, pacing besides us, never taking their eyes from him, and even enduring a brief touch of his fingers before they bolted away and disappeared again between the trees without warning.

As we climbed down from the highlands and neared gentler grounds, other companions followed, though unseen. With every step we took I could feel the glances of immortal eyes on our backs, although they were nowhere to be seen, no matter how fast I turned around. But with my godsense I could feel their movement through the woods, minor hunt-deities moving with unmatched grace, river-gods with flowing hair, and lithe green-eyed dryads; gentle-eyed hinds, from the entourage of Bendis, goddess of hunt, pushed through the thickets, too shy to step into the light,

As evening fell, turning the sky to a blazing sea of red-golden fire, we encountered the hunting-party we had sensed from the mountain side. They welcomed us with exaltation, hands clasping warmly around Aresī shoulders, while other warriors dropped down on one knee, and thrust their swords erect into the ground before him, as a sign of their future loyalty. They knew their god was but a cub yet, and their veneration of the full-grown wolf he was to become was intermixed with the instinct to protect him. We sat with them in a circle around the fire, where fallen tree-trunks served us as benches, and the mighty boar they had hunted today was dedicated to Ares, and set to roast over the fire, with a short prayer of thanks to Bendis. They were mighty, stout men, with long flowing hair, as some of our own rebellious tribes still preferred to wear. They were not accustomed to wine, so instead we were treated to that glorious, thick, creamy Thracian beer, dark like the river Styx and smooth like the limbs of a Dryad - blessed be all countries without Ambrosia, thatīs what I say! Wisely enough, I had taken the appearance of a common peasant, to not distract any of the attention directed at Ares. The embers from our fire danced towards the darkening sky to join the myriads of stars that sparkled there, and slowly the men began to sing. It was a simple song in a rough language, very unlike Apolloīs polished compositions, and Ares sat silent, gazing into the fire with far-away eyes, and listening to the repetitive melody. They were from the tribe of the Mygdonians, these ones, who many years from now, would defend Troy in Aresī name, and my nephew would treasure their company ever after.

The news of our arrival had spread all over the land, and before nightfall, people from all corners of Thrace started to gather under the free sky of the forest to pay their homage. More bonfires blazed through the night and the meat of several bulls roasted over the flames. They had been brought as an offering to Ares, but apart from this, no other animals were sacrificed to him; the Thracians preferred to throw offerings of weapons into the roaring flames, swords and shields of masterful designs, left into the blazing inferno till they were melted to a black, formless slack. The circles around the fires grew wide and numerous and the night dissolved in a festivity of fire and glorious disorder. We ate, and drank and feasted that night, while warriors engaged in wrestling-contests and sword-fighting. My nephew was lost somewhere among the crowds, and I caught glimpses of his dark mane between the contestants, while I leaned back and delighted in my beer, in the knowledge that I had done a good thing.

Around midnight the first immortals arrived; velvet-eyed nymphs in hunting garbs, wearing short bows across their straight backs, lean satyrs, looking like slender adolescents, tiny horns peaking through their unruly, wild mane, and small mountain deities, green hair and pointed ears hidden under a Phrygian cap. At first they were but few, but as the night proceeded they grew more numerous, loudly greeted by the mortals wherever recognized. They mixed freely among the humans, who seemed accustomed to their presence, joining in the celebration and sitting at the fires. I looked around to find Ares and found him watching a sword-dance, performed by several young warriors. Stripped to the waist, they were furiously stamping, swirling and leaping in the intricate, ancient patterns, the whirling blades in their hands changing to a blue whirl of flashing light. They moved with increasing speed, throwing the weapons high over their heads and catching them again with a careless ease that belied the deadly potential of the shimmering metal. The crowd accompanied them with rythmical sharp cries and hand-clapping, and from behind the clashing of sword-blades against shields was to be heard.

Ares watched enraptured, his eyes reflecting the flashing of the whirling swords, drinking in each single movement with fascination. Faster and faster the dancer went, until with one mighty shout, they all leaped to their knees, thrusting the weapons into the earth, reminding of the gesture with which Ares had been greeted by the elder tribe-members. The audience broke into cheers, and the free circle in which the dance had been performed filled with people. Music ensued, not that of gentle lyras, but the somewhat strident sound of the Thracian aulos and the steady rythm of the cymbalon, and soon dancing emerged around the fires, and the laughter of men and women rose towards the stars.

Ares didnīt move until I came nearer and clasped my hand around his shoulder. Slowly, as if awakening from a dream, he turned around to face me. He smiled wordlessly and shook his head, as if doubting what he had just seen, and looking in his luminous eyes, I saw and understood, that in this one moment, for the first time in his immortal life, Ares had witnessed perfection.

12

The night sky was already turning grey when Ares found him. He stood up from my side, with a look of almost fragile vulnerability in his eyes, and started moving towards the other boy, slowly and hesitatingly, as if fearing to scare him away. The boy at the fire didnīt look like he wanted to run away. He remained standing in the same relaxed position, slightly smiling, his right arm around a slender dryad with long, green hair, looking at Ares as if considering his intentions with every step he took. They were all looking at him, the dryad, the nymphs sitting gracefully at the fire, and the two youngsters who would have looked like hunters, had not their small horns and their wild eyes betrayed them as satyrs. But it was the boy who drew Ares like a magnet. In the end they were facing each other in silence, one on each side of the fire.

"You led the dance, didnīt you?" Ares asked softly after a while. The young immortal smiled slightly.

"I would say, the dance led me," he answered. Ares smiled back, and even though his eyes were shining bright, his smile seemed touched by infinite sadness. And as I stepped nearer I recognized why.

He might have been looking in a mirror.

I looked over Aresī shoulder, and a soft chuckle about Fateīs bitter pranks rose from my chest. Before me stood everything that could have been. The boy was not my nephewīs perfect replica. He was as tall as Ares, but of of slighter built, lean and sinuous like a wolf-hound at the end of a good Autumnīs hunting, a body formed by the heather and the mountain-forest, not the excessive training for the battle-field. Yet I had seen with how much skill he could use a sword. There was war in his blood too. His hair was somewhat lighter and longer than Aresī, the wild, unruly locks intertwined with small twigs and pieces of leaf. Everything about him spoke of freedom and wilderness. Looking at the two of them one could not say what caused that uncanny similarity. Maybe it was the colour of their eyes, that deep tone of molten amber, reflecting the golden flames that separated them. Or maybe the high cheekbones and fine aristocratic features they both shared. Maybe it was something in the way they stood, and in the presence that surrounded them , something invisible that couldnīt be defined, but yet made unmistakeble clear that these two were reflections of the same spirit. And as I stood there and watched him, I understood what Ares saw when he was looking at his counterpart. He saw the life that could have been his, had he not been submitted to his upbringing, and he grieved for this boy he might have been, and for the perfection of the sword-dance, that in another life, and another world, might have been his too. I saw it, and my heart was heavy, for until this moment, I had not known he realized all this. I placed a hand on his shoulder, feeling a slight tremble, and without seeing his face, I knew he tried to force treacherous tears back from his eyes. He looked down, and then up again, and I saw that he had made a decision, and when the words fell, they were like a first shy tendril out of loneliness and into something he should have been part of.

"Whatīs your name?" he asked. The boy grinned, and his companions smiled too.

"Preietos."

"That sword-dance..." Ares started shyly. "...could I learn it too?" Preietos chuckled and opened his arms.

"Sure. Any time you like!"

He had exactly four days left in which to do so. ___________________________________________________________

Again, the morning-dusk, rolling in from the mountains, enveloped the sleeping world in a sea of silence. And again, from the east, dawn creeped nearer and touched the snowy mountain-crests of storm-ridden Thrace, yadda yadda yadda. As the bards would say, rose-fingered Eos caressed the morning-sky with her soft touch, and in my opinion her caress lingered a bit too long on my face to make me feel comfortable, so I told her to fuck off and keep her mouth shut on Olympus if she knew what was good for her.

That didnīt help.

They found us anyway.

"Iīm not trying to mess up your day," Hermes said, "but you should know that Zeus found out where you are."

"How did he take it?" I asked tiredly.

"Remember that mountain chain in Aigineia?"

"Uh huh."

"Itīs an island now."

"That good?"

Hermes hesitated, looking more serious than ever before in his young life. There was something he didnīt tell me. I sighed.

"Go on."

"Uncle Hades..." He winced a little, then came out with it. "... Zeus gives you five days to return to Olympus and face your sentence honourably... or he will send the Erinyes for both of you. And I mean... that was yesterday... so now you have only four days left."

I fell silent.

"He would do this to his own son?" I asked with cold fury in my voice. Hermes only looked at me with unhappy eyes. He knew I didnīt expect an answer. He was exceptionally bright for his fourteen years.

"Was it... really necessary? Whatever it was that you did here?" My youngest nephew asked hesitatingly. I breathed in and out for a few times, keeping my gaze on the distant mountains, enveloped in a blue veil of mist.

"Hermes... have you never felt the need to get away from there so badly, you felt like dying?" Hermes thought about it for a while.

"No," he said reluctantly. "If things are getting too bad, I can always fly over to Arcadia." I smiled sadly and nodded.

"Yes, but imagine, Zeus takes away your wings... and your flute... and everything you love, and locks you instead in a dark tomb of iron, so narrow you canīt even move or breathe... and all the endless years you spend there, you can feel the living earth around you, and the coming of spring... and the fresh air that once filled your lungs, but is now forever out of your reach... wouldnīt you risk anything to get away from there... just once?"

Hermes whistled through his teeth.

"Is that... what he did to Ares?" He asked, impressed. I opened my mouth to answer him, and felt I was at a loss of words.

Was it that ? Or had I been talking about myself?

"Iīm sorry about that," Hermes added when it became clear that I wouldnīt answer. "Ares has always been very nice to me. He rubbed Apolloīs face in the dirt whenever he tried to give me a hard time." I chuckled. That had been often. It was time to make a decision. Reluctantly I turned around and clasped my hands around the boyīs bony shoulders.

"Four days," I told him. "Tell Zeus that. In four days I will be there to face my sentence. There will be no need for the Erinyes."

"What about Ares?"

"In four days," I repeated, "I will be there to face my sentence." Hermes looked at me with wide eyes.

"Wow!" He whispered, enraptured by the dramatic change of events. I nodded and gave him a slap on his back. Hermes, recognizing a dismissal when he saw one, jumped to his feet and made ready to float away.

"Hermes, youīre a very smart kid," I felt the need to tell him while I watched him rising over my head. "When things have cooled off and everything has settled down, weīll talk about that job you applied for."

"Cool!" He said happily and winked at me, starting to gain speed.

"Whyever anyone of your age would want to become guide of the dead!" I shouted after him. Hermes grinned and made an air-roll.

"Itīs a great way to meet girls!!!" He shouted back in response.

And was gone.

13

I had made a vivid impression on my young nephew, but I realized that my plan could never succeed as soon as he was out of sight. I had probably done so even before the words went out of my mouth, but maybe I had felt the obligation to at least make that offer. Zeus would never be satisfied with me alone. As a matter of fact, he probably had no interest in me whatsoever. To think that I could trade myself for Aresī freedom had been nothing short of ridiculous.

When I returned to the camp Ares was awake, sitting crosslegged at the remains of the fire and examining the blade of a carved dagger he had received the night before. I tried to pretend nothing had happened, but of course Ares had felt the presence of another Olympian, and even if he had not intruded on our meeting, the expression on my face told him enough. He looked up at me and smiled a little awkwardly.

"Iīm in trouble, right?" I nodded and after a short moment of hesitation I told him everything I knew from Hermes.

"Why ... is he so mad at me?" Ares asked softly. "We only went away for a few days. I never wanted to make him angry."

"Because he fears you will desert Olympus for Thrace." Ares looked at me in disbelief.

"But I would never do that!" He exclaimed. I felt thunderstruck.

"But of course you would," I protested, confused. "You... you SHOULD!!! This is your realm of power! It is only right that you should live here!" And then I understood. I had misjudged everything. Everything. A wave of horrified tenderness grew in me as I watched his eyes growing wide, as if begging for a explanation, a storm of emotions flickering over his face as he tried to deal with the sudden overwhelming confusion.

"But heīs my father!" Ares stammered.

I had done everything wrong. I had rushed into this with my head full of heroic ideas of glorious rebellion, without considering Aresīpart in this. He had never even considered leaving Olympus or the necessity of doing so. How could he have ? It was everything he knew. He didnīt even know I had acted against Zeusī explicit orders. I was his tutor and he trusted me, so he never questioned my decisions. And I took advantage of that blind trust, in the convinction that I was doing the only right thing for him, and with the irrational hope, that once we would be in Thrace, everything would somehow miraculously come to a good ending, and that all the horrid possible consequences would not matter anymore. I donīt know what I had expected; that the first breath of Thracian air would wipe away his lifelong education and experiences? Of course he loved Thrace, he loved what he had found here with all his heart, and he wished to come back here as often as possible. But he was a sixteen year old boy, and his father was his father. Olympus was his family, and obedience the first rule chiseled deep into his soul. That was not submission from his part, it was just the way Ares accepted everything that happened in his life, simply because he couldnīt imagine it in any other way. He didnīt really understand what he might have done wrong by coming here with me, but the consequences were clear to him, once back at home he would face the punishment Zeus considered appropriate and life would go on as always.

I had brought us into this. My arrogance and impatience. It was my fault. And Ares would pay the price for it.

My knees felt weak, and I knelt down to meet his eyes on the same level.

"Of course he is," I whispered and reached out with my hand to softly pat his hair. "Of course he is."

14

On our last day we watched the horses.

They had appeared before sundown, first one single steed, cautiously moving nearer on nervous legs, surveying the area for possible dangers before he dared lead his herd to the river. They came up at a trot, moving like a dream, like phantoms in front of the darkening blue sky, the evening painting everything in a deep veil of changing shades of blue... the grass, the rocks and the calm water of the river, the tall trees of the forest before us and the shining manes of the horses. There were only soft sounds, the song of the crickets, the little river, flowing almost shyly between the smooth rocks, the soft whisper of unshod hooves on the grass.

For hours we crouched silently in the grass, watching them, postponing our leaving by yet another minute, lingering around them, unable to part from this sight. I knew Thrace was called Mother of Steeds, but until now, the moment of our leaving, she had denied us the beauty of her most inner self. And now she had opened up to us. Maybe it was a farewell gift to Ares, a last time that she reached out to him in a caressing gesture, as his own mother had never done. But maybe it was only the way the land celebrated itself, in a sheer explosion of innocent joy and beauty, and we were just blessed enough by the Fates to be present and witness it.

Thracian horses. If you have seen them once, you know what enchantment is. Theyīre magical beings, sired by the north-wind, as the bards like to tell. There must be something to it, for these creatures cannot be of mortal breed. You can wander this land for months, climb the highest mountains, defeat the wildest streams, but you will never truly understand Thrace, until you have seen her horses roam freely under the stars. Ares would introduce them to Greece many years from now, where presently only the native race of our sturdy, small horses was known, making them famous for generations of warriors. Songs would be sung about their radiant beauty and their speed ; they would carry only the greatest godlike heroes into battle, with flashing eyes and wild manes, their strong hearts pounding as furiously for triumph as that of their masters on their shining war-chariots. But it was here, where they moved freely, without the restriction of a bridle that you had to see them to comprehend their spirit.

I turned my head slightly to Ares, without really letting the picture before me out of sight.

"They are for you," I whispered reverently. "They came because of you." Ares nodded, too stunned to answer. I looked at him and had to almost smile as I saw him, flushed and bright-eyed as a girl in love. He was in love! Right now in this moment, he had learned adoration, and it would never, never leave him again. Back at home Poseidon claimed lordship over the horse, Athene would invent the best way to tame them and break their spirit, but there would never be a god among us who would love the horse more than Ares.

"Look," Ares whispered, and I looked. A single black colt had departed from the herd, a rough coated two-year old, still a little awkward on his legs and used to run at his motherīs heel. He came up at a trot, snorting and tossing his head, tail swishing and his mane flying up in a dark cloud. He remained at a safe distance, dancing heatedly to and fro, as if in a mixture between defiance and the wish to be admired. We watched enraptured as he danced his own version of the sword-dance, breaking in a sudden race and then abruptly stopping again, buckling defiantly and leaping as if in joy about his own unbounded energy he was just now beginning to discover.

For five days in his life, Ares had been this foal, rejoicing in the rush of his blood and the new-found wildness of his soul. What would happen now, I asked myself, after he had tasted this freedom? How could he live from now on under Zeus' restrictive order?

"Ares, I want you to promise me something," I murmured and he looked at me with a surprised glance. "Promise me, that you will always remember this horse. No matter what will happen in the future, let never go of it. Always remember the horse, and let it remind you of who you are."

"Why would I ever forget who I am?" Ares asked with a slight uncertain smile. I turned my head around to look him straight in the eyes, maybe for the last time in such a peaceful surrounding.

"Because sometimes...," I started hesitatingly, struggling for the right words to explain what I feared for him, "when something hurts too much, we tend to try to numb it to escape the pain, until we donīt feel anything anymore. He looked at me uncomprehending, trying to make sense of what I said.

"You mean... who I am... might hurt me so much that I would try to forget it?" He inquired doubting he had understood me completely.

"I mean..." I shook my head, knowing that I would never find the right words. "I mean... always remember this horse." I finished helplessly with a sad smile.

The time of our leaving had come. No excuse, no reason could buy us another minute now. The last ray of the sun had disappeared behind the mountains, and the fifth day had silently and irrevocably ended. We got on our feet, standing shoulder to shoulder, and our sudden rising scared the grazing herd into a run. Ares didnīt look at me.

We materialized in the middle of the golden throne-room. The bronze-clad Hekatoncheiren already waited for us. I gave the gigantic hundred-armed guardians a slight sign that we would not struggle. Then I turned around to face my brother.

Zeus sat on his throne with the unmoved face of a marble statue, surrounded by the gathered Olympians.

The last act of the drama had begun.

15

The cold semi-darkness of the chamber seemed almost peaceful after the austere magnificence of the throne-room.

The silence soothing after the deafening uproar.

But death is silent too.

The guards had ushered me in through the door and closed it behind me. Through the darkness, in the light of two solitary candles, I could only guess the figure of my brother, sunken on his throne. He didnīt say a word as I paced slowly forward, until I stepped into the small circle of light to face him. Zeus followed my steps with his eyes without raising his forehead from his hand. His hair looked dishevelled, and his crown was missing. As I looked around I noticed it was lying on the table and a cup of wine was standing in it.

He looked like shit, and I had never cared less.

Without waiting for his invitation I slumped down on the stool before him and filled myself a cup of wine. I raised it towards him in a mocking salute and drained it in one gulp.

"So where do we stand?" I asked, after wiping my mouth with my sleeve as unceremoniously as I could. Zeus didnīt wince with disgust as I had hoped. In fact, he didnīt react at all. He took his own cup with a unsure hand and took a sip.

"What am I to do with you?" He asked himself loudly in a husky voice. I closed my eyes and unwanted images came into my mind. My nephewīs expressionless face as his sentence was anounced. The hoarse cry of protest that tore from my throat as I heard the words. I had cried out, hadnīt I? Everything appeared as through a haze of whirling sounds and faces. The uproar of the Olympians, the iron grip of the guardians on my shoulders. Zeusīvoice booming through the hall.

"You shouldnīt see this as a punishment, but rather as a part of your education. You are far too susceptible to foreign influence. Your will needs to be hardened, son. Your mind needs to be freed from irrelevant tendencies so you can concentrate on the demands of your future task. You will rise, strengthened and cleansed by hardships, and ready to take over your sacred duty!"

Aresī sentence was Erebus. The darkest realm, the womb of all the faceless horrors that had crept out of its primordial darkness, the place where Night had mated with Styx to give birth to all the plagues that tormented the world of gods and mortals alike : Famine, Ruin and Sorrow. Bia ruled here, Violence, and his twin Moros, Destruction, who had nailed Prometheus to his rock at Zeusī command, and through their swamp of eternal night all the forgotten souls that had been cast out from the light of the sun wandered aimlessly around, lost even to the realm of Tartarus. Gods perished here, and their names were forgotten. Nothing was immortal in this place, except pain and darkness.

It was from here that Zeus recruited his best soldiers, the Hekantocheires who had been thrown down here originally like all horrifying sons of Gaia, and now served the King of Gods with mindless stupor, and the place where the invincible Curetes were hardened by Bia, to be nothing more but mere destructive shells of living armour. It was to him that Ares was to be handed over - to either survive the same training and be molded into Zeusī deadly walking sword of destiny, or perish, and be erased from the memory of Olympus.

And now, the man that had been capable of such a decision sat here before me, wondering about my fate.

I was beyond hate. I was beyond any emotion.

"What am I to do with you?" Zeus murmured again, eyes lost in his cup. I grinned cruelly.

"I donīt know Zeus. Maybe you could make me the God of the Underworld."

He couldnīt touch me, I knew that now, because of my position and my place in the nature of the universe - a place he had forced me into. Zeus looked at me blankly. Something deep inside him had been shattered, his confidence about the unquestionable superiority of his order, the invulnerability of the Olympian laws. His idea of the invincible Olympian family, standing together against the darkness and savagery of the world had been shred to bits, and the blow had been handed out by those he had expected less.

His brother.

His son.

He put the cup down on the table and rubbed a hand over his tired eyes.

"Youīre exiled Hades," he told me, his voice hollow. "I canīt deny you your powers and your godhood, but you will never enter Olympus again. You are outcast from the family of the gods."

"As if I cared," I retorted without hesitation and saw him close his eyes at that as if in pain. In this moment I wouldnīt have had enough mercy on him to take my foot from his head if he was drowning. "I want to see Ares before he leaves," I demanded. Zeus looked up at me with a glance of pure astonishment. A hollow sound like the coughing of a dying man started to fill the room, astonishing us both. Zeus was laughing. Silently and surpressing all sounds, his shoulders shaking as if he was sobbing, yet... laughing. He reached over to snatch the bottle of wine that stood before my face and refilled his cup, shaking harder still. It was an ugly sound of hate and despair.

"You must have lost your bloody minds," he murmured, swinging the wine in his cup around in circles, admiring the reflections of the candles in the dark liquid. "You took him away from me!" He suddenly hissed viciously. "I trusted you and you took him away from me!!! You have poisoned his mind for the last time. Never again will my son be under your influence."

"Well I see a loop-hole here buddy." I leaned towards him and stared right into his eyes, placing my face into the light of the candles. "īCause Erebus is in MY territory. It is a part of the Underworld, and I will see Ares whenever I want."

"Should you ever approach him down there Hades," Zeus said slowly, sounding bewildered by his own decision, "then I will kill him immediately. I would rather see him dead than further tainted by you and those other... barbarians."

"You would kill your own son ?" I whispered, feeling a strange, deep satisfaction to hear him actually say that.

"I will do what I think is best for him." Zeus affirmed in a clear voice. I nodded shortly. I felt strangely lightheaded. I raised my cup and found it empty, with a disgusted snarl I took Zeusī cup out of his hand and drained it, leaving him speechless with both hands raised after it like a child begging for sweets.

"For a guy who justifies his rule upon the fact that his father spit him out as indigestible, you risk a pretty big lip, kid," I told him.

"Father never spit me out," Zeus growled, annoyed as always when reminded that he was in fact the youngest of us all. "He never swallowed me in the first place, it was a stone my mother gave him."

"He never swallowed any of us Zeus," I retorted bitterly. "Cronos rules happily over the Island of the Blessed, remember? We have dinner from time to time. You are the only one of us he never asks about." I dropped the cup on the table. "I prefer his wine," I finished, and turned to leave.

"What have I done wrong?" He suddenly called after me in an agonized voice. I froze and turned around. My brother leaned forward, his pain-filled face illuminated by the candles, begging me for an explanation, to make him understand why he was punished so horribly, why everything had gone so terribly wrong, why his son who should have shared his dreams and glory was taken away from him. For the first time in my life I could see pain and confusion in his eyes, and, may the gods forgive me, I felt good for that.

"You shouldnīt see it as a punishment," I told him coldly. "But rather as a part of your education."

I let him chew on that, and stepped out of his chamber.

And of Olympus