The stranger’s face is cast in shadow, his broad shoulders tense. ‘Forgive me, the journey was swifter than expected.’
I push myself to standing. ‘Zeus?’
He turns to look at me. Perhaps it is the darkness, but for a moment he seems afraid. Then his expression smooths. He smiles, and it warms every part of me.
‘Wake the others. We must prepare for the ceremony. Another Titan has been chosen.’
‘So soon?’ I rub dust from my eyes.
As we speak, the other Titans stir from the roots of the tree.
‘Who is this?’ asks Prometheus, eyeing the stranger.
Zeus turns to face the rest of the twelve. The new arrival lingers behind him. It is strange; there seems to be a thread of tension between them as though they have met in another life.
‘I was woken by a dream,’ says Zeus. ‘The Mother called to me and showed me the face of the next Titan.’
There are gasps.
‘The Mother has only ever revealed her next chosen Titans through the omphalos stone,’ says Phoebe.
Zeus nods slowly. ‘I too doubted, so I consulted the stone. It confirmed my dream was indeed sent from the Mother. But that is not all it showed me. The world beyond Mount Olympus is changing, and we must change with it.’
‘It is true.’ The stranger steps closer. ‘On my journey I saw great armies marching across the plains of Greece. Even in my humble village, we feel the grip of war upon the land. If nothing is done, the people will destroy themselves.’
The Titans murmur below the branches of the Hesperides tree, while the stranger eyes the golden apples glowing overhead.
‘What is your name, friend?’ asks Hyperion.
‘Poseidon.’
There are many lone stalks amongst the twisted boughs of the Hesperides tree with no fruit dangling from their tips. I wonder if it is my imagination, or if there are fewer golden apples than there were before.
I begin to notice dead animals. A kestrel with broken wings lying by the lagoon. A wolf, its insides exposed and glistening, draped on the exposed rocks to the north of the Hesperides plateau. A boar in the forest below, bearing a wound that could only have been made by a blade. These deaths cannot be the work of a Titan. We do not kill for sport, only to feed ourselves. And we never, ever end another’s life to consume its threads. Perhaps the evil Poseidon spoke of has already found its way to the sacred mountain.
I sicken a season after the night Poseidon arrived and Atlas returned his threads to the Hesperides tree. I think that whatever has twisted the minds of mortal men has poisoned me too. Then, one night, I feel the stirring of new strands of life inside me.
I tell no one, not even Zeus. I fear for what may become of me and my child if the other Titans discover the truth.
I wake to a knife at my throat.
Before I can react, the weapon is withdrawn.
‘Not her,’ whispers a familiar voice.
I shuffle back. The ground is warm and wet beneath my hands. I turn and see Phoebe, her throat slicked with blood, lips parted, eyes glazed.
I scream.
Prometheus, Crius, Iapetus, Tethys, Coeus, Hyperion and Poseidon wake. The others do not move from their root beds. I search the faces around me, alive and slain, but I cannot see Zeus.
Three shadowy figures emerge from behind the tree.
Assassins.
From their stature, they appear to be a man and two women dressed in homespun tunics. I catch a glimpse of the man’s face under a dapple of moonlight. For a heart-stopping moment I think it is Zeus. But no, this man’s face is sharper, his build slighter.
‘Protect the tree!’ Crius shouts.
