life, but a good one. And at least he could give the sea monster a fight before it killed him. That ought to satisfy Poseidon’s demands. The visitation of the monster was a punishment of the whole city of Ilium because of some religious rivalry amongst priests which had closed the temple of the Sea God, thus incurring his wrath. The God had required the sacrifice of King Tros’ virgin daughter. In most respects, that was what was being provided.
Androphilos yawned. A few birds landed on his ledge. Some had thoughtfully brought their breakfast, clams and oysters in their shells. They made a good meal, plucking out the flesh and gobbling it. Then they took off in a cloud, screaming a warning.
Androphilos flinched as a dreadful creature arose from the sea. It was bluish, tentacled, and the tentacles writhed up, presenting him with a huge curved beak. He drew his sword and was about to strike when the creature emitted a huge sneeze. It leaned on two tentacles, an enormous eye focused on him and a voice in Androphilos’ head said, ‘You aren’t a maiden. You aren’t even a female. What fraud is this?’
‘You don’t get to eat my sister just because your master is miffed,’ Androphilos informed him. ‘Why are you eating maidens, anyway?’
‘They taste nice,’ said the monster. ‘Well, they taste passable. I actually prefer seals. They’re already salted. Dolphins are good too. And I once almost got a killer whale, but they bite back, so it almost ate me. But I am eating this maiden because Poseidon ordered it. You, on the other hand, are gamy with sex and not edible at all.’
‘That’s good to hear,’ replied Androphilos. ‘I have this sword. Where would you like to be stabbed?’
‘That’s brighter and longer than a killer whale’s tooth,’ said the monster uneasily. ‘But what can I do? I have my orders. It’s a dry death for me if I don’t carry them out. You seem like a nice creature, but if Poseidon says I have to eat you, then I’ll eat you.’
‘I’m sure that we can reach an acceptable compromise,’ said Androphilos, waving the sword so that sunlight glinted on the blade. ‘The argument is about the closing of the Sea Father’s temple, right?’
‘That’s what he said,’ replied the monster.
‘So why don’t we build him a nice little shrine here,’ asked the prince. ‘We have rocks and sea shells. That’s all that’s needed. We build a shrine, I kneel and pray, and you can go back to dining on seals. Agreed?’
‘I suppose so,’ said the monster.
Androphilus piled up stones into a rough approximation of a votive table and laid on it the sea shells and some shed feathers, interwoven into the fine silken veil. Then he knelt and stretched out his arms, his hand still holding the sword, and prayed aloud.
‘Father of the sea, all-powerful Poseidon, forgive this faithless city! I am the king’s son and I have built you a new temple, with suitable offerings. Forgive us! Show us a sign!’
A tentacle curled around Andros’ ankle, another circled the wrist still secured to the cliff. The monster was moving closer. The suckers cut and stung his skin. They were razor edged. The beak opened and clicked shut.
‘Wait, can’t you?’ demanded Andros.
‘Not too long,’ warned the monster. ‘You are smelling a lot tastier, the hungrier I get.’
‘He’ll have you torn apart and eaten by sharks, if you kill me before he’s made up his mind!’ warned Androphilos.
At that point a beautiful man dropped from the sky onto the ledge. He struck the chain with his sword and it broke.
‘Did Poseidon send you?’ asked Androphilos. ‘Poseidon did send you,’ he reinforced this hint with an exaggerated nod.
‘Of course,’ said the hero.
Tentacles slithered away. ‘I’ll be going then,’ said the monster, and dropped down into the sea again. Androphilos let out a huge breath and sagged against the sea-wet rock.
‘As a matter of interest, who are you, most beautiful of heros, and what are you doing here?’ he asked when he had his voice back under control. ‘I’m Androphilos, Prince of Ilium.’
‘I’m Perseus, returning from a quest for the Medusa’s head. I have it here,’ he added, hefting a bag made of woven hair. ‘And I would have been happy to turn that creature into stone.’
‘It was just carrying out orders for a testy God,’ said Androphilos. ‘Thank you. Would you care to be kissed?’
The hero’s eyes glowed. Androphilos was the most desirable human he had ever encountered. Dark, smooth, long limbed. HIs eyes promised an eternity of delight.
‘Certainly, but let me carry us away from here. I’ve got winged shoes. Hermes lent them to me. Don’t you want to go back to the city?’
‘No, they’ll be very angry with me, because I just built a shrine to the wrong god. People like that don’t stop being idiots. They’ll just do something equally foolish again, and then sacrifice someone to something. I’ve looked enough monsters in the teeth. Or beak, as it might be. I’d like to come with you,’ said Androphilos, sliding an arm around the hero and drawing him close. Oh, golden skin, sweet mouth, hyacinthine hair that curled around the fingers. The hero kissed the prince as though they had been lovers for years, with grace and unhesitating passion.
‘Oh, yes,’ sighed Perseus, hugged Androphilos tight, and lifted them both into the air.
Historians have always wondered 1) why it took Perseus a month to get home, when he had the winged shoes and cap of Hermes and 2) why he never married, but stayed with his Trojan companion and adopted his sister’s children as heirs. These mysteries, alas, will now never be solved, and these questions never answered.
HAEARN-DARA
His father was a smith, so he named his fourth and last son Dara, after the tough oak knots with which he fired his furnace when he smelted the precious metal, iron.
His mother died at his birth. Sometimes such sons are cherished as the last remembrance of their wife: not so Dara. His father gave him away to be fostered with a shepherd and bade his household never speak of him again.
But Dara made sheep nervous, and he crept into the forge to watch his father at work. At first he was not noticed. Then he was driven away with harsh words and blows. But, bruised, trembling, he always gathered courage and came back, as though dragged by the wise iron. And his brothers were not smiths. One was a famous hunter, one a famous bard, one a shaman and keeper of lore. None loved the iron as Dara did. So his father, grudgingly, allowed him into the forge and began to teach him the mysteries of his craft. This colour of flame - and only this - meant that the metal could be worked. Hotter, and it could not be beaten. Cooler, and it would fracture under the hammer. It must be doused after the seventh stroke, then heated again, and beaten, and doused again. Many blows Dara endured, and much abuse, for his father still did not love him. But he was eager to learn.
The woman whom his father had married after Dara’s mother had died disliked him, but he did not care. He wore the worst garments, he ate the food the pigs disdained. No gentle embrace had Dara, no kiss of friendship. He did not notice. His mind and soul were bent on the mastery of iron, and they called him Haearn-Dara, Iron Dara, and left him alone. He grew wiry and strong from work at
