Chapter V: The Triple Goddess
The gates of the Underworld were thrust open by the power of heavenly lightning. A massive figure, all muscles and flowing white hair, with brazen orange skin and wearing a purple robe, descended into the realm of Hades. This was the father of the gods, mighty Zeus.
He flew past the giant, black, three-headed Hellhound known as Cerberus, and when the guardian of the Underworld tried to take a bite out of him, Zeus sent the beast flying with a single punch. Cerberus was sent running off, whimpering.
Zeus continued his flight through the dark and dismal landscape, passing over the River Styx where Charon navigated the boat that ferries souls from the world of the living to the world of the dead. It was the same river where Achilles's mother had once dipped him in, submerging all but his ankle, making him immortal save that one spot.
He soared over the moaning and groaning spirits of the dead, swirling in their pool of lost souls. The Underworld was home to three distinct lands: the Fields of Elysium where the heroic dead were eternally rewarded, the Asphodel Meadows where ordinary mortals rested, and the Pits of Tartarus where the damned were punished for all eternity.
"Gray Sisters, hear me! I call you for an audience!" said Zeus.
The king of the Olympians flew into a cave within the realm of Hades, a gloomy, rocky place where he knew the three all-seeing, all-knowing sisters could be found. It was here that the gods could seek knowledge of the past, present, and future.
"The goddess, the goddess, the goddess!" cackled the three sisters.
The Triple Goddess has many names, many faces of femininity, and they wore them all at once, or one at a time. A girl in the morning, a mother in the afternoon, and a crone in the evening — the Riddle of the Sphinx with a woman's touch.
The Fates drew the threads of mortal lives, spinning and weaving the story of our time on Earth, one eye and one tooth between the three of them. Their ragged hands and wrinkled gray flesh touched the threads lovingly, jealously. One to spin, one to measure, and one to cut.
But fate could be beautiful, kind, and here they were the Graces. Fair young ladies who danced and sang through the best parts of life, through childhood and adventure, marriage and parenthood. If life was good, the Graces had blessed you.
Life, as we well know, is not always sunshine and roses. When ill-fortune befalls us, when we commit terrible crimes that warrant dire punishment, the Triple Goddess assumes her most terrible form: the Furies, three monstrous torturers who clawed and flayed and dealt out the worst of life's designs. But they are not judge and jury — we play that role ourselves.
The Gray Sisters, they were called. The Graces, all things ephemeral. The Weird Sisters, three witches in the fog. The Kindly Ones, the Furies, beautiful and terrible to behold. They are with us always. The Morrigan. The Triple Lady.
"All-mighty Zeus, you honor us with your presence!" called the first Fate.
"To what do we owe this visit?" asked the second sister.
"What hidden knowledge do you seek to know?" cried the third.
One of them was tall and thin with pale blue skin and empty eye sockets, a spider in her nose. The middle Fate was small and plump, her skin purple, her worm-like hair puscent green, and on her face a single eye socket missing its eye. The third sister was green-skinned with wispy yellow hair, and she was the current holder of their single, shared eyeball.
"Most revered Gray Sisters, I come to you asking how this accursed Trojan War will end." Zeus radiated orange light, his blue eyes round and shining. "This war is causing chaos on Mount Olympus. All the gods have taken sides!"
"Ah, in-fighting among the gods? Who could have seen that coming?"
"Besides us, of course," cackled one of the Fates.
"We knew you would come to us asking your question."
"We know everything!" laughed another.
"Yes, yes, I know you know," said Zeus, exasperated. "As king of the gods, I command you to cut the riddles and give me a straight answer for once in your millenium of life."
"Not in a mood for chit-chat, are we?" laughed the tall, blue Fate.
"Not particularly," Zeus fumed. "There's Ares and Aphrodite, Apollo and Artemis on the side of the Trojans, and then I've got my wife Hera and my daughter Athena on the side of the Greeks! It's pandemonium on Olympus! I can't stand it any longer."
"So you want to know how this dreadful war ends, eh?"
"Very well, mighty Zeus, very well."
"Our knowledge is at your service, my liege."
The sister with the eyeball struck the back of her head and popped the gross, slimy eye out of her eye socket. She threw the eye into the air, where it hovered and revolved and began to glow with golden light, showing a vision of the not-too-distant future.
"When Achilles, son of Peleus of Phthia and the sea nymph Thetis, rides into the war to save his beloved Patroclus, the tides of war will finally change," sang the Fates in unison. "When the horse rides into Troy and the beautiful Queen Helen is finally saved, only then will the war be won. Be cautious, mighty Zeus, for great triumph requires great sacrifice."
"Who will be sacrificed? Who must die for this war to finally end?"
"You'll see soon enough," laughed the Fates. "The war that began with a golden apple and the choice of a prince will end only when that same prince falls in battle."
"Paris is much loved by Aphrodite and Ares," mused Zeus. "Is he the only sacrifice you speak of? Must anyone else perish?"
"You'll see!" repeated the Fates. "But be warned, mighty Zeus, for there are those among your own council who plot your overthrow."
"Jealous gods with their eyes on the throne of Olympus."
"Who can you trust when you don't know who's scheming your demise?"
"Someone is plotting my overthrow?" yelled Zeus. "I order you to tell me!"
"We've said enough!" cried the Fates. "Your answers are at an end!"
And with that, the three Gray Sisters vanished in a swirl of smoke, their single eyeball disappearing with them. The Fates were perhaps the only immortals who could dare leave Zeus hanging, for even Zeus feared the power of the Triple Goddess.
"Great triumph requires great sacrifice," Zeus repeated to himself. "And someone is plotting my downfall… Oh, for the love of Olympus…"
Feeling like he knew less now than when he had arrived in the Underworld, Zeus flew out of the Fates' cave and left the dreary realm behind him, returning to Mount Olympus to discuss what he had learned with his wife, Hera, and finally have some rest.
He didn't know which god or goddess was plotting his overthrow, but when he found them out, he would make them suffer the fury of the king of the gods.
His boat docked at a port located on a picturesque beach in Asia Minor, the land of the Trojans. Achilles paid the sailors a few extra drachmas for their trouble and even helped them unload the cargo they had been carrying from Greece to the Asian countries. The sailors were surprised at how strong he was, carrying two massive crates all by himself.
"Where are you, Patroclus?" he mused to himself, dropping the sailors' cargo and leaving with his traveling bags slung over his shoulder.
The Greek youth strolled through the streets of the port city, a small settlement on the shore that the Greek army had long since taken over in their war. His plan was to find a member of the Greek army and say that he wished to enlist to fight the Trojans, then he would find Patroclus and they could both go AWOL and catch the first ship back to Greece.
Achilles had no wish to fight this war. He had no personal stakes in the outcome, so once he found Patroclus, he was happy to abandon the Greeks to their fate.
"Excuse me, soldier," he called to a man in uniform he saw inspecting the incoming cargo. "You look like a Greek warrior. I would like to offer myself to the army."
"Very good, we need all the help we can get. You seem like a strong lad."
"I'm the strongest in my city-state. Take me to the army."
So Achilles followed the Greek soldier through the alleyways of the port city, passing merchants and fishermen all trying to make a living, until they had left the town behind them and were walking along serenic beaches, the water lapping at the shore pleasantly.
It took them about an hour crossing the beaches and meadows of coastal Asia Minor until they finally reached the encampment of the Greek army. Achilles saw a town of tents pitched on a grassland not too far from the shore. There were rows and rows of white tents, temporary housing for Greek soldiers, protection from the rain.
Of course, Achilles's first thought was to search each tent for Patroclus.
"Thank you for the escort, soldier," he said to his companion. "I'm fairly sure I can find the captain and let him know of my enlistment."
The soldier shook his hand and made for one of the tents. Achilles was glad to shake him, and so he entered the campsite of the Greek army with excitement and trepidation. "Patroclus?" he called out. "Where are you, Pat?"
"Patroclus, did you say?" asked a soldier emerging from a tent. "I know Patroclus. He's stitched my wounds many times after battle. Don't know what we'd do without him."
"Can you take me to him?" Achilles asked impatiently.
The soldier nodded and beckoned Achilles to follow him. His heart soaring, his head almost dizzy from anticipation, Achilles followed him through the maze of tents. He passed warriors with nasty-looking cuts, some missing limbs, who would not see another battle. There were veterans of war and there were fresh-faced new recruits, all kinds in the Greek army.
At long last, they arrived at the medicine tent.
Achilles rushed inside with great love in his heart, certain that he would find Patroclus inside and that they would run away from the army and live happily ever after.
What he found inside was indeed Patroclus, but not what he was expecting. Pat was wearing a blood-smeared tunic, bent over a table on which an injured soldier lay. Pat was carefully stitching some nasty-looking wounds on the soldier's arms and legs.
Patroclus didn't even look up when he entered the medicine tent. "I'll be with you momentarily," he said mechanically.
"Pat, it's me," called Achilles gently.
Patroclus finally looked up. His dark brown hair was cut militarily short, and his scrawny muscles had grown to a respectable size. His pale skin was tanner, and he looked battle-worn and weathered, but it was a good look for him. Achilles thought he looked handsomer than ever.
"Achy," he said hoarsely. Pat looked over his patient to make sure his wounds were all sufficiently tended, then he left his side and ran into Achilles's arms.
"Oh, Achy, I've missed you so much." They kissed at once, slow and passionately.
"Not as much as I've missed you," said Achilles, running a hand through his hair.
Their embrace lasted several moments, and their shared kiss was one of passion and romance. When they finally broke away, Patroclus chuckled nervously and Achilles put his hands on his lover's shoulders, as if he couldn't believe he was really there.
From the operating table, the stitched patient cried out, "Are you gonna stand their making out, doc, or are you gonna finish stitching me back together?"
"Oh, right, of course," said Pat, quickly returning to his patient's side and looking over his wounds. He threaded the needle once more and stitched together a wound on the soldier's left arm, and then declared him good as new, once he rested and gave his injuries a few days to heal.
The soldier got back on his feet and left the medicine tent, and then it was just Patroclus and his Achilles. Alone at last.
They hugged and kissed one another again, smiling this time for their privacy. Achilles tugged at his boyfriend's hand and tried to lead him out of the tent. "Come away with me, Pat. Let's ditch the army and return to Greece. We can finally be together."
"Achy…" said Patroclus slowly, "...I can't do that. I have a job to do."
"What do you mean, you have a job? My father forced you to enlist against your will, and now you're stitching up a bunch of rude soldiers. What's so great about that?"
"You don't understand," Pat tried to explain, sitting down on a stool in the medicine tent. "It's true that I didn't want to enlist and your father made me, but now that I'm here… It's like I finally have a purpose. I can be the healer I always wanted to be."
"You don't want to run away with me?" Achilles said, flabbergasted.
"Of course I do, but what I want more is to be useful. And in this job, I am."
Achilles had never been angry with Patroclus. His anger had been kindled against many people: his father, his townsfolk, the Greek army, the Trojan army, but never against Pat. But in that moment, with Pat defying him, he came close.
"I can tell you're upset," said Patroclus, holding his hand tightly. "But maybe this is a good thing. Maybe you can stay and fight and help the Greeks win this terrible war."
"You want me to fight?" he said, astounded. He shook his head. "Athena wants me to fight. Ares wants me to fight. Phil wants me to fight. All I want is to be with you."
"And we can be together, if you stay and join the army. We can share a tent every night. Just think of it… You'll come back from fighting, I'll dress your wounds…"
"You know I can't be injured. Well, ankle aside."
"Not the point. What I'm saying is that in the army, we can be together."
"I… I suppose you're right. I guess I should fight."
"It's what you're best at, isn't it?"
The two young men drew into another passionate kiss, alone in the medicine tent. They held the kiss for a good, long while, only breaking away after they had taken the time to deeply know each other. They laughed in delight, then arm in arm, they exited the tent.
Patroclus told his boyfriend that he would take him to meet the captains of the Greek army, to whom he could declare his intention of joining the Greeks and fighting the Trojans. They walked through the camp of tents, several soldiers waving to Patroclus — evidently he was popular as a healer — until they arrived at a large yellow tent made of animal hide.
"Here we are… the generals of the army," said Patroclus nervously.
"Don't be afraid of them," Achilles said, squeezing his hand. "I'm not."
He entered the generals' tent with much bravado.
Inside were three men whom he vaguely recognized from his father's war council meetings, the few that he had actually attended, at least. There was a familiar, enormously muscular, red-haired and bearded man whom he knew was King Agamemnon, the ruler of Mycenae, southwest of Athens. Then there was his little brother, King Menelaus, a slimmer figure but nonetheless well-muscled, with auburn hair and a permanent frown on his face. Menelaus was the king of the Spartans, which made him a dangerous man to trifle with. The third man was broader than Menelaus but not as huge as Agamemnon, a sandy brown-haired man with a crafty expression on his face and a pointed beard that he liked to stroke. This fox of a man could only be Odysseus, the trickster king of Ithaca.
Achilles was probably expected to bow to the three kings, given that he was only a prince. That would have been the courteous thing to do. Achilles did not bow.
Patroclus, on the other hand, gave a low bow as salute to the three kings. "My lords, may I present the strongest warrior of Phthia, the one and only Achilles, son of King Peleus!"
"Achilles, is it?" Odysseus laughed to see him. "So you decided to skip your father's war councils and make straight for the war yourself?"
"I was never one for sitting and talking," Achilles said defiantly.
"No, of course not. A man of action. I respect that."
"Leave him be, Odysseus," said red-haired King Agamemnon, brushing past the tricky king and offering his hand to Achilles. The prince was wise enough to accept the handshake. "I'm glad to see you've joined our army. We need strong men like you."
"I'm not just strong," Achilles said, grinning. "I'm invulnerable."
This declaration left the three kings speechless. Odysseus said, "Prove it."
Shrugging, Achilles pulled out his sword from his sheath and promptly attempted to stab himself through the stomach, like a Japanese samurai committing suicide by katana, a practice known as seppuku. The three kings were astonished to see that the blade did not penetrate his skin, didn't cut him in the slightest. Odysseus stepped forward, took a dagger from his belt, and tried to stab Achilles in the heart. He struck him so hard that his dagger cracked in two against Achilles's flesh, as if his skin was hard as a rock. "By the gods, he is invulnerable."
"A hero like you deserves a special place in our army," said King Menelaus. "My brother, what do you say we appoint young Achilles here the head of the Phthian soldiers?"
"A magnificent idea," said King Agamemnon. "What do you say, Achilles?"
"I would be honored to lead my countrymen into battle."
"Excellent, simply excellent," applauded Agamemnon. Then he put a hand on Achilles's shoulder and led him to a chest that was seated at the foot of his bed. "An invincible warrior deserves a fine suit of armor, wouldn't you say? I happen to have armor I'm not currently using. Gold-plated, crafted by my best armor smiths. It could pass for Hephaestus's handiwork!"
Agamenmon opened the chest and revealed the suit of armor within. It was indeed a magnificent work, crafted from bronze and gold with an image of galloping horses carved into the breastplate. "Here, try it on, let's see how you look."
Achilles obliged him and allowed Patroclus to strap the golden armor onto his body. He was slimmer than Agamemnon, so the armor's straps had to be tightened, but other than that it fit his body well. He donned a golden helmet, gauntlets, greaves, with a leather skirt around his waist and a sword and shield at his sides. Standing at his full height, in his golden armor, Achilles was a sight to behold.
"Let our troops see you on the battlefield, and they'll fight like never before," mused King Agamemnon, pleased at his own genius.
Achilles groaned internally, but did not let his expression falter. He did not want to fight this war. All he wanted was to run away with Patroclus, but his lover had decided his place was in the army, and Achilles would not abandon him, even if that meant he had to fight.
If only he knew how fateful the decision to fight would be.
In the tallest town of the royal castle of Troy, there sat a beautiful woman looking out from her window at the city. Beautiful was not a strong enough word to describe her. Words could not do her beauty justice. She was ethereal, her face perfectly carved, her blonde hair long and silky, not a blemish on her body. Her breasts were full, her body was plump and curvaceous, and the dress she wore was equally stunning, purple silk with diamonds and pearls on her neck.
This was Helen of Troy, the most beautiful woman in the world, a daughter of Zeus by the tryst between Leda and the father of the gods, wherein the allfather took the form of a swan. She was the sister of the twins Castor and Pollux, and the sister of Clytemnestra, the wife of Agamemnon. But she had not seen her family for many years now.
"Will there be more fighting tomorrow?" she asked, her voice hollow.
"But of course," said the prince by her side. He was Paris, the prince of Troy, the one who had made the fateful decision to name Aphrodite the most beautiful Greek goddess and claim Helen as his prize. "We will fight until we drive the Greeks out of our country."
"I hate this war," she bemoaned, "and it's all because of me."
"You should be proud to have men fighting and dying for you."
"Proud? Is that what you think I should be?" Helen laughed despairingly. She had never been in love with Paris, only ever his captive thanks to the work of Aphrodite. Helen's heart beat only for Menelaus, her fair young king, who was fighting to win her back from Paris.
"Of course you should be proud. You're the most beautiful woman in the world. And you're my wife to boot. What's there not to be proud of?"
"Great beauty can be a great curse," she muttered under her breath.
"Oh, cheer up," said Paris callously. "Soon we'll have crushed those Greeks and we can get back to ruling this city together. I need a beautiful queen by my side."
The thought did little to comfort Helen. She looked out her window to see how far the drop was to the ground below, wondering if it was high enough to end her suffering. But she did not throw herself out the window. Deep inside her, there was still a sliver of hope that her beloved Menelaus would rescue her from her prison.
Even when all the world's curses had escaped Pandora's box, there was still hope.