The Age of Zeus

41. PUBLIC WORKS

H ercules, as it turned out, was no longer partying, and was in fact intending to atone for the drunken havoc he had caused.

It was not in his nature to do something like this willingly, and he would still have been carrying on in the usual manner had Zeus not travelled to New York and taken the roistering demigod aside for a quiet word.

Quiet word? Actually it was more of a vicious row in the middle of Central Park, witnessed by countless Manhattanites and tourists, and it culminated in the senior Olympian calling down a thunderstorm on Hercules's head in the middle of Central Park, pelting him so hard with rain and hail that he could barely stand. Then he hauled the battered, bedraggled Hercules to his feet and urged him to do his bidding, on penalty of death. Hercules consented, not because he was scared by the threat, he said, but because he could now plainly see that what Zeus was suggesting was the right thing to do.

Zeus then, a day later, addressed a hastily arranged press conference in the shadow of the World Trade Center. Standing on the open-air plaza beside the large fountain with its granite base and bronze sphere sculpture, he informed the hacks of the world that Hercules would be performing a series of tasks in and around the city in order to make amends for his recent untoward behaviour. These would be practical, helpful, large-scale public works that would signally improve the lives of New Yorkers and their urban environment. The mayor had already given the scheme his blessing.

One bright young spark from Vanity Fair piped up: "Would I be right in thinking this is kind of a new Twelve Labours?"

Zeus nodded, smiling. It was often best not to spell things out for journalists. If a thing was obvious, let them spot it for themselves. That way they would feel clever.

"And Hercules," said the Olympian affairs correspondent for the Financial Times, "how do you feel about the idea? Looking forward to getting stuck in?"

"Delighted," said a grudging, truculent Hercules. "Couldn't be happier."

"Do you think this will help New York citizens forgive you for the damage you've done?" said a woman from the Herald Tribune. "And maybe the rest of America for your part in defacing Mount Rushmore?"

"Maybe."

"What about the two TV reporters you killed?" asked a stringer from the Corriere Della Sera, dressed with ostentatious nattiness as only an Italian could.

"What about them?"

"Is this how you are saying sorry to their families?"

Hercules grimaced. Zeus stepped in. "Hercules is not here to respond to questions about his past actions. He's interested only in discussing the near future and this generous gesture of reparation he's about to make. A dozen feats of prodigious strength will be accomplished during the next few days in this great city, and you, ladies and gentlemen of the Fourth Estate, not to mention the good folk of New York, will have a ringside seat."

Someone else in the throng of journalists raised a hand. "Zeus? Jennifer Konchalowsky from Fox News."

"Yes, Miss Konchalowsky?"

"O great Zeus the High-Thundering, the Aegis-Bearing, the Dispenser Of All Things To Men, God Of Gain, may I say what an honour it is to be speaking with you."

"We in the Pantheon always have time for the Fox network."

"And we at Fox always have airtime for you. First of all, can I ask, are you and Hercules intending on heading on over to the Capitol while you're here? I understand there's an open invitation to the White House. Also, President Stavropoulos has offered the Pantheon the freehold on Mount Olympus in Washington state as a gift, if you're interested in setting up a second base of operations Stateside. It's also a gesture to show there are no hard feelings about San Francisco and Mount Rushmore. Care to comment?"

"We have no social plans at present," said Zeus, "and picturesque though your Olympus is, ours is the original and best, in addition to being somewhat warmer and less snow-covered. Mike Stavropoulos, I must say, is a good and generous-hearted man, and next time we have a chance I'm sure we'll take advantage of his hospitality."

"And as a follow-up question, if I may," Konchalowsky continued, "what's with these guys who've been killing your monsters? The ones in the Agonides clip?"

"Agon-eye-dees, Miss Konchalowsky. Not Agon-ides."

"Oh. Sorry."

There were sniggers.

"And the point you're making is…?" Zeus said.

"Well, are you going to do anything about them? And if so, what?"

Zeus gave a tolerant sigh, although overhead, faintly, a crackle of thunder could be heard rippling above the summits of the Twin Towers. A Stars and Stripes, limp on its flagpole, swelled into life.

"We have," he said, "as a precaution — and I stress, only as a precaution — transferred Typhon and Scylla to Olympus for safekeeping. Cerberus, of course, is there already. We felt they would be exposed to undue risk if we left them where they were — we would be unable to guarantee their protection. It's a temporary state of affairs. This particular matter will, I promise you, be resolved shortly."

"But resolved how?" said Konchalowsky, who was one of those TV reporters whose glamorousness sheathed a steely tenacity. She looked all fluffy bunny but was all pushy vixen underneath. "This is a well organised outfit who've effectively taken thirteen of your monsters off the grid, at the last count, and forced you to mothball the rest."

"I wouldn't say we've mothballed — "

"So what's the plan? Bending the Eiffel Tower and smashing the Sydney Opera House didn't work. It didn't flush them out, didn't make them think twice. You must want these people bad. How are you going to get them?"

Thunder churned overhead again. Cloudless April skies were turning leaden grey.

"We will, Miss Konchalowsky, get them," said Zeus. "Let there be no doubt about that. The how and the when of it will be at our choosing. And I am not prepared to talk about this any further. Let's focus on Hercules and his New Labours, shall we?"

Konchalowsky would not be that easily dismissed. She persisted with her line of interrogation, even as her colleagues around her grew increasingly restless and resentful.

"Fox News is the Olympians' friend," she said, "you know that, Zeus. I'm not trying to be difficult here."

"So stop pestering him," someone nearby hissed, and someone else hissed, "Are you trying to piss him off?"

She ignored them. "I'd just like to know — I think everyone would like to know — that the monster killers are going to be dealt with before they cause even worse trouble. Some of us don't like it that there are people making the Olympians mad."

"Like you, you mean?" grumbled a man next to her.

"What do you say, Zeus?"

"What do I say?" Zeus barked. He had had enough. "What do I say? I'll tell you what I say, Miss Konchalowsky. They are flies! Gnats! That's all they are to us. A stinging, buzzing nuisance, and we shall swat them and squash them, but we shall do it in our own way and at our own convenience. We will not be goaded by these nobodies into acting before we are ready to act. Do I make myself clear?"

At that moment, before Jennifer Konchalowsky had a chance to reply, the heavens opened. The rain was like a billion buckets of water being tipped out at once, all of this downpour concentrated on the WTC plaza and a few hundred square metres around. Journalists scattered, making for cover. The thunder that accompanied the deluge was earth-shaking, the lightning blinding.

At Bleaney, watching a live broadcast of the press conference lapsing into rain-battered chaos, Landesman burst out laughing.

"Temper, temper," he told the sodden Zeus, who one camera showed retreating hurriedly indoors with the equally sodden Hercules. "Oh, you're well and truly rattled, aren't you? This whole Twelve Labours PR stunt — that's surely the mark of a desperate man. And," he added, "you've pushed Hercules out of the trenches into the firing line. Another egregious error. Our job has just been made ten times simpler."

Sam, beside him, couldn't help but sound a note of caution. "What if he did it on purpose?"

"The thunderstorm? No, Sam, that was pure lack of self-control."

"Hercules, I mean. These New Labours. What if it's… well, I hate to say, but a trap? What if Hercules is simply bait?"

"Dangerous bait, don't you think? Like putting dynamite on the hook instead of a juicy worm."

"Dynamite still brings home dead fish."

"Fair point. But no, I don't believe Zeus would be prepared to risk sacrificing one of his own, merely to get us."

"Why not? He's not that fond of Hercules. Hercules has always been a liability, a loose cannon. If there was one Olympian Zeus would consider expendable, one he wouldn't mind if he lost, Herc is it."

"Sam." Sternly.

"I'm just saying."

"I know. Don't you have a Minotaur to attend to?"

Sam stopped herself from going on. Obstinacy could be confounded by only one thing: greater obstinacy from someone else. Landesman was in charge. He had always been in charge. She was coming to understand that her leadership had been a token, his to grant, his to rescind at will. Landesman had used her to get the Titans to this point. She'd captained the ship out of harbour. She'd navigated through the early, relatively calm part of the voyage. But now, with rough seas ahead, he was very firmly taking the helm.

She went straight from his company to the Minotaur's, and of the two it was the latter she found more congenial. Five days into her allotted week, she was sure she had gained the monster's confidence. Its eyes, though still fearsome in their redness, looked at her now with something like trust. The monster almost seemed glad to see her whenever she entered the pen. At first she'd thought this was because she brought food — a straightforward stimulus response, animal conditioning. But then she'd tried going in empty-handed, and still the Minotaur seemed glad. It approached her expectantly, but wasn't angry or disappointed to discover she didn't come bearing sustenance.

That afternoon, after butting heads with Landes-man, she plucked up the courage to touch the Minotaur. She placed a hand on its brow, taking time over the movement so as not to startle the beast. The Minotaur, to her surprise, didn't object, didn't toss her hand aside. Instead it crooned softly at the physical contact. Sam began to stroke and scratch the knotty tuft of hair between its horns. The Minotaur almost cooed with delight.

She knew then.

She had mastered the monster.