Athena watched Cassandra, standing mute and shell-shocked in the middle of the massacre. She really had needed the girl, after all.
“Come on.” Athena still held Odysseus’ shoulder, but her knee already felt better. A few hours off of it and she’d be able to walk on her own.
Cassandra looked up as they approached.
“You’re hurt,” she said.
“You’re not,” Athena said. “Good.”
“I should’ve done something sooner.”
Athena had nothing to say to that. The bodies of strangers lay strewn at their feet. Strangers who had taken it upon themselves to stand between them and a god.
“We should go,” said Hermes. “Before we bring anything else down on their heads.”
“Isn’t there anything we can do for them?” Cassandra asked.
“No,” Athena sighed. “Aside from help them bury or burn their dead. And I don’t think they’d want our help.”
A voice sounded from their right, paper thin but strong. The white-haired elder walked toward them on stiff knees, her woven dress splashed with blood. She looked at Athena and spoke.
“She says she dreamed of you,” Hermes translated. “Like silver fire. She dreamed your pain. She—” He stopped.
“What? What did she say?”
“She said she dreamed of you, the dog of war. The dogs of war are your home. Or something.” Hermes shook his head. “I’m sorry, lady. I’m a poor and rusty translator.”
The elder drew closer, a tall woman hunched over and become small. An illusion of curved back and stiff knees to hide strength like steel wire. Athena took comfort in that, at least. With this woman at their head, the people would recover. The elder’s hand shot out like a whip and grasped Cassandra’s arm, too fast even for Hermes, and Cassandra flinched, frightened. The elder let go and muttered something into Hermes’ ear. Then she patted his arm, almost tenderly, and touched his face.
“God,” she said, and walked away.
“What was that?” Cassandra asked. “What did she say to you? Was it about me?”
“I don’t think I understood. She said that you were without dreams. Or that she dreamed of you without dreams. It didn’t make sense.”
Athena looked after the elder and frowned. Two thousand years ago, she could’ve protected these people. “Let’s just go home.”
*
At the airport, they changed clothes and cleaned up as best they could to hide the blood. Odysseus tied a scarf around his neck to cover Ares’ handprint of bruises. It looked ridiculous. But the effort was wasted anyway. Aside from a few uncomfortable glances, no one paid them any attention. Their boat guide back upriver had asked if Athena needed help getting to her seat with an air of careful politeness: your business is your business.
“I like these people,” Athena said to Cassandra as they took advantage of hot water and soap in one of the airport bathrooms.
Cassandra arched her brow.
“You’re in a good mood,” she said.
“I am,” Athena replied, even as the smile died on her face. “The village. It shouldn’t have happened. That was my fault.”
“Normally I’d agree with you. Everything’s your fault. But he got around you. Even the goddess of battle has to have a hard time against the god of war.”
“No, she doesn’t,” Athena said. “And she won’t. At least you’re safe. And Odysseus. And Hermes.”
“It’s my fault as much as yours,” said Cassandra. “I should have stopped him.”
“He’d have crushed you with one hit. You were smart to stay back.”
“No,” Cassandra said. “There were lots of times. Lots of chances when he wouldn’t have seen me coming. I could have saved them. Some of them at least. But I was scared.” She paused. “I suppose you think that’s stupid. That I should have killed him.”
“You almost did,” Athena said. “Burst his back like a blood balloon.”
Cassandra scrubbed her hands under the hot water. She scrubbed hard, like she was soiled.
“What about Hera?” she asked. “Do you really think she’s alive?”