Page 3 of Crown of Serpents

Danae opened her mouth as if she wanted to protest andclosed it again, her head hanging in defeat.

Perseus kissed his mother’s brow. “I will be back in no time. You don’t have to worry about me.”

He grabbed the pouch of drachmae, the only money they had, patted Dictys’s shoulder, and left the small fisherman’s hut behind him. It would be an hour-long trek over the island’s jagged cliffs and dusty terrain. The incessant chirping of the cicadas spurred him on. He had to hurry. Every citizen of Seriphos had to report to the palace before midday, and the sun was fast approaching its zenith, burning the tanned skin on his neck. He had taken too long, debating with his stubborn, protective mother.

In the agonising time it took for him to reach the city, his thoughts circled back to Polydectes and his greedy sneer. He couldn’t help it. Ever since he was a boy, Perseus had despised the entitlement of powerful men. He had been an angry child from the day Danae had told him how his grandfather had first imprisoned her and then tossed her in the sea. She had not just been an ordinary girl from Argos, but a princess, daughter of King Acrisius. He had locked her in a bronze cage when she was thirteen because the Oracle of Delphi had foretold that his grandson would become his demise. If Perseus ever met his grandsire, he would ensure the oracle had spoken the truth.

In that cage, some deity had “blessed” Danae with a shower of gold that had impregnated her. Danae refused to tell Perseus which god it had been. Once Acrisius had discovered that she was with child, he had vowed to kill his daughter. Only his fear of Perseus’s unknown sire had stopped him. Instead, he had tossed Danae and her child in the Aegean Sea in a wooden crate to face her fate. Polydectes was no better than King Acrisius or even his father. They took what they wanted without considering how their actions might impact those under their influence.

Perseus shook his head to drain out the thoughts as he reached the city gate. He had long given up his icy wrath, burying it deep inside. There was no use agonising over the injustice of it all. It was not like he could change it. Instead, he better devise a plan for paying his tithe.

He kept his head down as he walked through the capital’s winding streets, pushing through the downtrodden crowd headed for the palace, feet shuffling and heads low as they carried their annual tribute toward their cruel ruler. He instinctively reached for the hood of his chlamys to hide his face, only to realise that he had left his cloak at home due to the sweltering summer heat. As soon as they spotted Perseus’s ebony curls and broad shoulders, the city-dwellers gave him a wide berth, murmuring to each other as their gazes followed him.

The city’s houses were simple, made of stone from the rocky shores and clay. Most of them were simultaneously used for living and as a storefront or workshop for the local potters, smiths, and artisans. Hand-painted pithoi and leather goods were sprawled on wooden carts, the scent of freshly baked bread, oregano, and cumin wafting out of the windows of a low house. Seriphos had only a few multistory buildings. These had all been built by renowned architects from Crete, hired by Polydectes, who sought similar grandeur for his city. As if the rocky island could ever compare to Knossos, the pulsating city with its shimmering mosaics, the famed scarlet columns of the majestic palace, and the thriving community of artists and inventors dwelling there. In Seriphos, the bright marble of Polydectes’ palace and the recently built temple of Poseidon looked out of place, towering over the remaining buildings. Perseus frowned as he pushed on, following the stream of people heading for the palace, paying the clamouring of the merchants no heed. It was almost midday; he had to hurry.

Close to the palace’s main entrance, a grim-looking man in his forties yelled, “Men, soldiers, heroes! Do you have what it takes? Are you strong, brave, and skilled with a sword? Then, we have a unique opportunity for you. King Polydectes has put a bounty on the head of the creature ravaging the Aegean Sea, Medusa, the terrible gorgon!A vile creature, her skin scaled and slithery, serpents writhing on her head, and fangs that love tearing through the flesh of sailors. Our generous king pledges to give five hundred drachmae to the brave crew that slays the disgusting beast!”

Some people stopped hesitantly; their interest peaked by the handsome number of drachmae. Perseus merely shook his head and continued walking. Unlike his best friend Kleos, he had no desire to become a hero. No mercenaries who had sailed to slay the beast had returned. Venturing to the Lesbos Strait to confront the gorgon was as good as a death sentence. And all because some shipments of valuable silks and spices from Asia Minor had been lost.

Finally, Perseus reached the crowded palace steps, the scent of sweat, perfumed aristocrats, and livestock overwhelming his senses. Each citizen brought their tribute, a pouch of silver, or goods of the same value as sixty drachmae. Perseus got in line behind the wealthy merchants with chests full of jewels and delicate fabrics and slavers hauling their human “products” along. One man had brought an onyx bull while a few shepherds herded their scrawny goats to the palace gates. He frowned, unsure if Polydectes would accept these offerings as payment; he was not known for his mercy.

Time warped under the relentless glare of the sun. Each agonising minute stretched into an eternity. Finally, the line lurched forward, allowing Perseus to escape the inferno and find refuge in the cool shadows of the colonnade. With a sigh of relief, he watched as the heavily armed guards directed the mass of citizens toward the central patio.

Perseus could not help but marvel at the richly decorated walls and frescoes of various sea creatures adorning the hallways to the megaron. Of course, he had never known anything like this or indulged in any finery. Yet, for Polydectes to put such luxury on display in a passageway… a passageway that led to his throne room, where he would command a small fortune as an offering from his citizens. Perseus’s disgust grew as he entered the palace, glancing toward the shepherd behind him, tugging a single sickly goat along. How many others would not be able to pay the tithe this year? People like him all lined up to cower at the feet of a ruler who did nothing but waste their money on feasts and expensive buildings.

Suddenly, a gruff voice barked in his ear, “You’re coming with me, Perseus.”

He whipped his head toward the sneering guard carrying a bronze-tipped lance. “Where am I going?”

The man dragged him along to the front of the line. What had he done to be singled out?

“To see the king, you came to make an offering, didn’t you?”

Perseus’s stomach dropped. He still hadn't the faintest clue what he could possibly offer the king. The crowd parted for Perseus, their murmurs a low rumble of speculation. What had earned him this summons to the front of the line? Perseus’s skin crawled in discomfort as their curious eyes followed him.

Having made his way through the chaotic throng of merchants, pompous aristocrats with their entourages, and a group of hulking slavers, Perseus finally reached the imposing doorway. The oak door led to the megaron and,ultimately, to Polydectes. Empty-handed and with no plan, he stood before the king's threshold, a knot of dread tightening in his throat.

CHAPTER THREE

Medusa’s tattered linen dress was heavy and drenched with salt water, wet strands of emerald hair clinging to her face. Nothing terrified her like the depths of the sea, but she was on a mission. She would not let her panic control her, even as a rough wave crashed over her head. Medusa dug her nails deeper into the plank, legs thrashing against the churning water to prevent getting pulled under the surface. The wood was the only remnant of the trader’s ship that had sunk here three days ago. The Lesbos Strait was well known for its treacherous currents and deadly rocks lurking in the shallow waters. Still, greedy mortals continued taking this route because it was the fastest way from the southern fisher towns to Troy — the bountiful city in the North.

It was why Medusa had chosen this place after fleeing Aegina. She had settled here once she realised there was no escaping the grasp of the gods — no matter how far East she went. Now, she was one more danger lurking in the strait. Reduced to a monsterwith scaled skin, preying on mortals was the only way she could repay the gods for what they had done to her. It was the only way she could feed the burning anger inside her ever since she had been chased from the temple of Athena.

Medusa began thrashing helplessly, crying out for help once the ship was within earshot. She flailed her arms, desperate to catch the lookout’s attention.

“Captain, there is someone in the water!” he yelled upon spotting her.

Medusa could hardly contain a grin. She swallowed salt water as she called over the wind, her voice frail, “Help! I can’t swim!”

She watched as the crew on deck began shuffling about, hauling down the sails, dropping an anchor to bring the ship to a halt. Then, a rope was thrown over the rail, and Medusa clumsily paddled toward it and inhaled deeply, calming the hissing serpents demanding to break free from her skull. She needed to contain them a little longer, her wet curls disguising her as mortal or the harmless offspring of a dryad, given the jade sheen of her hair. It was imperative that these mortals did not recognise her as the monster she was — at least not yet. Not if she wanted her trap to work. And it always did.

“Tie the rope around your waist, and we will hoist you up, Ma’am.”

She obeyed and tied a knot with shaky hands. They heaved her up, and when she reached the rail, a pair of strong arms grabbed her to lift her on board. It took Medusa all her willpower to allow the male embrace, suppressing her instinct to recoil at the touch and sink her sharp nails into the sailor’s flesh. He plopped her down, and Medusa felt the splintered wood beneath her wet, bare feet. She wobbled on her legs like a fawn before they caved in. She fell to her knees, cowering on deck with shaking limbs, her wet linen peplos tight around her slender body. Her trap had snapped shut, and judging by the number of boots surrounding her, fifteen men had been caught in it.

At the ship’s rear, a screeching door opened and slammed shut. Heavy footsteps approached, and the crew fell silent, shuffling back. It must be the captain, then, who now stood infront of her. Medusa peered down at his hairy toes in the worn-out sandals, trying to envision what he would look like. She dared not look up, for she might accidentally make eye contact with him.

“What have we got here? Is this why we stopped in the middle of the Lesbos Strait when we have the perfect wind to sail through unharmed?”

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