Pallas

When Zeus’ daughter Athena was young, she had a friend named Pallas.
Pallas was Poseidon’s granddaughter, the daughter of Triton. When Athena reached a certain age, Zeus sent her to Triton’s court and he raised the girls together.

Both girls were as adventurous and daring as any hero, and would often leave the underwater palace to explore the world outside. They tormented the sea-prince, frequently returning home covered in bruises and bloody wounds, leaking child’s ichor. And there was a special spot where they liked to play at war, a grove of dark oak trees which blocked the sunlight except in one special spot.

“That spot’s banned, okay?” Pallas said one day, brushing close-cropped black hair from her eyes. The girl was a little clone of Athena; they were often mistaken for twins. Their only difference was Pallas’ slightly darker shade of skin. “You’ve tricked me twice, now – I can’t fight with the sun in my eyes.”

They never tried for decisive blows unless they were confident they were easy to dodge-the girls were using real arms-but there were plenty of cuts and scrapes.

Athena laughed, an innocent girl’s laugh. “Fine, fine. I’d just hate for you to lose fairly, that’s all. That would mean-”

“You’re better than me? Then come at me!”

Once, Pallas visited the peak of Olympus, and saw the spot where Athena had sprung from her father’s skull. The great throne in which he’d sat was still there, although the Patriarch never used it any more. He’d been absent from Olympus recently, hidden from his family.

Hera swore until she was black and blue that she knew his whereabouts, but it was clear to the others-to sceptical, snorting Ares, to mournful Hephaestos, scornful Artemis, Apollo, smiling serenely with narrowed eyes, and even Hestia, sighing quietly-to them all, it was obvious where the Father was.

Pallas, on her visit, had been enraptured with all that lay about her; the fountains of ambrosia, the Muses singing on their plinths, and the stars – more evident than anywhere they’d ever been on earth and certainly clearer than in the underwater palace of her childhood. She stared open-mouthed at everything and it was an effort for Athena to drag her away from the other gods, interested or uninterested as they were in the wise girl’s new playmate.

And, feeling a little envious of Athena but ultimately content, Pallas had left the mountain that day satisfied and full of love and wonderment at her friend, who merely blushed and shrugged off the wonders of the universe.

In the end, the gods were quietly ashamed, for Zeus had been somewhere none of them expected: Hephaestos’ forge. He’d hidden from the Smith for days on end, working in the night on a grand thing, an aegis, a shield from which hung a hundred gold tassels, adorned with the snarling face of Medusa and a hundred other little designs around its edges.

“It’s a gift for you, Athena.” Zeus beamed with joy as he poised the great golden oval before her, and the wise girl smiled and stared wide-eyed at the intricate designs: here was Cadmus on his throne, and here was Tiresias speaking to a bird; Theseus struggled with Asterion the bull, and twelve little figures of Heracles each completed a separate great task…as well, there were many faces she’d never seen, of heroes not yet born.

“It’s magic – it’ll protect you when you can’t protect yourself. You can rely on this shield, if nothing else.” He said proudly.

“Thank you, Father.” Athena bowed low, feeling loved and girlish and awkward, as she always did around the Mighty One.

She and Pallas continued their play, and their education in Triton’s court, though they’d make semi-regular trips to Olympus too if only for Pallas’ sake. She’d learned about the aegis, but seemed to think that Athena was hiding it from her. The truth was that Zeus had enchanted it only to appear when his daughter was vulnerable, and she couldn’t summon the thing herself if she tried.

And, of course, they continued their play-fights and their juvenile wars. Too soon, it was decreed that Athena would have to leave the sea-god’s palace and assume her place on Olympus, and she wouldn’t be able to meet with Pallas for many years. So they scheduled a final battle, one last stand before duty’s painful separation.

On that hot spring day, as the sun assumed his highest stance, Athena faced her shadow twin, and exhaled, exhausted. There had to be a way to overcome Pallas, that feisty demon, quickly. Then the sun hit her eyes and Athena saw a chance she’d never have again, a move so decisive and so…so simply cool that she couldn’t convince herself not to attempt it.

Pallas was almost standing in just the right spot…a few careful prods with the lance and she’d moved to the precise place Athena wanted her, the dark girl’s lithe form bathed in sunlight. She knew it was wrong, they’d promised. But she had to use the spot just one more time…

She forgot herself and all her cautious wisdom and leapt forward, spear aimed squarely at Pallas’ throat, leaving herself totally defenceless. Pallas noticed the gap, drew her arm back to strike, and then the aegis awoke.

It appeared in the gap between the trees, shielding Athena from on high, and Pallas stared at it in amazement, frozen, perhaps in fear – for who’d expect such a monstrous face of gold to appear in the clouds at a moment like that? It blinded her utterly, and she stood dumb, arms slack. And Athena, carried forward by the momentum of her daring strike, was unable to stop herself piercing Pallas cleanly through the neck.

Triton asked her what happened to his daughter many times, and so did Zeus, her father getting progressively angrier, his lightning flashing across the sky – but the storm clouds that gathered around her father were nothing compared to the steel in Athena’s grey eyes, and his lightning bolts could never be as forceful and straight as her lips, shut tight.

She lived from that day on the peak of Olympus, learning and watching mankind struggle below. She never forgot herself again. And she lost her girlish awkwardness and propensity for play.

When she grew older, and was able to summon the aegis without Zeus’ help, Athena created a statue that resembled herself in every detail, and placed the shield in its hands.

And from then on she referred to herself by a new epithet, and the other gods understood something, though they never articulated it. She wasn’t merely Athena, but Pallas Athena, her name an immortal tribute to her friend.

It became a pattern of hers, though Athena never told anyone about what happened that day.

Heroes and kings, when they fought their wars, would hear her voice, urging them to emulate the gods in a new act, as they faithfully copied so many others. Under her guidance, Scipio became Scipio Africanus, Basil became Bulgar-Slayer, Nikitaras became Turk-Eater, each of them acting out a secret divine play.