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by "Hey look at this," I grinned, pointing to a vase set under a glass case. It depicted a hunt scene, probably Artemis and her crew; the pottery was pretty cracked but they had done a good job of restoring it, the scene gleamed under the artificial light.
Of course we could see such pottery whenever we wanted to at Camp Half-Blood, after all it was a training facility for children of the Greek gods, we just so happened to be surrounded by artifacts from Ancient Greece (the Golden Fleece, Helen's knife, the Athena Parthenos, Aphrodite's shawl, to name but a few). Most were stored in the attic for security reasons.
But it was always different to look at it from a museum's perspective; at ours these things pretty much collected dust in the Big House whereas they were meticulously cleaned and cared for here. It had actually been my idea to come to this Trojan War exhibit in the Brooklyn museum because let's be real, those things are kind of rare; fortunately Benjamin had accepted to tag along. I would've also asked Salem and Alex but Alex had a date today and Salem tends to make stuff explode when she gets bored (that's my girl).
So far we had seen a large number of vases, silver cups and golden cauldrons, spear blades and copper axes, but the real treasure came at the end: diadems and headbands made out of golden scales, about sixty earrings and over eight thousand rings, prisms and buttons. Or so the leaflet said.
However something suddenly got my attention... This bas-relief reminded me of something. A youth was holding a huge bow in his hands, easily taller than him. I crouched down next to it and managed to make out the name above the youth's head: ΠΑΡΙΣ.
"Paris..."
Something in this bas-relief felt off, I couldn't say why. Maybe because Paris had always been depicted as unskilled and weak. Maybe because that bow reminded me of someone. Then I looked harder and managed to read something written up the side of the bow. 'EΡΑΚΛΕΣ. Heracles... Heracles' bow? That didn't make any sense. Hadn't Paris been killed by Heracles' bow and the poison arrows after all?
"Hey Ben. My knowledge on the Trojan war is a bit rusty, but I don't think I remember Paris ever wielding Heracles' bow. Poor dork wouldn't even have been able to draw it back if you ask me."
The feeling of something's wrong got a bit more intense and I crouched down to find some kind of explanation somewhere; nothing was written on the leaflet but I knew this was definitely out of place. I was about to turn around to ask one of the museum people who always roam the halls when I suddenly stumbled forward, my knees hitting.... grass?
Incredulous, I brushed the blades with my fingertips and ripped some out, watching them crease in my hands. What in Hades' name...? I felt unwell for a moment, nausea rising to my throat. Fortunately it dissipated after some moments, and I managed to stand up. We weren't in the museum anymore.
The temperature was far too hot and I felt a film of perspiration dampening my temples; it must be about 35°C, or more. First thing I registered were the cicadas, their repetitive chirping sending immediate thoughts of holidays, summer and farniente into my mind. I tasted salt and iode on my tongue; turning around, I saw a rugged coastline, lush vegetation swaying in the wind, and the sea glittering under the sunlight. The sky overhead burned bright blue and I could hear the crystal-clear sound of the waves crashing against the shore, but that wasn't all.
"Dafuq?"
When I looked down at myself, I realized that instead of the Muse top and cargo pants I had been wearing for the museum, I was now dressed in a white knee-long chiton girdled at the waist and held by pins on my shoulders, the fabric brushing against my legs at every wind breeze. I also had sandals laced up my calves and a kind of antique version of my black leather satchel on my shoulder in which I found my weapon in knife-mode and the leather bracelet which disguised my shield. Somewhere to my right, an olive tree rustled in the wind.
"Where the bloody Hades are we?"
Of course we could see such pottery whenever we wanted to at Camp Half-Blood, after all it was a training facility for children of the Greek gods, we just so happened to be surrounded by artifacts from Ancient Greece (the Golden Fleece, Helen's knife, the Athena Parthenos, Aphrodite's shawl, to name but a few). Most were stored in the attic for security reasons.
But it was always different to look at it from a museum's perspective; at ours these things pretty much collected dust in the Big House whereas they were meticulously cleaned and cared for here. It had actually been my idea to come to this Trojan War exhibit in the Brooklyn museum because let's be real, those things are kind of rare; fortunately Benjamin had accepted to tag along. I would've also asked Salem and Alex but Alex had a date today and Salem tends to make stuff explode when she gets bored (that's my girl).
So far we had seen a large number of vases, silver cups and golden cauldrons, spear blades and copper axes, but the real treasure came at the end: diadems and headbands made out of golden scales, about sixty earrings and over eight thousand rings, prisms and buttons. Or so the leaflet said.
However something suddenly got my attention... This bas-relief reminded me of something. A youth was holding a huge bow in his hands, easily taller than him. I crouched down next to it and managed to make out the name above the youth's head: ΠΑΡΙΣ.
"Paris..."
Something in this bas-relief felt off, I couldn't say why. Maybe because Paris had always been depicted as unskilled and weak. Maybe because that bow reminded me of someone. Then I looked harder and managed to read something written up the side of the bow. 'EΡΑΚΛΕΣ. Heracles... Heracles' bow? That didn't make any sense. Hadn't Paris been killed by Heracles' bow and the poison arrows after all?
"Hey Ben. My knowledge on the Trojan war is a bit rusty, but I don't think I remember Paris ever wielding Heracles' bow. Poor dork wouldn't even have been able to draw it back if you ask me."
The feeling of something's wrong got a bit more intense and I crouched down to find some kind of explanation somewhere; nothing was written on the leaflet but I knew this was definitely out of place. I was about to turn around to ask one of the museum people who always roam the halls when I suddenly stumbled forward, my knees hitting.... grass?
Incredulous, I brushed the blades with my fingertips and ripped some out, watching them crease in my hands. What in Hades' name...? I felt unwell for a moment, nausea rising to my throat. Fortunately it dissipated after some moments, and I managed to stand up. We weren't in the museum anymore.
The temperature was far too hot and I felt a film of perspiration dampening my temples; it must be about 35°C, or more. First thing I registered were the cicadas, their repetitive chirping sending immediate thoughts of holidays, summer and farniente into my mind. I tasted salt and iode on my tongue; turning around, I saw a rugged coastline, lush vegetation swaying in the wind, and the sea glittering under the sunlight. The sky overhead burned bright blue and I could hear the crystal-clear sound of the waves crashing against the shore, but that wasn't all.
"Dafuq?"
When I looked down at myself, I realized that instead of the Muse top and cargo pants I had been wearing for the museum, I was now dressed in a white knee-long chiton girdled at the waist and held by pins on my shoulders, the fabric brushing against my legs at every wind breeze. I also had sandals laced up my calves and a kind of antique version of my black leather satchel on my shoulder in which I found my weapon in knife-mode and the leather bracelet which disguised my shield. Somewhere to my right, an olive tree rustled in the wind.
"Where the bloody Hades are we?"
