The Mark of Athena

The spider hissed.



Annabeth was afraid her mother might suddenly appear and curse her with some terrible affliction. The first lesson every child of Athena learned: Mom was the best at everything, and you should never, ever suggest otherwise.



But nothing bad happened. Maybe Athena understood that Annabeth was only saying these things to save her life. Or maybe Athena was in such in bad shape, split between her Greek and Roman personalities, that she wasn’t even paying attention.



“This will not do,” Arachne grumbled. “I cannot allow it.”



“Well…” Annabeth shifted, trying to keep her weight off her throbbing ankle. A new crack appeared in the floor, and she hobbled back.



“Careful!” Arachne snapped. “The foundations of this shrine have been eaten away over the centuries!”



Annabeth’s heartbeat faltered. “Eaten away?”



“You have no idea how much hatred boils beneath us,” the spider said. “The spiteful thoughts of so many monsters trying to reach the Athena Parthenos and destroy it. My webbing is the only thing holding the room together, girl! One false step, and you’ll fall all the way to Tartarus—and believe me, unlike the Doors of Death, this would be a one-way trip, a very hard fall! I will not have you dying before you tell me your plan for my artwork.”



Annabeth’s mouth tasted like rust. All the way to Tartarus? She tried to stay focused, but it wasn’t easy as she listened to the floor creak and crack, spilling rubble into the void below.



“Right, the plan,” Annabeth said. “Um…as I said, I’d love to take your tapestries to Olympus and hang them everywhere. You could rub your craftsmanship in Athena’s nose for all eternity. But the only way I could do that…No. It’s too difficult. You might as well go ahead and kill me.”



“No!” Arachne cried. “That is unacceptable. It no longer brings me any pleasure to contemplate. I must have my work on Mount Olympus! What must I do?”



Annabeth shook her head. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything. Just push me into Tartarus or something.”



“I refuse!”



“Don’t be ridiculous. Kill me.”



“I do not take orders from you! Tell me what I must do! Or…or—”



“Or you’ll kill me?”



“Yes! No!” The spider pressed her front legs against her head. “I must show my work on Mount Olympus.”



Annabeth tried to contain her excitement. Her plan might actually work…but she still had to convince Arachne to do something impossible. She remembered some good advice Frank Zhang had given her: Keep it simple.



“I suppose I could pull a few strings,” she conceded.



“I excel at pulling strings!” said Arachne. “I’m a spider!”



“Yes, but to get your work shown on Mount Olympus, we’d need a proper audition. I’d have to pitch the idea, submit a proposal, put together a portfolio. Hmm…do you have any headshots?”



“Headshots?”



“Glossy black-and-white…Oh, never mind. The audition piece is the most important thing. These tapestries are excellent. But the gods would require something really special—something that shows off your talent in the extreme.”



Arachne snarled. “Are you suggesting that these are not my best work? Are you challenging me to a contest?”



“Oh, no!” Annabeth laughed. “Against me? Gosh, no. You are much too good. It would only be a contest against yourself, to see if you really have what it takes to show your work on Mount Olympus.”



“Of course I do!”



“Well, I certainly think so. But the audition, you know…it’s a formality. I’m afraid it would be very difficult. Are you sure you don’t just want to kill me?”



“Stop saying that!” Arachne screeched. “What must I make?”



“I’ll show you.” Annabeth unslung her backpack. She took out Daedalus’s laptop and opened it. The delta logo glowed in the dark.



“What is that?” Arachne asked. “Some sort of loom?”



“In a way,” Annabeth said. “It’s for weaving ideas. It holds a diagram of the artwork you would build.”



Her fingers trembled on the keyboard. Arachne lowered herself to peer directly over Annabeth’s shoulder. Annabeth couldn’t help thinking how easily those needlelike teeth could sink into her neck.



She opened her 3-D imaging program. Her last design was still up—the key to Annabeth’s plan, inspired by the most unlikely muse ever: Frank Zhang.



Annabeth did some quick calculations. She increased the dimensions of the model, then showed Arachne how it could be created—strands of material woven into strips, then braided into a long cylinder.



The golden light from the screen illuminated the spider’s face. “You want me to make that? But this is nothing! So small and simple!”



“The actual size would be much bigger,” Annabeth cautioned. “You see these measurements? Naturally it must be large enough to impress the gods. It may look simple, but the structure has incredible properties. Your spider silk would be the perfect material—soft and flexible, yet hard as steel.”



“I see…” Arachne frowned. “But this isn’t even a tapestry.”



“That’s why it’s a challenge. It’s outside your comfort zone. A piece like this—an abstract sculpture—is what the gods are looking for. It would stand in the entry hall of the Olympian throne room for every visitor to see. You would be famous forever!”



Arachne made a discontented hum in her throat. Annabeth could tell she wasn’t going for the idea. Her hands started to feel cold and sweaty.



“This would take a great deal of web,” the spider complained. “More than I could make in a year.”



Annabeth had been hoping for that. She’d calculated the mass and size accordingly. “You’d need to unravel the statue,” she said. “Reuse the silk.”



Arachne seemed about to object, but Annabeth waved at the Athena Parthenos like it was nothing. “What’s more important—covering that old statue or proving your artwork is the best? Of course, you’d have to be incredibly careful. You’d need to leave enough webbing to hold the room together. And if you think it’s too difficult—”



“I didn’t say that!”



“Okay. It’s just…Athena said that creating this braided structure would be impossible for any weaver, even her. So if you don’t think you can—”



“Athena said that?”



“Well, yeah.”



“Ridiculous! I can do it!”



“Great! But you’d need to start right away, before the Olympians choose another artist for their installations.”



Arachne growled. “If you are tricking me, girl—”



“You’ll have me right here as a hostage,” Annabeth reminded her. “It’s not like I can go anywhere. Once this sculpture is complete, you’ll agree that it’s the most amazing piece you’ve ever done. If not, I will gladly die.”



Arachne hesitated. Her barbed legs were so close, she could’ve impaled Annabeth with a quick swipe.



“Fine,” the spider said. “One last challenge—against myself!”



Arachne climbed her web and began to unravel the Athena Parthenos.



Chapter 50



Annabeth lost track of time.



She could feel the ambrosia she’d eaten earlier starting to repair her leg, but it still hurt so badly that the pain throbbed right up to her neck. All along the walls, small spiders scuttled in the darkness, as if awaiting their mistress’s orders. Thousands of them rustled behind the tapestries, making the woven scenes move like wind.



Annabeth sat on the crumbling floor and tried to preserve her strength. While Arachne wasn’t watching, she attempted to get some sort of signal on Daedalus’s laptop to contact her friends, but of course she had no luck. That left her nothing to do but watch in amazement and horror as Arachne worked, her eight legs moving with hypnotic speed, slowly unraveling the silk strands around the statue.



With its golden clothes and its luminous ivory face, the Athena Parthenos was even scarier than Arachne. It gazed down sternly as if to say, Bring me tasty snacks or else. Annabeth could imagine being an Ancient Greek, walking into the Parthenon and seeing this massive goddess with her shield, spear, and python, her free hand holding out Nike, the winged spirit of victory. It would’ve been enough to put a kink in the chiton of any mortal.



More than that, the statue radiated power. As Athena was unwrapped, the air around her grew warmer. Her ivory skin glowed with life. All across the room, the smaller spiders became agitated and began retreating back into the hallway.



Annabeth guessed that Arachne’s webs had somehow masked and dampened the statue’s magic. Now that it was free, the Athena Parthenos filled the chamber with magical energy. Centuries of mortal prayers and burnt offerings had been made it its presence. It was infused with the power of Athena.



Arachne didn’t seem to notice. She kept muttering to herself, counting out yards of silk and calculating the number of strands her project would require. Whenever she hesitated, Annabeth called out encouragement and reminded her how wonderful her tapestries would look on Mount Olympus.



The statue grew so warm and bright that Annabeth could see more details of the shrine—the Roman masonry that had probably once been gleaming white, the dark bones of Arachne’s past victims and meals hanging in the web, and the massive cables of silk that connected the floor to the ceiling. Annabeth now saw just how fragile the marble tiles were under her feet. They were covered in a fine layer of webbing, like mesh holding together a shattered mirror. Whenever the Athena Parthenos shifted even slightly, more cracks spread and widened along the floor. In some places, there were holes as big as manhole covers. Annabeth almost wished it were dark again. Even if her plan succeeded and she defeated Arachne, she wasn’t sure how she could make it out of this chamber alive.



“So much silk,” Arachne muttered. “I could make twenty tapestries—”



“Keep going!” Annabeth called up. “You’re doing a wonderful job.”



The spider kept working. After what seemed like forever, a mountain of glistening silk was piled at the feet of the statue. The walls of the chamber were still covered in webs. The support cables holding the room together hadn’t been disturbed. But the Athena Parthenos was free.



Please wake up, Annabeth begged the statue. Mother, help me.



Nothing happened, but the cracks seemed to be spreading across the floor more rapidly. According to Arachne, the malicious thoughts of monsters had eaten away at the shrine’s foundations for centuries. If that was true, now that it was free the Athena Parthenos might be attracting even more attention from the monsters in Tartarus.



“The design,” Annabeth said. “You should hurry.”



She lifted the computer screen for Arachne to see, but the spider snapped, “I’ve memorized it, child. I have an artist’s eye for detail.”