It wasn’t that long after the death of Tiresias that Zeus decided to
take more opportunities. The fires on Olympus still burned hot with
his ambition, as did the fires in the forge of his son, who he put to
work making gifts for his trip. An important trip, in which he would
strike deals for his own gain.
For word had reached him from the desert kingdom beyond the Pillars of
Heracles, where oil, gas and minerals were abundant in the sand. He
called this land Araby, the new land of opportunity, where he would
one day carve a palace from glass and oil.
He waited two weeks to let the excitement of his actions at Tiresias’
funeral die down, and then called forth his chariot and summoned his
horses.
“It is time to remind the world who rules the sky,” he said to
Hephaestus as he took the gifts and left. In his mind, the deal had
already begun.
When Zeus arrived in Araby only a day later, the local kings met him
not with spears, but with splendor. The high king of Araby bowed low
and presented him with a gift. It was a sword gilded with gold
filigree, a symbol of alliance, meant not for war, but for display to
show their partnership.
Zeus, flattered, roared with laughter. “They know how to host a god.”
The next day, in the halls of commerce, Zeus and the country’s
officials bartered not in money, but in plans. Zeus demanded that more
money be invested in Olympus, but also promised to gift hundreds of
flight capable chariots to the people of Araby—provided, of
course—that they paid full price for them, as was proper. And later,
he brought sorcerers and sages—thinkers and doers, conjurers of
artificial minds—who signed scrolls to provide truly intelligent
thinking and data storage to the rulers of Araby. He also swore he
would lift the curse—a longstanding sanction—on a neighboring realm
newly ruled by a younger prince, declaring: “They’ve changed. I know
this. It’s time we trade again.”
His actions and promises were recorded. The ink had barely dried
before new announcements echoed through the land.
At night, Zeus held court atop a tower of polished obsidian, flanked
by rulers and commoners alike.
He spoke not of peace, nor prophecy—but of the “greatness” of past
eras he sought to revive. He told tales of how he alone could do this.
And to the crowds, he asked for support, in the form of an order.
“Who among you will be part of my age of prosperity?”
Back on Mount Olympus, the other gods watched uneasily.
Prometheus gave a frown that may have been a smile, as he whispered,
unheard by the others.
“He’s not a god. He’s a merchant in robes.”
And the mortals cheered. The desert shimmered with promises bearing
the name Zeus. And somewhere, a new monument was carved—not to virtue,
but to victory.
Some said he had bought the favor of leaders.
Others said he sold the futures of the unborn.
But all agreed:
Zeus had come not to conquer—but to trade.
And in doing so, he left behind only his own brand.
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