Chapter 3 The Art of Pále
Dust swirled from the arena floor, glittering through the wisps of cloud trailing across the stadium carved into the rock of Mount Olympus.
Hera perched on the edge of a golden throne upon a shaded dais. Her back was straight as a javelin, hands laid neatly across her lap, her face impassive as the stone platform beneath her feet. Only her kohl-rimmed eyes betrayed the fury simmering in her soul.
Reclining beside her on an even larger throne was her husband, Zeus.
Hera stole a glance at him. His face was as smooth and youthful as the day he’d left their old mortal village for Olympus.
Only his eyes, threaded with gold like a lightning-cracked sky, betrayed the god he had become.
His right hand lay upon the head of the mortal boy sitting at his feet, his fingers twisting idly through Ganymede’s mahogany curls.
The boy cradled a golden goblet of ambrosia wine in his hands.
Zeus’ goblet. He was the official cup bearer to the King of Heaven, and Zeus would drink nothing that had not first passed those sweet, mortal lips.
The hours Hera had spent fantasizing about slipping a drop of poison into that goblet. But the victory would be short-lived. Zeus would only install another soft-lipped mortal youth in his chambers to mock her with.
Zeus shifted and began conversing with his brother, Poseidon, seated on his other side.
The unintelligible murmur of his words scraped her ears like the drone of a fly on a blistering summer’s day.
She set her jaw and looked to the empty throne at the end of the row beside the God of the Sea.
There was another unoccupied seat to her right.
Five thrones for the senior Olympians, that unfilled pair a constant reminder of the two absent deities: Hades and Demeter.
One banished below the earth, the other confined to the sky palace, broken beyond repair.
Hera sighed. It had been too long since she’d last spent time with Demeter. She had been distracted of late, her days plagued by a lingering fear that followed her around the palace like a dog.
A child could have been conceived and birthed in the time her husband had failed to erase the greatest threat the Olympians had ever faced. Yet here he sat, seemingly free from the worry that endlessly gnawed at Hera.
It had been a year since she’d confronted the girl from Prometheus’ prophecy, the mortal who was foretold to end her husband’s reign.
Yet despite Zeus vowing to find her, she seemed to have disappeared like smoke.
Hera shivered at the memory of battling her atop the snow-swathed Caucasus Mountains, the girl’s power so like her own.
The altercation had almost claimed her life.
When she had returned to Olympus, she’d expected a call to action.
Instead, Zeus and Poseidon had sworn her to secrecy.
Her husband had impressed upon her that of all the Twelve only the three of them, and Hades, knew of the Titan’s prophecy and that was how it must remain.
The children must go on believing the so-called ‘last daughter’ was in fact a creature from the Underworld, created by Hades to plague them.
Hera had known she must obey, but what troubled her more than the command was that neither Zeus nor Poseidon could tell her where the girl had come from or how she had gained her powers.
A drumbeat burst into life, joined by the steady clap of the nymphs ordered to fill the stadium’s seating. At Zeus’ decree, once a year, his children fought in the old way. They were forbidden to use their powers, relying only on the strength of their bodies, as mortals must.
The rhythm raced to a frantic pulse as the first pair of Zeus’ divine children ran out onto the arena.
Hera and Zeus shared two sons; the rest were the result of Zeus’ dalliances with other women.
Their eldest son, Ares, the God of War, was followed swiftly by his half-sister, Athena, the Goddess of Wisdom and Warfare.
Ares had inherited Hera’s fine features and was built like a warrior, his muscle-corded limbs gleaming in the sunlight.
But Athena had been blessed with their father’s piercing blue eyes, a feature Zeus prided above all.
Hera’s son had toppled kingdoms, and still Athena, the offspring of Zeus’ other great love, was his favourite.
Hera smoothed a hand across her brow. After all this time, there remained barbs in her husband’s heart she could not loosen.
Ares turned to the gathered nymphs, gesturing for them to cheer louder before he prostrated himself before his parents.
Below the dais sat the rest of the royal children, who today played the part of spectators.
They were all there, save Dionysus, the God of Wine and Pleasure.
He had forsaken the comforts of Olympus, choosing to waste his endless life cavorting with a commune of mortal women.
Ares winked at someone below, and Hera glanced down to see Aphrodite, the Goddess of Love, married to her younger son, Hephaestus, lean forward, teasing her tumble of auburn curls across her bare shoulders.
Hera pressed her lips into a thin line as Hephaestus stiffened.
Hera knew that the God of Craftsmen despised these ceremonies, forced to watch his wife fawn over his brother, whom she had taken as her lover.
The whore had abandoned her husband when he needed her most, and for that Hera would never forgive her.
Just as she would never forgive Zeus for what he had done to Hephaestus.
Hera’s attention was drawn to the youngest member of the royal brood seated at the far end of the row. Hermes, the Messenger of the Gods, reclined against the stone in full armour, his ridiculous winged boots resting on the back of the bench in front, his hands locked behind his helmet.
‘Hermes has no respect,’ she hissed.
Zeus followed her gaze and chuckled, which only inflamed her more.
As the years had passed, Hera hoped she would forget the faces of the mortal women Zeus had lain with, but they haunted her in the visages of their children, in every favour the King of Heaven bestowed on his offspring that were not hers.
Zeus lifted his hand. The drumbeat slowed.
A pair of nymphs ran across the stadium to Ares and Athena, swiftly removing their golden armour until they stood barefoot, both dressed in nothing but a short leather kilt.
The drumbeat shifted again, now swifter and sharper, as Ares and Athena dusted their hands and began to circle each other.
Hera’s jaw tightened as Hermes flitted amongst the rest of the divine children, gathering bets on who they thought would emerge triumphant.
‘Brother,’ said Zeus to Poseidon, ‘who shall be the victor?’
Poseidon considered. ‘Athena. She has the greater skill.’
Hera laughed sharply.
Zeus raised an eyebrow. ‘My wife does not agree.’
‘Physically, Ares is Athena’s superior.’ Hera appraised her son’s muscular frame. ‘He is undoubtedly the stronger contender.’
‘You are blinded by your womb,’ said Poseidon.
‘You are just blind.’
Zeus raised his hand to quiet them. ‘What say you, Ganymede?’
The boy at Zeus’ feet tilted his head to look up at the King of Heaven. He blinked, his thick lashes fluttering over his cow-like eyes.
‘I could not possibly pass judgement, my lord. I am but a mortal and they are gods.’
‘Even so, choose.’
The mortal’s throat bobbed. He lowered his head to survey Ares and Athena. ‘The God of War will surely live up to his title.’
Zeus smiled and petted Ganymede like a dog. ‘See, wife, you have an ally.’ Then he turned his attention back to the arena. ‘Ares is strong, but my Bright Eyes is cunning. She may best him in the end.’
Hera fought the urge to roll her eyes.
Ares and Athena continued to circle each other, raking the imported earth of the arena floor and coating their hands with dust. Hera’s stomach tightened as she watched them, the desire to see Athena’s blood spilt wetting her mouth.
Guttural grunts burst from the pair as they clashed together, grappling each other’s flesh.
Poseidon popped an indigo grape into his mouth, its sweet juice gleaming on his lips. ‘Ares will soon grow bored and try to end the match with brute strength, that is when Athena will strike.’
Hera shook her head as Zeus’ hand drifted to Ganymede’s shoulder, and the boy lifted the goblet to his master. Zeus took a deep drink of the fortified amber wine, his eyes never leaving his children.
After less than half an hour of wrestling, Ares pulled back, then with a roar launched himself at his sister. Hera leant forward in her seat, afraid to blink as Athena darted around him.
Not swiftly enough.
Catching her around the waist, Ares hurled her to the ground and twisted her arms behind her back. There was a crack and Athena shrieked, her left arm bending at an unnatural angle, but Ares did not release her. The drumming rose in a crescendo, then fell silent as Zeus raised his goblet.
‘Ares is the victor.’ He looked at his wife. ‘You were right, my wise queen.’
Hera relaxed, warmth spreading through her body as Ares released his sister and clicked his fingers at one of the nymphs sitting in the front row.
The girl paled, trembling as she rose and walked across the arena toward the gods.
Ares grabbed her and pushed her down to her knees before his moaning sister.
The nymph closed her eyes, tears trickling beneath her lashes as Athena reached out with her good arm and clutched the nymph’s thigh.
Then Ares took the nymph’s head in his hands and twisted.
His sister gasped, her broken arm shuddering back into place through the power of consuming another’s life-threads.
The nymph’s body slumped to the ground. As Ares and Athena took their seats, two more nymphs sprinted onto the arena floor, lifting the corpse and carrying it out of the way.
Hera gazed triumphantly at Poseidon. ‘You see, my boys are not so easily bested.’
The God of the Sea inclined his head and for a moment, all was right with the world.
Next, the twins, Apollo and Artemis, were stripped of their armour.
The two divine children launched themselves at one another.
They were well matched, both tall and lean, yet their similarity was also their greatest disadvantage.
Where Apollo dived, Artemis dodged, and where she struck, he predicted her blow.
They knew each other’s every move even before the thought had sparked.
The pair not being her blood, Hera’s attention drifted.
But she was soon drawn back to the arena when one of the nymphs screamed, the cry echoing around the stadium.
Hera’s brow creased. No blow appeared to have been landed by either Artemis or Apollo; they were still locked together, arms wrapped around one another as they struggled for dominance.
But the nymphs were not watching the match.
Something was falling from the sky, a dark tangle of wings and talons. Zeus rose to his feet as it crashed into the arena to lie twitching where it fell. Hera paced behind her husband as he ran down the stadium steps.
‘Get back!’ Zeus shouted as his children clustered around the creature.
A harpy.
Up close Hera could see that one of its wings was broken, its torso a bloody mess of lesions.
Her husband knelt beside the beast, tilting his ear to its leathery lips. A rasping sound issued from its mouth, but she could not catch the words. Zeus nodded once, then placed his hand over the harpy’s heart, and the creature stopped moving.
He stood, his palm stained with blood.
‘Leave us.’ The drum of feet echoed through the arena as Ganymede, the children and the nymphs fled from the stadium. ‘Poseidon, stay,’ Zeus added as his brother turned to follow.
Hera waited for the last nymph to vacate the stadium, then turned to her husband. ‘This is her doing, isn’t it?’
Zeus’ eyes burned like the blue heart of a flame. ‘Leave.’
Hera blanched. ‘I fought her, I can help you –’
‘I said, leave.’
‘I am your wife. I deserve to be here as much as he does.’ She gestured towards Poseidon.
‘You are not my blood.’
The breath hitched in her throat. Cheeks burning, she turned on her heel and strode towards the archway that led out of the stadium and up into the palace.
But once the sun no longer warmed her skin, she melted into the shadows, pressing her back to the stone wall of the passageway.
Calming her breath, she strained to listen.
‘That was cruel, brother.’
Zeus ignored his comment. ‘The second harpy would have returned with her sister if she could. She must have perished.’
Poseidon hissed out a breath. ‘You must bid Hades craft more to send after the girl.’
‘No.’ There was a pause. ‘I knew the harpies would fail to destroy her. But with its dying breath, the one that returned revealed where she is. She will run, but her trail is fresh. I will have her soon.’
‘Will you kill her yourself?’
Another pause. ‘I will send one of the children.’
Hera’s heart thrummed against her chest, her body aching with the memory of the wounds she had carried from facing the girl atop the Caucasus Mountains.
‘You would risk sending the children after her again, now we know how powerful she is? Have you decided to tell them the truth?’ asked Poseidon.
‘No,’ Zeus replied sharply. ‘The prophecy must be kept a secret …’ He continued so softly Hera could barely hear him, but she did catch a name. ‘… Hermes.’
‘You really think the boy is a match for her?’
Another silence, swollen with Hera’s racing heartbeat.
‘If he is not, I will send another.’
Hera clasped a hand to her mouth. Not waiting to allow Zeus and Poseidon time to discover her, she ran down the dark passage, the terrible truth of what she’d learned searing through her veins.
Expendable, whispered the voice that had lived in her mind ever since Zeus bid her bite into a golden apple, all those years ago. To him, the children are expendable.