Chapter 11 Child of Love #2
Leaping from the roof, he glided above the street.
It was amazing how few mortals remembered to look up as they went about their little lives.
He reached down towards a passerby, and the man below let out a strangled cry as Hermes yanked his cloak from his back.
There were gasps from the people surrounding him, but Hermes flitted away so swiftly, he had vanished before they could fully comprehend what they’d seen.
He alighted in a deserted courtyard and removed his helm and gauntlets, stowing them away in a folded bag he pulled from a pouch on his belt, then pinned the cloak around his neck so the rest of his golden armour was covered.
One advantage to not looking like a god without his armour was that he could pass inconspicuously through a crowd.
Glancing around once more to check no eyes spied on him from the shadows, he slung his bag over his shoulder and darted out of the square.
Hermes picked his way through the narrow streets until he spotted the faded awning of a kapeleion.
Priestesses were the main fountains of knowledge for mortal goings-on, but kapeleia owners were renowned for being veritable honey-traps of secrets.
Most fiercely guarded the details of their patrons’ lives – their reputations were built on it – but every man had his price. Or pain threshold.
The first seven establishments proved fruitless, and by the time Hermes entered the eighth kapeleion, he was sweaty, his feet sore, and he was very close to draining the life-threads of the next person who breathed too heavily.
Inside the dusky room men sat on stools, staring darkly into their cups. A middle-aged barkeep was busy pouring a tray of wine, topping up the glasses with an extra dash of water while no one watched.
Hermes marched up to him, keeping his cloak tightly drawn around his armour. He grabbed one of the cups, downed the wine in one gulp, wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and grimaced.
‘What kind of horse piss do you call this?’
The barkeep reddened. ‘You’d better pay for that, boy.’
Hermes rolled his eyes, reached across the bar and grabbed the man by the neck. A few patrons glanced over at the commotion with mild interest, though many carried on drinking as though seeing their barkeep assaulted was a common sight.
‘Where can I find a man named Anchises?’
He loosened his grip slightly to allow the barkeep to speak.
The man coughed. ‘Old Anchises the shepherd?’
‘That’s him.’
‘He’s … dead.’
‘What?’
‘They buried him a couple months back.’
Hermes swore. He wondered if Aphrodite knew that her mortal lover had perished. ‘And his baby?’
The barkeep spluttered. ‘You mean Aeneas? He’s no babe. A man near twenty.’
Hermes frowned. Of course he was no longer a child. Mortal lives were so fleeting.
‘Where is he?’
The barkeep told him where Aeneas lived, and for this trouble Hermes tossed a drachma at the crumpled proprietor as he downed another cup of the terrible wine on his way out. He may be in disguise, but he would never let anyone claim he was not a benevolent god.
The barkeep’s directions took Hermes to an unsavoury part of town. Men with dirt-stained faces and hungry eyes leered from shadowed doorways, and women with exposed breasts and glazed expressions leant against peeling murals.
Hermes found the door he was looking for, barely more than a painted piece of driftwood rammed over the entrance, and knocked.
‘Who goes there?’ said a robust voice.
‘A friend.’
Footsteps echoed from inside, then the door creaked ajar. A young man pressed his face into the sliver of light pouring in from the street. A dark-brown eye framed with thick lashes appraised Hermes.
‘I must speak with Aeneas.’ He cursed inwardly as his voice creaked on the name. So much for sounding authoritative.
The face retreated, and the door opened to reveal a tall, lithe man, radiant with the first bloom of manhood. Hermes’ stomach twinged with jealousy. Then he took in the shape of the man’s eyes, the freckles peppering his nose and his shock of thick copper hair. His mother’s hair.
‘What can I do for you, lad?’ Aeneas asked.
Lad.
Fighting the urge to send him crashing through the interior of his hovel, Hermes strode past him.
‘You live here?’
Aeneas’ house consisted of a single room, a pallet on one side, a small hearth on the other, a single bowl and amphora resting beside it. He wrinkled his nose; the child of a goddess should not be living in a place like this.
‘Take off your cloak, friend,’ Aeneas closed the door. ‘I would offer you wine, but I’m afraid I have none.’
‘It’s fine,’ Hermes muttered. ‘I’ve had enough terrible Trojan wine for one day.’ He ignored Aeneas’ outstretched hand and reached inside his cloak. He retrieved the message Aphrodite had stowed in his pipes and pressed it into Aeneas’ hand.
‘The Goddess of Love watches over you, Aeneas.’
The young man unfurled the parchment, eyes widening as he read. ‘This cannot be. My father would have told me …’
‘It is true. You are the son of Aphrodite.’
Aeneas looked at Hermes, his face full of wonder.
‘Now,’ Hermes tapped his boot on the filthy floor, ‘you must leave the city at once.’
Aeneas pressed the parchment to his chest. ‘I cannot.’
It was then that Hermes noticed the shabby armour laid out on the pallet. His heart sank.
‘If you don’t come with me, you will die.’
The mirth left Aeneas in an instant. ‘Is this a test?’
Hermes sighed. ‘Look, either you’re going to starve behind these walls or be slaughtered in the dirt outside your city. I promise I can get you out safely, give you gold, a horse, whatever you need. You can go anywhere you want, be anyone.’
Aeneas drew himself up to his full, irritatingly tall height. ‘I would proudly die for Troy and noble King Priam. It will be the honour of my life to defend my kingdom.’
There was only one thing for it. Hermes rose into the air on his winged boots, spreading his arms to reveal his golden armour.
‘I am the god Hermes, Messenger of Olympus. I command you to come with me.’
Aeneas gasped, then fell to his knees, prostrating himself below Hermes’ feet. He always loved it when mortals did that.
‘M-my lord Hermes, forgive me. I did not know it was you.’
Hermes floated back to earth. ‘Good. Now we need to hurry. I have places to be.’
Aeneas sat up, his eyes glistening. ‘I cannot come with you, even though you are a god. I have sworn myself to Ares. It is my destiny to be a soldier, fall by the sword then spend eternity in Elysium.’
The poor, stupid fool. Never had Hermes been so sorely tempted to reveal that the dream of reaching paradise following a noble death in battle was a lie.
But the punishment laid out by Zeus for telling a mortal that the three realms of the afterlife were a fantasy was execution, with no exceptions.
There were rules even gods could not break.
Hermes sighed once more and ran a hand over his face. He must continue his search for the Underworld girl. He had spent too long in Troy already.
He could always force Aeneas to come with him. Knock the man out and fly him away from the city. But that was risky. If they were seen by a shade or one of his siblings’ priestesses, Zeus would surely kill Aeneas, and he dreaded to think what punishment he and Aphrodite would face.
Struck by a sudden idea, he reached beneath his cloak and pulled a golden homing medallion from the pouch on his belt. The amulet was embossed with a rose in full bloom. He had taken it on a whim, wanting to keep something of Aphrodite’s for himself.
‘Think on what I have said, for I will return. In the meantime, find yourself some better armour. And if war does come before you see me again, place this around the neck of a bird with a message. It will reach your mother.’ He paused. ‘I know she would wish to hear from you before your end.’
‘I will not forget your kindness, Lord Hermes,’ Aeneas replied, his face shining with tears.
Hermes shook his head, wrapped his cloak around him once more, and stepped out into the street, muttering, ‘Mortals.’
When the coast was clear, he flew up to a nearby rooftop, tossed the cloak aside and pulled the rest of his armour from his bag. Once fully clad in gold, he launched into the air. He would need to replenish his life-thread supply before the flight back to mainland Greece.
He swooped low, grabbing a woman from where she sat weaving on a balcony. Choking the breath from her lungs, he drained the life-threads from her dying body mid-air before dropping her corpse over the wall of Troy into the sea.
The mortal’s life force streaked renewed vigour through Hermes’ limbs, and he kicked up into the sky, cutting a path through the pale herds of clouds drifting above the ocean, towards the Black Sea entrance to the Underworld.