Chapter 49 The Prodigal Son
Hera cracked her whip across the flanks of two winged chestnut mares. She gripped the handles of her golden chariot as the horses surged onwards, climbing higher in the azure sky.
The barley fields and evergreen mountains of Thessaly sprawled beneath her, the ripening land stained sunset shades of bronze and crimson.
Far to her right, Ares’ chariot gleamed as it peeled away towards the islands of the Ionian Sea.
Ahead of her, Athena took a path over the Aegean coast. Hera had said she would scour the Peloponnese for the Titan girl, but instead of descending she continued south over the spine-like mountain range.
Soon she passed over the emerald peaks of Mount Parnassus, and the wreckage of what had once been Delphi.
Despite the efforts of Apollo’s devotees to rebuild, and the pale stone buildings that had sprung from the blackened ruins, the land surrounding the holy city was still scorched and bare.
The mortals may have forgiven Apollo’s destruction, but the earth did not forget so easily.
She drove her horses on, over the city of Athens, to the wide waters of the Aegean and the clutch of islands cradled in its swells.
Finally, the Queen of the Gods steered her mounts down towards a small, rocky stretch of land.
The earth had seen two full turns of the moon and sun, yet Poseidon still had not returned from Delos. Her fear mounting, Hera had decided to go after him.
The lashing wind carried the stench of rotting flesh.
Fighting to keep her chariot steady, Hera landed on the rough beach of a crescent bay.
She alighted swiftly, staring at the mouldering carcass of Poseidon’s sea-creature, Skolopendra.
It had almost been picked clean, the beast’s shell ravaged of soft flesh, its eyes long pillaged by gulls brave enough to face the wind.
Hera cast her gaze across the island, life-threads rushing from her armour into her gauntleted hands. It appeared to be all barren scrubland save for the stony hill at its centre. The earth was churned, great chunks of rock and trees lying discarded like driftwood amongst the yellow grass.
So, this was where Zeus had exiled the mother of his first child.
Hera’s body turned against her, stomach roiling. She remembered pursuing another of Zeus’ loves, Leto, as the woman fled across the sea, her belly swollen with the twins Artemis and Apollo. Leto had sought sanctuary on Delos, knowing it was the one place Hera could not bring herself to set foot.
Metis had haunted Hera each day of her eternal life. She may be the Queen of Heaven, but she had never been able to summon the courage to visit the only other woman who had truly stolen her husband’s heart. Until her children’s lives were threatened.
Leaving the horses tethered to the chariot, she began the climb up from the beach towards the island’s lone hill.
Clouds of spiny spruce littered her way, brightly patterned lizards scuttling between the shadowy cracks of lichen-stained boulders.
The remnants of fine traps, like spider’s webs, lay tangled between several of the rocks.
Hera’s nose crinkled with disgust. What a pathetic existence Metis must lead.
She paused near the crest. Nestled in a natural crevice sheltered from the wind was the wreckage of a small stone dwelling.
Heart already stammering from the climb, Hera began pulling aside rocks and shattered pieces of pottery, their rough edges scraping the gold of her gauntlets, as she searched for the curve of a limb, a battered segment of armour, or the spokes of Poseidon’s trident.
She paused, closed her eyes and breathed deeply.
The trident is not here, murmured the voice.
Hera’s eyes snapped open. The voice spoke the truth; the weapon contained so many life-threads she would surely feel its presence.
She cast her gaze to the peak of the hill and resumed her climb.
The wind howled at the island’s summit, a spread of yellowing grass and grey rock unfurling beneath her as she clambered to its height.
There were strange piles of stones dotted about the peak. She stared at one, then kicked it, sending the collection of rocks scattering down the hillside.
Turning to scour the island from her vantage point, to the north she spotted a lone verdant patch of land surrounding a small lake. She squinted. What appeared to be a rectangular mound of rocks lay by the water’s edge.
Hera scrambled back down the hillside, sprinted through the crisping grass and sporadic bursts of hardy blooms, only slowing as she approached the rock pile. With trembling hands, she removed stone after stone until a body was uncovered.
Hera stepped back, eyes watering at the stench.
She was so small.
In the centuries that had passed since Hera last set eyes on Metis, she had transformed the woman’s memory into something otherworldly: a magnificent creature, more radiant and terrible than the flaming heart of the sun.
A woman so powerful, despite her transgression, she had kept a corner of Zeus’ heart all for herself.
But in death Metis looked fragile, her rags clinging to her bones, her hair thin and brittle. Just another corpse.
Hera had never visited Delos, not because she was jealous of Metis or afraid of her power, but because she believed that if she stood before her rival, she would be shown in unbearable clarity which elements of her own composition were so lacking that she could not hold her husband’s love.
Now she would never truly know.
Suddenly, Hera felt like a young girl again, standing outside her new family’s hut after being chastised by Kronos for refusing to eat the fish stew Rhea had prepared.
As the wind whipped her curls about her salt-stained cheeks, she turned to gaze across the island. If Metis had been buried and Poseidon’s beast slain, it did not bode well for her brother’s fate. Yet there was no body.
Her brows furrowed. How would the Lord of the Sea leave Delos without his creature? Surely he could not have swum to another shore?
She searched every stretch of the cursed island, scouring the cliffs for a glint of gold or the hum of the trident’s power.
But there was nothing.
Heart leaden, Hera climbed back into her chariot and took to the sky.
When Hera returned to Olympus, she bathed in water scattered with rose petals, had her nymphs massage her skin and hair with scented oils, then donned her finest imperial purple gown.
She finished her masterpiece by placing her golden sun crown upon her shining curls, then looked at the nymph waiting by her dressing table.
‘I am ready. Take me to him.’
By the time they’d reached the cherrywood door in the southern quarter of the palace, Hera’s fingers had tightened into fists.
Something inside her knew he would be here.
Despite the danger closing in around them, and most of his children being scattered throughout Greece searching for the Titan girl, it all came back to this.
She nodded at the nymph, and the woman opened the door.
The room smelt sweet, like honey. Sunlight poured in from a round window hollowed into the apex of the brightly patterned ceiling, shining on a floor lined with colourful cushions.
The muscles in Hera’s neck tightened at the sight of the murals painted across the circular walls: Heracles decapitating the many-headed Hydra, Perseus saving the princess Andromeda from the jaws of the great sea-monster Cetus.
Marble pillars guarded these scenes, between which nymphs in pale-blue tunics stood vigil over two figures in the centre of the chamber.
Cheeks flushed, Hera dragged her gaze to the centre of the room.
Zeus lay across the cushions, reclining on his elbow. A child of around three years sat before him, playing with the fringe of a crimson cushion. The boy’s auburn hair curled around his ears, his olive skin was lightly freckled, and his eyes were wide pools of cerulean.
Zeus always claimed the children he had brought to Olympus were cast in his image, but Hera could only ever see their mortal mothers.
Her husband looked up at her. ‘You never come here.’
‘I have news.’
Zeus’ gaze flicked to the nymphs.
‘Leave us.’
As one, they rippled from the chamber, their footsteps echoing off the marble walls.
The child watched them go, then his ocean-blue eyes fixed on Hera. His lip trembled. He crawled towards Zeus, nestling into the crook of his torso. Gently, the King of the Gods nudged him to standing.
‘This is Hera, the Queen of Heaven. You must bow before her.’
The boy blinked, looked once more at Zeus then clumsily bowed, before burying his face in Zeus’ chest.
‘She scares me,’ the child mumbled.
Zeus laughed.
The warmth in his face almost shattered Hera.
‘Has he shown any indication of powers yet?’
Zeus’ brow darkened. A rod of satisfaction pierced her spine. It was petty of her, but wounding her husband was so tempting when every breath she took in this child’s presence was an insult.
‘He is still young. I have several new methods yet untested.’
She wanted to scream at him, demand to know how he could, after all these failed attempts, still labour under the delusion that he could pass on his powers to a mortal son.
‘You have seven divine children,’ she spat. ‘Why is that not enough?’
Zeus rose to his feet. ‘Because, wife, as I have told you before, their powers do not come from me. The Hesperides tree still holds the secret to what we are. It is the last hurdle to cementing our divinity. The Mother’s final yoke around my neck.’