Chapter 4 #2
“But, Phaon”—my voice softens—“you might have no choice. Why would you risk it?”
“Goddess,” he says, his voice catching, “if I don’t fight—if I don’t try—I know what happens to women on the losing side of a war. Children too. I have to protect her and the baby. That means winning.”
“I could spirit the two of you away, anywhere in the world,” I offer. “I chose you, remember? There’s no need for this.”
He looks at the ground. “What about the other women left behind?” he asks.
“And the men brave enough to fight? Why should I flee, when they have to stay? I have this strength—why shouldn’t I lend it to them when they need it?
” He lifts his eyes to mine. “Dying is a risk I must take. You gave me this chance: the ability to help. If I live, I’ll dedicate my victory to you. ”
I sigh. It was his generosity and his kindness that first caught my attention.
Should I be so surprised that the man who stops to rescue a stranded old woman would do this?
That the man who dedicated all those faithful years to the woman he loved and lost couldn’t find it in his heart to turn his back on his people?
“I hope so, Phaon,” I say, and I mean it. “I truly hope you survive.”
I stalk away. If I were a harsher god, I would punish him for wasting my favor.
Impulse leads my steps away from the edge of the camp where I left my chariot. Perhaps Phaon won’t be persuaded, but I can’t give up so easily.
I walk toward the center of the camp, following the steady beat of drums. As I get closer, the smoke thickens in the air, obscuring the stars, and the drumbeat grows louder, insistent.
This is where the warriors are gathered. Not the cautious ones, the fearful and the reluctant who hide in their tents, swallowing down their dread of what’s to come. No, here are those most dedicated to carnage; a crowd hungry for it, eager to press in closer to their god.
I see him through the smoke, standing head and shoulders above the rest of them, flames glittering in his bronze helmet as he tips his head back and shouts toward the skies.
His battle-cry echoes up to the heavens, hollow and eerie, shuddering across the nape of my neck like an icy breath.
It contains a thousand horrors, as though the voices of all his warriors were caught up in his own; it’s the wrath of an entire army and their dreadful thirst for violence distilled into one terrible impulse of sound.
There is something mesmerizing about it, and utterly terrifying.
Ares.
My ears ring from the noise, every part of me recoiling from the scene.
I remember how the foundations of our Olympian palace used to shudder when he and Zeus would clash in wild arguments.
Ares was born furious, the wrathful eldest child of Zeus and Hera, and his swift growth to full-fledged godhood was tumultuous.
Now he’s rarely on Olympus, preferring to spend that wrath in mortal battles like this.
It may have been decades since he was last forced to attend a feast or a council meeting.
I remember him only as a sullen presence, saying little and leaving early.
Not like this—not this powerful god who holds an entire army in his thrall, the depths of his eyes lethal and hypnotic, the ferocity of his howl rousing them to holler back with all their might.
At some unspoken signal, the cries of the men subside, and Ares speaks.
“Tomorrow,” he says, his voice low and intense, “we fight.”
“I’ll be among you,” he goes on. “Your glory is mine.”
Through the mass of bodies, I see Eris, Goddess of Strife, at his side, her face contorted with ghoulish glee.
There’s no long speech to his men, no more words of encouragement to inspire the army.
Instead, the two of them stride through the crush.
Cheers, raw and guttural, erupt around him.
They’re so fast and decisive, I don’t have time to doubt myself.
I step out in front of them, and I see their incredulous expressions as they recognize me.
“Aphrodite?”
It’s Eris who speaks, her tone indignant. Her long black dress is threaded with silver, glimmering wherever the pale moonbeams strike it, and her black-feathered wings look velvety soft to the touch. I can’t imagine who would be foolish enough to dare try.
“Eris,” I greet her. “And Ares.”
Her face twists into a sneer, her midnight eyes cold. Dark hollows beneath conjure images of her lying awake, stewing over grievances and resentments, too bitter to sleep.
“What are you doing here?” Eris demands. “This is not your domain.”
I ignore her, turning to Ares. “May we talk?”
His face is guarded by the bronze plates of his helmet. All I can see is the hard set of his mouth and his empty black eyes. They meet mine and a shiver runs down my spine.
He jerks his head to the side, gesturing me toward the river that flows by the side of the camp.
Away from the roar of the celebrating crowd, I clear my throat. “There’s a man in your army,” I say. “Phaon, a fisherman, not a fighter. He belongs to me, not you.”
“Then take him with you when you leave.” His tone is short, peremptory in his instruction. A god used to being instantly obeyed.
“He won’t go,” I say.
Eris hisses. I can’t tell if it’s a huff of impatience or her attempt at scornful laughter. “That’s not our concern.”
I take a step closer. “Ares,” I say, striving to be reasonable.
I’m within an arm’s length of him now, and I swallow my trepidation.
I banish the thought of him, moments ago, unleashing his monstrous battle-cry.
He’s a god, like me. Like any other. I won’t be intimidated.
I wonder how I might coax him. He’s not Poseidon; a trail of my fingers down his finely muscled arms, left bare by his breastplate, won’t help me persuade him.
A pity. But there is a way. I just have to work out what it is.
I start with flattery. “He’s come to fight for you,” I explain. “He wants to be a hero, to honor you, Ares. All I ask is that you spare his life.” I’m looking earnestly into his eyes, trying to convey with my gaze that I’m sincere.
“Impossible,” he says, looking away.
Without that cold stare unnerving me, it’s easier to think.
“It’s not impossible, not for you,” I say smoothly.
“And if there’s anything I can do for you in return, some favor, just say the word.
” I’m thinking of a love charm, a whisper in the ear of whichever nymph a war god might be hankering after.
He glances back at me. “No.”
It’s abrupt, like a shock of cold water to the face. “No?” I splutter. Just a refusal? No negotiation, no compromise?
A triumphant smile creeps across Eris’ face. “That’s your answer, Aphrodite,” she says, a horrible crack in her voice that reminds me of a fissure opening in the earth, a sulfurous vent of boiling steam. “Now go.”
“He’s my mortal,” I protest. “You can protect him, if you choose.”
“Any man fighting knows he might die,” Ares says. “I don’t choose favorites. They all take the same risk.”
“But…” I grope for the words, wrong-footed by his rudeness. I’m searching for an advantage, some weakness I can use or some other way to charm him, but his blank facade is impenetrable.
“He lives or he dies,” Ares says. “I won’t intervene.
Don’t try yourself either.” His eyes flicker up and down my body, and I’m suddenly aware of my crocus-dyed gown; the wreath of flowers crowning my hair; the jewels shining at my throat, my ears, my wrists.
All of my soft luxuries next to his fierce austerity.
“Eris is right. This is no place for you.”
With that, Eris smirks, and they walk away, swallowed up by the smoke and the throng of worshippers before I can say another word.
—
I fly back to Olympus in a rage, my fists clenched tightly around the reins. I’m still fuming as I march across the courtyard, past the steps to the throne room. The door swings open and I see Zeus framed in the light behind it, his crown askew and a fug of wine surrounding him.
“Aphrodite!” he calls to me.
I nod curtly, and he frowns.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, leaning on the marble doorframe.
“Nothing’s wrong with me,” I snap. “What’s wrong with your son, more like?”
He nods sagely. “Hephaestus?” he asks. “I don’t know. I’ve asked myself many times.”
“Not Hephaestus,” I bite back, harsh as Eris herself. “Ares.”
“Oh,” he says. “Another good question.”
I sigh.
“Come inside,” he urges. “Have a drink.”
I’m too angry to sleep, so I allow him to usher me into the airy hall. It’s quieter at this time of night, only a handful of gods clustered at the tables. I take a seat next to Zeus, and Iris materializes with a goblet of wine.
“What’s Ares done now?” Zeus asks me.
I want nothing more than to vent my anger, but Zeus is a poor choice of confidant. He’s more likely to find my humiliation by Ares and Eris amusing than he is to sympathize. “Let’s not talk about him,” I say.
“That’s fine by me. Sometimes, I’d rather forget his existence altogether.” He scowls. “He makes it easy enough, considering how little of him I see up here.”
“Don’t you prefer it that way?” I ask.
Thunderclouds gather in his eyes. “He neglects his responsibilities. I should have known,” he comments darkly, “that no son from Hera could turn out any better.”
Zeus with wine and a grievance isn’t the drinking companion I want right now. “Come on.” I cast around for a subject he’ll prefer—something he can boast about ideally. “Tell me about—tell me about your mortal woman, the one Hephaestus made for you.”
He brightens. “Pandora? Hermes delivered her to Epimetheus as a wife.”
“Prometheus’ brother?”
“That’s right.” Now his eyes gleam with pleasure.
Maybe it’s my sour mood, but I don’t like the sound of this much more than the previous conversation. The Titan Epimetheus should have known better than to welcome a gift from the Olympian gods after what Zeus did to his brother. “How kind of you,” I say.
He smiles. It seems that the shift in topic has had the desired effect. “I’m glad you’re back where you belong,” he remarks, expansive with drink. “Back on Olympus with us.”
Ares’ final words echo in my mind. This is no place for you.
Well, he’s right. I want nothing to do with his vile wars, or with a god so completely unpleasant as him—savage and utterly unreasonable, handsome though he may be.
Here in this hall, with its graceful marble pillars, warm firelight and gentle chatter, I do feel at home.
I raise my goblet to Zeus and smile back.