Chapter 6
I find her in a sheltered bay, not unlike the one where I first met Phaon. She leans on a rock, looking out at the gray waters, the dog at her feet. Its muzzle rests on its paws, its eyes mournful, staring at the horizon for the boat that will never bring his master home.
I’m not disguised. All I do is dim my radiance so that she won’t be burned or blinded. I see her take in the tattered, filthy state of my dress.
“You didn’t save him.” It isn’t a question.
I shake my head.
The dog heaves itself up and trots toward me, tilting its head quizzically. I stroke it gently and it licks my wrist, as if it knows I tried and it’s trying to console me. But I’ve come to offer sympathy, not receive it.
“I told him not to fight,” I say. “But he was a good man, too good to run away.”
Tears slide down her cheeks. She doesn’t look at me. “I know.”
The dog whines softly, returning to her side. She pats it, her gesture mechanical, her gaze unseeing. Her chin shakes and she dips her head, hair falling in front of her face, shielding her.
I take a step closer and rest my hand on her shoulder. “He loved you so much,” I say.
“I would have died in Athens,” she bursts out. “I lived my life without him, but that was coming to an end. In the Kingdom of Hades, we would have found one another again. I would have had to wait only a few more years, if you’d left me alone.”
“I wanted you to have him here,” I say. “Not as a shadow but real.”
“And what will I do,” she asks, finally meeting my eyes, “now that he’s gone?” She rests her hand on the swelling curve of her stomach. “What will we do?”
Her despair and her dignity are humbling.
If Ares saw this, I think, if he were made to confront the consequence of his wars, would it stir any flicker of regret in his iron soul?
He can fly away from the carnage, his chariot pulled by fire-breathing, bronze-hooved horses, and never have to think about it.
It’s goddesses who hear the prayers of the grieving, just as Demeter said. Never the gods.
“You can go to one of my temples,” I say. “Become a priestess.” She’d be protected there. Safe to live out the years I’ve given her in comfort.
“And devote my life to the worship of love?” There’s a bitter edge to her tone.
I take a moment before I answer, reaching for her hand and holding it in mine. “You’ve loved and been loved greatly. You’d make a worthy priestess.”
A sob escapes her throat.
“I’m sorry,” I tell her. I’m sorry I wasn’t quicker, that I didn’t anticipate the arrow. I’m sorry I didn’t try harder to convince him, instead of trying to pluck him out of the maelstrom when it was already too late.
The sun is sinking behind the clouds; too lackluster to do more than tint the white mist a faint pink. Rain begins to spatter onto the pebbles around us.
She cries quietly, and we fall silent. There’s nothing left to say. I stand with her until the last light drains from the sky.
—
There is precious little time allowed for grief and regret on Mount Olympus.
No matter how bruising the loss of Phaon feels, I must make a show of restoring my reputation.
It’s humiliating as well as shocking to lose a favored mortal; one whose glorious love story was supposed to be a triumph, not a tragedy.
It’s only Demeter I confide in. I find her at the charred wasteland left behind by the army. She wanders through the abandoned tents, the burnt stumps of the trees that grew here and the trampled stems of the once-abundant grasses and flowers.
“I wasn’t fast enough,” I tell her wearily.
She’s kneeling on the ravaged earth, studying the damage, but when she looks up at me, her face is kind. “You aren’t accustomed to battle,” she says. “It’s not your fault.”
I wrinkle my brow. I’m a goddess, not a pampered girl. I should have been able to save him. I keep going over the moment in my mind, trying to understand how I didn’t see the arrow coming. “It was,” I say.
She rolls a broken blade of grass between her finger and thumb, and I watch it brighten, green and vivid, with her touch.
Around her, torn blooms straighten their shattered necks and the earth ripples with life.
“What’s done is done.” Her voice is gentle but pragmatic.
“You and I,” she says, “will put the pieces back together.” She stands, and I see the patch of ground is restored once more.
Although the damage stretches in every direction, under her tender ministrations new shoots are lifting their heads.
“It takes patience,” she adds, “but, in the end, everything heals. One day, no one will even know there was a war here.”
“By then,” I say, an unusual bitterness in my voice, “there will have been a dozen more elsewhere.”
“And you’ll mend the broken hearts from those while I repair the earth again,” she says briskly. “Won’t we?”
I know she’s right. But there’s little comfort in the thought.
Meanwhile, the other gods must see me succeed, and as soon as possible.
—
First, I dispatch Pasithea with a message—one I’ve concocted, naturally.
I let enough time elapse and then take my chariot from the Olympian stables for the long journey across the world.
My doves, fluttering their wings beneath their jeweled harnesses, climb up into the azure dome of the sky, swooping above great mountain ranges and valleys, across glittering oceans and scattered islands, all the way to the long, coiling snake of Oceanus that encircles the world in its slow-rippling embrace.
Beyond here, in a cave between the land of the living and the dead—just as Dysis had said—is where Hypnos lives, in a place of soft shadows and tranquility.
The doves land in a smooth halt, and I dismount from the chariot onto the blanket of flowers growing around the banks of the Lethe.
There is nothing to hear but the lapping of this ghostly river against the shore.
Its water is a milky silver, a pearlescent sheen glimmering in the low light.
From here, it flows all the way down to the Underworld, and the dead drink from it.
It brings them peace, allowing them to forget everything they have left behind.
I wince, remembering how Phaon’s widow spoke so longingly of the realm beyond this river, the only place where she could ever find him again.
But that’s not why I’m here. Along the sinuous curves of the Lethe, in a bloom of scarlet poppies, the cave of Hypnos yawns, its black mouth curiously inviting.
I let my mind wander, searching for Pasithea, and it doesn’t take long for me to feel the rapid beat of her heart.
Inside the cave, she stands engulfed in the comfort of darkness.
Behind her in the gloom is the God of Sleep, his ebony-carved bed heaped with the black furs of bears.
He kisses her, and her mind spins, a galaxy of stars opening up in her vision, a dreamy haze that makes her stumble, off-balance, and he catches her in his arms and pulls her down onto the furs.
I’m captivated, the sensuous romance of it intoxicating, stupefying my senses like the heavy scent of the poppies dragging on the breeze.
Love is always the antidote to loss, the balm to any wound.
With Hypnos made content, the grief-filled dreams that might torment the sleep of mortals in the wake of this war will be soothed.
There will be peace and healing, rest and solace.
This can be a topic of divine gossip; a victory in my name to replace any chatter about defeat.
Next, I fly down to the thickly wooded plains of Thessaly, clad in dove feathers, to see the woman that Hephaestus and Athena made.
The exquisite ache of longing that I instilled in her calls out to me.
I perch on the stone wall that Epimetheus built outside their house and cock my head, cooing while Pandora snips herbs from the garden.
She’s delighted by my presence, treating me as though I’m skittish and afraid, and I find her gentleness endearing.
She steals closer, bit by bit, taking care not to startle me, until she’s bold enough to reach out and stroke my plumage, and then she smiles and the world feels radiant.
Pandora is a woman who wants, and I find it irresistible.
She takes pleasure in everything around her—the way her plants lift their leaves toward the warmth of the sun, the rattle of her loom as she deftly weaves threads together the way that Athena taught her, her husband’s smile when he returns home and greets her with a loving embrace.
It must seem idyllic to Epimetheus too. He and his brother, Prometheus, devoted their lives to mortals—until Prometheus defied Zeus’ edict to keep fire for the gods alone.
He shared the secret with humanity, and they use it now to burn offerings to the gods, sending rich smoke up to the heavens in our honor.
It’s not enough for Zeus. He chained Prometheus to a cliffside far away, condemned to suffer unending torture for the rest of eternity.
And yet his brother has apparently won Zeus’ favor, and been rewarded with a blissful love. A reminder, perhaps, that his obedience is appreciated. Or else, knowing Zeus, it’s something altogether darker.
Pandora gathers the herbs she’s cut into a little bag and starts to walk up the path toward the house.
“Are you coming, little bird?” she asks, her voice like music.
I follow her into a home that’s cool and shaded; wooden shutters fastened to keep out the heat of the midday sun. The earthen floor is bare apart from the rugs that Pandora has woven, and painted flowers bloom in frescoes on the walls, a splash of bright joy and vivid color.