Chapter 7 #2
I don’t want to make it obvious. I’ve seen the way his eyes linger on me.
I know the softness and the longing; I could hardly miss it.
It’s the depth of his feeling that makes me cautious.
There would be no casual trysts with a god like Hephaestus, no easy ending.
His heart is too tender for me to risk breaking it.
Suggesting other goddesses to him is as gentle a signal as I can give him that it won’t be me.
I don’t want to be like Ares: blunt and direct with no regard for the consequence.
“Never mind,” I breeze. “I’ll find a pair of lovers with some obstacle between them that only I can remove.” I jump to my feet. “Thank you,” I say, gesturing to the empty wine cup. “I won’t keep you from the forge any longer.”
“Oh.” He blinks rapidly. “You don’t need to go.”
But before he can say anything else, I hurry out.
—
On my terrace that afternoon, I lie on a low couch in the thin sunlight, listening to the prayers that spiral up from the mortal world.
I’m letting the words wash over me—whispered secrets, illicit confessions, forbidden yearnings that only I get to hear, always a brightening balm to my mood—when I’m startled back to reality by the ruffle of wingbeats.
I sit up, shading my eyes. “Eros?”
My son stands before me, gilded by sunlight. He’s breathtaking as always, and I feel a tingle of pride to look at him: a handsome young man with bright gold wings, pretty and delicate with a faint air of wickedness belied by his sweet appearance.
“Come and sit,” I urge him. “What have you come to tell me?”
“Have you been listening to the prayers from Paphos?” he asks.
I nod. “Only now, in fact. Why, is there something in particular?”
He hops up to sit on the balcony wall. “There is. I’ve been repeatedly hearing the petitions of a man called Pygmalion. I think you’ll be interested in this one—it’s very unusual.”
I’m immediately intrigued and his story doesn’t disappoint. I’m listening, breathless, when I hear movement from inside.
“Charis?” I call. “Is that you?”
She steps through the pillars that hold up the little porch.
“Did you want something?” she asks.
“Come and listen to this.” I beckon her eagerly, swinging my legs down so that she can sit beside me. “Eros is just telling me about a man in Cyprus. Pygmalion, a sculptor who’s fallen in love with his own statue.”
“What?”
“He’s been praying to me, asking for a wife just like the one he’s carved.”
“But that’s just because he doesn’t dare to ask for what he really wants,” Eros interjects.
“What is it that he really wants?” Charis asks.
“He wants her—the statue. That’s who he’s fallen in love with!” I finish.
Charis squints, smiling. “How would that work?”
“That’s why he’s praying: he doesn’t know what to do with his feelings,” I say.
“He’s bought fine clothes for her, expensive jewelry, flowers.
When he’s alone and no one can see what he’s doing—no one except me, that is—he kisses her as though he could coax that cold stone into warm flesh.
” When Eros described his prayers to me, I could see the scene in his thoughts.
Pygmalion’s memory of her inert lips under his, her unyielding cheeks framed by his loving hands.
His hope giving way to disappointment, every time.
“Have you ever heard such a prayer before?” Charis asks, intrigued.
“Believe me, I’ve heard far more unusual prayers,” I assure her. “He’s very devoted—to her, and to me. It is rather unorthodox, but I think that might be exactly what I’m looking for. A challenge.”
“So,” she says, “what will you do?”
“Well…” I say.
She leans forward. “What?”
“Shouldn’t he have what he really longs for?” I say. “I could find him a substitute, I’m sure. A woman lovely and beautiful—”
“But not the same.” She nods in understanding.
I smile. “No, not the same.” I sit up taller, my cheeks flushing as my excitement builds.
Eros’ eyes sparkle with delight.
“I’m sure I can find a way,” I go on. “Something altogether more satisfying than a replacement—something much more romantic.” I glance at her. “Trust that I know how to make someone’s dreams come true. You’ve seen how happy Pasithea is with Hypnos now, after all.”
“Yes, she is,” Charis agrees, a wistful light in her eyes.
I wonder if now is the moment when I can draw her on the subject of Hephaestus. “What about you anyway?” I ask. “Is there someone…anyone on Olympus maybe?”
She draws a breath. “There is one thing I’d like to ask of you,” she says, and I sit up straighter, intent. “It’s that, if I do find someone—if I fall in love—I want them to choose me. Freely.”
Eros arches an eyebrow. “You don’t want Aphrodite’s help?”
She pleats the drapes of her dress between her fingers, and I reach out to lay my hand on top of hers. “I’m not offended,” I reassure her.
“It’s just that I want to know he’s really chosen me,” she says, and my heart twists in sympathy at what she isn’t saying.
“And that’s a promise I can make, if you want it,” I tell her. “I won’t intervene.”
“Thank you.” She stands up, a little hesitant. “Tell me what happens with your sculptor,” she says. “I hope he finds that she’s everything he dreamed of.”
“Don’t worry,” I say. “He will.”
I watch her leave, taking in her shapely form and delicate grace. I wish she would allow me to open Hephaestus’ eyes to her. I’m sure it wouldn’t take much.
“She’d never know,” Eros murmurs, “if you gave him a nudge.”
I shake my head. “I promised.” I change the subject. “Anyway, one more thing. Tell me what Zeus is up to at the moment.”
He wrinkles his nose. “Visiting a mortal princess of Thebes,” he says. “He’s quite taken with her, actually, and her with him, believe it or not.”
“Hmm.” I think about it for a minute. “Can you make sure it doesn’t wane?” I ask. “Keep him as occupied as you can?” There’s more chance that he’ll forget about Pandora that way, especially now that I’ve planted a seed of doubt in his mind.
“Of course. And,” he says, “have you decided what to do about Eris?” He’s the only god I’ve confided in about her so far. He helped me with Phaon; the injury is his as well.
I shake my head. “Not yet. I think right now the thing that will cause her the most suffering is if she believes I’ve let it go. Let her brood on it, wondering if she’s failed to rile me.”
He nods. “If you need anything,” he says, “I’m here. I can’t stand her either; the only thing she loves is misery.”
“I know.”
Eros leans over to kiss my forehead and then he’s gone, soaring into the sky.
I lie back down on my couch, alone again, listening to the prayers from the world below. They’ve merged together, overlapping and intertwining, lulling me into a gentle daze, when abruptly one voice breaks through. It drowns out the rest of the chorus. I sit up, fully awake, my attention caught.
Well, I think, that’s something new.
—
The moon over Thrace is full and tinged with crimson. Fallen leaves crunch under the wheels of my chariot as I land, black smoke blooming into the sky, the scent of fire permeating everything.
I follow the smoke and the dull roar of chanting and cymbals. I can feel my pulse pounding, blood thrumming to the wild rhythm as I get closer, apprehensive and intrigued in equal measure.
This feels like another world than Cyprus.
I’ve never had cause to come here before and I doubt that I ever would have, were it not for the single prayer that emanated from here.
The voice of a woman, strident and piercing, determined to be heard.
She called on me, her words sparing and imperious.
My worshippers normally frame their requests in humble language, begging that I will hear them and give their hopes my consideration. This one was more of a command.
The grove gives way to an open plain, and in the center a great fire burns. Around it, mortals are writhing in a frenzied dance, jabbing spears up to the sky and howling.
The realization crashes down upon me, as dreadful and inevitable as war itself.
I’ve witnessed a scene like this before. A memory that’s seared into my soul.
Just like then, he’s here in the heart of the throng, towering head and shoulders above his worshippers. The blood-hued moonlight glints off his breastplate, off the metal cuffs at his wrists and his helmet, ghastly and savage, framing him in an unearthly halo.
The crowd splits around him. Two men dressed for battle come forwards, heaving ropes tied around the muscled shoulders of a bull.
The animal snorts and huffs, its eyes rolling back in its head as they drag it, its hooves scraping against the earth.
At its back are two more warriors to stop the bull from charging ahead.
I watch, frozen with dread, as another man lays his shield on the ground in their path, and they haul the bull to stand above it.
It lowers its head, grunting and pawing, and the whooping and clashing of metal dies away.
In the quiet that follows, a woman comes forth.
Like the men, she is clad in armor—a short tunic made from animal hide with rough plates of bronze fastened over her shoulders and torso—but she’s bareheaded, her hair held back from her face with two knotted braids and the rest streaming down her back.
Her eyes are intent on the bull, and she holds a sword, its blade sharp and deadly.
In one fluid motion, she vaults up onto the animal’s back, pressing her body against it, reaching her arms around its thick neck as she draws the sword across its throat.
This is the woman whose prayer I heard. I can feel it, the moment that I see her.
The bull’s blood spills on the shield. The crowd cheers. Ares watches, transfixed, the dancing flames reflecting in his black eyes.
She keeps hold of the bull as its legs buckle beneath it, sinking to the ground. Then she slides off, blood running down her sword and onto her arm.
I can’t look away from its limp body. I think of the flowers growing in Paphos, the scent of perfume and incense, the shady orchards and the garlands my worshippers leave at my altar.
Here, the jagged shapes of the mountains loom above us, and shadows swallow the blood-tinged light of the distant stars.
The crowd starts to sing again, their voices low and insistent. Others step up to prepare the bull for the flames: the meat for them; the bones wrapped in fat to burn for Ares. He raises his arms to them, and they roar back at him in elation.
I shake myself out of my trance. I must leave before he sees me, but already it is too late. Our eyes lock.
The worshippers part before him like a river around a boulder.
The pounding drumbeat of spears against shields gathers pace, mirroring my heartbeat.
“Eris isn’t here,” he says. There’s a warning in his tone that I’d be a fool to ignore.
Nonetheless, I set my jaw. “I didn’t come for her. Not this time.”
“Then why?” He doesn’t believe me. “The gods don’t come here.” He’s close enough for me to breathe the scent of smoke from his skin.
“I was called,” I say.
“No one here would summon you.”
“You’re wrong. There was a prayer.”
He tilts his head. “You answer every prayer in person?”
“Not that it’s anything to do with you,” I say. “But, no, this one was unusual.”
“Unusual?” His gaze is piercing, like he’s trying to catch me out in a lie.
I have nothing to hide. I won’t be cowed. “Yes,” I say. “No prayer has reached me from here before.” I glance back at the revelers and see the woman standing apart from the rest of them, staring at us. When she realizes that I’ve noticed her, she lifts her chin, defiant.
“Did you come to watch us?” His stance is steady, but the slight flaring of his nostrils and shifting muscles in his jaw tell me that he isn’t as in control as when we last spoke. I caught him here unguarded, as he never wants to be seen on Olympus.
“No.” I sweep my eyes across his body, disdainful.
He’s so strong, and I’m acutely aware of the breadth of space between us.
Every inch of my skin feels alive, tingling at his proximity.
I’m poised for another confrontation. I won’t shrink from it just because we’re on his territory.
“I’m here because of her.” I nod in the mortal woman’s direction.
Her chest is heaving with her breath underneath her armor, the shape of her body luscious and curved, her hair spilling wild around her shoulders.
She surveys us with naked curiosity. There’s no way that she doesn’t know who I am, but still she stares, her eyes arrogant when they rest on me, covetous when she turns to him.
“You’re not her goddess,” he says. “Why should I believe you?”
I laugh. He’s so superior. “I doubt she even expected me to hear her,” I say. “But she tried anyway.”
“Why?”
“War isn’t enough for everyone, Ares.” I sound like him, cold and haughty. “Maybe she’s realized she’s not satisfied with blood alone.”
His lip curls. “And what is it that you can offer her?”
I smile sweetly. “You.”
“Me?” I’ve startled him out of his bristling hostility. He’s genuinely taken aback.
A holler goes up from the crowd, a cry of victory I can imagine ricocheting across the battlefield.
Their urgency and hunger might be for war and violence, but, in this moment, I wonder if their desire for the heat of the fight and the feel of warm flesh in their hands is so distinguishable from what I always crave.
I sneak a curious glance at him. Does he take his lovers from revels like this? Selecting one eager mortal or another, discarding them after?
It’s nothing to me either way. “She wants me to enchant you on her behalf.”
His eyes widen. It could be surprise, but do I detect a hint of apprehension?
Is he afraid that I’ll do it? It’s delicious to entertain it for a flash of imagination, how I might wield my magic here in his kingdom of war. How I could make him weak with longing, desperate with desire. How I could give him to this mortal woman…or anyone else I choose.
The fumes of roasting meat, the sparks leaping from the flames, the clash of bronze and the howls of joy rush back into focus, merging together in a crescendo, and I feel dizzy.
I put my hand on his chest, on the hard metal of his breastplate, steadying myself.
I feel the catch of his breath as though it’s mine.
I have to get out of this place.
“I won’t grant her wish,” I say. “Do what you want.”
I walk away.