Chapter 9
“Zeus.” My voice rings decisively through the corridor.
He turns around, genial. “Aphrodite.”
My steps echo on the marble tiles as I catch him up. “I didn’t want to raise it in there,” I say. “But it’s Eris.”
His smile fades. “Is this about your mortal fisherman again?”
“Yes,” I say. “But Ares told me that Phaon didn’t just die in war. Eris killed him deliberately, to stop me from saving him.”
Zeus nods. “That’s no surprise.” He looks at me more closely. “But why would Ares tell you? I’ve never seen you two talk to each other.”
“He thought he could stop me from pursuing her over it,” I say.
He pats my shoulder. “You can’t win with Eris,” he says. “She wants to provoke you.” He snorts. “She’s a thorn in all our sides, but she has her uses.”
“Not to me,” I say. “Even if you need her to stir up strife, she should be under your control. You’re king of all the gods. Eris thinks she can do as she pleases, taking mortals away from the Olympians to cause trouble. She needs to be reined in.”
“You want justice?” he asks.
“I do.”
“Hmm.” He starts to walk, the pressure of his hand still on my shoulder steering me along. “There’s something in what you say, I agree. I don’t want her getting out of hand.”
“Exactly.” I smile.
“But,” he says, and my smile wavers, “this was only a mortal. Don’t you have another one now—your sculptor. Am I right?”
“Surely it’s the principle,” I argue. “Shouldn’t she be punished?”
He sighs. “What would you have me do? Chain Eris to a rock like Prometheus?”
“No!” I despise her, but I’m not advocating for torture. I remember her gloating face; the way she took delight in Phaon’s death. I’m not her. “I don’t want revenge; I want justice, like I said.”
We reach the end of the corridor, where one of Athena’s tapestries hangs.
It shows the twelve of us, each Olympian god upon their throne, majestic and proud.
I’m crowned with flowers, my dress flowing around my body like water.
Poseidon bears a trident; Zeus a thunderbolt; Athena herself a sharp-tipped spear; Demeter a sheaf of corn; Hera a scepter; Artemis a silver bow and Apollo mirroring her with a golden one; Hestia a torch; Hermes a wand; Hephaestus a hammer; and Ares glowers behind his helmet.
We all look regal and beautiful, gazing from our lofty height.
“I’ll keep an eye on her,” Zeus concedes. “You might be right; she might go too far. But our relationship with Ares is challenging enough. I won’t give him an excuse to make it worse.”
“Zeus,” I say, “you and Ares fight all the time. Why would this be any different?”
He lifts his hands as if to say What can I do about it? As if the power and the choice aren’t his. “I promise, I’ll watch her,” he says. “If she does anything further, I’ll intervene. You have my word. In the meantime, let her think you don’t care.”
My tactic already, then, although I’m fairly sure Zeus is only this relaxed because Eris has insulted me, not him.
We contemplate the tapestry for another moment. I stare at the figure of Ares, helmeted and ferocious, Athena’s skill rendering him so alive he looks ready to leap from the woven threads and strike down his enemies.
“She’s good,” Zeus remarks.
I incline my head in agreement. Athena and I don’t have the friendliest relationship, but I wouldn’t deny that her accomplishments are impressive.
“Sorry that I forgot to tell her not to go ahead with Pandora,” he adds.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
His brow furrows. “Didn’t you hear? The jar story—the mortals are spreading it already.”
“Zeus!” It’s a strangled cry of frustration.
He rubs his bearded chin. “Athena is so efficient. I’d given her the instruction already, and I was too late to stop her.”
He’s so careless, I could scream.
“I know you liked Pandora,” he says ruefully. “Still.” He brightens. “Your genius move with the sculptor, that should cheer you up. Such a good idea to bring his statue to life. The perfect woman.” He lingers on the thought just a fraction too long. “Very well done, Aphrodite.”
I don’t doubt the sincerity of his approval. “Thank you,” I sigh. “And don’t forget about Eris.”
“I won’t.”
But I know better than to trust him.
—
It doesn’t take long for the story of Pandora’s fall to reverberate through the mortal world and up to the cloud-capped peak of our mountain. The blame for all the ills that besiege mankind is heaped on her shoulders, and my name surfaces in every repetition of the tale.
She got her beauty from Aphrodite…and her meddling nature too.
A woman that beautiful could never be trusted.
I fly, disguised in mist, straight down to their home after my conversation with Zeus. On my advice, she and Epimetheus flee to the banks of Oceanus to live among the Titans, rather than among mortals, who think they have cause to resent her.
“You’ll be happy there,” I tell Epimetheus. Their love for one another is still bright and palpable, utterly delightful to me, and I give them my blessing to ensure it never lapses. He might miss the mortals that he used to adore, but he loves Pandora more.
It’s just a story, I tell myself. An infuriating one but a story nonetheless. What matters is that their love survives in the face of ruin.
It’s love that I care about more than anything else, and Zeus can’t destroy that.
—
On Cyprus, the preparations for my festival are under way.
Women carry baskets laden with cakes, honey, perfumed ointments, flowers and leafy herbs to the sanctuary, winding their way up the hill in the bright sunshine, their songs and laughter drifting on the breeze.
I flit between them, feathered and trilling, listening to the secrets in between the chatter.
The words that hover unspoken on smiling lips, the flash of excitement as eyes meet, the dreams that linger inside hopeful hearts.
The island itself seems to quiver with anticipation, the air humming with the thrill of what’s to come.
I pay visits to Galatea, whom I find most often engaged in study.
She wanders the rooms of Pygmalion’s house, lifting fabrics and trinkets, making mental lists of what each item appears to be and what function it might fulfill.
She traces her hand across statues and sculptures, concentrating on the sensation of cold stone under her warm fingers.
And she leans on the windowsill, looking out toward the mountains, breathing in the scent of salt and pine, before she turns back at the sound of his footsteps.
She smiles when she sees him. The charm I placed on her still holds.
On Olympus, Zeus remains so full of his own self-importance that he summons Ares back again, ready to issue more orders to his unruly son.
As I sweep up the marble stairs, I can hear the rumbling of their voices like thunder rolling through the sky.
I pause, then gently push open the bronze doors to see the two of them standing and furious, several paces apart from one another.
No furniture has been toppled, I notice, and nothing broken that I can see. Not yet.
“I’m tired of all the destruction!” Zeus is shouting.
“You cause it all the time,” Ares counters. His voice isn’t raised; he’s talking with quiet contempt, and I can see his tone riles Zeus even more. He prefers a passionate brawl, and usually Ares is ready to provide one. “You’re only angry that this war isn’t one you’ve devised.”
“If it’s like Dodona again,” Zeus roars, “I’ll smite every single one of them.”
“Do it.” Ares shrugs.
I rest my hand on a tall pillar, watching him closely.
His eyes are burning with fury, his fists clenched and his shoulders tensed, and I can tell he’s holding back an avalanche of rage.
I wonder at his self-control. I can feel his desire to let it loose, pulsing and powerful in the golden hall. It’s in his nature after all.
Then I notice Hera, sitting on her throne, her eyes intent on her husband and son, a little smile playing at the corners of her lips.
“You can kill my men,” says Ares. “Save your precious cities. They all fall in the end.”
“You don’t care about anything,” Zeus growls with frustration, slamming his fist against a pillar. A crack runs up it and a little shower of dust tumbles from the ceiling. “You’d be happy to let the world fall back into chaos.”
“Better that than under your rule.”
I half expect Zeus to hurl a thunderbolt at him right here in the throne room.
“You should fight for me. You’re my son. Why do you persist in defying me?” His tone is pure menace, low and terrifying. When Zeus is in benevolent spirits, it can be easy to forget how ruthless he is and how dangerous too.
Ares has no fear. “I’ll never fight for you,” he says.
Zeus stares at him, and for a breathless second everything hangs in the balance. Then he crashes his fist into the same pillar again, and it buckles. “Hephaestus!” he bellows.
I slip back out of the doors behind me. Let Hephaestus come and patch up the damage; it isn’t my fight, and I have no desire to get dragged into it.
I’m skirting around the stables when I’m startled by a low whinny.
The War God’s midnight horses, pawing impatiently at the earth.
I come to a halt at the first horse’s head and put my hand up to stroke its jet-black muzzle.
It’s soft under my palm, and I make a soothing noise as it strains against its harness, eager to go.
It snorts, a jet of flame shooting from its nostrils.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”
He’s right behind me. He must have stormed out in my wake.
“Why not?” I ask.
His face is cold. “They aren’t friendly.”
I think of saying something arch—that they’re friendlier than their master even when they’re breathing fire.
But I’m not here to placate Ares, or to joke with him again.
Instead, I ignore him and pat the creature’s muscled flank.
It swings its heavy head toward me, the burst of flame just missing my dress.
I don’t flinch.
“Aphrodite,” he says.