Chapter 14
“Sorry again about Pygmalion,” Eros says. His fine features are tinged with regret, his chin resting on his hands, his wings rippling behind him. “I had no idea how unpleasant he was.”
“Neither did I,” I say. “It isn’t your fault.”
“What about Galatea?” he asks. “What does she do now?”
After my intervention, she sought refuge in my temple. That’s where she’s been since. “Take her away,” I tell him. “Carry her off from Cyprus, somewhere far from him. She dreams of forests and freedom; let’s give her that. She can live a new life—one of her own making.”
Eros smiles at Auge and Iris as they pass by my grove hand in hand, Iris’ wings a mirror of his. They’re beautiful and soft, every feather shimmering and delicate. “Are you all right?” he asks me.
“Of course. Why?”
“Missing your handsome war-god?” His eyes brim with mischief.
“How do you—oh, never mind. Of course you know.”
He stretches his arms above his head, leaning back against the trunk of the oak tree that shades us from the sun. “I could hear your racing heart all the way from Mount Haemus to Cyprus.” He preens himself, so delightful and charming that I can’t be annoyed.
There’s no way that Eros could miss the eruption of a new passion in the world, not one that blazed as brightly as ours must have done from the summit of that Thracian peak.
His powers are too aligned to mine and he would have felt the hum in the air, the awakening of love, just as I can sense it anywhere too.
And I’m sure he can detect my longing now, how I’m craving Ares’ touch again.
Weeks have passed, weeks in which Zeus has kept watch over Sicily and I’ve remained in Cyprus.
Despite Ares’ promise that he’d return with haste, his war rages on and he’s still there.
I’m not waiting for him. I’m visiting my sanctuary and tending to my worshippers.
I’m spreading love and joy across my island while Ares has been running amok in the masses of warriors he inspires.
I listen to hopeful prayers. Across the world, his battle-cry echoes and blood spills across the plains.
In Cyprus, the air is fragrant with flowers and spices left at my altars.
The air around him is thick with spears and flying arrows.
I see babies born to grateful mothers, eyes wide in the gentle light of morning.
Ares’ warriors rampage through what remains of their opponents: ravenous wolves loosed upon sheep.
So Eros isn’t wrong, of course he isn’t. I wish Ares were here, or maybe I wish I could forget him. I hate where he’s gone and why, and the thought that he’ll always choose violence over love. But that isn’t the only thing on my mind.
“If my spirits are dampened, it’s not merely because of Ares,” I confide. “It’s the thought of Hephaestus, all alone. Hurt and trapped.”
Eros waves away my concerns. “Hephaestus is strong,” he says.
“Capable, resourceful, very brawny. I think he’ll be fine.
” He sees my face and softens. “Besides, you know Zeus. He’s not going to bother standing guard much longer, is he?
He’ll be off chasing nymphs through a forest somewhere soon, and he’ll forget all about it. ”
“That’s what I said to Charis.”
“Then you know it’s true. And I can help things along, if you like. Point Zeus in a particular direction, at someone far away from Sicily. Just say the word.”
“No, not again,” I say. “That’s how this started. Let’s leave him alone for the time being.”
“Whatever you say.” He stands up, his wings unfurling. “I’ll take care of Galatea,” he promises.
He flies away, and Iris, loosening her hand from Auge’s, comes to sit beside me.
She has a request, she tells me, on Hermes’ behalf.
He’s in love with a Theban king, one with flowing hair that tumbles over his forehead.
“He’s already asked Charis to weave a headband for him out of gold thread,” she says, “and has carved him a lyre as another gift.”
I’m delighted and more than happy to help, stoking up a reciprocal flame inside the mortal king’s heart. I hear a prayer from a handsome young athlete begging me for Apollo’s favor, and another from a mortal man hopelessly in love with a huntress who’s vowed never to marry. I’m busy for days.
And, in the background, especially in the quietest hours of the night, when I listen to the yearning that calls to me from worlds mortal and divine—a chorus of individual voices that merge and overlap—one stands out from the rest. A steady hum, one that pulses to the rhythm of martial drumbeats, dark and deep and thrilling.
If I feared he might forget me, here is proof that he hasn’t.
I can sense his longing from across the world.
Eros returns. He’s delivered Galatea to forest nymphs, a band of women who will give her the freedom she craves. But there’s more, he announces, breathless with excitement.
“Semele’s son,” he says. “He’s on Naxos. Zeus is there now, Poseidon too.”
“And?” I ask. “Did you see what’s so special about him?”
Eros nods, his eyes alight. “He’s a god.”
“A god?” I ask. “Born from a mortal mother?”
“I don’t know how,” Eros says, “but he is.”
“Zeus obviously has plans for him, from the way he spoke about him,” I muse. The golden light of evening falls across my sanctuary, warming everything it touches, and I look out toward the sea as the breeze shifts, carrying the scent of thyme and jasmine.
For a moment, my resolve wavers. I remember Ares asking me to go to Mount Haemus to await his return. It must be imminent; his war is likely drawing to a close soon.
Thrace calls to me, and I want nothing more than to answer the prayers of its lonely god.
But here is another opportunity, one I can’t let pass. If Zeus is really so interested in his latest son, it might just distract him enough to give me the time I need to help Hephaestus at last.
“Let’s go.” I clap my hands together, decisive.
“To Naxos?” he asks.
“That’s right,” I say. “Fetch my chariot. We’ll leave right away.”
—
The clash of cymbals and a wild, rhythmic drumming give away their location. Eros and I land at the edge of the forest in the pine-scented twilight, and follow the shouts of song and laughter up the slopes and through the trees.
We exchange looks as we get closer, our stride quickening. It sounds alluring: snaking melodies, crackling flames, a chorus of voices. I know that Eros can feel what I do in the air—the thrum of desire, heady and sweet.
“I like this island,” I murmur to him.
“Me too.”
The trees thin out ahead, and we step into the wide grove.
Zeus and Poseidon are there, like Eros said, and so is Apollo.
There are women everywhere: at least a dozen, loose-haired in trailing dresses, some dancing, some with cymbals and drums. The moonlight spills across their bare arms and flowing curls, shining through the thin fabric of their skirts as they spin and whirl.
The gods are sprawled on boulders and tree stumps around a fire burning in the center, their curved drinking-horns filled with dark crimson liquid.
When Zeus sees me and Eros, he lifts the horn and calls out to us.
“Come sit,” he booms, sweeping his arm around the circle.
As we make our way through the girls, one of them stumbles into me, and I catch her.
She’s warm, her soft, perfumed skin flushed with wine and dancing.
She flashes me a smile as she straightens up, her fingers brushing gently against my arm.
I smile back, and it’s Eros who tugs me down onto a rock, reminding me why we’re here.
“Aphrodite,” Zeus grins. “Meet my son Dionysus.”
I’d assumed the figure at his side was another nymph, but, when I look more closely through the firelight and shadows, I see the shape of his shoulders beneath his chiton. He draws nearer, holding out a full drinking-horn to me, and he takes my breath away.
His face is exquisite—slight and delicate, youthful-looking with full lips and bright eyes.
There’s a charming innocence about him that feels entirely irresistible.
He wears a circlet of ivy leaves in his hair; a staff is propped by his side with two pine cones hanging from the top.
At his feet, a leopard sleeps, her wide head resting against his leg.
I accept the wine and take a sip from the horn, thinking it will compose me, but the liquid is so good it’s startling.
“You’ve never drunk anything like it, have you?” Zeus slaps his arm across Poseidon’s back and the two roar with mirth, presumably at my expression. When I glance at Eros, the surprise stamped across his face is comical, and I must look exactly the same.
“What is it?” I demand, laughing with them.
“He’s the God of Wine,” Apollo drawls. His hair is falling across his face, and a lyre hangs from his hand.
I take another long sip. “That makes sense.”
“And these,” Zeus gestures again, the wild sweep of his arms encompassing all the girls in the grove, “are his Maenads.”
“Magnificent,” Eros breathes, and I don’t know if he’s referring to the wine or Dionysus’ beauty or the glorious Maenads. Maybe all three.