Chapter 17
Once I finish at my sanctuary in Paphos, I return to Thrace. At the side of the broad river where Ares was once attacked by the snake that adorns his armor, I tell him about Artemis.
“I brought that woman to life from stone,” I complain. “And still Artemis finds fault with me.”
A snake darts out onto the path ahead of us, its brown scales glinting in the sunlight. On the riverbank, a mouse scurries through the reeds to the water’s edge. In an instant, the snake strikes, its body surging forwards, its jaws wide. The little creature goes limp between its fangs.
I wrinkle my nose.
Ares laughs. “Did I tell you about the serpent I gave to the witch-king of Colchis?”
“You didn’t.”
“It was twenty times the size of that one,” he says. “At least.”
Above us, a cloud slides in front of the sun, and a chill shivers through the air. The river behind him turns dull like moss-covered stone, and cold raindrops begin to scatter lightly. “Was it a gift or a punishment?” I ask doubtfully.
“A gift. In reward for his devotion.”
“I hope he was grateful. And,” I sigh, “I hope it worked out better than my reward to Pygmalion.”
“You rescued her from him.”
“But she started out her life captive to a man who hates all women,” I say.
“He’s lucky you didn’t punish him more severely,” Ares says.
“Hmm.”
“What is it?” he asks.
“What?” I say.
A sliver of sunlight slices through the gray, a bright knife of gold, and a moment later a rainbow gleams iridescent across the horizon, bridging the valley.
Iris, on her way to take a message from Hera or Zeus, or maybe just in the mood to brighten up the sky with a riot of color.
I wish I could find it heartening. But my promise to Hephaestus weighs on me. I told him that I wouldn’t tell any god that I’d found him, and I’ve kept his secret. Only Charis knows.
I remember his fear at the thought I might tell Ares. It’s held me back so far. That, and the knowledge that Ares was so worried that I’d go.
But hasn’t Hephaestus’ fear dissipated now? He was bold enough to kiss me, for one thing. He’s made a home of his volcano; his own kingdom. And, while he might not believe it, I know that Ares has no intention of hurting him.
“What is it?” he repeats.
“What?”
“You’re so quiet.” He stops walking.
I don’t want this secret anymore. I want to tell him, and I don’t know that I owe it to Hephaestus to keep it from him. The volcano, Hephaestus’ injury, even the kiss. If Ares is angry that I went there, let him rage. It’s never been for him to tell me what I can and can’t do.
He hears me out, then looks up at the fading sky. The rain is slick on his breastplate, dampening his hair.
“I don’t know why you’d risk yourself for him,” he says. “I can’t understand it.”
“I care what happens to him.”
“He sounds as though he’s better off where he is,” Ares says. “He’s his own master now, not beholden to Olympus any longer. He doesn’t need your sympathy.”
“I don’t think he sees it like that,” I argue. “Being alone, without the protection of Olympus, abandoned by his family. It isn’t as easy as you think.”
“It should be,” Ares replies.
I’m infuriated by his response. “Then why don’t you leave? Tell Zeus you won’t be one of his Olympians and never come back? If you hate it so much there, if that’s what you want, why don’t you just do it?”
He looks at me, quizzical. “You know why I don’t leave.”
“Why?”
“I have been tempted sometimes. Often. But I had my worshippers.”
“So you’d give up all your privileges if it wasn’t for them?” I challenge. “Your worshippers?”
“I don’t know,” he says. “That’s what I used to think. Before.”
“Before?” I say. “What’s changed?”
“You.” The world around us is silent except for the gentle patter of the rain. “You’re there, and I want to be where you are.”
“Oh,” I say, my anger abruptly diffused.
“Hephaestus probably feels the same,” he says. “And I don’t care about that. It doesn’t matter that he loves you, or even if you love him.”
“It doesn’t?” I interrupt. As far as I can tell, this is either wildly insulting, or else it isn’t true.
“If you didn’t care so much, you wouldn’t be the Goddess of Love.” He takes a breath. “You wouldn’t be the goddess I love. I wouldn’t stop you.”
“There’s nothing to stop. I don’t want Hephaestus as anything other than my friend.”
“I only told you that you shouldn’t go to him because I don’t want to see you punished by Zeus, that’s all,” he says. “But if Zeus finds out and fastens you to some remote cliffside, I’ll rip the chains out of the rock and he can try hurling me into a volcano. I’d make sure he regretted it.”
“You never wanted to give Hera the satisfaction of a war against Zeus,” I point out.
“It would be worth it for you,” he says.
“It won’t come to that.”
“That’s not really the point.”
“I know.” I twist the carnelian beads on my necklace, their polished surface smooth under my fingers. Although my heart is thrilling at his words, I’m anxious too.
“So, what’s wrong?”
“I don’t understand,” I say. “One moment you wouldn’t care if I was in love with Hephaestus, the next you want to start a war for me?”
“I didn’t say I wouldn’t care.” His eyes darken. “Only that I know love is in your nature, it’s woven into the fabric of who you are. You don’t have a choice over that; no god does. We are what we were made to be. How could I try to stop Aphrodite from falling in love? It’s impossible.”
As impossible as keeping you from battle. “Well,” I say, “you don’t need to try to stop me from falling in love, since it’s you I’ve fallen in love with.”
I see the realization dawn on him, as irresistible as sunrise.
The flush of warmth that softens his face, the golden glow of a happiness that feels almost too precious to believe.
His caution and his doubt, overwhelmed in this moment by the dazzling clarity of day.
I know his instinct is to doubt, to armor himself against the possibility that it might be only a fragile illusion, just a trick of light and shadow.
But it’s true. Inconvenient, impossible and completely true.
He pulls me close, and we start walking again. “Are you going back there?” He clears his throat gruffly. “To see him again?”
“I will,” I say, “if he wants to see me. He might not.”
“He will.” His tone is grim, echoes of clashing swords ringing under his words.
“I’ll think about it,” I say. I’m thinking of Charis too. She may not desire my help, but, now that Hephaestus knows I can’t reciprocate his feelings, maybe he’ll finally look around and notice what he’s got.
“So,” he says, pivoting to face me. He takes my hands in his and steers me backward, until I’m between him and the craggy rock face towering above. “That means you aren’t going anywhere right away.”
His hands slip to my wrists, like fetters holding me to the stone. “No,” I say. “There’s nowhere else I want to be.” The rock is damp against my back, the fresh scent of rain rising from it.
“Good,” he says, and lowers his lips to mine.
—
When I eventually bring myself to leave Ares’ bed, I don’t go to Sicily.
Instead, I go to Naxos. I promised Dionysus I’d return to the forest where his Maenads dance, and so I’m here, whirling more and more wildly in dizzying circles until the stars above us wheel in the dark skies.
I wanted to come for something uncomplicated, for the sheer joy of it.
The grass is damp and cool beneath my back, the world tilting until I feel as though I’m suspended above the vast bowl of melting constellations, like I could topple down at any moment and lose myself among them.
His leopard paces past me, and I reach out a hand to touch her fur. It’s sleek beneath my fingers, and I can feel the warmth of her blood pulsing through her body. Her breath is hot and musky, her head hard when she dips down and rubs against my arm, seeking more caresses.
I hear Dionysus laugh and turn my head toward him.
The leopard slinks past me, pressing her body against his knees, letting him stroke her ears and press kisses into her forehead.
He’s beautiful, I think hazily. Ares is tall and lithe, sleek and strong like the leopard.
Dionysus is nothing like him, graceful and slightly built.
Nothing like Hephaestus either, who towers as broad and powerful as the volcano he rules.
He’s so close to me. His ivy crown has tipped and leaves are tangled in his soft hair.
He sprawls down on the earth, his chiton rumpled and falling to the side, exposing half his chest. I glance around the grove; I can hear the high voices of Maenads lifted in raucous song, but they’re drifting into the distance.
The echo of the cymbals and drums carries on the breeze and reminds me of the war celebrations in Thrace.
The followers of Dionysus lose themselves in ecstasy, like the worshippers of Ares, like the mortals who devote themselves to me as well.
But there is a primal joy here, a delight that doesn’t feel edged with violence like it does at the rites of the War God.
They’re here to worship pleasure, not death and slaughter.
Dionysus tips his silver drinking-horn back into his mouth and takes a deep swig, before offering it to me. His hand is warm against my fingers as I take it, and I put my lips to the rim, the same place where his mouth was moments ago.
Another leopard slinks from the trees, and the two nuzzle into one another’s necks, arching their bodies around each other, their shining eyes heavy-lidded with hypnotic entrancement.
Wouldn’t I rather be here, lost in song and wine and delicious anticipation, than overlooking a battleground where the screams of the dying mingle with the Keres’ gleeful shrieks?
The fog swirls in my head, the haze of wine creeping through my blood.
I’m sure Dionysus feels it too from the way his lips part over his teeth and his eyes cloud with desire.