Chapter 18
It’s not exactly as I imagined. Hephaestus isn’t there when we arrive, and he hasn’t taken Hera anywhere.
“He trapped her,” Zeus spits when he sees us. He’s furious. “None of us can unlock it,” he seethes. “We’ve all tried.”
Hera sits in a golden throne, utterly immobilized by fetters that have sprung from the metal and clamped her in place.
Her fury wrestles with her dignity, her glare scorching and imperious, challenging us to mock her plight.
If I might have found it amusing in other circumstances, I definitely don’t now.
The throne room is full—all the Olympian gods lined up before our captive queen, and behind them the nymphs and attendants. There are the Graces and the Horae, all with worried faces. Charis bites her lip, her eyes shadowed with anxiety.
“How stupid of him,” I breathe. “What does he want?”
“Who cares what he wants?” Zeus says. “He’ll free her. And the god who makes him do it—by whatever means they see fit—will be handsomely rewarded.”
This piques Apollo’s interest. “What will they receive?” he asks, an expectant glow lighting up his face.
“Whichever god makes Hephaestus unlock this chair,” Zeus huffs, “will have a prize that many have sought for centuries, and no one has ever thought would be his.”
“His?” I interject, annoyed.
“That’s right.” Zeus stops pacing back and forth, settling his gaze on me.
I shift uneasily. Even in his anger and frustration, he looks pleased. He has a plan, I realize, underneath all of his bluster. It can’t bode well. “What is it?”
“The prize, Aphrodite,” he says, his voice getting louder and more booming as he holds out an arm in an expansive gesture, “is you.”
“What?” I glance at Ares, who looks similarly dumbstruck.
“It’s you,” Zeus repeats. “The god who frees Hera from this trap will have Aphrodite as his wife.”
“Wife?” I cry. “No, he won’t. That’s impossible. It’s ridiculous.”
“What’s ridiculous,” Zeus says, “is the freedom I’ve granted you until now. You should have been married a long time ago.”
“I’m not going to marry someone to free Hera,” I say. “I don’t care if she’s stuck there forever.”
“Fortunately, it isn’t up to you.” Hera’s tone is pure venom, dripping like acid.
“You’ll follow the decree of Zeus. This is his house.
” Her fingers flex, as though she wants to raise her hand, but she’s held so tightly to the frame of the chair that she can’t.
“I’ve given my permission for the marriage. ”
“It’s not your permission that matters,” I snap. Despite the wrath in her eyes, she can’t quite hide that she flinches at my approach. So, she is vulnerable after all, somewhere deep inside. But I’m only looking for the mechanism by which she’ll be released.
I circle it a couple of times, running my fingers across the smooth interlocking pieces. The assembled gods are watching, most of them curious and somewhat entertained. Apollo is alert, intrigued and probably eager to try it out himself.
Dionysus, I note, is nowhere to be seen.
“Give up, Aphrodite,” Hera says, so softly that only I can hear her. “Let Ares deal with Hephaestus.”
“What do you mean?” I scrabble at the band around her left wrist, certain that there must be a lever, a spring, a catch of some kind somewhere that will make it give way. There’s nothing.
“You know as well as I do that the only person who can release me is Hephaestus,” she says.
She’s so cold and composed, not letting a hint of panic into her voice.
“So send Ares to persuade him.” She twists her lips into a delicate sneer.
“He won’t dare stand up to him. And Ares won’t show him any mercy, given the stakes.
He won’t want to see you married off to his own brother, will he? ”
I stare at her. “You came up with the marriage idea,” I breathe. “So that Ares will force Hephaestus to give in and let you go.”
“Finally,” she says. “You understand.”
I shove the armrest with more force than necessary, jostling her, but of course the fetters stay in place. “Why not just send Zeus down to Sicily with his thunderbolt?”
“Zeus could have blasted Hephaestus to pieces last time,” Hera says. “I won’t risk that happening.”
“Because if Hephaestus is torn to shreds, you’ll never be free.” In this moment, I don’t think I’ve ever hated her more.
“Don’t make such a fuss.” She’s still giving orders, even when she’s the one captive.
“Don’t you all end up with what you want?
Hephaestus gets to humiliate me and defy Zeus.
Everyone can see how clever he is, how powerful and brave to have done this to me.
You can marry Ares. It’s better than waiting for Zeus to get it in his head that he can give you to someone else.
You know he will, sooner or later. One day, when he wants to strengthen his alliance with the Titans, when you’re just too good a bribe for him to leave you alone any longer.
He’s threatened it forever and you can’t keep on avoiding it. Your luck will run out in the end.”
I hesitate. Even in the grip of my outrage, there’s an awful logic to what she’s saying.
I have no doubt that her reasoning is selfish.
She wants her freedom. But, in some twisted way, isn’t she offering me mine as well—or the closest she can come to it?
If anyone on Olympus knows the horror of a forced marriage, it’s Hera.
Better Ares than someone else, that’s what she’s saying.
She senses my weakness and pounces. “You know I’m right.”
She might be. But this is exactly why I wanted to keep my love for Ares a secret. Now they know, they can use it to manipulate us, just as I knew they would.
I exhale with impatience. “This is impossible,” I hiss, pushing myself back from the throne. I throw my hands up in defeat. “I can’t free her.”
Zeus smirks. Apollo stirs, hopeful.
“Go ahead and try,” I tell him. “You won’t do any better.”
He brushes past me, deep in concentration as he examines it from every angle.
I don’t watch Apollo. My eyes are on Ares. He hasn’t put himself forward. He hasn’t said a word. But I can see his knuckles whitening around the shaft of his spear.
“After Apollo, Ares can try,” Zeus announces. “Then,” he smirks, “I’ll open this contest up beyond Olympus. Let every god of the world have their attempt.”
“Do it.” They are the first words that Ares has spoken since we arrived in the hall. His voice rings out, startling and decisive.
“What did you say?” Zeus asks.
“You can hold your contest,” Ares says. “Aphrodite doesn’t have to abide by the rules.”
Zeus tightens his fist around the thunderbolt in his hand.
My eyes are drawn to it; the slender prongs of dark metal, sleek and sharp and deadly.
A hiss emanates from its gleaming surface, a whisper of threats to come.
“Any god who wishes to remain on Mount Olympus,” he says, every word quiet and ominous, “will abide by my rules.”
“If we wished to stay,” Ares replies, matching Zeus’ tone, “then we would.”
Zeus’ heavy brow lifts a fraction. “You don’t think I can replace you?” He takes a pace toward Ares. “I can father another war-god, another love-goddess, anytime I choose.”
In the silence, Hera’s stifled intake of breath is audible to us all. Apollo’s hands have stilled. Everyone holds tense in anticipation.
Ares shrugs. “Go ahead. Maybe they’ll free Hera for you. But we won’t.”
Everyone’s eyes turn to me. My mind is racing. Everything is moving too fast. Ares’ words open something up inside me. There’s a lure to the vision: fleeing with him, never seeing Zeus again or being a piece in his petty games.
But for all I’d love to leave Zeus behind—what about my followers? What about Cyprus? The Graces, the Horae, the friends that I love among the gods? Would I really turn my back on them?
I say nothing.
Zeus is as quick as a striking snake. “It seems that Aphrodite isn’t quite in accord with you.
Perhaps she doesn’t like the idea of being expelled from the heavens quite so much,” he says.
“Of watching me burn her temples to the ground, of losing her retinue”—he glances at my nymphs—“though I’m sure I can think of other uses for them here once they don’t have Aphrodite to attend to. ”
“That’s enough.” I draw myself up, folding my arms across my chest, as haughty and cold as Hera herself. “You’ll leave the Horae and the Graces alone.”
“You’ll do as I say.” Zeus’ voice rings off the marble columns. “And if you don’t, you’ll suffer the consequences and so will they.”
Ares lifts his spear, his insouciance burned away, his eyes alight with the savage glow of violence.
I look at the appalled faces of my handmaids. My friends. I won’t let Zeus hurt a single one of them.
“Have the contest,” I say. “I’ll abide by the outcome.”
I don’t look away from Ares’ face. His shock burns into me.
Zeus nods, satisfied. “As I thought.”
The spear clatters to the floor, the strike of bronze against marble loud in the quiet room. Ares strides out of the hall, the heavy doors swinging behind him. I take a long breath.
“Iris,” Zeus calls.
She steps up beside him, a golden pitcher in her hand.
“Aphrodite,” says Zeus. “On the water of Styx, swear you’ll marry the winner.”
I toss my hair behind my shoulders. Nerves are rising up inside me, but I won’t let it show. I want to follow Ares and tell him everything is going to be all right. But I can’t. Not yet.
The water swirls silver inside the jug. I know that Iris has flown to the edge of the world for this, to the clifftop waterfall that cascades down beneath the surface of the earth, all the way to the subterranean river where the Goddess Styx presides over its shadowy flow.
When the Olympians took power, every god of the world swore their fealty to us on her waters. No oath binds us like a Stygian vow.
Zeus takes the pitcher from Iris. His voice is steady and I hear every word echoing as though he’s speaking from that vaulted cavern on the banks of the river that the dead must cross to reach the Underworld, the river that holds even the most powerful immortal to their promise.
He comes to the end of the oath, leaving silence for me to repeat his words.
I take the pitcher. If I speak them aloud and then fail to keep them, my power will dissolve into nothing, swept away on the inexorable currents of the Styx.
Zeus keeps his eyes fastened on me, waiting for me to falter.
But I have faith in one god to protect me.
I take the oath.
I’m going to save myself.