Chapter 23
I’m dressed in a saffron-dyed robe, crowned with delicate myrtle flowers and ornamented with long necklaces of looping gold.
The nymphs—Charis absent from their number—walk with me to the throne room of Olympus.
It’s garlanded with olive wreaths, torches flaming on the walls, sparkling off the jewelry I wear.
Hera stands waiting for me, tall and imposing, her face severe and a torch held aloft in one hand.
She takes no pleasure in presiding over weddings, and this one seems no different. She’s uninterested, adhering grimly to the rites that she despises.
Hephaestus is already there, enthroned. He doesn’t look at me when I enter, instead gazing down at the tiled floor; the most miserable husband anyone could imagine.
My smile stays fixed as I glance around the firelit hall. All the other gods are assembled, bar one.
“Ares isn’t here,” Hera murmurs to me.
I’m startled by her voice in my ear. “I didn’t expect that he would be,” I mutter back.
“Of course not.” She sounds brisk and irritated. “But he isn’t in Thrace either, not anymore. His mansion is quite abandoned. The Keres, all his attendants, Eris—they’ve all left.”
“I know.” I look at her, wondering if this is her tiny act of mercy, letting me know he’s gone and that he won’t be back anytime soon.
It’s not a shock to me, but if I was nurturing any bud of hope, she’s cutting it off.
It might not sound like a kindness, but I believe that it’s one all the same. For Hera, anyway.
She nods toward the thrones, indicating that I should take my seat beside Hephaestus. I try to emulate her dignity as I walk; the cold composure that forbids anyone from mocking her.
I’m aware, nonetheless, of the smiling faces that I pass and that there is barely a fig leaf of sincerity among them.
Seeing Aphrodite humbled into marrying after so long, and in such circumstances, is their greatest entertainment.
Apollo strums gently on his lyre, the melody rather melancholy for this celebration, though the amusement on his face gives the lie to the sadness of his music.
I find Demeter, her eyes fixed on me with a determined smile on her face.
I feel her encouragement with every step, urging me to get through this.
I reach the throne and seat myself upon it without acknowledging Hephaestus. My husband.
Zeus’ eyes flare with pleasure.
I swallow, then toss my hair over my shoulder and smile at him.
It’s unnecessary for the two of us to be seated apart from the others.
This will be Zeus’ doing, insisting on making a spectacle.
In truth, the weddings of the gods are little more than a feast. The mortals make it more of an occasion with rituals, routines and an onerous list of sacrifices in the hope of winning the gods’ favor for a successful union.
Dedications to Artemis, as the bride moves on from girlish freedom to the yoke of wifehood.
Devotions to me, praying for the blessing of love to sweeten the years ahead.
Most importantly, offerings to Hera, who accepts them as though it’s just another burden heaped upon her.
But for me, there is no father to negotiate a dowry, no mother to pray on my behalf.
This is just a banquet. And, regardless of my anger with Dionysus, there is at least one reason to be glad that he’s here.
“Bring me wine, please, Iris,” I say, and the gold-winged goddess is quick to obey.
I take the jeweled cup from her. “And for Hephaestus,” I add.
He lifts his head in surprise. The last thing I said was that I would never forgive him, but I can’t see how that will help us now.
“Why not?” I murmur. “The time for a clear head has definitely passed.”
He nods, grim-faced, and accepts the cup that Iris brings him.
On the tables, pomegranates spill their seeds, dark and glistening as blood. The gods converse, golden and glorious, replete with satisfaction that tonight Zeus’ mind is occupied with Hephaestus and me, and they are free to do as they please.
I drink, and Hephaestus follows suit.
Through the marble pillars, the sweep of the star-strewn sky glimmers. Somewhere in the world, Ares is under this same sky, but, even if I knew where, I couldn’t go to him. Wasn’t it always going to be this way? I couldn’t fall for the God of War and expect to find happiness.
He knows exactly where I am right now—and who I’m with—but his whereabouts and his company are a mystery to me.
Perhaps he’s alone, on the bank of a dark river or on the lonely peaks of another barren mountain.
Maybe he’s drinking wine too, his lowered brows and proud jaw silvered by moonlight.
I wonder if Eris brings him news of the wars she foments in his absence.
Or, if not her, maybe some other goddess is with him, or a nymph impressed with his brooding good looks, her eyes meeting his across a flickering fire.
I drain my cup, slamming it down abruptly beside me.
Iris looks up, startled, and flutters over to me again, pitcher at the ready as I thank her.
The warmth builds in my chest, fanning out across my throat and my cheeks as I take another long draft of wine.
I feel sly eyes on me, whispers rippling across the tables, and I shake out my hair as though shrugging off all the snide gossip.
I turn properly to Hephaestus for the first time since I took the throne.
“So,” I say to him, smiling for the benefit of everyone watching, “would you say this is a worse wedding than Zeus and Hera’s, or equally as bad? ”
He stares at me, caught off guard. “Well,” he says at last, “I wasn’t at that one.”
I take another swig of wine. “Of course not,” I say. Hephaestus had yet to be born then. “You’ll have to take my word for it, then.”
His eyes are haunted. “I’m sorry,” he starts to say, and I silence him with a wave of my hand.
“Don’t,” I say. “Not now. Not while everyone is watching.”
His eyes flicker over the long tables and then back to me. “What do you want them to think?” he asks.
“I want them to think,” I murmur to him, leaning closer and letting my hair fall to screen my face from the most avid watchers, who might try to trace the movement of my lips, “that this is a game, and we didn’t lose.”
He lifts a heavy eyebrow. “We didn’t?”
I shake my head. “No.” I raise my goblet, swallowing more wine, luxuriating in the rush of it through my veins. “Don’t look so unhappy to have married me. It’s hardly a compliment.”
His jaw sags open. “I’m not going to gloat,” he mutters.
“Good. You’re not Poseidon, or Zeus, or Apollo,” I say. Any of those three would be truly insufferable in this moment.
“They’d make worthier husbands,” he says, and the wine catches in my throat so that I cough, violently.
Iris is at my elbow at once, proffering a square of linen, but I quickly turn the ungraceful splutter into a laugh, as though Hephaestus has said something amusing—which I suppose he did.
“Hephaestus,” I say, “I didn’t want to marry you.
I didn’t want to marry anyone. But, believe me, truly, I’d rather you than one of them. ”
He sighs. “It’s what makes it more delicious for them,” he says. “That you had to have me.” I follow his gaze to Apollo, gilded in the torchlight, his face flawless and his hair flowing. “An ugly, broken god for Aphrodite.”
I wrinkle my nose. There’s no trace of self-pity in his tone, only a blunt honesty, and I’m certain that he’s not making any attempt to manipulate me into feeling sorry for him.
“Apollo,” I say, “looks like he was carved from ivory. Like he was sculpted into perfection by an artist as talented as you. You”—I lock eyes with Hephaestus—“are more like raw stone.”
He shrugs.
“The stones of the earth that were shaped by Gaia at the dawn of the world. Made exactly as they were intended to be, to suit their purpose. I don’t find you any less beautiful for that.”
His eyes flare with surprise, but he doesn’t look away from me.
“And as for broken,” I say, “you were injured for saving your mother.” I take another sip. “It doesn’t make you lesser. Quite the contrary.”
“I thought,” he whispers, “that you hated me.”
Now I shrug. “I’m furious with you,” I say. “For the stupid blunder that got us into this mess. But here we are.”
And we’re here together. As the wine dizzies me and thoughts of Ares rise in my mind like the tide, I find I no longer want to see Hephaestus suffer. I don’t want to suffer either.
I find Dionysus in a cluster of nymphs, catch his eye across the hall and lift my goblet to him. A grin spreads across his face, the familiar radiance of wild hunger illuminating him from within, and I nod.
He seizes Auge by her wrist and whirls her into a dance.
She’s startled for a moment; then I see her throw back her head and laugh.
Hesperis and Dysis jump to their feet, their sandals darting across the shining tiles as they follow along.
The Muses, already singing, lift their voices higher.
Around the vaulted hall, gods start drumming their hands on the tables in rhythm.
The noise echoes from the pillars; wine spatters from swinging cups, and the throne room of Olympus is alive with celebration.
For the first time since I entered, Hephaestus looks up with the shadow of a smile.
Too soon, because Zeus is in front of us, bearded and resplendent and so very cruel. “You won’t dance, Aphrodite.” His voice booms over the clatter of feet, the raucous song and the clash of cymbals.
“I prefer to watch how much everyone is enjoying my wedding,” I tell him. “I get the best view from here. And, after your great generosity in hosting this feast for us, I’d hate to miss any of it.”
“Is that it?” he says, his voice soaked with wine and laughter. “Or rather that your husband is incapable?” He picks up the staff propped up against Hephaestus’ throne, heartily amused.