Chapter 28
Passion calls to me as always; a siren song I can never resist. Whether it’s the Dionysian rites on Naxos or my own festivals at Paphos, wherever desire peaks, head-spinning and limb-loosening, I am there stoking the fires.
But, while I feed the fervor and frenzy of ardor, I remember watching Hephaestus on Lemnos: the slow and patient way that he moved among his worshippers.
I find myself listening more closely to the prayers that come my way, taking my time to come to a solution.
Mortal lives, after all, are too short to bear the mistakes of the gods.
When I hear the despondency of a young man on Crete, his hopelessness is at odds with his situation.
He loves and is loved by the most beautiful girl in his village; the two are set to marry and I don’t understand his sadness until I watch him in the quiet solitude of his chamber.
He unwraps his cloak, loosening his tunic with his back turned to the glass on the wall.
The slender delicacy of his shoulders reminds me of Dionysus.
The tunic falls to the floor, and I understand as he unwinds a strip of tightly wound cloth, revealing the curve of breasts.
“His name is Iphis,” I tell Hera later. “His father told his mother that if she bore a daughter, the infant must be killed. So she raised her child as a boy.”
Hera shrugs dismissively. “And?”
“Tomorrow,” I say, “Iphis will be married to Ianthe. She’s the only one apart from Iphis’ mother who knows the truth.
” I take a breath. Coming to Hera for advice is something I never thought I’d do.
But, in listening to Iphis, I realized it isn’t my help that he needs.
“They love each other deeply and he fears you won’t bless the wedding.
He can deceive his father and the rest of the world, but not you. ”
“I’ve blessed far more troubling weddings. As you know.” She sounds impatient.
“I do know,” I say, reaching out to touch her forearm.
It’s a natural impulse for me, but Hera recoils.
“I’ve come to you because the problem isn’t love.
Iphis wants to be the husband he has always dreamed of being.
He wants Ianthe to bear his children. They want their marriage to be like any other.
” Sanctified by Hera, true in the eyes of the gods and, more importantly, in his own heart.
Her eyes stay cold. “I’ll consider what you’ve told me.
Tell Iphis to pray in my temple before the wedding.
” Her command is sharp and terse, not inviting any further conversation.
I don’t know if I’ve managed to soften her in the slightest, until I watch over her Cretan temple to see him emerge in the dawn light the next day.
His strides lengthen as he walks, his shoulders broadening beneath his cloak and, as I look more closely, I see the shadow of beard on his jawline.
“Another problem solved,” Eros remarks when the two of us watch the wedding, disguised to blend in with the crowd of well-wishers. “Her flowers,” he says, peering at Ianthe’s hair. “Your gift?”
I nod. Woven through her curls are delicate white blooms with that distinctive crimson-ringed black center.
“Very nice.”
I watch Iphis take his bride’s face between his hands and kiss her. His mother looks on, her eyes brimming with happy tears. Her son has a future, one that she feared for so long would never come to fruition.
“Come on,” I say, gently pulling Eros’ arm, guiding him away. “There are more lovers out there who need our help.”
—
I don’t have to wait long for the next problem to present itself. It’s only weeks after Iphis and Ianthe’s wedding when, from somewhere beyond the scope of my most far-flung temples, comes a howl of frustrated love.
It isn’t a summons or a prayer. It doesn’t even address me by name. Rather, it catches my attention, not just because of the distance but because of the ardency of its appeal. It rings through the skies, a single note of yearning and despair.
Such anguish can’t be ignored. It stirs my most protective instinct, jarring against everything I hold sacred.
I harness my doves. It was a single cry, one that died away to silence, but I can feel it still—a pulse in the emptiness beyond the reaches of my world.
I follow it, urging the birds to fly on as land and sea unroll beneath us, the familiar places that I love receding behind me and giving way to something much stranger.
The territories of Olympus are encircled by the coiling river of Oceanus.
Gods don’t go where we aren’t worshipped and I would never fly my chariot such distances into the unknown, not ordinarily.
Whoever calls so desperately may never have heard the name Aphrodite.
I might reap no rewards by answering them—no gifts on an altar, no smoke sent to the heavens in my honor.
But I have heard it, and I can’t ignore it.
When the chariot wheels roll to a halt, I don’t recognize my surroundings.
It’s a seemingly endless swathe of rippling grass and distant hills merging into the horizon.
The doves fluff out their wings, tucking their beaks down into their pure-white breasts.
They’ve flown such a great distance that even their enchanted bodies need to rest. This place seems vast; it will be easy enough to go unnoticed until I’ve satisfied my intrigue and coaxed the birds to fly us home again.
While my doves slumber, I take the shape of one myself to glide unassuming through the infinite sky.
From above, I can appreciate the wild, strange beauty of this place.
There are no settlements—no tiny hamlets or clustered cities.
There is grass, endless grass. There are forests and mountains, and a flash of a snaking river here and there.
Movement catches my eye, and I flutter down to take a closer look.
There are two dozen or so men, busy dismantling their camp.
They load animal skins onto a wagon along with wooden sticks; I can see from the structures still standing that these are their shelters.
A horse waits patiently, tied to the wagon with a long rope, its tail flicking every now and again.
A little further along, I see more horses grazing.
Ropes are looped about their necks, attached to stumps that jut from the ground, giving the animals plenty of space to roam.
Apart from the animals, wherever I look, I see only men—ranging from the youngest, with just a faint dusting of beard, to the oldest, with sprinklings of gray in their dark hair and beards.
They’re grizzled and weather-beaten from the wide exposed steppe, but all are lean and strong, energetic and watchful.
They’re the first people I’ve seen in this place.
Before I have a chance to work out who called to me, they are engulfed by chaos.
It comes out of nowhere; a ferocious clamor of whoops and yells rings over the camp, and the men startle into action, shouting to one another and leaping to untether the horses.
But a horde of warriors are soon upon them, clouds of dust billowing from the hooves of their galloping steeds, choking the men who fall back, spluttering.
I rear up into the sky as the attackers jump down, untying the men’s horses with practiced ease, yoking them to their own mounts and swinging themselves back up.
The men seize their bows, and a hail of arrows go flying toward the raiders, but they’re too fast and too accomplished.
Already they’re thundering into the distance with their stolen horses.
A couple of them turn to fire their own arrows back at their pursuers, never losing their balance, and the men duck and dodge, stumbling back beyond their reach.
It’s over in the blink of an eye. And when the thieves have vanished into the long grass beyond their reach, the men look around in shock at what’s left.
At least half of their animals are gone.
Their language is unfamiliar to me, but I can understand their meaning. I could read their despair and frustration even if I weren’t a goddess: the way they gesticulate, arms waving and brows creasing, the stream of angry words giving way to weary sighs and slumped shoulders.
This has happened to them before, I gather. It’s a scenario repeated every day across the territories under my rule as well. Thieves and raiders, skirmishes and robberies, they’re common everywhere.
But what was unusual about these raiders is that every single one of them was a woman.
—
It’s intriguing. What world is this where women are raiders and men their hapless victims?
My eye follows the empty distance that swallowed the attackers, wondering.
But it seems unlikely that one of those warrior women summoned me, and there is nothing in this camp except defeated misery.
I’m ready to soar away and continue my search for the yearning call that brought me here, when I see him.
One of the younger ones, perhaps the youngest of all, trailing at the back of the group.
They’re trudging away, their remaining horses gathered now along with their packed-up camp, but he falls behind the rest. His eyes dart back and forth, a high spot of color flushing his cheeks.
The threat is long gone, but his nerves stand out to me, almost as much as the handsome set of his face and the way his thick hair gleams in the sunlight.
He’s the one, I know it. The one whose anguish I heard. Whatever it was that drove him to cry out to the empty sky is still troubling him now. It’s not the raiders. It’s something else—something that calls to me and me alone.
The distance grows between him and his party, and he takes his chance. Abruptly, he leaves the path that the others follow and sets off into the waving grass.
I follow the beat of his heart straining against his chest.
I feel it too: a fevered need to know what it is that he seeks.