This Immortal Heart: A Novel of Aphrodite(101)

“We’re strong enough to fight without anyone else on our side,” she laughs. “But we’d never turn down another god who wants to lend their favor to the Amazons.”

My hand stills, my cup hovering in front of my face. “Another god?” I ask. A presentiment awakens in my bones. Suddenly, I’m sure I know what she’s going to say.

“Well, yes,” she says. “I told you we’re the Amazons, but that isn’t our only name. There’s another one, one our enemies speak with fear, and we claim with pride.”

I set down the cup on the earth beside me, taking care to be precise in my movement, not to let my shaking fingers spill a single drop. “What name?” I ask.

Her chest is thrust forward, her chin tilted up, the flickering light warming her fierce eyes. “They call us the Daughters of Ares.”

The world slips and tilts, dizzying me.

Of course. Even in my horror, it makes perfect sense to me that Ares, in his self-imposed exile from Olympus, would find these women. Their warlike nature, their indomitable spirits, their rebellious fire and love of freedom—it would call to him, as surely as the cry of the lovers called to me. No wonder he found them; no wonder, once he did, he wouldn’t want to leave.

My throat tightens, my heart thudding painfully in my chest. “I didn’t know I was in another god’s territory,” I say, gathering myself to my feet, my knees weak beneath me. “It’s not my place to stay.”

“No, no,” the queen urges, standing too and taking my wrist in her hand. Her fingers are hard and callused. “Amazon lands are wide and scattered,” she goes on. “Our sisters live all across the steppes. Ares visits us only infrequently. You won’t see him here.”

“You can’t be sure of that.” And, if he sees me here, he’ll think I’ve infiltrated the camp of his worshippers on purpose.

“But we can. He spends his time several hours’ ride north of here. It’s where he prefers to be. He won’t disturb us tonight, and if you don’t want him to know that you’ve visited, we’ll tell him nothing.”

I stare at her. “You’d keep secrets from your own god?”

Her lip curls, almost a scoff. “We keep whatever secrets we choose,” she says.

I waver, picturing my mortification if he should find me here. The hot drench of shame I’d feel if he thought I’d come searching for him, as vividly as if he were standing right in front of me, contempt in those empty black eyes. He’d never believe I’m not here for him.

But I’m not. I’m here on my own business. So what does it matter what Ares might think? He isn’t here, and I trust this queen. She’s many things—wild, stern, terrifyingly capable—but I don’t think she’s deceitful.

“Stay.” She presses my wrist gently. “Enjoy our hospitality a while longer.”

No thundering war-cry echoes from the horizon. No dash of bronze hooves shakes the ground. Still, I hesitate.

Across the fire, Melo’s eyes are fastened on me. She doesn’t know who I am, but she’s anxious for help and I might be able to give it to her. Isn’t that what matters the most?

“Molpadia,” the queen says. “Play for our goddess.”

At once, a woman stands, her dark hair tumbling down her shoulders as she smiles at me and takes up a set of bone pipes. She begins to play and the melody spills into the smoky, aromatic air. The sound of it sends a shiver across my skin. There’s a beautiful intensity to the sound and to her as she sways, lost in her own music, tall and magnificent under the stars.

Someone else starts to drum, beating a rhythm with her hands on the stretched skin of her instrument, and the women jump to their feet.

“Dance with us,” Kydoime urges. Dorymache links her hands around the queen’s waist, swaying behind her, and Kydoime turns her face to her lover’s, the two moving together. The music stirs my blood, awakening my body.

The Amazons stamp their feet, lifting their arms to the moon, lithe and sinuous and rhythmic. More of them snatch up pipes and drums, flutes and lyres, the harmonies mingling, surrounding me on all sides, urging me to join. They fling more flowering buds into the flames, the smoke as dizzying as the dance, the night air fragrant and delicious.

They dance with the same fervor as I saw them raid earlier; intent and powerful, giving themselves over to instinct, and they sweep me along with them like the current of a river. Hands seize mine, bodies press close and the stars above us whirl and spiral. When the women around me are red-cheeked and breathless, they stop to pour more mare’s milk. I take a step back and laugh, giddy and heated.

Ares isn’t here. I don’t have to run from his ghost.

Melo is singing, her voice so haunting it raises goosebumps across my bare arms. Molpadia, the woman who played the pipes first, pulls me back into the throng. Her eyes gleam like dark jewels in the firelight. Her hands are on my waist, her face level with mine, and the music rises around us. She has the slow, deliberate grace of a prowling panther; so sure and steady as she comes closer and I can smell the earth and salt of her skin. A grin spreads across her face, wide and fierce and bold, as she spins me, releases me, gathers me back in.

I give myself over to the dance.



* * *



—

The Amazon women drink like Dionysus. Their stamina and enthusiasm might even exceed his. But they bear no signs of the night’s excesses the following day. In the morning, all I see around me are fresh faces, bright eyes and energized movement—girls heading out on the hunt, some coming back to camp with handfuls of fruit, a woman beating a strip of leather, another carrying water. A group rides out into the distance, while children chase one another, their laughter drifting out across the plains.