This Immortal Heart: A Novel of Aphrodite(103)

“They’re too fast,” another complains.

I flit between them, but find it’s the Amazons alone who dominate their thoughts.

“We could strike back.” He’s older than some of the others, his jaw set grimly as he rides.

His companion shakes his head. “We said we didn’t want war.”

“We don’t.” There’s a flinty look in his eyes. “But they might leave us no choice.”

“Just think,” the other urges, “if we could be allies…”

The older man sighs in frustration. “How can we make them listen long enough to persuade them?”

“We’re hunters,” the second one says. “And fighters. We can be of use to them. If we could show them that, imagine what a force we could be together.”

“Better to give up now while we still have some horses left,” the older man says darkly.

At the back, the young lover rides with his friends. They whisper together, a furtive quartet, careful not to be overheard. “We need longer,” I hear him mutter. His hair falls across his face, thick and shining, and he pushes it back in irritation.

“Our time is running out.” The others exchange glances. “Listen to what they’re saying.”

I swoop closer. These four are all handsome and strong, but they share the same anxious look in their eyes.

The first of them, the lover whose anguish called me here, speaks again. “They want what we want,” he insists, glancing ahead at the other men. “They want to unite with the Amazons.”

“It doesn’t matter. The Amazons won’t listen.”

Melo told me there were more couples among them, and here I can see the mingling of hope and heartbreak in these young men who want so fervently to find a way in the face of insurmountable odds.

“We need something other than words to convince them,” he says.

I feel his desperation and his desolation too, and it stirs sympathy in my heart. This is my moment, I think. Their words won’t help, but mine could.

But the image of the Amazon queen rises in my mind, and I recall my words to Melo. How can they win the respect of the Amazons by having a goddess plead for them?

I was lured here by the promise of a ruptured love only I could heal. That’s what I imagined when I heard the cry across the world. But, now I’ve met these women, no matter how much I feel for the tortured lovers, I understand too why the Amazons are so protective of their freedom.

I wait until night falls and the men make their camp. There is no drinking or celebration here. Wearily, they retreat to their tents.

It’s not the lovers that I go to. It’s the sleeping form of the most skeptical, the older one who suggested fighting back. I breathe soft words into his ear as he slumbers, a tantalizing dream of another possibility. Prove yourselves, I whisper. Your men have won the favor of Aphrodite, Goddess of Love. Find a way to show the Amazons your good intentions and your worth, and you may all reap the rewards.

I slip from tent to tent, unseen and unheard, leaving sweet visions in my wake. A slew of images of their rising up once more, strong and skilled, intent on the adventure they sought when they left their homes. Men who have something to offer the Amazons. Men who have convinced a goddess that they deserve a chance.

Hope, that’s the gift I can give them. The courage to believe that an opportunity can still present itself, that a future might exist in which the Amazons are allies instead of enemies. These women are not cruel or murderous, only determined and strategic. If the men can show they would bear no violence against them, that they only want to offer friendship, which would make each group stronger out here on the steppe, they might succeed.

But there are lovers in my own world who need me; I can’t neglect them while I deliberate too long out here.

And I have another, more pressing reason to leave this place behind me.

I retrieve my chariot. Under the stars, the Scythian steppe flows like a dark sea. The sound of long grasses rustling could be the hiss of softly breaking waves.

How many more bands of warlike women roam the lands beneath me? How many of them dedicate their victories to the god who lives in exile here? If I had Ares’ gift, their hunger for the fight would call me. But I can’t attune my divine senses to that; I’m drawn only to the song of love in a mortal’s heart.

And from somewhere down on the plains, I hear it.

The doves glide smoothly down, following the subtlest pressure on their reins. I bite my lip, conflicted. I knew what I was doing when I asked the queen for directions.

We land and I slip out of the chariot, cloaking it and myself in a mist that renders us invisible. The scent of wild roses drifts through the air, and I see a small fire ahead, built inside a ring of stones. I creep closer, not making a sound, my eyes on the two figures who sit beside it.

She rests her head on his shoulder, her hair falling in a thick braid down her spine. He has his arm around her, protective and enfolding. I’m only a few paces behind them, and neither looks up from their reverie, both blissfully unaware of my presence.

He wears no breastplate or helmet. No hard, shining armor to hold her at bay. She looks so small against him, a reed bending to his embrace. Outside the circle of firelight, a pair of horses whicker and pace their hooves, and she turns her head, soothing them with quiet murmurs.

Her profile, outlined against the flickering flames, makes me stifle a gasp. The line of her jaw, the imperious jut of her chin and the way her hair falls to the side of her high forehead. It’s so familiar, it makes my heart twist.