This Immortal Heart: A Novel of Aphrodite(11)
“Always,” he says, dropping a kiss on my cheek. “And, as for news, it’s all the same. Your sanctuary overflows every day with worshippers.”
“I know,” I say. “I hear their prayers.”
“But the affairs of the gods must be keeping you busy here.” He arches an eyebrow. “There are always so many.”
“Aren’t there just? But I’m more interested in news of Phaon, if you have it.” I’ve watched him since I gifted him his youth again. He came to my temple to give thanks, and I was gratified to see how handsome I’d made him. I wasn’t alone; I could feel the burn of a dozen stares lingering after him.
But I didn’t see him return a single one of them.
Eros shakes his head. “He has admirers everywhere he goes, men and women alike. But he makes no use of the gift you’ve given him. Say the word and I’ll set him aflame for the prettiest one.”
“No,” I say. “Don’t.”
“Why not?”
“That doesn’t feel right.” I take a seat beside the central fountain, trailing my fingers through the cold water, and he sits down beside me. “He’s a good man, an honorable and loyal one,” I muse. I remember a mortal couple I saw at the temple after Phaon was there. They were weary and wrinkled with age but still holding hands as they walked. I remember how the husband looked at his wife of many years and felt a sense of wonderment rising within him at how beautiful she still was in his eyes. “He doesn’t want a new love,” I say. “He could have taken advantage of his new form and had a dozen young lovers—wouldn’t most men?—but he hasn’t.”
“So he’s ungrateful,” Eros pronounces.
“Eros,” I chide, “he’s not ungrateful. He’s still in love.”
He frowns. “With a woman in a distant city, who must be old herself now, if she’s still alive.” He glances at me, perplexed. “That’s a worse situation than he was in before.”
“It is,” I agree.
“So why don’t you look more concerned?” he asks.
“Because,” I say, “I know what we need to do about it.”
“What’s that?”
“Come on.” I jump up and pull him to his feet. “I’ll show you.”
4
The market down by the harbor at Paphos is bustling. The narrow streets ring with the shouts of vendors and the rattling wheels of carts over rutted roads. A donkey brays and gulls squawk as nets glistening with fish are hauled up from the sea. A mother shouts as her child darts away from her, enticed by the ripe fruit a seller sets out on a table, bright and tempting.
I swoop lower, my white wings spread, watching. I notice the stall of figurines, sweet little clay women, and hover for a moment as a customer picks one up, examining her from every angle. I linger, looking at the exaggerated, gorgeous shape of the clay—the luscious curves of breasts and stomach and the deep etching between the thighs. A charm that promises fertility and safety in childbirth.
I’m not the goddess to guarantee such a thing. That’s up to Hera’s daughter Eileithyia, or even Artemis—who, when she isn’t hunting down prey in the forests, attends to laboring women. By that stage, I’ve already played my part. Like any other god, even Zeus himself, I’d ask one of them if I want safe passage for a mortal mother. We all have our realms; we all exercise dominion over them. It’s why cooperation on Olympus is so crucial—making alliances and keeping score.
I notice a girl with a wistful expression leaning out of an upstairs window, and, when I follow the direction of her gaze, I see him. Phaon making his way through the crowds, shouldering a heavy basket of fish. No one is deterred by the sharp stink of his cargo. Eyes follow him wherever he goes, captivated by his shining hair and his broad shoulders.
I flutter away, soaring back toward the ship, where I land on the deck. Eros stands there, a solicitous arm around the nervous-looking young woman who clasps the wooden rail and scans the busy port.
“Almost there,” he tells her, and she nods.
There’s nothing remarkable about her, not if you’re seeing her for the first time. She’s ordinary, plain even, now that we’ve smoothed away the lines on her face and restored her hair from gray to its original darkness. Her skin is young and soft once more, her back straight and her eyes no longer clouded, though in them I can still see the toll the years have taken: her youth sold to a stranger and her later years precarious as she lived out her widowhood in a place that never felt like home.
The ship docks, and Eros leads her ashore. His wings are concealed and I’m disguised, perching on the branch of an olive tree to watch as he shades his eyes from the sun and looks around.
Phaon emerges from the crush of the market, coming back to the boats to collect another load. I stretch my neck forwards, craning to see the moment when he recognizes her.
He’s stunned, too stunned to move for a moment. Then a grin of pure joy spreads across his face, his eyes bright with happy tears. A moment ago, I thought her plain, but all at once she is radiant; suffused with love, she is more beautiful than anyone else in Paphos. Eros melts away as though he were never there. I stay, my heart thrilling as Phaon clasps her in his arms and they kiss, all the years they’ve been apart dissolving into nothing.