This Immortal Heart: A Novel of Aphrodite(13)

I find him by the embers of his own fire, his face turned up to the starlit sky. I sit down opposite, letting the mist around me dissipate so that he can see my outline in the shadows.

He draws in his breath. “Are you—are you real?”

“I am. I saw you in the crowd of warriors. Are you going to tell me why I find you here of all places?” My voice is hard.

He dips his head. “We left Cyprus,” he says. “We went back home, to the village where we grew up. And then we heard.”

“Heard what?”

“That war was coming.”

“Then you should have fled,” I tell him. “Come back to Cyprus, where I can grant you sanctuary. I didn’t restore your youth so that you could waste it on battle. I gave it to you so that you would find love. I gave you the woman you always wanted, and years to spend with her. A new lifetime.”

He hesitates. “But I knew that I could help, with the strength you granted me. And, when it’s over, when we’ve won, I can go home to her a hero.”

“If you survive.”

“I’ve been blessed by Aphrodite,” he ventures. “With your favor—”

“I can’t protect you in war,” I tell him flatly. “I didn’t give her back to you so that you could leave her.”

“After this, I never will.”

“But, Phaon”—my voice softens—“you might have no choice. Why would you risk it?”

“Goddess,” he says, his voice catching, “if I don’t fight—if I don’t try—I know what happens to women on the losing side of a war. Children too. I have to protect her and the baby. That means winning.”

“I could spirit the two of you away, anywhere in the world,” I offer. “I chose you, remember? There’s no need for this.”

He looks at the ground. “What about the other women left behind?” he asks. “And the men brave enough to fight? Why should I flee, when they have to stay? I have this strength—why shouldn’t I lend it to them when they need it?” He lifts his eyes to mine. “Dying is a risk I must take. You gave me this chance: the ability to help. If I live, I’ll dedicate my victory to you.”

I sigh. It was his generosity and his kindness that first caught my attention. Should I be so surprised that the man who stops to rescue a stranded old woman would do this? That the man who dedicated all those faithful years to the woman he loved and lost couldn’t find it in his heart to turn his back on his people? “I hope so, Phaon,” I say, and I mean it. “I truly hope you survive.”

I stalk away. If I were a harsher god, I would punish him for wasting my favor.

Impulse leads my steps away from the edge of the camp where I left my chariot. Perhaps Phaon won’t be persuaded, but I can’t give up so easily.

I walk toward the center of the camp, following the steady beat of drums. As I get closer, the smoke thickens in the air, obscuring the stars, and the drumbeat grows louder, insistent.

This is where the warriors are gathered. Not the cautious ones, the fearful and the reluctant who hide in their tents, swallowing down their dread of what’s to come. No, here are those most dedicated to carnage; a crowd hungry for it, eager to press in closer to their god.

I see him through the smoke, standing head and shoulders above the rest of them, flames glittering in his bronze helmet as he tips his head back and shouts toward the skies.

His battle-cry echoes up to the heavens, hollow and eerie, shuddering across the nape of my neck like an icy breath. It contains a thousand horrors, as though the voices of all his warriors were caught up in his own; it’s the wrath of an entire army and their dreadful thirst for violence distilled into one terrible impulse of sound. There is something mesmerizing about it, and utterly terrifying.

Ares.

My ears ring from the noise, every part of me recoiling from the scene. I remember how the foundations of our Olympian palace used to shudder when he and Zeus would clash in wild arguments. Ares was born furious, the wrathful eldest child of Zeus and Hera, and his swift growth to full-fledged godhood was tumultuous. Now he’s rarely on Olympus, preferring to spend that wrath in mortal battles like this. It may have been decades since he was last forced to attend a feast or a council meeting. I remember him only as a sullen presence, saying little and leaving early. Not like this—not this powerful god who holds an entire army in his thrall, the depths of his eyes lethal and hypnotic, the ferocity of his howl rousing them to holler back with all their might.

At some unspoken signal, the cries of the men subside, and Ares speaks.

“Tomorrow,” he says, his voice low and intense, “we fight.”

“I’ll be among you,” he goes on. “Your glory is mine.”

Through the mass of bodies, I see Eris, Goddess of Strife, at his side, her face contorted with ghoulish glee.

There’s no long speech to his men, no more words of encouragement to inspire the army. Instead, the two of them stride through the crush. Cheers, raw and guttural, erupt around him. They’re so fast and decisive, I don’t have time to doubt myself. I step out in front of them, and I see their incredulous expressions as they recognize me.

“Aphrodite?”

It’s Eris who speaks, her tone indignant. Her long black dress is threaded with silver, glimmering wherever the pale moonbeams strike it, and her black-feathered wings look velvety soft to the touch. I can’t imagine who would be foolish enough to dare try.