This Immortal Heart: A Novel of Aphrodite(14)

“Eris,” I greet her. “And Ares.”

Her face twists into a sneer, her midnight eyes cold. Dark hollows beneath conjure images of her lying awake, stewing over grievances and resentments, too bitter to sleep.

“What are you doing here?” Eris demands. “This is not your domain.”

I ignore her, turning to Ares. “May we talk?”

His face is guarded by the bronze plates of his helmet. All I can see is the hard set of his mouth and his empty black eyes. They meet mine and a shiver runs down my spine.

He jerks his head to the side, gesturing me toward the river that flows by the side of the camp.

Away from the roar of the celebrating crowd, I clear my throat. “There’s a man in your army,” I say. “Phaon, a fisherman, not a fighter. He belongs to me, not you.”

“Then take him with you when you leave.” His tone is short, peremptory in his instruction. A god used to being instantly obeyed.

“He won’t go,” I say.

Eris hisses. I can’t tell if it’s a huff of impatience or her attempt at scornful laughter. “That’s not our concern.”

I take a step closer. “Ares,” I say, striving to be reasonable. I’m within an arm’s length of him now, and I swallow my trepidation. I banish the thought of him, moments ago, unleashing his monstrous battle-cry. He’s a god, like me. Like any other. I won’t be intimidated. I wonder how I might coax him. He’s not Poseidon; a trail of my fingers down his finely muscled arms, left bare by his breastplate, won’t help me persuade him. A pity. But there is a way. I just have to work out what it is.

I start with flattery. “He’s come to fight for you,” I explain. “He wants to be a hero, to honor you, Ares. All I ask is that you spare his life.” I’m looking earnestly into his eyes, trying to convey with my gaze that I’m sincere.

“Impossible,” he says, looking away.

Without that cold stare unnerving me, it’s easier to think. “It’s not impossible, not for you,” I say smoothly. “And if there’s anything I can do for you in return, some favor, just say the word.” I’m thinking of a love charm, a whisper in the ear of whichever nymph a war god might be hankering after.

He glances back at me. “No.”

It’s abrupt, like a shock of cold water to the face. “No?” I splutter. Just a refusal? No negotiation, no compromise?

A triumphant smile creeps across Eris’ face. “That’s your answer, Aphrodite,” she says, a horrible crack in her voice that reminds me of a fissure opening in the earth, a sulfurous vent of boiling steam. “Now go.”

“He’s my mortal,” I protest. “You can protect him, if you choose.”

“Any man fighting knows he might die,” Ares says. “I don’t choose favorites. They all take the same risk.”

“But…” I grope for the words, wrong-footed by his rudeness. I’m searching for an advantage, some weakness I can use or some other way to charm him, but his blank fa?ade is impenetrable.

“He lives or he dies,” Ares says. “I won’t intervene. Don’t try yourself either.” His eyes flicker up and down my body, and I’m suddenly aware of my crocus-dyed gown; the wreath of flowers crowning my hair; the jewels shining at my throat, my ears, my wrists. All of my soft luxuries next to his fierce austerity. “Eris is right. This is no place for you.”

With that, Eris smirks, and they walk away, swallowed up by the smoke and the throng of worshippers before I can say another word.



* * *



—

I fly back to Olympus in a rage, my fists clenched tightly around the reins. I’m still fuming as I march across the courtyard, past the steps to the throne room. The door swings open and I see Zeus framed in the light behind it, his crown askew and a fug of wine surrounding him.

“Aphrodite!” he calls to me.

I nod curtly, and he frowns.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, leaning on the marble doorframe.

“Nothing’s wrong with me,” I snap. “What’s wrong with your son, more like?”

He nods sagely. “Hephaestus?” he asks. “I don’t know. I’ve asked myself many times.”

“Not Hephaestus,” I bite back, harsh as Eris herself. “Ares.”

“Oh,” he says. “Another good question.”

I sigh.

“Come inside,” he urges. “Have a drink.”

I’m too angry to sleep, so I allow him to usher me into the airy hall. It’s quieter at this time of night, only a handful of gods clustered at the tables. I take a seat next to Zeus, and Iris materializes with a goblet of wine.

“What’s Ares done now?” Zeus asks me.

I want nothing more than to vent my anger, but Zeus is a poor choice of confidant. He’s more likely to find my humiliation by Ares and Eris amusing than he is to sympathize. “Let’s not talk about him,” I say.

“That’s fine by me. Sometimes, I’d rather forget his existence altogether.” He scowls. “He makes it easy enough, considering how little of him I see up here.”

“Don’t you prefer it that way?” I ask.

Thunderclouds gather in his eyes. “He neglects his responsibilities. I should have known,” he comments darkly, “that no son from Hera could turn out any better.”