This Immortal Heart: A Novel of Aphrodite(20)

Of all the women in the world, she’s the most like you. Of course, Zeus didn’t pick some mortal king for this plan of his. He would never choose a human imitation of himself to take the fall.

It’s a woman who will pay the price.

Hera gives him a withering glare before she stalks away.

“What’s actually in the jar?” I ask.

He shrugs. “Nothing.”

This trap he’s set for Pandora is no more than spite. A way to punish humanity for what Prometheus did. Yet another mortal sacrificed to his ego.

“Well,” says Zeus, standing up, “I’ll see you at the feast tonight. I summoned Ares to join us. Are you still angry with him over that fisherman of yours?”

“Why would it matter?” I say. “You don’t think he’ll show up, do you? Ares never comes to our feasts.”

“He holds out as long as he can,” Zeus acknowledges. “But eventually he has to give in. He’ll be here.” His eyes sparkle with enjoyment as he waits for my reaction.

His smugness will be punctured when Ares inevitably fails to materialize. I don’t give it another thought. “You don’t need to worry,” I say. “I won’t start an argument in the throne room.”

He laughs. “Don’t hold back on my account,” he says. “It might liven things up.”



* * *



—

At the feast, I sit down next to Hephaestus, Iris leaning over us at the long, polished table to pour more golden nectar into our cups.

“This goblet is lovely,” I say. “Your work?”

Hephaestus ducks his head in acknowledgment. It’s wrought in silver with a delicate stem and curved handles, an intricate carving around the rim of long-necked cranes taking flight. Their narrow legs are bent underneath them, wide wings outspread and water rippling below, so real it looks as though it’s in motion, flowing in relief across the metal surface. “I learn from everything I make,” he says, tracing a finger over the outline of one of the birds. “For this, it was the feathers—how to make them look soft and distinct, not perfect and uniform. I wanted every one of them to have its own tiny irregularity.” He smiles. “Next time, I’ll do better.”

I’m about to tell him it’s magnificent when the door swings open, ricocheting against the wall. I look up, startled by the rude intrusion of noise, and there is Ares framed in the archway.

Like Athena, he’s armored, but her armor is sleek and crafted around her body so that she resembles a silver stream, fluid and flawless. He wears a tunic of dark leather, its rough and battered edges visible beneath the bronze plates fastened at his shoulders and around his torso, their livid glow flickering in the firelight. His helmet is off and his hair is thick, dark and tousled. His mouth a grim, unsmiling line, just like on the battlefield.

My heart beats a little faster in my chest. Why is he here? At once, I’m fiercely alert, poised for confrontation.

Charis, seated on my other side, reaches for Hephaestus’ cup and strokes a fingertip across the outline of the birds. “It’s so lifelike,” she says, smiling across at him.

She barely seems to notice Ares, who ignores the ripple of surprise at his entrance and takes a chair at the end of our table, sitting without a word of greeting to anyone.

Zeus smiles, a satisfied gleam in his eyes.

My thoughts are racing. Is it simply as Zeus claimed, and Ares has given in to his summons purely because so long has passed since he last showed up here? Or is it prompted by his victory over me on the battlefield? I told Zeus I wouldn’t cause a scene, but now I wonder if I should challenge him. Bring up Phaon in front of all the other gods? Or would that just mean reliving my humiliation at his hands? My fists clench underneath the table, but I hold still. I won’t give him the satisfaction of thinking that I notice his presence.

Courses are served, wine is poured, and the chatter flows. Only Ares stays silent. At last, Zeus drains his cup, leans back and addresses him.

“Next time,” he says, “tell us in advance which cities you’ll be attacking.”

Ares looks up, entirely disinterested. “Did I forget to mention it at the last council?”

“You didn’t come to the last council,” says Zeus. “If I’d known, I would have intervened.”

Ares doesn’t deign to answer.

Up and down the table, gods exchange glances. Demeter leans toward me. “His army burned Dodona to ashes,” she whispers conspiratorially.

That’s one of Zeus’ favorite cities. So maybe he’s the one who wants a fight this evening, after all.

“The point of our councils,” he goes on, sounding deceptively benign, “is so that everyone knows what’s happening in each of our realms.”

“War can be unpredictable.” Ares shrugs.

Athena’s brow furrows, and I think she’s about to contradict him when, to my surprise, Hephaestus interjects.

“But surely you should be able to predict it?” he asks.

Surprise flashes across Ares’ face.

“You could order your followers to stop,” Hephaestus ventures. “You can choose which cities burn…or which mortals die.” At this, his eyes flicker to me. The tips of his ears are reddening.

“Which mortals die?” Ares scoffs. From the withering sweep of his gaze, it’s clear that he knows his brother is speaking on my behalf.