This Immortal Heart: A Novel of Aphrodite(24)

She draws a breath. “There is one thing I’d like to ask of you,” she says, and I sit up straighter, intent. “It’s that, if I do find someone—if I fall in love—I want them to choose me. Freely.”

Eros arches an eyebrow. “You don’t want Aphrodite’s help?”

She pleats the drapes of her dress between her fingers, and I reach out to lay my hand on top of hers. “I’m not offended,” I reassure her.

“It’s just that I want to know he’s really chosen me,” she says, and my heart twists in sympathy at what she isn’t saying.

“And that’s a promise I can make, if you want it,” I tell her. “I won’t intervene.”

“Thank you.” She stands up, a little hesitant. “Tell me what happens with your sculptor,” she says. “I hope he finds that she’s everything he dreamed of.”

“Don’t worry,” I say. “He will.”

I watch her leave, taking in her shapely form and delicate grace. I wish she would allow me to open Hephaestus’ eyes to her. I’m sure it wouldn’t take much.

“She’d never know,” Eros murmurs, “if you gave him a nudge.”

I shake my head. “I promised.” I change the subject. “Anyway, one more thing. Tell me what Zeus is up to at the moment.”

He wrinkles his nose. “Visiting a mortal princess of Thebes,” he says. “He’s quite taken with her, actually, and her with him, believe it or not.”

“Hmm.” I think about it for a minute. “Can you make sure it doesn’t wane?” I ask. “Keep him as occupied as you can?” There’s more chance that he’ll forget about Pandora that way, especially now that I’ve planted a seed of doubt in his mind.

“Of course. And,” he says, “have you decided what to do about Eris?” He’s the only god I’ve confided in about her so far. He helped me with Phaon; the injury is his as well.

I shake my head. “Not yet. I think right now the thing that will cause her the most suffering is if she believes I’ve let it go. Let her brood on it, wondering if she’s failed to rile me.”

He nods. “If you need anything,” he says, “I’m here. I can’t stand her either; the only thing she loves is misery.”

“I know.”

Eros leans over to kiss my forehead and then he’s gone, soaring into the sky.

I lie back down on my couch, alone again, listening to the prayers from the world below. They’ve merged together, overlapping and intertwining, lulling me into a gentle daze, when abruptly one voice breaks through. It drowns out the rest of the chorus. I sit up, fully awake, my attention caught.

Well, I think, that’s something new.



* * *



—

The moon over Thrace is full and tinged with crimson. Fallen leaves crunch under the wheels of my chariot as I land, black smoke blooming into the sky, the scent of fire permeating everything.

I follow the smoke and the dull roar of chanting and cymbals. I can feel my pulse pounding, blood thrumming to the wild rhythm as I get closer, apprehensive and intrigued in equal measure.

This feels like another world than Cyprus. I’ve never had cause to come here before and I doubt that I ever would have, were it not for the single prayer that emanated from here. The voice of a woman, strident and piercing, determined to be heard. She called on me, her words sparing and imperious. My worshippers normally frame their requests in humble language, begging that I will hear them and give their hopes my consideration. This one was more of a command.

The grove gives way to an open plain, and in the center a great fire burns. Around it, mortals are writhing in a frenzied dance, jabbing spears up to the sky and howling.

The realization crashes down upon me, as dreadful and inevitable as war itself.

I’ve witnessed a scene like this before. A memory that’s seared into my soul.

Just like then, he’s here in the heart of the throng, towering head and shoulders above his worshippers. The blood-hued moonlight glints off his breastplate, off the metal cuffs at his wrists and his helmet, ghastly and savage, framing him in an unearthly halo.

The crowd splits around him. Two men dressed for battle come forwards, heaving ropes tied around the muscled shoulders of a bull. The animal snorts and huffs, its eyes rolling back in its head as they drag it, its hooves scraping against the earth. At its back are two more warriors to stop the bull from charging ahead.

I watch, frozen with dread, as another man lays his shield on the ground in their path, and they haul the bull to stand above it. It lowers its head, grunting and pawing, and the whooping and clashing of metal dies away. In the quiet that follows, a woman comes forth. Like the men, she is clad in armor—a short tunic made from animal hide with rough plates of bronze fastened over her shoulders and torso—but she’s bareheaded, her hair held back from her face with two knotted braids and the rest streaming down her back. Her eyes are intent on the bull, and she holds a sword, its blade sharp and deadly. In one fluid motion, she vaults up onto the animal’s back, pressing her body against it, reaching her arms around its thick neck as she draws the sword across its throat.

This is the woman whose prayer I heard. I can feel it, the moment that I see her.

The bull’s blood spills on the shield. The crowd cheers. Ares watches, transfixed, the dancing flames reflecting in his black eyes.