This Immortal Heart: A Novel of Aphrodite(28)

It’s why Charis asked me not to intervene for her. I didn’t completely understand why when she first asked, but perhaps I’m starting to see it now.

“But for Galatea, there was nothing there at all,” he says. “She has only what you gave her. So isn’t it real?”

“But he made her,” I say, realizing the source of my discomfort now I’m saying it out loud. “He made her to his exact specifications. Nothing about her is anything that she chose, only what he wanted. And that includes her love. I gave it to her at his request, not hers.”

“Surely it was a kindness to them both?” he says.

“It was,” I say. “But when my charm fades, it will be up to him to make her fall in love with him for real. I’ve done the impossible part, I’ve given him the chance. I’ll let her adjust to her new life, but then I’ll let her choose.”

“So,” Hephaestus says, “if he wants her to love him back—to truly love him—he has to win her.”

There is an intensity in his face that throws me off-balance. All of a sudden, the air between us feels charged with anticipation.

A flash of flame streaks across the skies, and we both look up.

It’s the chariot of Ares, his fire-breathing horses galloping toward Olympus.

The wind changes direction, and a fragment of song drifts toward us from my sanctuary. Pygmalion might have rushed there already, pulling the mystified Galatea along by the hand to show her to the worshippers: Look how the goddess has blessed me; see how my piety is rewarded.

The moment is broken. “Go,” Hephaestus says. “Take the sculptor’s thanks. You gave him a miracle. It will send the mortal world wild. All the gods will be impressed too.”

It’s the kind of story bound to titillate and entertain them in equal measure. “Thank you,” I tell him.

He ducks his head. “Any time.”

And, as I hurry back toward my sanctuary, I feel much lighter.



* * *



—

Ares’ horses are still in the stables when I get back to Olympus. Their midnight-black eyes bore into me as I hand the reins of my chariot to the stable-nymph and step out to the courtyard.

He’s there, standing by the central fountain, arms folded across his breastplate.

Ares can go years without visiting our palace. Why is he here now, so soon after the last time?

“Please tell me,” I call out across the marble tiles to him, “that this isn’t about last night. I have every right to go to the mortals that summon me, whoever’s land they’re in. So, if you’re here to berate me for it, you can save yourself the trouble.” My eyes sweep across the empty space. I wonder where everyone is.

“Zeus summoned me for another council.” I think I notice the faintest ghost of a smile flickering across his face. “He wants to know my war plans in advance this time.”

He’s clearly pleased by the memory of Zeus’ frustration, or maybe he’s luxuriating in the reminiscence of burning that town to ashes. But it’s his first statement that strikes me. “Council?” I ask. “Iris didn’t come to fetch me.” I look around the quiet courtyard. “Perhaps she saw me flying toward Olympus anyway,” I muse out loud.

He looks at me blankly. Maybe he really isn’t here for a fight. Or, at least, not one with me this time. I’m about to go up the stairs to the throne room, but he doesn’t move.

“Aren’t you going in?” I ask.

“I will.”

“Are you waiting for something?”

“I’m just preparing,” he says in steely tones, “to see my father.” To my surprise, he sits down on the low wall in front of the fountain.

The strips of rugged leather that make up his tunic fall across his thighs and I notice how taut with muscle they are.

“Is this why you’re always late?” All the councils he’s delayed in the past—is he just sitting outside, waiting to make his entrance? A laugh bubbles up inside me at the absurdity of the image, but dies on my lips. I don’t want conviviality with Ares.

“It’s not deliberate,” he says flatly. “I just can’t stand to be around him.” He reaches up and pulls the plumed helmet off his head. He is no less imposing without it, the planes of his face still stern and hard. He looks like he’s just stepped off the battlefield, his skin bronzed and roughened from the hot glare of the sun, his black beard cut close to his jaw, his dark eyes flecked with an amber glow—unsettling and strange, with a kind of wild desolation that makes me think of the ringing of spears against shields, metal shrieking and glittering in the light of raging fires. On each of his bronze shoulder plates, there’s a coiling design: two serpents, rising up as though to hiss at one another across his body, forked tongues and fangs and scales embossed on the dented surface.

“Why snakes?” I ask, and immediately want to bite my tongue. Why would I ask him a question?

“In Thrace,” he says, “they sun themselves on the riverbank. They stretch out on the rocks, absolutely still so that you might not notice they’re there at all.”

I glance toward the steps to the throne room. I should go. The gods will be waiting. And why would I care what Ares has to say?

“It’s where my worshippers live. As you know.”