This Immortal Heart: A Novel of Aphrodite(31)
My tactic already, then, although I’m fairly sure Zeus is only this relaxed because Eris has insulted me, not him.
We contemplate the tapestry for another moment. I stare at the figure of Ares, helmeted and ferocious, Athena’s skill rendering him so alive he looks ready to leap from the woven threads and strike down his enemies.
“She’s good,” Zeus remarks.
I incline my head in agreement. Athena and I don’t have the friendliest relationship, but I wouldn’t deny that her accomplishments are impressive.
“Sorry that I forgot to tell her not to go ahead with Pandora,” he adds.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
His brow furrows. “Didn’t you hear? The jar story—the mortals are spreading it already.”
“Zeus!” It’s a strangled cry of frustration.
He rubs his bearded chin. “Athena is so efficient. I’d given her the instruction already, and I was too late to stop her.”
He’s so careless, I could scream.
“I know you liked Pandora,” he says ruefully. “Still.” He brightens. “Your genius move with the sculptor, that should cheer you up. Such a good idea to bring his statue to life. The perfect woman.” He lingers on the thought just a fraction too long. “Very well done, Aphrodite.”
I don’t doubt the sincerity of his approval. “Thank you,” I sigh. “And don’t forget about Eris.”
“I won’t.”
But I know better than to trust him.
* * *
—
It doesn’t take long for the story of Pandora’s fall to reverberate through the mortal world and up to the cloud-capped peak of our mountain. The blame for all the ills that besiege mankind is heaped on her shoulders, and my name surfaces in every repetition of the tale.
She got her beauty from Aphrodite…and her meddling nature too.
A woman that beautiful could never be trusted.
I fly, disguised in mist, straight down to their home after my conversation with Zeus. On my advice, she and Epimetheus flee to the banks of Oceanus to live among the Titans, rather than among mortals, who think they have cause to resent her.
“You’ll be happy there,” I tell Epimetheus. Their love for one another is still bright and palpable, utterly delightful to me, and I give them my blessing to ensure it never lapses. He might miss the mortals that he used to adore, but he loves Pandora more.
It’s just a story, I tell myself. An infuriating one but a story nonetheless. What matters is that their love survives in the face of ruin.
It’s love that I care about more than anything else, and Zeus can’t destroy that.
* * *
—
On Cyprus, the preparations for my festival are under way. Women carry baskets laden with cakes, honey, perfumed ointments, flowers and leafy herbs to the sanctuary, winding their way up the hill in the bright sunshine, their songs and laughter drifting on the breeze. I flit between them, feathered and trilling, listening to the secrets in between the chatter. The words that hover unspoken on smiling lips, the flash of excitement as eyes meet, the dreams that linger inside hopeful hearts. The island itself seems to quiver with anticipation, the air humming with the thrill of what’s to come.
I pay visits to Galatea, whom I find most often engaged in study. She wanders the rooms of Pygmalion’s house, lifting fabrics and trinkets, making mental lists of what each item appears to be and what function it might fulfill. She traces her hand across statues and sculptures, concentrating on the sensation of cold stone under her warm fingers. And she leans on the windowsill, looking out toward the mountains, breathing in the scent of salt and pine, before she turns back at the sound of his footsteps. She smiles when she sees him. The charm I placed on her still holds.
On Olympus, Zeus remains so full of his own self-importance that he summons Ares back again, ready to issue more orders to his unruly son.
As I sweep up the marble stairs, I can hear the rumbling of their voices like thunder rolling through the sky. I pause, then gently push open the bronze doors to see the two of them standing and furious, several paces apart from one another. No furniture has been toppled, I notice, and nothing broken that I can see. Not yet.
“I’m tired of all the destruction!” Zeus is shouting.
“You cause it all the time,” Ares counters. His voice isn’t raised; he’s talking with quiet contempt, and I can see his tone riles Zeus even more. He prefers a passionate brawl, and usually Ares is ready to provide one. “You’re only angry that this war isn’t one you’ve devised.”
“If it’s like Dodona again,” Zeus roars, “I’ll smite every single one of them.”
“Do it.” Ares shrugs.
I rest my hand on a tall pillar, watching him closely. His eyes are burning with fury, his fists clenched and his shoulders tensed, and I can tell he’s holding back an avalanche of rage. I wonder at his self-control. I can feel his desire to let it loose, pulsing and powerful in the golden hall. It’s in his nature after all.
Then I notice Hera, sitting on her throne, her eyes intent on her husband and son, a little smile playing at the corners of her lips.
“You can kill my men,” says Ares. “Save your precious cities. They all fall in the end.”