This Immortal Heart: A Novel of Aphrodite(34)
“This,” Ares says, “is Mount Haemus. My home.”
Past the spiked gates, the horses come in to land, their bronze hooves clattering on the black stone floor as I stare around us, unable to formulate a response. A figure emerges from within, a black cloak concealing her features until she shakes back her hood and begins to unhook the horses. One of the Keres, the strange sisters I saw on the battlefield. Another comes to join her, both pale and gaunt, their eyes black pools that never meet mine. Their hands are clawed, long talons hooked from each finger, but the horses must be used to them, and remain stoic under their ministrations.
Ares jumps lightly from the chariot. “My attendants,” he says, nodding at the Keres. Their indifference to me is palpable.
I gaze around, stunned. “When did you build this place?”
“When I realized how intolerable life on Olympus was,” he says quietly. “So a long time ago.”
I look at the twisted shadows of the iron gates, the eerie sisters leading the horses away through a dark archway, the empty expanse of the courtyard and the sheer drop at the edge of the mountain. I wonder how many times he’s landed here, raging from an argument on Olympus, pacing the stone floor with his fists clenched, brooding in this desolate place with only his own fury for company. The emptiness of it makes me feel cold.
I have to ask him now, if I ever want an answer.
“Ares,” I say, “I just want to know.”
He looks at me. It feels like the first time our eyes have met without anger.
“Why didn’t you save Phaon when I asked?”
He nods. There’s a thoughtfulness to him that I’ve never seen before, now his simmering fury is gone. “Because,” he says quietly, “there’s always a reason to save them all.”
“So you save none?”
“That’s right.”
I swallow. Of course. Nothing could fit better with the hollow despair of the world he’s made for himself here on this bleak mountain. A world where no one can ever be saved.
“That’s what I thought,” I say softly, and, before he can say another word, I spring from the chariot into the air, cloaked in dove feathers to take me as far away from here as I can possibly be.
10
My quarters on Olympus bustle with activity, the sound of female voices overlapping excitedly and a flurry of footsteps through the corridors. Charis braids Pasithea’s dark, glossy hair with twining ribbons. Hesperis and Dysis tumble into the room, their arms laden with bright-colored dresses and their eyes sparkling with excitement. I rise from the table where Auge is lifting the stopper from a tiny clay bottle, releasing a fragrance spiced with thyme and bitter citrus, softened with the sweetness of wild roses.
“The green for you,” I pronounce to Dysis, appraising the robes they’re holding up. The fresh spring shade will bring out the color of her eyes and the coppery tones in her hair. Hesperis, meanwhile, looks loveliest in the crocus-dyed yellow.
They hurry to dress, helping each other to fasten brooches and drape necklaces, the room ringing with the sweet music of laughter and chatter. There’s much speculation on who will come tonight, which gods and nymphs they most hope will be there, playful teasing about what might happen if they are.
“What about you, Aphrodite?” Dysis asks. “Since you gave Nerites to Poseidon, who do you have your eye on next?”
I lift a string of lapis beads from the table, holding it to the firelight. The deep blue of the stones is lustrous and rich, seeming to ripple in the flickering glow like the sea itself.
“Aphrodite?”
“Oh,” I say. I clear my throat. “I haven’t decided.”
I haven’t mentioned the chariot ride I took with Ares. I don’t know why I’m thinking of it now.
Charis, finished with Pasithea’s hair, gathers up an embroidered strip of fabric. The delicate gold thread of the belt glitters, bringing the exquisitely woven scenes to subtle life. “Ready?” she asks, and I smile.
She drapes it across my left shoulder first, winding it between my breasts and then looping it around my waist and back over the other shoulder before knotting it tightly behind my back.
“Beautiful,” she murmurs.
It girdles my body, binding my dress close, emphasizing the curves of my body. I’ve lent this to other goddesses before, and I know how it draws the eye, making it impossible to look away from the sweep of the wearer’s waist and the full roundness of her breasts. When a watcher lingers, irresistibly drawn, they’ll notice the weaving—the figures that seem to dance across the belt, shapely and alluring, reaching for one another. Tonight of all nights, I couldn’t wear anything different.
My festival is a mortal one, but, while the humans celebrate, there will be an unseen revelry of the gods by their side. Veiled from their view, we’ll dance and drink and mingle under the stars that shine over Cyprus. Gods and nymphs will be drawn from all over by the lure of a celebration dedicated to love and pleasure.
I glance up at the setting sun. “It’s time,” I say. “Let’s go.”
* * *
—
In Paphos, the light is fading from the sky and a violet dusk creeps in. The torches that line the sanctuary pathways are lit. Tiny white flowers open their petals to the emerging stars, releasing the fragrance of jasmine. The melody of a lyre weaves its way through the branches of the apple trees.