This Immortal Heart: A Novel of Aphrodite(35)
I lead the Horae and the Graces past the elegant colonnade of my temple, every stone pillar wreathed in roses. My dress is long and white and I glitter with gold in the torchlight, from the girdle wrapped around me, to the flowers embroidered at my hem, to the twist of petals at each earlobe and the bracelets encircling my wrist. The mortals are gathering: for now a long and respectful line of worshippers waiting in hushed anticipation to make their offerings, but there is a heat in their blood and a thrill that hums through the grove all the way past the tall bronze gates.
If they sense our presence at all, it’s as delicate as an infusion of sweet perfume in the air or a quickening of their heartbeats that makes them lift their faces in wonder to the sky. An intangible certainty that tonight is something special.
And it will be. As the people of Cyprus congregate for the festival of their goddess, the gods will gather for the festival of immortals alongside them. Drawn by the irresistible promise of love, shy nymphs will tiptoe from their forest glades to beg me for boldness, and gods of rivers and mountains will offer up their flattery in the hope that I’ll lend them the gift of persuasion.
Out in the open space beyond the temple, my priestess stands at the altar. She’s a little older now than when I first blessed her, sure and confident under the moonlight. She’s flanked by her attendants, the men and women who serve me at her side, but her eyes go first to one woman, the one I first saw in her dreams. They smile, an intimate moment for only those two, before the leaders of the procession reach the altar and set down an ivory carving of me.
“Aphrodite.” It’s Auge, whispering in my ear as I watch, transfixed. “Look.”
I glance away from the procession, at the horizon where she points.
Gliding through the twilight, drawn by winged horses and swans, fish-tailed steeds and swooping birds, the chariots of the gods descend toward my island.
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Stars glimmer and blur, soft smears of gold in the darkness, their light suffusing the fragrant haze that rises from the burning incense. To breathe is to be intoxicated, every inhalation mellow and sweet and heady with their rich scent. Everywhere across the expanse of the sanctuary, there are people: warm and mortal and exquisitely precious. They drink wine on the grass or they dance to the music of tambourines and hand-drums, limbs loosening and hair flowing with the rhythm. In the shadows of the trees, figures intertwine, melting into one under myrtle blossoms.
No one sees us. The Aurae, the winged nymphs of the breezes, flutter together. Naiads lounge by the ponds, trailing their fingers through the water. A horned mountain-god, shaggy hair falling to his bare shoulders, leans in close to a young river-god whose skin is tinted green like the waters he rules, his laughter bubbling up like a surging spring.
The wine flows, honeyed and potent, sending a languorous heat through my body, and, while my mind tilts into a pleasant spin, what thrills me most is the steady pulse of longing that rises from the crowd—mortal and divine—sweeter and more powerful than all the lotus flowers they can burn.
I’m aware of Eros, slipping between clusters of gods, stopping to hear Apollo whisper something in his ear and smiling. Of the Olympians, only Apollo, Zeus, Poseidon and Hermes are here. Of course they have come; of course they stroll my sanctuary grounds as though they belong to them. But they’re mine, and on such a beautiful, sensuous night I have no room for resentment. All the immortals tonight who shrink slightly from them, then peer curiously in their wake, see that this quartet of strong and powerful gods has come to a celebration of Aphrodite.
If the mortals feel a shuddering in the ground at our footsteps or glimpse a dazzle of light, they attribute it to the wine and the stuporous smoke. They’re coaxed into a seductive dizziness, and they laugh and drink more and tumble into another dance, another embrace, another kiss. I turn, and in every direction I see the blooming of desire. A couple lean in together for the first time: their lips touch and they pull back in startled wonderment. Another pair are urgent and eager, hands twisting into hair, their bodies pressed close. I feel an overwhelming rush of affection for every one of them. I want to grant their every prayer, to bring them joy tonight and all nights. Their lives are so short, too short to deny them even a moment’s pleasure. This is their time and mine, and I whisper Yes, Yes, Yes in response to every wish I hear.
I spin, the rising tide of want carrying me with it, and everything is movement and hunger and need, until a dark shape catches my eye, a still figure standing alone in the rose garden past the myrtle grove.
I can feel his eyes on me. Silhouetted against the sky, at the furthest edge of the sanctuary, where you can hear the crash of waves below. He would never be here, and yet he is.
A girl wheels into me, a wind-god clasps my arm, and I shake myself free. I take a step and then another, certain this must be a figment of my imagination, though surely I’d never summon him up in my mind.
The heat and noise of the festival are behind me; I step through the trees and out into the quiet garden.
Ares. In Cyprus, for what I’m sure is the first time. Behind him, the moon glitters on the sea; the long grasses further down the hill wave in a breeze that carries fresh cedar and pine from the forests.
“Why are you here?” I ask.
He isn’t tensed or drawn up, isn’t bristling with hostility or brandishing a spear. He wears no helmet and holds no weapons. Even without them, he’s a force so commanding it takes my breath away. His demeanor is dark and intense as always, but now I see—now I can’t deny—the beauty of his face. His high cheekbones catching the light, the jut of his bearded jaw, the endless depths of his black eyes.