This Immortal Heart: A Novel of Aphrodite(48)

I sigh again. I don’t want to stay on Mount Olympus, but I don’t want to think of his desolate Thracian mansion either, haunted by the shrieks of his warlike followers. On Cyprus, my bathing pool will be crystal clear. The flowers around the edge will be bright and vivid, and the sunlight will shimmer through the rippling waterfall. The water will be cool, cleansing every trace of Ares from my skin, and afterward the Horae will be ready with perfumed oil to make my skin gleam. I’ll breathe in the scent of crushed roses and drape myself in fresh white linen and I’ll feel restored.

That should be true. I should be able to shake him off. But I know the memory of his touch will cling to me. That however horrified I feel at his lack of care for his brother, I still want him with a hunger that feels like it can never be sated, one that’s ever replenishing. I haven’t had enough, not yet.

“Don’t stay away too long,” I tell him.

He drops the helmet and his arms are around me, his kiss fierce and deep. “I’ll be back,” he vows, “the instant I can leave.”

“Why go at all?” I whisper.

“They need me,” he says. “My fighters. Their land is under threat, their homes and their families. I’m their god. I have to be with them. You can understand that.”

I could argue that his own family is in need right now, but there’s no point. Hephaestus’ plight would never sway him.

I watch him go, then force myself into action. I’m not going to stay here and listen to any more of Zeus’ proclamations. I certainly won’t languish, waiting for Ares to return. I’ll gather my nymphs and go back home.



* * *



—

The familiar shores of my island instill in me a sense of peace: the sinuous curves of its bays, the clustered forests and high peaks of its mountains. I land my chariot in my sacred grove, the Horae swift on my heels, and bathe before making my way to Paphos on foot. I’m wrapped in mist that will shield me from any mortal eyes, but I want to feel the grass and earth beneath me and breathe in the scent of wild thyme and lavender, let the warmth of the air kiss my skin and dry the moisture from the curly tendrils of my hair.

The songs float from the sanctuary, prayers rising like smoke, the old familiarity like a warm cloak around my shoulders.

Among them is a voice I recognize. I stop dead on the path, my jaw dropping as his words separate from the throng, winding their way around me, sliding under my skin.

…better than any other woman…vile, revolting, shameless…pure as the ivory I used to carve her…untouched by any man but me…all women apart from her so disgusting, so putrid, I could never lower myself…and so she is my gift, my prize for enduring…

I can’t believe it. He’s holding forth outside the temple—my temple—his sonorous drone carrying on the lotus-scented air, the tedious hum of it drowning out the gentle splash of frogs tumbling into the ponds and nightingales trilling from their branches. Pygmalion, no longer humble but puffed up with self-importance. Telling women—my women, worshippers come to honor me—how superior his creation is to them, and now I see it clearly.

His love for his statue wasn’t motivated by desire for her but by how deeply he despises women, how much he loathes them, how angry he is because he wants them—and so he found a way to possess one. And I was the one who gave her to him.

I’m furious I let his flattery cloud my view. I didn’t see it then, only heard the way he begged and fawned, and I took pity on him. Granted his wish because he sounded plaintive and sincere, because he praised me and I liked it.

I jolt myself out of my frozen trance and stride toward the temple with renewed purpose. As I approach, my skin ripples and transforms, taking on the guise of a mortal woman, one who can join the crowd of worshippers that he’s berating.

I slip into the melee of girls who shuffle, uncertain, while he lectures by the altar, jabbing a finger toward us, spittle hanging from his lip. Glances flash between them as they shrug. They just want to make their offerings in peace, and no one quite knows what to do except wait for him to go away.

I make my way through, taking care to be gentle with their fragile human bodies. I smile as I pass each young woman, feeling the press of warm skin and inhaling the bite of salt and perfume that rises from them. As I move, I catch quiet scraps of conversation, rolled eyes and wry smiles that make my heart swell with tender pride. For the most part, they aren’t cowed, only irritated by him.

When I get to the front, he gives me a withering glare. Contempt radiates from him as he raises his arm, pointing directly at me. “Vile, painted women,” he says, “decorated to tempt us, to hide their ugly souls.”

I think he expects me to drop my gaze, but I don’t.

“You should learn from her example,” he says, seizing hold of the woman at his side, and now I see Galatea is with him. She looks down at the ground, her hair falling across her face. “Modest and silent,” he says. “You should all be asking Aphrodite to bless you like she blessed Galatea.”

I turn my attention to her, willing her to look up. When she does, I see the resignation in her eyes—and the embarrassment too.

My fingers curl into fists and I’m tempted to silence him, to cut off his hateful diatribe mid-sentence—to transform him into one of those croaking frogs, or turn him to stone himself, or else curse him with an all-consuming love for a wild bear or ferocious bull.