This Immortal Heart: A Novel of Aphrodite(79)

“And you haven’t gone to him?” she asks.

“I won’t,” I say shortly. “Not again. But it doesn’t matter, not really. My feelings haven’t changed. I’ll do as I said. I’ll marry Hephaestus, but if Zeus thinks that will make me any lesser—any different from how I was before—well, he’ll be disappointed.”

She nods. “I believe you,” she says, her warmth like the first sunshine of spring chasing away the winter chill.

“Come on,” I say. “Come inside with me.”

We leave Eris and her war behind us.



* * *



—

Over the following days, I lie in perfumed baths and banish Ares from my mind. I concentrate on the warm water and the scent of rose petals as Helios draws the sun across the dome of the sky and another twilight descends. Olympus is busy with preparations for the wedding.

Hephaestus stays in Sicily, not daring to show his face. But he’ll have no choice soon enough.

Anger crackles under my skin, a shield against the sadness that threatens to creep in if I let the memory of the War God rise treacherously in my mind.

I repeat a mantra to hold it at bay. I’ll keep the peace of Mount Olympus. I’ll keep my status. I won’t run away, and I won’t languish in exile. Zeus won’t burn my temples or destroy my statues. No one will forget my name.

My wedding day approaches, and I greet it with a smile.





23


I’m dressed in a saffron-dyed robe, crowned with delicate myrtle flowers and ornamented with long necklaces of looping gold. The nymphs—Charis absent from their number—walk with me to the throne room of Olympus. It’s garlanded with olive wreaths, torches flaming on the walls, sparkling off the jewelry I wear. Hera stands waiting for me, tall and imposing, her face severe and a torch held aloft in one hand.

She takes no pleasure in presiding over weddings, and this one seems no different. She’s uninterested, adhering grimly to the rites that she despises.

Hephaestus is already there, enthroned. He doesn’t look at me when I enter, instead gazing down at the tiled floor; the most miserable husband anyone could imagine.

My smile stays fixed as I glance around the firelit hall. All the other gods are assembled, bar one.

“Ares isn’t here,” Hera murmurs to me.

I’m startled by her voice in my ear. “I didn’t expect that he would be,” I mutter back.

“Of course not.” She sounds brisk and irritated. “But he isn’t in Thrace either, not anymore. His mansion is quite abandoned. The Keres, all his attendants, Eris—they’ve all left.”

“I know.” I look at her, wondering if this is her tiny act of mercy, letting me know he’s gone and that he won’t be back anytime soon. It’s not a shock to me, but if I was nurturing any bud of hope, she’s cutting it off. It might not sound like a kindness, but I believe that it’s one all the same. For Hera, anyway.

She nods toward the thrones, indicating that I should take my seat beside Hephaestus. I try to emulate her dignity as I walk; the cold composure that forbids anyone from mocking her.

I’m aware, nonetheless, of the smiling faces that I pass and that there is barely a fig leaf of sincerity among them. Seeing Aphrodite humbled into marrying after so long, and in such circumstances, is their greatest entertainment. Apollo strums gently on his lyre, the melody rather melancholy for this celebration, though the amusement on his face gives the lie to the sadness of his music. I find Demeter, her eyes fixed on me with a determined smile on her face. I feel her encouragement with every step, urging me to get through this.

I reach the throne and seat myself upon it without acknowledging Hephaestus. My husband.

Zeus’ eyes flare with pleasure.

I swallow, then toss my hair over my shoulder and smile at him.

It’s unnecessary for the two of us to be seated apart from the others. This will be Zeus’ doing, insisting on making a spectacle. In truth, the weddings of the gods are little more than a feast. The mortals make it more of an occasion with rituals, routines and an onerous list of sacrifices in the hope of winning the gods’ favor for a successful union. Dedications to Artemis, as the bride moves on from girlish freedom to the yoke of wifehood. Devotions to me, praying for the blessing of love to sweeten the years ahead. Most importantly, offerings to Hera, who accepts them as though it’s just another burden heaped upon her.

But for me, there is no father to negotiate a dowry, no mother to pray on my behalf. This is just a banquet. And, regardless of my anger with Dionysus, there is at least one reason to be glad that he’s here. “Bring me wine, please, Iris,” I say, and the gold-winged goddess is quick to obey. I take the jeweled cup from her. “And for Hephaestus,” I add.

He lifts his head in surprise. The last thing I said was that I would never forgive him, but I can’t see how that will help us now.

“Why not?” I murmur. “The time for a clear head has definitely passed.”

He nods, grim-faced, and accepts the cup that Iris brings him.

On the tables, pomegranates spill their seeds, dark and glistening as blood. The gods converse, golden and glorious, replete with satisfaction that tonight Zeus’ mind is occupied with Hephaestus and me, and they are free to do as they please.