She paused at the circular building standing in the centre of the garden, its pale pillars a ghostly infantry guarding the ancient treasure within.
‘Gold that grows bears no fruit,’ she murmured.
Since Zeus built the temple, she had never been inside. None but her husband were permitted to enter. Painted across the curving outer wall was a fresco of Zeus touching the head of a mortal with the tip of his gauntleted finger, supposedly sparking life into the first man moulded from river clay.
Remember the truth, said the voice.
She drew a sharp breath.
Zeus’ word was law. The history of the gods that had been passed down to mortals was mirrored in every painting on Olympus, every carving, statue and mural. Even the divine family were forbidden to question their origins, as thoughZeus believed that one day they would simply forget what really happened.
‘I do not forget,’ she whispered.
Olympus was hers just as much as his. They had taken it together.
The air between two of the pillars rippled. Hera stepped back as a pair of crimson eyes blinked from the shadows between the marble.
Her pulse quickened. She turned abruptly and stalked away, striding past a row of pomegranate trees.
As she walked, an old bitterness twisted through her. Zeus and Poseidon should be the ones to deliver the news of Hades and Persephone’s demise, but since Hermes’ revelations they were too absorbed with their secret councils.
As high up as the palace was, the heat was stifling, with no clouds to temper the sun and the wind kept at bay by the high walls. A bead of sweat trickled down her temple. She chose the path with the most shade through a grove of laurel trees. Dappled light teased through the dense foliage above her, which provided momentary relief from the glaring sun.
‘We are closer to the celestial bodies than those creatures that expire in the dirt,’ Zeus had said in the infancy of their reign.
Back when their palace on Mount Olympus was newly constructed, she would stand on her balcony and force herself to stare at the sun. ‘We are the same,’ she would whisper through tears drawn out by the terrible brightness. ‘We will shine together for all eternity.’ But the sun beat down on her here just as it had done when she was a girl, running across the dusty earth with scabs on her knees. Despite the long years they had endured together, it still drew sweat from her skin and blinded her if she dared meet its eye.
The trees fell away to be replaced with a patchwork offlowers, swirling rainbows of orchids, crocuses, hyacinths and peonies. Nymphs darted between the beds, misting the greedy leaves with watering cans. Hera set her sights on a crop of yellow blooms and strode towards them.
She slowed as she approached the woman sitting on the stone walkway between two crops of narcissi. Beyond stood three nymphs in blue tunics, their hands clasped behind their backs. The woman’s unkempt raven hair trailed on the floor. Wispy tendrils, curled by the heat, were stuck to her face. She didn’t look up as Hera approached, continuing to stroke the trumpet of a nearby flower.
Hera lowered herself onto the edge of the flowerbed, careful not to drape her purple dress in the soil.
‘Hello, Demeter.’
Slowly, the woman wrenched her gaze from the narcissus and looked bleary-eyed at Hera.
‘I know you.’
‘Yes, darling, it’s Hera.’
‘Oh.’
Demeter returned to the bloom. The structure of her face was so like her brother’s, but there was nothing of Zeus’ metal in her eyes. Each twitch of his mouth was like the slice of a blade, but Demeter’s features moved like clouds nudged by a benevolent breeze. Whatever edges she’d had had been eroded a long time ago.
‘That’s a pretty flower.’
‘Mmm.’ Demeter smiled absentmindedly. ‘They’re Persephone’s favourite.’
Hera felt a twinge of pity. Demeter still spoke of her daughter, after all these centuries. Hera remembered Zeus’ promise, that Persephone would always see the sparkling sky, the light of the sun, the fishes in the sea. He had spoken those words, yet he knew his brother’s nature. If it had beenup to Hera, Hades would have been executed for what he’d done to Persephone, his own niece, whom he had forced to become his wife. But he was Zeus’ blood, and that meant never leaving the Underworld had been his punishment. A barb of satisfaction shot through Hera’s chest. Until the dragon had done its work.
Hera reached out to clasp a stem between her fingers. ‘May I?’
Demeter sucked in breath like she’d been scalded and furiously shook her head. The nymphs in blue stepped forward.
‘It’s all right.’ Hera glanced at them. Then she smiled at her sister and withdrew her hand.
The Goddess of the Harvest giggled and cupped a trumpet in her fingers.
