‘I have something to tell you –’
Demeter stroked the flower. ‘The bees have come.’
A faint crease formed between Hera’s brows. ‘It’s about Hades.’
Demeter’s eyes snapped up, and Hera thought she glimpsed a shard of clarity before the fog settled back across the other woman’s gaze.
‘I have a brother by that name. He’s strange.’
‘Darling, he’s dead.’
Hera held her breath as Demeter’s alabaster forehead crinkled into a frown. Then she laughed. ‘No, silly, he is their king.’
Hera had admired Demeter once. The woman had been an extraordinarily talented botanist. Once, there wouldn’t have been a plant in all of Greece that Demeter couldn’t name or recite the properties of. Now, she lived in a world of misted dreams, all the sharp lines of reality blurred by the lotus-flower concoction Hera had been making for her since Persephone was abducted.
What a waste of a mind. Of all that potential.
Hera briefly closed her eyes and summoned the courage for what she must do next.
‘Persephone too no longer walks with the living.’ As she spoke, she noticed the nymphs behind Demeter tense, ready to spring forward and restrain her if needed.
Hera held her breath, watching the shifting terrain of Demeter’s face, a strange land with unpredictable storms. She waited for the inevitable tide of grief, but it did not come.
Instead, Demeter reached out and petted Hera’s hand.
‘I know.’ She paused. ‘The Mother whispered to me in my dreams. My Kore is with Gaia now.’
Hera stared at her, then sharply drew back her hand and rose to her feet. She nodded to the nymphs in blue and hurried away down the path, her sandals slapping on the stones.
As she reached the shade of the laurel trees, she hastily wiped her cheeks dry.
Then a nymph came hurrying towards her.
The girl bowed. ‘My queen, your son requests your presence in the War Room.’
Hera sighed and flicked her hand. The nymph scurried away.
The War Room was Ares’ domain; a large chamber nestled deep in the belly of the palace. No pillars or statues filled the space, no mosaics adorned the stone floors, and no chandeliers hung from the ceilings. Bronze braziers, thick as branches, flamed from holders nailed to the walls illuminating a vast mural spanning all four walls, painted over the grain of the rock.
The greatest war of all: the Titanomachy. Or at least the version that Zeus had decreed truth. The depiction of the Titans was grotesque; Gaia’s chosen twelve cast in the image of the primordial giants that walked the earth whenthe world was young. Their naked bodies were corded with strength as they battled the golden-clad Olympians, mounted on sky-borne chariots drawn by a fleet of winged horses. The ground beneath the Titans’ feet bled, rivers of molten rock spewing from the cracks their huge fists wrought upon the earth. Some held boulders in their hands, some trees and some entire mountaintops, all turned as weapons against the gods. Zeus led the Olympian charge against these beasts, his eyes gleaming like the sun, a bolt of lightning poised in his hand.
Hera’s lip curled as she gazed at the fresco. The scene was intended to be imposing, yet it seemed almost comical to her now. The real fight for Olympus had been a cowardly ambush. She, Zeus, Poseidon, Demeter and Hades had moved like wolves amongst a flock of sheep, slaughtering the Titans before the sun crested the sea. It had almost been too easy.
She’d believed her future set when Zeus gave her a bite of ripe golden fruit. She could still remember the blinding brilliance of that apple, so bright it hid the rot within. For decades she lived in a daze, consumed by love and power. Until the voice that had awoken with her divinity whispered,Your husband’s appetites are insatiable.
She didn’t want to believe it, but one night she’d followed Zeus to her temple in Argos and found him fucking one of her priestesses, Io, at the stone feet of her statue. A lesser woman might have revealed herself. Not Hera. She lingered in the shadows, watching until the deed was done and her husband flew back to Olympus. Then she burned Io alive on her own altar, like a sacrificial heifer.
Hera brushed the memory away as she approached a giant map of Greece and the surrounding territories chiselled into the marble floor, the grooves filled with black paint. Uponit, a piece of land had been elevated. A larger replica of the Trojan Bay stood like a banquet table with its stone legs planted in Phrygia and the Aegean Sea. A cluster of carved ivory ships had been placed along the shore opposite the fortress city, and a series of miniature tents fashioned from silk were scattered across the land beside them.
Her son, Ares, leant over the enlarged section of Troy, his hands splayed on the stone. The twins, Artemis and Apollo, lounged against the chamber wall, their foreheads touching as they whispered together. Hera’s lips tightened as Aphrodite walked over to the map to gaze at the little city, and Ares slipped an arm around her waist. Hera’s younger son, Hephaestus, lurked on the far side of the room to his wife. He was covered in soot, still draped in his leather apron. He must have come straight from his forge.
It seemed that Ares had summoned everyone.
The Goddess of Love was putting on an excellent performance of vulnerability, her emerald eyes shining with just a hint of moisture, her bottom lip reddened as she worried it between her teeth. Even Poseidon had been drawn in, flanking her other side, glancing at her like he really was a concerned uncle.
Ah yes, Hera recalled that Aphrodite still had a bastard child living in Troy.
‘Do not underestimate Priam’s defences,’ said Ares. ‘Even with their numbers, the Greeks cannot hope to fully surround the city. They will never starve Troy to its knees.’
