‘Hmmm,’ Arachne nodded sagely. ‘This woman, you like her a great deal, don’t you?’
Hermes flushed crimson. He was glad Arachne could not see him.
‘You love her,’ the old woman said softly.
He swallowed. It felt reductive, simplifying the knot of desire, guilt, shame and hope he felt for Aphrodite into one little word.
‘I think,’ he croaked, ‘this might be my chance, for both my father and this woman to finally see me as a man.’
‘You care too much about what others think, my young friend.’ Arachne wiped her mouth on the back of her hand. ‘For what it’s worth, when I am trying to find something, I think about where I would be if I were that thing. A pot of honey doesn’t like the window, you see, because it melts in the sunlight. But a dark shelf, or a cool patch of floor? Perfect. And as for your love, I’d be wary of setting such high hopes on the outcome of giving her what she desires. Seems to me she’s gaining a great deal from your friendship, and you not so much. But then what do I know? I’m just a mad old woman who made fun of the gods and lived to regret it.’
Hermes scowled but laid his head back on Arachne’s lap, his face tilted to look up at her. ‘Do you really regret it?’
Arachne’s lined lips spread into a smile. ‘Not for one moment.’
Hermes pelted through the sky, the clouds beading his armour with dew. He turned Arachne’s words over in his mind. Where would he go if he did not want to be found? Where in all of Greece would he hide if he were fleeing from the gods? If he were, like his father had said of her, a creature from the Underworld transformed to appear mortal?
Hermes halted so abruptly, he almost tumbled down to earth. Fighting against the buffeting wind, he trod the air.
How could he have been so foolish?
‘She has returned to her master!’ he proclaimed to the sky.
He was about to turn and fly back across the Aegean, when the wind parted the carpet of cloud below. The stone fortress of Troy reared out of the landscape beneath him. It looked as though another city had been erected across the bay, at the edge of the sparkling sea. A labyrinth of tents and standards stretched out for at least a mile, and lining thecoast were rows of triremes, the great warships flying flags from all corners of Greece.
Hermes sucked in a breath. Aphrodite’s boy dwelt within the city of Troy. He wondered how she felt about her lover, Ares, orchestrating a war that could very likely end her son’s life. He revelled in a sharp stab of satisfaction as he imagined the rift tearing open between them.
You could have it all, said the voice.Your father’s respect and Aphrodite’s love.
Indecision tugged at him for a heartbeat, then he tilted his body and flew down towards Troy. As he passed over the Greek encampment, the stench of unwashed bodies wafted up to greet him. He wrinkled his nose and beat his ankle-wings faster. Soon, he was soaring over the vast stone walls of Troy, lined with bronze-helmeted sentries, before continuing on over the city.
Hermes landed on the flat roof of a dwelling that wasn’t overlooked. It was always a dangerous thrill, venturing this close to so many mortals. He chewed his lip as the clamour of the city pressed in on him and decided what to do next.
He walked to the edge of the roof and peered down to the street below. It wasn’t long before he found what he was looking for.
Leaping from the roof, he glided above the street. It was amazing how few mortals remembered to look up as they went about their little lives. He reached down towards a passerby, and the man below let out a strangled cry as Hermes yanked his cloak from his back. There were gasps from the people surrounding him, but Hermes flitted away so swiftly, he had vanished before they could fully comprehend what they’d seen.
He alighted in a deserted courtyard and removed his helm and gauntlets, stowing them away in a folded bag he pulledfrom a pouch on his belt, then pinned the cloak around his neck so the rest of his golden armour was covered. One advantage to not looking like a god without his armour was that he could pass inconspicuously through a crowd.
Glancing around once more to check no eyes spied on him from the shadows, he slung his bag over his shoulder and darted out of the square.
Hermes picked his way through the narrow streets until he spotted the faded awning of akapeleion. Priestesses were the main fountains of knowledge for mortal goings-on, butkapeleiaowners were renowned for being veritable honey-traps of secrets. Most fiercely guarded the details of their patrons’ lives – their reputations were built on it – but every man had his price. Or pain threshold.
The first seven establishments proved fruitless, and by the time Hermes entered the eighth kapeleion, he was sweaty, his feet sore, and he was very close to draining the life-threads of the next person who breathed too heavily.
Inside the dusky room men sat on stools, staring darkly into their cups. A middle-aged barkeep was busy pouring a tray of wine, topping up the glasses with an extra dash of water while no one watched.
Hermes marched up to him, keeping his cloak tightly drawn around his armour. He grabbed one of the cups, downed the wine in one gulp, wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and grimaced.
‘What kind of horse piss do you call this?’
The barkeep reddened. ‘You’d better pay for that, boy.’
Hermes rolled his eyes, reached across the bar and grabbed the man by the neck. A few patrons glanced over at the commotion with mild interest, though many carried on drinking as though seeing their barkeep assaulted was a common sight.
‘Where can I find a man named Anchises?’
He loosened his grip slightly to allow the barkeep to speak.
