Agamemnon considered me for a long moment, his gaze inscrutable. Finally, he turned his attention back to Iphigenia, who was still holding her reddened cheek. ‘What have I told you about playing with weapons, fool girl? You’ll break something valuable. And as for you,’ he barked, bloodshot eyes turning to me, ‘my brother can raise you any way he likes, but you will leave my daughter out of it.’
He grabbed Iphigenia’s arm and dragged her away from me like an errant pup. I heard her murmur some vague apology, which Agamemnon ignored. As they disappeared through the door, she caught my eye and raised her free hand in a forlorn, brief farewell.
It is no surprise to me now, looking back on this incident, that a man like Agamemnon would be covetous of the little authority he possessed. His eldest brother Alkaios had inherited the state of Mycenae from their father, and his younger brother Menelaus possessed not only Sparta but Helen, the greatest beauty in the world. And what did Agamemnon have? A wife like a bitter lemon, one child who did not trust him and one too small to know any better, and an assortment of mercenaries for oath men. He didn’t even have a palace of his own in which to quarter them. A sad man, when all is said and done, sad and angry, though that does not excuse what he did or what he would go on to do.
4
Eros
The moon set and the sun rose, and day followed night as surely as Zeus chased after nymphs and lesser goddesses. My boredom grew unbearable. I was sure I had seen everything worth seeing, every marvel this world had to offer.
Then came humanity.
Prometheus shaped the first humans from clay and used his own divine breath to infuse them with life. They were frail things, their appearance an imitation of our own godly forms, but far less durable. The slightest illness or injury or simple lack of maintenance could do them in, sending their souls fluttering down to Hades’s realm like cold smoke. Their stories were written on a mayfly timescale, too brief for me to follow.
Despite myself, I felt a flicker of curiosity. For so long I had hidden away from the other gods, fearing how they might demand use of my gift. But perhaps love was never meant to be bestowed on gods; after all, immortality meant living forever with the consequences of one’s actions. Perhaps what had been a curse among the gods might turn into a blessing among mortals. A shorter life might mean keener joys. Hadn’t Kronos and Gaia been happy for a little while?
So I tried my arrows on mortals and waited to see the results. I watched as love exalted the lowly and rendered the dull incomparably beautiful, making fragile lives sublime. But my hope soon faded. Just as it had been with gods, love also had the power to destroy in the same swift stroke. It turned the humans jealous and mournful and violent. In the end, I had only given them a new kind of madness.
But soon I realized that in humanity’s hands, desire spread like wildfire. Love sprang up, persistent as a weed, in places I had never sown my arrows, in the hearts of mortals I had never even seen.
I was shaken. I had unleashed something into this world that I could not control. Had I truly thought myself to be so powerful? Was I a wielder of love, or merely one of its subjects? If I was not careful, I might fall prey to it as well, a scorpion poisoned by its own venom.
In my quest to understand, I asked Zephyrus about the nature of his own power.
Zephyrus looked at me as though I’d asked him how to breathe. ‘The winds are simple,’ he replied. ‘I will it, and they blow.’
‘But you can’t possibly rule every wind that blows across the world,’ I replied.
‘I only rule the west winds.’
I scowled. ‘That’s not what I mean.’
‘Then what is it you’re asking?’
I shook my head, unable to explain the thought that vexed me: whether it really was I who ruled this force we called desire, or if it merely moved through me like the wind that rustled a forest of trees.
Sometimes a peculiar thing happened: The initial frenzy of desire sparked by my arrows deepened into something else, something infinitely richer and slower.
I watched as an old man and woman lay down next to each other in the same bed they had shared for decades, her back pressed into his chest, his arms holding her tight. They drifted off to sleep with a simple, calm contentment inscribed their features. This was not the pulsing heat or urgent wanting that my arrows instilled, and yet I sensed it had somehow been the source. The emotion these two people shared held as little resemblance to desire as a sheet of papyrus does to a reed, but I understood nonetheless that desire was its foundation.
It disturbed me to think that my power might not be preeminent, that humanity had uncovered a love far stronger than the one I could give them. Even more, I loathed that these creatures enjoyed something I could not, a fruit that I would never taste.
One afternoon, Prometheus came to my doorstep. He did not cajole or threaten or demand favours, as the gods who sought me out so often did, so I invited him inside and poured him a glass of ambrosia. His name meantforesight, and though he was a Titan, he was well regarded even among the Olympians. He gave good advice and had an easy, endearing friendliness. It was he who had breathed life into the first humans when they were no more than clay.
Prometheus swirled the contents of his glass distractedly as I waited for him to explain why he had come.
Finally, he said, ‘I have gifted humanity with divine fire.’
I nearly dropped my own glass. To give away what belonged only to the gods was an unspeakable act. ‘Zeus will not forgive this,’ I said gravely. ‘He may love you for serving him in thepast, but he won’t show mercy to someone who breaks his laws so blatantly.’
‘I know,’ Prometheus replied, and though we were discussing his ruin, he remained eerily serene. ‘My freedom was forfeit the moment I handed the humans that little flame. I am sure Zeus will find a way to make me wish for death, unobtainable as it is.’
I could not understand how he spoke so calmly, as if his own eternity did not hang in the balance. ‘Why would you do this for them, the humans?’
Prometheus managed a weary smile. ‘I made them. We are responsible for what we create.’ He looked down towards his hands, turning the palms up and flexing his fingers, as if he could not quite believe what they had accomplished.
‘Do you know what the average human lifespan is, Eros?’ he continued, the faintest trace of a smile on his face. ‘Only thirty-five years. They were made –Imade them – in the image of the gods, and yet they are nothing more than ants compared to us. If they can now go to sleep with bellies full of cooked meat instead of raw, or warm their aching bones in the winter’s chill, what difference should that make to gods such as you and I?’
