‘You’ve gone mad,’ I told him. ‘Gifts to mortals can unleash consequences we never intend.’
‘It may be as you say,’ Prometheus said as he poured more ambrosia into his glass. It was likely to be the last he’d enjoy for a very long time. ‘But I suggest that you reassess your opinion of humanity. They are very much like us. They may even achieve godhood themselves if given the chance. I am content to have helped them along the way.’
The thought of kinship with these mayflies, driven so strongly by their passions, made me flinch.Surely we are better than them, I wanted to say.We are eternal, we are gods.
Silence stretched between us, broken only by the calling ofthe gulls and the low thunder of the ocean waves against the shale. ‘Why did you come to me, then?’ I asked finally.
Prometheus’s eyes were a dark green that shaded towards blue. The same colour as the sea that churned below us, and just as deep. ‘I wanted you to hear this story from my own lips, so that you might realize the value of humanity. You wield a great and terrible power, my friend, one that can change the direction of a mortal’s life. You can either be their ruin or their salvation.’
I almost laughed. ‘That’s what you’ve come to tell me in the last hours of your freedom? To be nicer to the humans?’
Prometheus shrugged. ‘You may view it that way. Or you may look at it as my way of helping you prepare for your destiny.’
Foresight, his name meant, and I shivered at what he might have seen. I quickly changed the subject. ‘Well, Zeus seems quite fond of humanity – did you hear about his new half-mortal son Dionysus? Perhaps the Thunderer will spare you.’
‘Perhaps,’ Prometheus replied with a sad smile. In it was the foreknowledge of what would come: a rocky crag and a hungry eagle and a torn-out liver, day after day without end.
Once Prometheus’s sentence was carried out, I thought long on his words and turned my attention back to humanity. I wanted to know what Prometheus had seen in these strange creatures that persuaded him to accept such horrific torture on their behalf. Besides, I had little else to occupy my time.
I drifted lazily into one of their cities – Tiryns, they called it. It was little more than a large village at the time, just a cluster of houses around a central palace encircled by a low wall. The humans gathered here to trade the things that they had learned to make after receiving Prometheus’s gift of sacred fire: beautiful woven cloth, rich wines, ornate jewellery of silver and gold.
A procession caught my eye, one with a gilded palanquin atits centre. Inside was a young woman at that brief age when mortals seem almost as beautiful as the gods. She was dressed in exquisite finery, but her fingers tangled at the edges of her dress, worrying the fine threads of embroidery. I felt a wave of sympathy and wondered why a creature so lovely looked so sad.
I watched as the palanquin was borne to the palace, where the girl was betrothed to a grey-bearded man. He wore a golden circlet atop his head and barked stern orders to those around him. Various actions and utterances were performed – oh, how mortals loved their rituals. I perched on the rafters, allowing my divinity to obscure me. I learned that the girl was called Anteia and the man Proetus, king of this city. When the rituals were done and the feasting finished, Proetus led Anteia to his bedchambers. He laid his old, heavy body on top of hers and heaved inexpertly until he shuddered with release, then rolled over and fell asleep. Anteia did not move, staring wide-eyed at the ceiling.
My lip curled in disgust. Desire was my realm, and this was a perversion of it. Both humans and immortals found endless ways to turn my gift into something despicable, it seemed. But perhaps there was still something to be done.
You can either be their ruin or their salvation, Prometheus said. He had wanted me to help these creatures. And I was certain such a lovely girl should know more of love than this.
And so, I sought out a more appealing candidate for Anteia’s affections. I found one in Bellerophon – the son of the sea god Poseidon, born of a human woman. There were many such children born in those days, mortal like their mothers but possessed of divine gifts. He was strong, handsome, and only a few years Anteia’s senior. A much better match.
As Bellerophon came to the throne room to kneel at Proetus’s feet and swear his loyalty to the king, I fitted an arrow into mygolden bow. I aimed it at Anteia, who was seated beside her husband.
My arrows never miss. I saw how Anteia shivered when the invisible arrow hit its mark, her veil ruffling in front of her face as she exhaled sharply. She leaned forward as Bellerophon rose. Though the veil obscured her eyes, I felt her gaze linger on Bellerophon’s form as he stood and walked away. I thought she might run after him, but instead she remained seated, motionless as a statue. Once her duties were discharged, I watched as she fled back to her quarters and lay in bed as though she had a fever.
I waited for my gift to take effect, but Anteia began to avoid the feasting hall altogether, forsaking her husband’s side whenever Bellerophon had news to report. She refused food and drink, growing thin and pale. I was puzzled. Had my arrows caused some kind of illness? I had never seen this happen before, but mortals were odd, and love was odder still.
One evening, to my delight, Anteia snuck away from her chambers. She wandered the corridors of the palace until she found Bellerophon in an empty hallway. She stood still, watching him, her breathing rapid. Then she stepped towards him and snaked her slender arms around his body, tilting her face up to his for a kiss.
Bellerophon pushed her away so violently she nearly fell. With an expression of utter disgust, he snarled a condemnation about her disloyalty to Proetus and stalked away.
My heart sank when I realized the extent of my miscalculation. I had assumed that a virile young man like Bellerophon would need no assistance desiring such a beautiful young woman. But I knew nothing of mortal customs and even less of the constraints of marriage.
I watched as Anteia fled to her husband Proetus’s chambers.She knelt at his feet and offered a garbled version of the unfortunate encounter, one in which Bellerophon had accostedherin the shadowed hall. I was baffled; why should Anteia feel shame at her decisive action?
Proetus’s wrinkled face flushed red with rage, and he pledged that Bellerophon would be sent to face the dreaded Chimera, a monster whose breath was white-hot flame. Surely no hero could survive such an encounter.
From a high tower in the palace, Anteia watched Bellerophon depart on his quest. Once he was out of sight, she found a long rope and affixed it to a beam in the ceiling. I watched with curiosity as she tied a loop into the rope, then dragged a chair beneath it and stood upon it. Anteia settled the rope over her collarbone like a necklace and kicked the chair away.
Horror seized me. I cast aside my concealment and rushed forward, my fingers fumbling to untie the knot. By the time I succeeded, it was too late. I held Anteia’s stiffening body in my arms as her soul departed her body and flew like a stray dove down to the Underworld. I had wanted to offer her the gift of love, and instead I had doomed her to die.
Anteia’s death was like a stone tossed into a still pond, leaving no ripples behind. Within a fortnight, Proetus took another wife, a princess from Ethiopia. Not long after, I watched Bellerophon ride back into the city to cheers and celebration after his victory over the Chimera, and I despised him with an intensity that made me tremble.
I was certain of one thing. Prometheus had designed humanity in the gods’ image, but he had only succeeded in wrapping all our worst traits in their flimsy mortal shells. They were scheming and avaricious and cruel. My gift was wasted on them, and, furthermore, they did not deserve to be saved.
I told the story of Anteia to Gaia, whom I visited from time to time. I was the only one who ever did; the other gods had forgotten her, caught up in their own petty misadventures. But I remembered the one who had been my friend when the world was young. Even if she lay catatonic beneath the empty sky where Ouranos had once held sway, I knew she would listen.
‘And then after Bellerophon left, she hanged herself from the rafters,’ I finished. ‘What a waste! I do not understand it in the least.’
