‘I’m sure I can guess,’ he snarls, anger rising again. ‘A century, you say, and where in Hades were you while my bitch wife and that shit-smear Ares ruined me?’
Bria’s face hardens as well. ‘Here and there,’ she says. ‘Life fucked me over just as badly as you.’ She rises, pulls the robe of Harmonia from her bag and thrusts it into his face. ‘I didn’t think your creations deteriorated.’
He plucks the garment from her, lurches to a stool and sits heavily, seemingly relieved to have something to look at instead of her. ‘Yes,’ he rumbles. ‘Yes, this is my work.’
While he’s distracted, I stand carefully and edge back from the chasm, keeping my hands well away from my weapons and generally trying to look as harmless as possible.
‘The robe of Harmonia,’ Bria reminds him. ‘You gave it to Aphrodite, who then gifted it to her daughter when she wedded Cadmus of Thebes, along with a necklace…’
Hephaestus spits, the phlegm sizzling on the hot stone at his feet, as he turns the damaged robe over in his hands, frowning. ‘Yes… I remember… dual curses, countering each other while worn together; then unleashing their fury when separated. It wasn’t meant for Harmonia – it was intended to destroy my wife.’
‘But she never separated them,’ Bria puts in. ‘And then, all unknowing, she gifted them to her daughter.’
‘Aye, that she did,’ the Smith says vengefully. ‘To her daughter by Ares. They can all rot in Tartarus for all I care. But the curse failed.’ He goes to hurl it away – into the chasm.
‘No!’ Bria cries, before adding, ‘It caused generations of misery in Thebes.’
‘Thebes,’ Hephaestus shrugs, but he lowers his arm. ‘Another city where I’m all but forgotten.’ He looks at Bria, his face harder than ever. ‘How fares your new mistress, in that den of traders and thieves in Attica?’
‘She prospers, but remembers old friends,’ Bria replies.
‘Friends,’ the Smith echoes sneeringly, before jabbing a thick finger at me. ‘Who’s he?’
‘My bodyguard. One of her ladyship’s champions.’
‘He’s too short to champion anything,’ Hephaestus says contemptuously, ‘but I suppose beggars can’t be choosers.’ He sniffs the robe then asks, ‘Dug it up, did you? It stinks of grave dust and serpents’ skins.’
‘Jocasta’s grave. She didn’t need it any more.’
Hephaestus wrinkles his nose. ‘That dirty motherfucker Oedipus’s “wife”, heh?’ He examines the robe and notices the damaged bodice hem. ‘There was a daemon, trapped in here… but it’s escaped. Someone broke the binding pattern.’
‘We think it entered a snake – a big bastard, but we dealt to it.’
Hephaestus grunts. ‘Good for you. But how can that robe help, and why should I care?’
Bria gives me an enigmatic look before continuing. ‘At this moment, the necklace, containing your twinned curse, is loose in the world. It’s being worn by Eriphyle, in Argos. Through its influence, the kingdom is in disarray and unable to work together to do what must be done. Remake the robe and we’ll reunite it with the necklace, nullifying the curse.’
This is uncharacteristically truthful of Bria, but perhaps she daren’t risk lying to a god in his own realm.
‘And for whose benefit?’ the Smith rumbles.
‘It will set in motion the overthrow of Thebes and bring justice to the descendants of Polynices, who was usurped through the machinations of Tiresias and his ally Creon. More importantly, it will strike a blow for Achaea against Troy. That’s why we’re here.’
That Hephaestus isn’t overly moved by such causes is clear from the dismissive scowl he gives her. But as he looks at her, his mask of indifference fails him, his face splitting like an open wound. ‘Why should I do anything for you?’ he asks plaintively.
Bria stares back, resolute. ‘My mistress hopes that Achaea, and her struggle against Troy, would be cause enough to persuade a god of Achaea to aid our struggle. How will you fare when Trojan galleys land here, and their men lay waste to Mycenae, Athens, Pylos and Sparta? Who’s the Smith God of Troy? Do they even have one?’
‘His name is Hasameli,’ Hephaestus rumbles. ‘He and I are one – once, it was Achaean smiths who travelled east, taking my worship into the Hittite lands…’ He sighs heavily. ‘He’s all but forgotten there now, further decayed even than I. This war you speak of is meaningless to both of us.’
Bria hesitates, her face glum as she struggles to find a ploy that will catch his attention, but I think I have one. ‘Aphrodite and Ares are in the Trojan camp. If you aid us, you’re opposing them,’ I tell him. ‘Are you going to go tamely into the night? Or do you want to drag that Clamshell bitch and her new consort down? You might not care who wins, but what about who loses?’
He slowly sits again, his brow creased in thought. But then he shakes his head. ‘I don’t give a shit about all that, not any more,’ he says, but I see that he’s still considering.
I go to speak, but Bria gives me a warning look, swaying towards him and gently laying a hand on his shoulder. ‘Heph,’ she says softly, stroking his huge shoulders. ‘You know I did all I could… But they’re Olympian gods, lover… They were too much for me… I had to hide, find a new protector.’
‘I could’ve protected you,’ he grates, his arms shaping the air around her, as if he still doesn’t know whether to crush her to him or hurl her away. ‘I would have…’
‘You couldn’t even protect yourself,’ Bria answers, stroking his cheek. Then she whispers in his ear, something persuasive, something that’s as much about the tone as the words she uses.
I watch his visage soften, and glimpse a hint of the man he must have been, a nobler being, before his expression shifts to one of confrontational, glowering, smouldering want…
Abruptly, he rises from his stool, hunch-backed yet still towering over her; I see an overlarge bulge beneath his leather apron and catch my breath in alarm. He rips open her tunic, baring her breasts as she gives a sharp cry that could mean anything – fear, alarm, or… even excitement.
‘Hey—’ I begin, taking a tentative step towards them.
Bria shoots me a savage look, shaking her head emphatically. I flounder, unsure what she means. Does she want rescue? ‘Be ready to get me out if I ask you to,’ she told me, only minutes ago. And there was something about an owl. But she’s not struggling – though he’s so powerful I doubt she could.
‘Get out, or look the other way,’ Hephaestus snarls, ‘if you haven’t the stomach for it.’ Then all his attention goes back to her, grabbing her as she strips off what’s left of her tunic. He mashes his mouth to hers as he lifts her into the air. Her naked Hamazan body is well made, taut with strong musculature, firm high breasts and powerful thighs, though she seems puny before his naked ferocity. But then she kisses him back, cooing in welcome as he aligns his body to hers and I realize she wants this after all.
I have no desire to be here, but she warned me of a danger. So I remain, backing away and half turning my head, not wanting to watch but compelled to vigilance.
The Smith takes Bria’s right breast in his mouth and sucks briefly, while plunging a hand between her legs. That’s the extent of the foreplay – he rips his leather apron away, pulls her thighs wide open and I glimpse something like a knotted club that he pushes hard into her cleft as she arches her back and utters a wild cry, somewhere between pleasure and pain.
I struggle not to look away fully as Hephaestus grips her buttocks to hold her in place, his huge fingers digging deep into her flesh as he begins to ram in and out of her, grunting explosively. Their cries fill the air, his an agony of lust and bitterness, hers becoming increasingly passionate as her body responds. Urged on, he ploughs deeper and harder, his movements ponderous and powerful.
Just as I’m thinking her body can’t take such a pounding, she gives an obscene chuckle. ‘Harder,’ she demands, and he reacts with furious desire.
The sound of flesh slapping toge
ther rises above the roar of the fires. Hephaestus has unleashed all his immense strength, his muscles clenching and exploding as his hips begin to blur. She’s having the breath knocked from her faster than she can breathe, hiccupping airlessly as she collapses backwards onto the anvil, her body shuddering at each impact. All at once she convulses, climaxing over and over, wailing in release.
But now Hephaestus’s face changes, his passion turning to curdled despair, and the desperation of an immortal not to die. He plants one arm on her chest to pin her down, and then placing his huge right hand around her throat, he squeezes. ‘Call your mistress,’ he snarls. ‘Call her into you, avatar! Call her!’
Gasping in shock, I try to go to her, but at once the air closes around me and I can’t move, and must struggle to breathe. I fight with all my strength, but I might as well be pissing at the moon. Bria’s face is turning purple, her eyes bulging and her breath coming in thin gasps.
‘CALL ATHENA AND YOU LIVE!’ Hephaestus roars, ‘CALL HER NOW!!’
‘No,’ Bria croaks. ‘No…’ But her voice is weak against his mighty roar.
Bria is many things, including an avatar, so our goddess can indeed be called into her, something Hephaestus clearly knows. And now I realize that this is what she feared: not seeing her old lover, or coupling with him, but that he – in his despairing ruin – might try again what he failed to do with Iodama, and ruin Athena. Why – for gain or revenge or some other unfathomable motive? – I have no idea.
Hephaestus thuds his hips into her again as Bria cries out, ‘No no no no NO.’
‘YES,’ the Smith roars. ‘YOU ARE MINE, ATHENA!’
The air ripples and I hear the cry of a hunting owl, and the thud of wings…
Once again, I struggle in vain to free myself. I try to draw on fire but can’t, not here where Hephaestus is master. All I have is my voice and I shout with all my power, hurling every particle of magical strength I can into the words, sending them like arrows through the smoke and flame into her skull… ‘BRIA! DON’T DO IT!’
…and they reach her.
Miraculously, she regains some kind of control, but her response isn’t to struggle. Instead she rips his hand from her neck and rears up, kissing him with all her strength, as if he is the centre of creation. ‘Fill me,’ she commands, her body undulating with serpentine power. ‘Give me everything.’
Hephaestus goes into spasm, unable to contain himself. He cries out as he unloads, groaning in release and frustrated rage as the beat of wings fades and is gone.
The unseen fist that grips me relaxes and I almost fall, staggering to a stool and sitting slumped over as I try to unsee these last few minutes. What a mad place this world is – love, desire, hate, fear, all tangled around the need to survive.
But the danger is seemingly gone. I let them shudder through the aftermath of passion and disentanglement, gasping like stranded fish. He’s distraught now, words of remorse spilling from his lips. ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry,’ he says, over and over. ‘I didn’t mean to, I couldn’t… Forgive me, forgive me.’
I wait for the usual acid to pour from Bria’s mouth, but instead she cradles his head tenderly, murmuring placating words I can’t hear, glancing up and waving away my anxious look. ‘It’s all right,’ I hear her say, ‘It’s all right, I understand. None of us want to die.’
Eventually she leaves him to brood and joins me. Her legs are like jelly, and when I rise to help her she collapses against me, her skin hot and sweat-slick, and her mouth lurches into a lopsided grin that is all Bria.
‘If that’s what the Clamshell was getting, imagine how good Ares must be,’ she pants. There’s blood in her mouth – either she bit her tongue or he did. Small rivulets of glowing seed, like lava, are running down her thighs, but she seems oblivious.
‘You nearly destroyed our mistress,’ I accuse.
‘But I didn’t, did I? I kept her away… just…’ she whispers.
‘We kept her away.’
‘Whatever.’ She pulls a face. ‘And now we’ll get what we came here for.’
She needs my help to walk, and when we reach her clothing she slumps to the ground and wipes her bloodied mouth on her ruined tunic. ‘Well, that was intense…’ She winks at me. ‘Aren’t you glad I’m here, Ithaca? Not sure you’d have been able to seal that deal.’
That’s a very bad thought.
She staggers to the water trough and throws herself in bodily. I pick up Harmonia’s robe and walk over to Hephaestus, who has recovered enough to put his leather apron on again.
He gives me a baleful glare. ‘Enjoy the show, mortal?’ he growls.
I’m frightened he’s going to take out his frustration on me. But his demeanour as he faces me is sullen, and he won’t meet my eyes. He’s ashamed of what he’s become… Emboldened, I hand him the robe. ‘You’ll keep your part of the bargain,’ I say crisply.
He looks at me from under beetled brows. ‘I’ve given my word,’ he says heavily, looking towards Bria. ‘Be wary of that one, mortal. She can shatter hearts with a flick of her fingers.’
Then, without a backward glance, he goes to his forge and sets to work.
I have no idea of the passing of time: the light never changes, and there’s little to measure the passing hours against. Through it all, the Smith works tirelessly.
After cleaning herself and dressing, Bria helps herself to the Smith’s larder, producing goat’s cheese, flatbread and pickled onions, along with some oversweet wine. We eat and drink, mostly in silence, as we wait for Hephaestus to finish.
Despite everything, it’s fascinating to behold such a being at work. I had wondered why a smith was needed for what seems to be a task for a seamstress, but the way Hephaestus sets about it is ingenious. Each section he repairs he first enlarges, so that each thread is thick as a strand of silver wire. Where sections are broken or missing he binds in new wire, heats and hammers it smooth, then shrinks it and moves on. His patience seems inexhaustible and his touch never wavers.
Such are the benefits of a realm where everything bends to your will.
I finish my share of the food and ask Bria, ‘Did you know how dangerous this would be?’
She has a glazed look in her eyes, but shudders out of her reverie to reply. ‘Of course. This is Hephaestus’s realm and Athena is weak here. But I believed – rightly – that I… oh, all right, we, could handle it. And you know, once he and I thought we could do big things together. We were going to stride into Olympus and cast down all our enemies. We had a passion that could flatten mountains… or so we thought.’
‘He almost called Athena into you.’
‘But he didn’t,’ she reiterates.
I shake my head and look away. ‘You’re unforgivably reckless.’
‘Don’t give me that, Ithaca,’ she chides. There’s a wheedling tone in her voice I’ve not heard before – she wants to be understood about this. ‘You never saw him at his prime. We loved each other, I suppose…’
‘Love? You?’ I snort.
She rolls her eyes. ‘Yes, all right, love doesn’t really come into it. I suppose that all looked fairly ugly to you, but I remember times long before “marriage” and “wooing”. In my youth, when I saw a man I wanted, all I had to do was beckon. He didn’t have to ask his father to ask my father if maybe, someday, we could cohabit for the rest of our lives. And I certainly didn’t care about his feelings – it was news to me that men had feelings. We just coupled and parted, and neither looked back. Simple times, and I miss them.’
‘Sorry, that sounds pretty empty to me.’
‘That’s because you’re “civilized”,’ she sniffs. ‘So yes, Heph and I had a shared goal, and some mutual lust. He was already wounded by Aphrodite’s games when I met him, and I thought I could build him back up – and ride that wave to my own glory… But we lost, and the Clamshell won. What can I say?’
‘When was this? Who were you?’
She shakes her head. ‘A lady never tells…’
‘And a gentleman shouldn’t ask. Quite. Where, then?’
She hesitates before answering. ‘Crete.’
I remember the look of pain that flitted across her face, during our voyage to Delos, when Diomedes mentioned the island kingdom. ‘You don’t look Cretan,’ I say, before rolling my eyes. ‘Sorry, I’m being an idiot.’
‘Mmm,’ she agrees. ‘That was many, many bodies ago.’
‘How did you come to be a… um, body-jumper?’ I ask.
She laughs drily. ‘Sorry, Ithaca. I like you – some days – and my bedroom door is always open, but some secrets can’t be shared.’
I glance towards Hephaestus. ‘After seeing what you expect of your men, I can doubly assure you I won’t be darkening your threshold.’
‘Scared of a little competition?’ She laughs softly. ‘Those with divinity are somewhat overwhelming, but I assure you, gentler bouts can elicit just as much pleasure, and they’re a lot less harrowing.’ She strokes my arm. ‘I know you think I’m crass, but you’ll have a much better time with me than some stuck-up Trojan princess, and with far fewer complications.’
‘I told you—’
‘You told me lies, Ithaca. I’m not stupid.’ She scowls, then shrugs. ‘Use that little kunopes, by all means. Turn her to our side if you can. But don’t let her twist your loyalties.’
I give her a shut-up-and-die look, and we lapse back into silence, watching the Smith at work.
If she knew I was with Kyshanda, why hasn’t she told Athena? At least, I assume she hasn’t… But then, Bria has always seemed to be playing her own game. I wonder even more who she once was.
Finally Hephaestus is done with the robe, holding it up to the light and nodding to himself. It’s spotless again, immaculate – a gauzy, gleaming cascade of pearly snowdrops made into fabric, breathtakingly beautiful. But he’s not finished. He turns to the rift, gold and crimson light gleaming on his sweat-covered, corded body, tips an offering of gold into the pit of molten lava and shouts aloud.
I’m still wondering what he’s doing when a giant translucent face appears above the rift, shimmering in the steam. It’s a face I know: an eerie, halved face – one side young and smooth with black, lustrous hair coiled about her ear and a dark, mysterious beauty. The other side is grey and withered. The eyes don’t match, but she’s visibly the same woman: Persephone, a nature goddess who’s also the consort of Hades, King of the Dead, a dichotomy of birth and decay that would drive anyone insane. We’ve met, in Hades’s realm last year, when she claimed Kyshanda for a season of service, in exchange for not killing her.
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