Hera sat ramrod straight in her throne and stared right back at him, unbothered. “Is it my fault this child is mortal?” she asked. “If you wanted a flawless cup-bearer, you should have kept Hebe.”
“You’re right,” agreed Zeus, and Ganymede’s pulse quickened. He did not know how to feel. He wanted to go home, wanted to see his family and Nicolas and his sheep. But the thought of being cast from the heavens by Zeus himself was a shame he cared not dwell on. Not even a day had he spent on Mount Olympus, and the idea of banishment made him nauseated.
As it turned out, he was worried about all the wrong things.
“It is my fault he’s still mortal,” continued Zeus. After another furious glance at Hera, he cupped Ganymede’s face in his hands. They thrummed with so much power, the touch heated his entire body. Sweat gathered beneath his curls. He swayed, Zeus the only anchor keeping him whole. “Ganymede is where he belongs,” he said, speaking to all in the room but looking only at Ganymede. “He has bestowed me with the gift of his beauty, so I shall bestow him with a gift of my own.”
His hands tightened over Ganymede’s jaw. A pulse of incredible heat sent his blood tingling as it raced through his veins with unnatural speed. He groaned, the sweat on his forehead evaporating and a rush of euphoria making him sag in Zeus’ arms.
All around him was the silence of shock.
And then, Hera spoke. At last, she sounded bothered. “What have you done?”
When Ganymede’s blood had cooled and slowed, and his breath came unhindered, in and out, Zeus released him. The cup-bearer did not stagger back or sway with strained balance. He held out his hand and it was steady. He examined his bicep, and the trail of bruises was gone. His knees were as perfect and smooth as the rest of his skin, and his heart beat calmly in his chest, as if it was in no hurry to pump its blood any faster than at a leisurely pace.
Frightened, but with no bodily signs to prove it, Ganymede stared up at Zeus with wide eyes.
Some of the anger had vanished form Zeus’ face, but not all. His broad shoulders remained rigid, and though he offered Ganymede a smile, it did not reach his eyes.
“I should have done that as soon as your sweet knees landed in my palace,” Zeus told him.
Ganymede gathered a greedy breath into his lungs. Released it slowly. Though he felt the oddest sensation that he need not breathe at all. “What did you do?”
“He just made his newest toy immortal, eromenos,” answered Hera, slamming her goblet down on the little gold table and standing from her throne in a swirl of green silk. “I hope you know what you’ve done.”
Zeus’ hand touched Ganymede’s waist as he addressed her. “I did what I wanted to do, as always. You claim to have a fine memory. Tell me, wife, when have I ever been moved to do otherwise?”
Hera’s thin eyebrows arched, and were she not a goddess, Ganymede thought her cheeks might have blotched from the strength of her ire. As it was, they remained like unblemished ivory as she stormed from the room.
Hermes laughed and summoned Ganymede for more wine.
His first steps as an immortal were smooth and quick, betraying nothing of the horror he felt within his heart.
The remainder of the feast went by in a blur. Hands lifted, Ganymede poured, gods gossiped, until Zeus stood from his throne and declared their meeting finished. As he’d been the first to enter (besides Hermes), he was the first to leave (besides Hermes). Ganymede watched the procession of gods as they exited through one courtyard or another, heading down paths of gold to their palaces scattered throughout the mountain’s peak.
The serving cup was still in Ganymede’s hands when Hermes left the seat of his throne and stopped in front of him.
“What a day can do, little prince,” he said, drinking in Ganymede from the tips of his toes to the top of his curly head. “Had Hebe been dressed thusly, I might have been sorrier to see her go.”
Ganymede had forgotten the flimsiness of his attire during the feast, and neither did he care about it now. “Hermes,” he begged. “What news of my father? My mother? Have they struck a bargain to have me back? Tell me, please.”
Hermes smiled indulgently, taking the nectar from Ganymede’s hands and setting it on a lingering table, which spun its wheels the second the bowl touched its surface, speeding through the door that led to the kitchen.
“You don’t still care about all that, do you?” he asked. The fluttering wings of his sandals buzzed in Ganymede’s ears. “You’re an immortal living with gods now.” He took clear pleasure in the way he said immortal. “Troy is no longer a bother, nor are the mortals living there.”
“I have been immortal for an hour, but I have loved my family my whole life,” Ganymede said. He did not say immortal the same way Hermes did. He said it like a death sentence. “Hermes.”
The messenger god sighed. “Very well. If you insist on knowing the things you need not know, King Tros was quite distressed at the kidnapping of his son. It took two horses from Zeus’ own stable and a golden vine to soothe his aches. Now, instead of being quite distressed, he is mightily pleased. When I left Troy, your mother was planning a celebration. She cannot wait to spread the news that her dear, beautiful Ganymede was chosen to be cup-bearer to the gods.”
“But—” Ganymede set his hands upon his cheeks to staunch the steady stream of tears. “My father would have fought for my return.”
“He did,” said Hermes. “Until he didn’t. You were worth two heavenly horses and a piece of divine shrubbery. Be proud. It’s more than most mortals are worth. But then, you’re no longer mortal.”
“No.”
“I will be more than happy to relay that news, as well. The cup-bearer among the gods forever. It is an honor, Ganymede, and it is a dishonor that you’re crying over it.” He didn’t speak the words cruelly, and his smirk never left his face. “Is it so bad a fate, to be young and beautiful forever?”
Ganymede gathered his hands into fists at his sides as an anger he’d never known filled him. He had already been beautiful forever, since the day of his birth, and he’d looked forward to the hair on his chest and chin, like his brothers and father already had. He’d looked forward to growing taller and more muscular. He’d looked forward to training with a sword and spear, and perhaps becoming a soldier of Troy one day. But now . . .
He would never grow old. He would never become a man. He would be nothing more than beautiful, not just for ten years or twenty, but forever.
When Hermes prodded him with a finger, Ganymede’s emotions bubbled over the lip of his body’s cup, and he hissed, “My face is a curse. I would rather be ugly and mortal.”
The smile on Hermes’ face drifted away on the flowery breeze that blew through the deserted pantheon. “I hope you enjoy curses, then,” he said, “because you will always be young, and you will always be beautiful.” As he’d done earlier, he set his fingers beneath Ganymede’s chin and tipped his face, demanding his eyes. “Get used to it.”
Ganymede heard the fluttering of his wings gain speed and then Hermes was gone, vanishing before his eyes as he flew off to attend more god-worthy business. Ganymede stood alone in the black pantheon, made darker now that nighttime had set in, and the only lights were the glittering veins of gold swirling within the marble.
Not knowing what else to do, he walked. He walked out of the pantheon and took the courtyard path back to Zeus’ palace. The hall was blessedly empty, and he slipped soundlessly into Hebe’s old bedchamber, now his own. Sight of the bed instilled him with fear he’d not felt earlier. Though exhausted, he could not bring himself to lie upon the cushions like a willing offering to Zeus’ appetites. And he knew he had appetites that were hard to sate.
He passed the bed and entered through the archway to the bathing chamber. Hebe’s attendants had left a stack of soft cloths and clean robes on the mosaic floor. Making himself small, he curled up on the ground behind them, his back to the wall, and resigned to sleep there
.
The mosaic tiles were hard and uncomfortable, but he wrapped his arms around himself and forced his eyes to close. He did not think sleep would ever find him, was unsure if immortals even required it, but after only a few minutes of quiet weeping, Ganymede found peace in the oblivion of unconsciousness. He snoozed, hidden behind the washcloths and far from the bed where Zeus might seek him.
Hands slipped under his thighs and cradled his neck, and his eyes opened as he was lifted from the floor of the bathing chamber. Zeus held him in his arms like a bride, glancing down at Ganymede in irritation as he carried him through to the bedchamber.
Ganymede was seized by panic, but he dared not move. His body was stiff as Zeus placed him on the soft bed, large enough for ten men, and definitely large enough for two. After his body touched the mattress, he rolled, seeking to hide his face, but Zeus refused to entertain Ganymede’s shyness, putting a hand on his shoulder and rolling him over, onto his back. When a hand brushed against the curls on his forehead, he jolted away in fear. Like every mortal, he’d heard the tales of Zeus and his conquests. Some were consensual, but many were not. He lay in Zeus’ complete control.
Nicolas had given him hints of what to expect of such an occasion, but nothing prepared him for what happened next.
Zeus’ fingers, still playing with Ganymede’s hair, lingered a moment before untangling one of the flowers from his curls. The small white crocus blossom looked delicate between the thumb and forefinger of the god’s hand as he lifted it slowly to his nose and inhaled the scent. He locked eyes with Ganymede, blue of the sky and green of the earth colliding.
Ganymede’s body shivered, anticipating.
Zeus said nothing, only sniffed the flower once more and tucked it carefully within the folds of his draping chiton, against his chest. He was so still, Ganymede thought of saying something, but then Zeus moved. He leaned down, blocking Ganymede in with a hand on either side of his head. He closed his eyes, but Ganymede could not close his. He felt as if a bolt of lightning was stuck inside him, racing through his veins, searching desperately for a way out. It tingled and sizzled and excited, all while he stared helplessly up at Zeus’ face, so near to his own, and watched him inhale again.
Zeus drank in the scent of his cup-bearer, as if he were an aromatic sacrifice to the gods. And then he bent his head and pressed his mouth to Ganymede’s.
His lips were as gentle as the eagle’s talons, claiming a kiss once, twice, and then pulling away. Zeus was pleased with something he saw in Ganymede’s eyes. Maybe he sensed the lightning storm he’d caused beneath his skin. But he did not linger to incite it further. He merely whispered, “My Ganymede,” and stood from the bed.
Realizing he meant to leave, Ganymede could not help but ask, “Where are you going?”
Zeus proved his smile could steal Ganymede’s breath, even when it was grim and strained. “I have feathers to smooth,” he said, “though I suspect they are rumpled beyond repair.”
Ganymede nodded and Zeus offered nothing more. He left the room, closing the door behind him. Ganymede listened for the click of a lock, but of course the gods did not need locks on their doors. He could leave the bedchamber if he wanted, search the mountaintop for another way down, find the stables and try to flee.
He did none of these things. The bed was gloriously soft. He spread his arms wide and stretched his legs with a sigh. He buried his face against a silk pillow and tried not to dwell on the devastating news Hermes had given him earlier, nor the fact that tonight was the first night of endless nights to come. He was tired, he was confused by the way Zeus made his body thrum, and all he wanted to do was sleep.
He slept, and it was the best night’s rest he’d ever had. There were nothing but restful sleeps on Mount Olympus.
“Little prince,” sang a voice beside his ear. By now, he knew who it belonged to.
Hermes sat on the edge of the bed, propped up on an elbow and smiling lazily.
Ganymede yawned, covering his mouth, and sat up against the pillows. “Hello, Hermes,” he greeted cautiously.
The god appeared to be in high spirits. A lock of his hair fell into his eyes as they brightened with mirth. “Hello, hello, sleepy cup-bearer. You’ve slept all night and all day, and Zeus has sent me to fetch you.”
Ganymede jumped from the bed. “It is evening already?” Noticing Hermes’ gaze on his groin, he hastily tidied the small golden triangle to cover himself properly. He’d never slept so long, not even when he was sick with fever. He held a hand to his forehead.
“Zeus has an appetite tonight,” Hermes said, ignoring Ganymede’s obvious distress. “Hurry to the pantheon kitchens to make us ambrosia.”
Appetite. Food. Ganymede clutched his stomach. He’d not eaten, nor thought of eating, since he’d arrived on Mount Olympus, and his stomach had not even rumble in complaint. He’d not had a single drop of liquid, yet his throat was not parched.
Following this line of thought, Hermes laughed. He leaned fully back on Ganymede’s bed with his arms folded behind his head. “Immortals don’t require sustenance. It is a luxury only.” He kicked out one of his sandaled feet, nudging Ganymede’s leg. “We feel luxurious this evening. Go fix the ambrosia before Zeus cracks open the sky.”
Ganymede straightened the flowers in his hair (un-wilted and un-withered, another bonus of life upon the mountain) and followed Hermes from the bedchamber. It was another perfect day, the air flowing through from the gardens temperate and sweet. Ganymede’s bare feet padded along behind Hermes, from the white marble of the palace, to the golden path of the courtyard, to the black marble of the pantheon.
To his horror, Zeus and most of the other gods were already seated in their thrones. They were not tapping their feet with impatience, however, but were deep in conversation. Their wine goblets sat on the little tables with no wine inside. With an encouraging push from Hermes, Ganymede scurried through the kitchen door.
How long had they been waiting for him before they sent Hermes to rouse him? The fact that all the seats were not yet filled allowed him an iota of calm. They must not have been waiting too long. He hoped.
He approached the ambrosia first. Eros had said it “made itself,” a statement Ganymede did not understand until he reached for a serving bowl and found it already filled with cooked barley and spices. He gasped, breathing in the savory scent of the magically appearing porridge. “Creative liberties of the cup-bearer,” Eros had also said, so Ganymede picked a peach from one of the many fruit bowls and held it in his hand. He blinked and the fruit lay in perfectly diced slices in his palm. He sprinkled them into the ambrosia. Fig he added next. Then a few pomegranate seeds. He was unsure what flavors would mix together the most pleasantly, but judging from the glorious wafting from the ambrosia bowl, he assumed his choices would do fine.
His hands were sticky with juice as he ladled the heavenly porridge into twelve bowls. He hesitated at the last bowl before plucking a fat cherry from its stem and placing it atop the ambrosia. When he turned, it was to a line of golden tables and empty goblets awaiting him impatiently.
He placed a serving of ambrosia on each table, and then, picking up his golden cup, poured wine into each goblet, as well. The tables zoomed away as each was satisfied, and when the last table was gone, he followed it, his cup in hand.
In the hall of the pantheon, all Olympians were now sitting in their thrones. He glanced curiously at the table beside Zeus and was pleased to find the bowl with the cherry had found its way to him, as he’d intended. Cup in hand, he joined Zeus’ side, standing slightly behind the throne. He was pleased when Zeus picked up the cherry and examined it a moment before putting it in his mouth. Ganymede flushed.
But he was not the only one who’d been watching the cherry. Hera’s head was turned to her husband, but her eyes were on Ganymede. They remained there throughout most of the meeting, excepting the times when she summoned him forward to fill her goblet. As he attended her, she glar
ed at Zeus, her thin brows raised as if to ask, “This boy?”
The sharpness of her eyes felt like daggers, but he never spilled the wine.
Demeter’s gaze was the opposite of daggers when he filled her cup, and the discussion the gods began shed some light on the reason. It was, partially, what Ganymede had guessed.
“No,” said Demeter, sitting regally in her throne made of bronze sheaves of wheat. She had a lovely face, more mature than the others in the pantheon, and her voice was stern and smooth.
“Sometimes our daughters must marry those we don’t care for.” This comment came from Hera as she whipped her head pointedly to Zeus.
“Do not compare Heracles to Hades,” Demeter snipped. “One is a hero and one is the master of the Underworld. Zeus, you cannot agree to this. She is your daughter as much as mine, is she not? Would you sentence her to live in that place?”
Zeus sipped his wine, evidently in no hurry to answer. When he did respond, he rubbed his temples at the same time, as if the whole discussion gave him a headache. Of course, gods didn’t get headaches. “I have many children, Demeter,” he began, to which Hera scoffed aloud, prompting a laugh from Hermes. “Most of them must wed eventually.”
“But Core,” said Demeter. “In that dark place.”
Zeus sighed, his strong chest rising and falling. Ganymede remembered the flower there, pressed against his warm skin. “I will continue to refuse Hades his request,” he said. “But he will not be pleased.”
Demeter wasn’t soothed. “And the world will know no pleasures if my daughter is taken from me. Mark my words, Zeus.”
He met her eyes, unwavering. “They are marked.”
So Demeter viewed Ganymede as a captured child. The thought made him queasy. He was still uneasy when the meeting came to a close an hour later and he was returning his golden bowl to the kitchen. He heard a stir behind him, and thinking it to be Hermes, he did not turn around.
Ganymede and Other Romantic Short Stories from Greek Mythology Page 4