For the Immortal

by Emily Hauser

  My eyes flew to his face. I saw the lashes strain, then pull apart – and though his eyes were red-rimmed and bruised with fatigue it was him, and he was alive. I let out a strangled cry, and my hand fell to my side, letting the pestle I was holding drop to the floor with a clatter.

  ‘Alexander!’ I said, my voice trembling, but I hardly cared. My heart was racing, and I stretched my hand towards his cheek, felt the flushed skin beneath the backs of my fingers. ‘Alexander – can you speak? Oh, gods – Elais, fetch my father!’

  Alexander pressed his eyes shut and swallowed. Then he opened them, blinked, his mouth dry and moving soundlessly.

  ‘Hush,’ I said, bending forwards to push the hair off his face. ‘Hush. Do not try any more now. It is enough that you are alive.’ I leant forwards and pressed a kiss to his forehead, my eyes closed against his hair.

  ‘I thought you had died,’ I whispered. ‘I thought you had left us. But you are here. You are here!’

  I heard footsteps thundering down the hall and the doors to the chamber burst open. I saw my father and behind him my brothers – Iphimedon, Eurybius, Mentor and Perimedes – stumbling past the guards.

  ‘He is awake?’ my father gasped, his face taut. I nodded, smiling, my lips pressed together and my eyes aching, and he came towards the bed, collapsing on his knees at Alexander’s side. Alexander opened his eyes and looked at him. For a moment, as the king wept and Alexander blinked, there passed between them a silent word of comfort. Then my father looked over to me, mouthing his thanks through his tears, and Alexander’s gaze slid towards me. I could hear the words they wanted to say, both of them: because they were mine, too. I took Alexander’s hand, and my father placed his on the crown of my head, where I had woven the smallest plait among my loose hair – a memory of my mother, whose cure had, at the very last, rescued her son.

  My brother and the kingdom of Tiryns are saved.

  The battle is won.

  On Fate

  Mount Olympus

  Calliope tries to loosen the manacles cutting into her wrists and shifts on her knees in the snow. Hera has led her here, from Tiryns to the peak of Mount Olympus, to be tried before all the gods. The memories flash before her, vivid as thought. The realization – enough to make her doubt herself as a Muse – that she had made a mistake in giving the apple to Hercules; that it was not to be him, after all. The decision to risk everything by coming out into the open in Greece to get it back. Slipping into the disguise of a slave and entering the chamber of the prince of Tiryns. Bending to the floor to catch the golden apple as Admete, despairing of a cure, let it fall from her hand. And then Hera, coming upon her and snaring her, like a hare in a net, as she prepared to go into hiding in the valleys of Parnassus until the true owner of the apple was ready to take it. Hera, snatching the apple from her, binding her and dragging her to Olympus, and now holding her prize clasped in her hand.

  The assembly-place is lit by a circle of torches that illuminate the snow falling in soft flurries of glittering white and the serried ranks of the thrones, like a stone-carved army. She gazes at the gods seated there: Aphrodite, Athena, pale-skinned beside Ares; Poseidon and Hephaestus, Hermes and Apollo, Artemis and Iris; and there, far at the back – always given second place to the Olympian gods, she thinks – her sisters, the Muses. She can see dark-haired Euterpe, Terpsichore, her legs crossed before her, and Thalia talking with Urania; Polyhymnia, Clio, Erato and Melpomene huddled together and speaking in whispers.

  Hera circles around her, a snow-queen, a queen of ice with frost crystals in her hair like pearls, robes glowing palely. Calliope grits her teeth at the triumph in Hera’s face, barely concealed, the light of revenge smouldering behind her eyes. And then Zeus enters the council, a cloak draped over his shoulders, and takes his seat beside Hera’s empty throne. He looks up, searching for his wife, and for the first time his gaze meets Calliope’s.

  His expression of irritable fatigue vanishes. It is replaced first by recognition and then, as he takes in the manacles binding her, a creeping fear, which makes his mouth sag.

  He knows, Calliope thinks, and she feels a surge of satisfaction even though she is kneeling and bound in the snow, shamed before all the gods.

  He knows that I am going to give up his secret; guesses, perhaps, that I planned it all along, ever since I stole the apples from the tree.

  He knows that I will tell them all. And then how will the king of the gods fare?

  She raises her chin and stares back at him, defiant, a smile on her lips, until he turns away.

  And then Hera starts to speak, and Calliope knows that it has begun. That, perhaps, it has always already begun, and that they are all engaged in a dance around eternity, spinning and circling over and again to the same unending tune.

  ‘Gods,’ Hera calls, prowling beside Calliope. ‘Sons and daughters of Cronus. Fellow immortals. I have summoned you here to witness the charges I bring against the eldest of the Muses, Calliope,’ her tone hardens as she speaks the name, ‘who stole from me what was rightfully mine. She took three of the golden apples from the tree that you yourselves, gods, witnessed given to me and to Zeus as a gift of Earth on our wedding-day. I bring you here to judge her case and to determine whether, as I think is fit,’ her eyes turn to Calliope, dark as opals, ‘she should be cast in punishment from the company of the gods, and live out her days as a mortal upon the black earth.’

  Athena rises to her feet. ‘May I speak?’

  Calliope sees Hera’s grimace, and knows that, for all her speech of fair judgement, Hera longs for nothing more than to thrust Zeus’ daughter from the steepest precipices of Olympus for daring to spoil her triumph – a triumph that is all the more precious because she failed, at the very last hurdle, to prevent Hercules completing his labours. Hera lets out an impatient breath. ‘I hardly think it necessary—’

  But Athena’s mouth is drawn. ‘As god of wisdom, I believe I have earned a say.’

  Hera says nothing. Choosing to take her silence for assent, Athena speaks: ‘Calliope deserves the chance to defend herself,’ she says, and around her the gods murmur agreement. Calliope can see her sisters nodding, and Clio is urging Athena on, standing and gesturing, fingers outstretched, for her to continue. She feels a surge of affection for them. They, like she, alone of all the immortals, know the power for which she fights, for which she has always fought, that goes beyond the strength of any god. ‘You speak of charges against her, Hera. Surely it behoves the Muse to rebut them, if she can.’

  Hera draws a breath through her teeth. ‘Very well,’ she says, turning to Calliope and drawing her cloak with her so it raises a flurry of snowflakes in her face, but the Muse does not flinch. ‘Tell us, then. What excuse do you have for your thievery?’ Her nostrils are flared and her breath forms clouds of steam on the winter air as she holds up the golden apple, written over in Calliope’s own hand with the words: For the Immortal.

  Calliope casts a glance at Zeus, who is leaning forwards, lips parted, his arm outstretched as if he would halt his wife. ‘You will regret asking me to tell it, Hera.’

  Hera laughs aloud, without mirth. ‘You are always the same, you Muses! You think you are so cunning, so clever, with your wiles and your woven plots! See, Athena – she is afraid to defend herself, so she makes us think she knows something we do not! But you will not escape so easily. Come, tell us,’ she sweeps a hand towards the gods, her eyes narrowing to slits, her voice deepening with the hint of a threat, ‘tell us your excuse for your crime! The only person who will regret it if you speak, Calliope, is you.’

  ‘Hera.’ Zeus has got to his feet, his eyes darting from Calliope to his wife. ‘You should not—’

  Hera rounds on him. ‘You do not command me!’

  Zeus slaps his thigh in impatience. ‘Wife, this is no time for—’

  But Calliope interrupts him, and though her voice is quiet, it cuts through Zeus’ words. ‘What I have to say regards the Fates.’

  At once th
e gods are silent. The Muses sit straight in their seats, straining to hear. Even the gale howling through the pines on Olympus’ slopes, whipping the sea below into a heaving frenzy, seems to quiet itself to listen.

  Calliope takes a deep breath, relishing the moment: the silence on the air before the word is spoken and takes wing.

  ‘They do not exist.’

  There is no murmur of outrage from the gods, merely a shocked emptiness, a blankness on their faces as, one by one, they turn to Zeus. The king of the gods lets out a low whistle through pursed lips and sinks into his throne, hands over his eyes, snowflakes settling in his beard.

  Hera’s chest is puffed with rage as she spits, ‘What?’

  ‘The Fates do not exist,’ Calliope repeats, without taking her eyes from Zeus, watching with satisfaction as he slides lower and lower in his throne, his shoulders sagging. ‘The Hall of the Fates is an invention. There are no three crones seated in Hades, spinning the lives of mortals, portioning out their lot. We receive no scrolls from the Underworld. The nightingales we send out ourselves, and they return to us our own papyrus. The oracle at Delphi speaks our words, not the words of any other god or Fate – why else do you think she speaks in poetry? It is we – the Muses – who inspire the stories of the mortals, for we are the poets, the story-makers, and it is by the power of stories that the world is driven.’ Her eye catches that of her sister Erato, and she knows they are both wearing the same rapt, shining expression that only poetry can bring.

  ‘Do not speak in riddles,’ Hera snaps. ‘I see little difference between inspiring the mortals and setting them to their fates – it is merely a game of words, and I cannot abide twisted words.’

  Calliope shakes her head. ‘That is where you are wrong. There is all the difference in the world! To inspire a story is to set it off, to spark it, like a fire catching – yet the flames themselves may burn as brightly and for as long as they desire. But Fate – Fate is like a slave who decides that the day is done and throws earth on the flames to put them out, because it has been determined that it shall be so.’ Hera opens her mouth to object, but Calliope presses on: ‘The golden apples,’ her gaze moves to the orb in Hera’s hand, ‘are intended to inspire the three greatest epics ever known. These are tales,’ she looks up at Hera, whose face is shadowed, ‘which will last a thousand years and more, told by the mortals and told again till they make those of whom they sing immortal in their song – and us too. We shall be remembered for ever in their lines. Immortal glory, for us all,’ she says, tasting the words on her lips, like nectar.

  ‘We are immortal already,’ Ares calls across the assembly-place. ‘What need is there for more?’

  A smile spreads over Calliope’s face. ‘We may be immortal,’ she says, looking over the gathered gods one by one, raising her chin high, though she kneels in the freezing snow and her hands are bound, ‘but the mortals are not. Their memory slips with every generation that crumbles to ash. Their worship falters. In years to come they may not even remember our names, let alone send up the smoke of sacrifice that is our due. But we can be remembered.’ She pauses, letting the words hang on the air. ‘We can preserve our memory among the men that walk the earth. And the golden apples are the way.’

  There is silence as her words flow over the gods, spell-like. Iris is leaning forwards, her eyes gleaming. Aphrodite’s face is radiant, and Calliope knows she has been caught, like a silver fish on a hook. Even Hermes is frowning.

  At last Hera speaks.

  ‘If the Fates are an invention,’ she says, her voice trembling with fury, ‘then who, pray, made them up?’

  Calliope’s eyes slide towards Zeus.

  ‘Zeus?’ Hera’s tone is icy enough to freeze the Alpheios river.

  His fingers part over his eyes, and, with a sigh that shivers through the white mounds of the trees on Olympus’ slopes, he gets to his feet, pushing one hand to his knee as he stands.

  ‘Oh, yes, very well, very well,’ he says, not looking at his wife. He is mumbling into his beard as he brushes the snowflakes from his cloak. ‘I invented them.’

  ‘You invented them,’ she repeats, her voice biting, eyes flashing sparks, and Zeus scuffs at the snow with his toe, like a child found pillaging the larder. ‘You invented them?’ Her voice rises to a shriek that sends a blast of wind howling from the mountain, blowing a flurry of snow over the plain below.

  ‘There is no need to shout,’ Zeus says, wincing. ‘Everybody heard me.’ The stillness is so complete now that, if they cared to listen, the gods could have heard the fox that pads over the ice in search of a mouse on Olympus’ lower slopes. ‘I came up with the idea when I came to rule Olympus, you know, after – my father … well, anyway. It seemed a good notion at the time. And it’s not such a crime, is it? After all,’ Zeus says, turning towards the gods, and his voice takes on a pleading tone, ‘the mortals invented us. Why should I not invent a higher power, too, to keep the gods in check?’

  ‘So,’ Apollo says, rubbing his forehead and frowning, as if he has been told that all the nymphs have gone away to Hyperborea, ‘there is no such thing as Fate?’

  Zeus shakes his head, and a whirl of snowflakes bursts from his beard. ‘Ah, well, strictly speaking, ah – no,’ he says. ‘Only inspiration – you know, that sort of thing …’ He stammers into silence.

  ‘And where do the gods fit into this?’ Athena calls, drumming her fingers on the stone arm of her throne.

  ‘Oh, well,’ Zeus says, his expression lightening at the interruption, ‘that’s quite easy, really. It’s the inspiration of the Muses that ensures the mortals’ song-making and thus our immortality, just as Calliope said. As long as we’re told of in song, we never die. Our names go on for ever, as long as we are remembered by the mortals who created us. And there’s the added benefit,’ he says, quite jovial now, ‘of overseeing the stories of the mortals. After all, though the Muses start it off,’ he tips his head in a bow to Calliope, ‘a tale can go many different ways – and we can give the mortals a nudge, you know, in the right direction, or take sides if we want. Much better than being restricted by the Fates, really, if you think about it.’

  The gods do think about it. Athena considers. Apollo ponders. At last Hermes gets to his feet.

  ‘It seems to me,’ he says, shifting his weight from foot to foot, ‘that, all things considered, it’s considerably less of a headache just to believe in Fate.’

  The gathered gods, one by one, begin to nod, like pines bent over with snow, and a murmur of assent flows between them.

  ‘Yes,’ Apollo says, ‘definitely much easier.’

  ‘Don’t understand all that story stuff,’ Ares puts in.

  ‘Best left to the Muses,’ Hephaestus agrees.

  Zeus relaxes visibly, his shoulders slumping from his ears and his mouth easing into a smile. He moves towards his throne, rubbing his hands together. ‘Well, that’s that, then. We’re all agreed to keep pretending the Fates exist.’

  But Hera holds out an arm to stop him. ‘No, it is not all,’ she snaps. ‘Have you forgotten my apples? Since you won with those – those labours,’ she swallows, apparently unable to say Hercules’ name, ‘I should be allowed some retribution on this score, at least.’

  Zeus sighs. ‘Oh, let it go, Hera,’ he says, taking a seat again, accepting the goblet of nectar Hermes hands him. ‘Hades knows we need a good story. And it isn’t as if Calliope took them for her own gain – we’ll all get immortality from these epic things too, won’t we?’

  He glances over at Calliope, and she nods. Her eyes flick back to the apple clutched in Hera’s hand, her whole body tensed with anticipation. Come on, she thinks. Come on, just give me the apple … Give it to me …

  ‘Give it to her, Hera,’ Athena calls. ‘What have you to lose?’

  ‘You have many more in the Garden of the Hesperides!’

  The rest of the gods join the chorus: ‘Give it to her! Give her the apple!’

  Calliope’s entire being is
fixed on the golden orb, purpose burning within her. Give it to me. Just give me the apple. Give me the apple so I can begin the epic that I thought was meant for Hercules but now, I know, belongs to someone else …

  And at last, Hera’s fingers trembling, she extends the apple towards Calliope, then drops it, tumbling and flashing, to the snow before her, so that it lands like a drop of amber.

  And Calliope feels the manacles fall from her hands to the ground, and she reaches out, barely breathing, to pluck the apple to her.

  The three greatest epics the world has ever seen are about to begin.

  Fourteen years later – the blink of an eye, for the gods – Calliope stands before Aphrodite’s chambers, inhaling the scent of musk rose and myrtle floating through the door. She smiles, relishing again the sensation of standing on the brink of a story, a kind of heightened awareness that makes the moments dance by, discrete as coloured butterflies: another tale to be told, another great epic unfolding, like a scroll unfurling.

  And then she pushes open the door.

  Aphrodite is lying on her bed at the centre of the circular chamber, her eyes closed in pleasure as the cupids flutter around her combing her hair. She is wearing nothing but a gauzy robe and her feet are bare, dangling over the bed’s side. Calliope hesitates, wondering if she should make her presence known. Then she starts forwards, treading on rose petals scattered over the floor, their scent drifting up to her as they crush beneath her feet. A breeze blows from the sea and parts one of the white gossamer veils at the windows lining the walls, to reveal the Aegean Sea below, sparkling over the rocks, blue as Aphrodite’s eyes. Doves coo in the rafters, the rustling of their feathers like the wind over the waves, and the walls glimmer, set with broken sea-shells gleaming pink and pearl-blue. Calliope cannot help but think that her own romantic experience – thus far limited purely to the imagination – could not but be aided by such a sensuous chamber as Aphrodite’s, billowing with the heady scent of roses.