Eros paused at the throne that sat in the middle of the others and cocked an eyebrow. “This is where Zeus sits.”
Of course it was. A golden eagle spread its mighty wings along the headrest, and it shone with bronze and silver and gold, in etchings both masculine and majestic.
“My mother sits here,” Eros continued, pointing to a throne several seats down with pearl encrusted armrests.
Ganymede, despite his many shocks of the day, knew his Olympians as well as the next son of Troy. Somehow, being among them had slowed the way his mind usually made connections. “Aphrodite,” he said. The god showing him around the pantheon was Aphrodite’s son, as Hebe was the daughter of Zeus and Hera. Hera. The goddess who had knocked him to the floor, and whose bedchamber Zeus had vanished inside.
An unpleasantness was roused in him as Eros showed him the remainder of the thrones, and he struggled to reconcile the names of his studies with a tangible reality that would soon be in front of him, expecting him to fill their cups with wine.
“Ares sits beside her, always,” Eros said of the throne to the left of his mother’s, metallic crimson and shining like battle armor as the sunlight caught hold of it. “And Hephaestus, too.” He pointed to the throne to the right, the most sensible of the twelve, but no lesser for it, a craft for a craftsman. “You’ll need to know this,” he said, though he hardly sounded committed to being serious as he briefly went through the rest of the Olympian seats. Hera and Poseidon flanked Zeus’ throne, Hermes sat between Athena and Apollo, Dionysus and Demeter sat at one end of the arch, and Artemis ended the arch on the other end.
Confusion swelled in Ganymede and Eros patted him on the shoulder. “There, there,” he said sweetly. “You will learn quickly. You must, or you will end up like poor Hebe.” At Ganymede’s bewildered expression, Eros laughed, tossing back his head. “Don’t mistake me. She was a good cup-bearer, until she wasn’t.”
“She told me it has always been her task.”
“Her honor,” corrected Eros. “And it always has been. But the other day, you see, she fell.”
Ganymede failed to understand. “Fell?”
“You are mortal,” said Eros. “You know all about falling, you clumsy, loveable things. You wouldn’t suppose a creature so fragile would also be so clumsy. Something to work on, I think.”
“How did a goddess like Hebe fall?” asked Ganymede. He would hardly consider himself clumsy, but he unquestionably lacked the grace of a god. If Hebe could make a mistake, how could he expect to avoid one? And she had been the cup-bearer since the beginning. Ganymede never poured his own drink at home.
“Her mind was elsewhere, I believe.”
Eros motioned for Ganymede to follow him through a chamber door located behind the thrones. Inside was a room that looked oddly similar to the kitchens at his father’s palace, only elevated to suit the divine. There were counters of pearly granite, and herbs hanging from the ceiling in colorful bouquets. An archway led directly into the garden, where Ganymede spied rows upon rows of fruit trees and vines. The room already contained bowls overflowing with perfectly ripened olives and pomegranate, peaches, figs, and apricots. Jars contained golden honey and olive oil. And a large, gold bowl sat aside from the food, filled almost to the brim with a dark red wine.
“Your cup, cup-bearer,” presented Eros. “It never runs empty. A trick you can thank Dionysus for. He certainly enjoys the praise.”
Ganymede touched the brim of the golden bowl. “So she fell once and was dismissed?”
“Who? Oh, Hebe? Yes. That’s the story. But if you ask me, Zeus had been looking for an excuse to dismiss her for a century. It’s a waste of a goddess to keep her here. And I believe he already has a different plan for dear Hebe.” Disinterested in his own line of inquiry, Eros picked an olive out of the bowl and munched while he continued walking Ganymede through the basics of being cup-bearer.
“I make the ambrosia?” Ganymede asked.
“Ambrosia makes itself,” replied Eros. “All you need to do is mix the ingredients. Barley, oil, fresh fruit from the garden. You can even pick the fruit. Creative liberties of the cup-bearer. Isn’t that pleasant? You serve it when we request it, which isn’t always. But we will always desire nectar, so grab your cup and come with me.”
Back in the main hall of the black-marbled pantheon, Eros plopped down in Aphrodite’s throne, his legs splayed lazily in front of him, though his feet only just managed to touch the floor. Ganymede followed him rather more slowly, afraid if he walked any faster, the wine would spill.
Eros waved him over. “You won’t have the privilege of being so slow at feast time.”
With nervous sweat prickling his brow, Ganymede hurried to Eros. Only a little of the wine lapped up the edge and beaded on his hand. It was only when he was at Eros’ side did he realize the god had no cup in which to pour the wine. He shifted anxiously. Already he’d done something wrong.
“Watch out,” Eros said.
Before Ganymede could wonder, “For what?” something nudged into his knees from behind. He gasped, splashing more wine from the bowl onto his chest. Eros was right about one thing: even after spilling, the bowl remained full, but he hardly thought to praise Dionysus for such a trick. If he was not constantly on guard and perfectly poised, he would be splashing Olympians left and right.
“A creation of Hephaestus, the clever bastard,” Eros said, pointing around Ganymede.
Ganymede spun to see what had knocked into him, and what was still trying to nudge him away. It was a little gold table with wheels that seemed to be moving of its own volition. He’d never seen anything of its like before. When it nudged him again, he stepped back so he was no longer beside Aphrodite’s throne but behind it and to the side. With him out of the way, the table slid into place at Eros’ side, and he picked up the goblet that sat on top of it.
“They come when we desire them to come,” Eros explained, then he laughed. “Like you, cup-bearer.” He motioned him forward. “Pour my wine. Fill the cup three quarters full, no more or less, unless otherwise directed. Fill it quickly and without mess, then step back behind the thrones and await the signal.” He lifted one hand aloft and gave his fingers a gentle wave, then he set it back down. “That means more wine. Fill the cup, then return to stand behind Zeus’ throne. Don’t speak unless spoken to. And Ganymede?”
“Yes?”
“Don’t fall.” He waved his goblet in the air and smiled, filling Ganymede with dread. “Enough talk. Come fill my drink. I’m parched.”
Ganymede proved better at pouring wine than he expected. Eros grew drunker and drunker on the nectar until he slumped in the pearl throne like any drunkard in a mortal symposium, only supernaturally beautiful in his slovenliness. Ganymede’s bowl was still full to the brim, but he no longer trembled as he poured it into Eros’ cup. It was the most calming time since his arrival to Mount Olympus, standing obediently and listening to Eros chatter on about the mundanities of life on the mountain, growing more impassioned the more he drank.
“I’m not allowed to remain for the feasts, you know, Ganymede,” he complained. “I’m only here now because Zeus asked me to come. Sometimes I stay with my mother, but have a seat of my own in the pantheon? Never.” He downed the remainder of his cup. “Primitive, Apollo once called me. Can you believe that?”
“I can believe it,” came a voice.
Ganymede startled. It felt like hours since he’d heard anyone speak besides Eros.
Hermes had entered the pantheon and stood watching them from across the hall, his arms folded across his chest, his white chiton still wind-rustled from his flight. He eyed Eros with amusement, shaking his head when the youthful god lifted his hand for more wine. “Don’t serve this rascal any more drink, Ganymede, or he’ll have to be dragged from the hall. Aphrodite will hate that. Drunk sons are a blight on her vanity, aren’t they, Eros?”
“I’m not drunk,” Eros insisted, leaping from his mother
’s throne. He put his goblet down for the first time since picking it up, and the autonomous table zoomed away on its magical wheels, disappearing around a column.
“Prove it by leaving,” said Hermes. He strode towards his own throne and took a seat. It was the one Ganymede would have selected for him, made of twisted silver vines that looked like a bird’s zooming path through the sky. Little wing statues stood at each leg.
Eros harrumphed good-naturedly and tossed Ganymede a smile over his shoulder. “Zeus tells me you like to play knucklebones. I have a game we can play, next time I’m here.”
Ganymede returned his smile uncertainly. “Thank you, Eros.”
“Do you see that, Hermes?” asked Eros, gesturing at Ganymede as he sauntered from the room, his sash not covering his bare bottom. “This is what manners look like.”
Hermes shrugged and leaned back in his throne.
Ganymede waited until Eros’ plump backside had disappeared into the courtyard and then rushed to Hermes, kneeling before his throne and setting the serving bowl on the floor between them. “Did you see my father?” he asked, too eager for news to extend the manners Eros had complimented.
“The only father you need to worry about is the one about to enter this room, Ganymede,” Hermes cautioned. “Assume your position behind his throne before he arrives or risk a lightning bolt to the ass. Trust me. It stings.”
Though he wished to prod Hermes for more information concerning his family, he was more terrified of defying the gods, so he scrambled from his knees, scooped up the golden bowl, and hurried to stand beside Zeus’ throne, awaiting his arrival. He didn’t have to wait long. Only moments later, Zeus, along with the rest of the Olympians, filed into the pantheon.
In the face of so much power, Ganymede had to actively focus on not quivering, so as not to violently slosh the nectar from the bowl. But they were incredible to behold, every one of them.
Zeus entered in the lead, and Ganymede’s breath caught to see him again. His white robes touched only to his middle thigh, showing off long, muscular legs and golden sandals that wrapped up his calves in becoming crisscrosses. Against the pantheon’s black marble, he glowed.
“Hermes,” he greeted in that voice like thunder and wind and birdsong. “You’re already here. Good. Is it done?”
“It is,” answered Hermes, catching Ganymede’s eyes and smiling softly.
Ganymede’s heart galloped; surely they spoke of his father. He desperately wanted to know what had been discussed. He did not ask, though, remembering Eros’ instruction of silence. He waited until Zeus turned to him. His hand reached out, pushing a curl from Ganymede’s eyes.
“Ganymede,” he said. That was all, and then he took a seat in his throne.
Ganymede bowed his head, watching the wine vibrate in the bowl as he trembled. But there was little time to be stricken by the attention of one god, because the rest were taking their seats, and they were all thirsty.
Twelve little gold tables carrying twelve gold goblets zoomed from several directions, many from the courtyards, zipping around one another until they each ended up beside a throne. Ganymede only got nudged once, and he thought it might have been on purpose, since that particular table ended up beside Hera. In her silken robes from earlier, she picked up the goblet and lifted a pale hand in the air.
But Zeus was also holding out his cup, so he stepped up to him first, and with a prayer to Dionysus—who, absurdly enough, was only a few feet away—he tipped his bowl and filled Zeus’ cup three quarters full. He did not spill a single drop.
He could not enjoy Zeus’ approving nod for long because Hera, seated beside him, was giving him a scathing look. Her hand was still in the air, her fingers beckoning the cup-bearer to attend her empty goblet.
He moved around the back of Zeus’ throne and approached her with his eyes cast down. Even so, he could feel her gaze boring into him, hating him as no one had ever hated him. The tremor of fear in his hand almost made him spill, but the weakness passed and he was able to fill her goblet without mistake. He took a deep breath and chanced a look at her. She was no longer glaring at Ganymede, but at Zeus. She had thin black eyebrows, and each was pointed like a tiny arrow of displeasure towards her husband.
Ganymede scurried away from her as swiftly as he could, but her voice followed him around the throne arch as he filled the goblets of other gods and goddesses.
“You’ll be pleased to know, husband, that Heracles has accepted the marriage,” she said as Ganymede poured wine into Athena’s cup. (She asked for only half a glass, instead of three-quarters.) “Why you have sentenced Hebe to that barbarian, I’ll never understand,” continued Hera. Her voice echoed sharply through the hall. “He murdered his last family.”
As Ganymede filled Hermes’ cup, the honey haired god winked at him and said, “Heracles murdered his last family because you drove him mad, Hera.”
“Lest you forget,” Zeus added darkly.
“Oh, I haven’t forgotten,” said Hera. She took a sip of her wine. “My memory is much longer than yours. Shall we discuss again all the matters I have remembered that you continue to forget? Promising Hebe her position as cup-bearer is only one among many.”
“Go ahead and fill me to spilling,” Hermes whispered to Ganymede. Beside him, Athena shook her head, exasperated. “They can go on like this for hours.”
Ganymede continued around the arch, filling cups. The only goddess who turned in her seat to thank him was Demeter. She looked at him with soft eyes, as a mother might look upon her child. Ganymede was pouring his last cup of wine for Dionysus before he remembered what Alexius had told him.
“Demeter’s daughter is pure and lovely, like you, Ganymede,” he’d said. “And like you, she’s protected fiercely by those who love her.”
It was the day his chiton had shifted, and his tutor had spent the rest of the day blushing and talking about love. Ganymede wondered now what he had not wondered then. Had Alexius loved him? Did he mourn for him, on his knees atop Mount Ida? Was he overcome with guilt for not protecting Ganymede the way Demeter protected the virtue of Core?
“Ganymede,” said Zeus, drawing Ganymede back into himself. Once there, he found the room he occupied very quiet. It took him a moment to realize it was because a drop of wine had sprung from his cup and landed on the shoulder of Dionysus’ robe.
“Oh no,” Ganymede whispered faintly. His mortal clumsiness had stained a god. He looked in horror at Dionysus, who was in turn looking at him. When he let out a mighty bark of laughter, Ganymede nearly spilled the wine again.
The god’s ivy crown shifted on his head as he continued to laugh. With a large finger, he dabbed at the droplet of wine and sucked it into his mouth. “Delicious, cup-bearer,” he declared before slapping Ganymede’s back affectionately. “A little spilled wine doesn’t offend me, only wasted wine.” He finished off his goblet then and there, then held it out for Ganymede to fill again. “Give it another try,” he ordered.
When Ganymede managed to fill it again without spilling a drop, Dionysus applauded him (with one hand slapping his knee) and raised a toast to the new cup-bearer. Hera fumed in her seat while Ganymede blushed fiercely.
Everyone finally served and his first mistake not ending with his death, Ganymede allowed himself to relax a little as he resumed his position behind Zeus’ throne. The gods discussed the happenings of the mortals, and he found himself listening interestedly.
“Peleus is more determined than ever to have her as his wife,” said Poseidon to his brother. “But the centaur told me he’ll have a time of taking her.”
Zeus shook his head. “Chiron will have good advice for Peleus, I’m sure.”
“Good luck to him,” muttered Poseidon, taking a deep drink from his goblet. “I would not have her.”
Zeus laughed, a deep and penetrating sound. “Only because having her would doom you.”
“Doom us both, brother,” Poseidon pointed out archly.<
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Zeus clinked goblets with him and finished off the last of his wine. With a hand lifted into the air, he summoned Ganymede forward.
Ganymede stepped up as far as the table would allow and tipped the bowl for Zeus’ goblet. When a hand shot out and grabbed his wrist, he gasped and dropped the entire bowl. Enough wine to fill a dozen cups twice splattered across the marble, and yet the bowl remained full as it rolled and then stilled on the floor between Zeus’ feet.
Ganymede cried out his apology, but his small voice was overwhelmed by Zeus’ mighty one.
“WHAT IS THIS?” he boomed, standing up and lifting Ganymede over the gold table so that he stood in front of him.
Every divine head swiveled to watch the scene as Zeus gathered Ganymede to the center of the hall, his hands on Ganymede’s wrists, demanding but ever gentle, ever careful not to bruise. For it was other bruises, Ganymede quickly realized, that had stirred this demonstration of outrage.
Zeus pointed to a trail of light marks on his bicep. “Where did you acquire these?” He turned angrily to his fellow Olympians. “This boy was unharmed when I brought him here. Who has been careless with my cup-bearer?”
No one spoke, but no one knew but Ganymede. And Hera. For while the barely-there bruises on his arm were from Hebe’s attendants harmlessly tugging at him after his arrival, the more prominent bruises, which Zeus was now noticing with a darkening expression, were from his wife throwing him to the floor.
To Ganymede’s shock—and the shock of all within the pantheon, judging by their gasps—Zeus knelt before Ganymede and touched his bruised knees with careful fingers. He looked up. His blue eyes, which had been as bright as the sky before, were now as shaded as thunderclouds. But his anger was not for the boy whose skin he reverently traced. “Tell me how you came to have these hurts.”
Ganymede was breathless from the sight of Zeus on his knees, but he managed to force the words from his mouth without a stutter. “I fell.” He grimaced at the damning admission.
“No,” decided Zeus, rising to his full height, which was a full head above Ganymede. “You were pushed.” With a hand on Ganymede’s shoulder, he turned to his wife.
Ganymede and Other Romantic Short Stories from Greek Mythology Page 3
