The sharp pain in his back a moment later, needless to say, was a surprise.
The obscene pressure of something sticking inside him made him scream. He folded forward onto the counter, his fingers clawing for purchase on the granite.
A white hand gripped his hair and yanked back his head. He stared into Hera’s eyes. The gaze that had been daggers was nothing compared to the real dagger she now held. She lifted it to show him. The blade was half a foot long, thin, and absent of blood, even though it had slid inside him moments before.
“Are you enjoying your immortality, eromenos?” she asked before plunging the knife back into his side.
He screamed again. She twisted.
“You can feel pain, but you will never die. And cup-bearer, I will make sure you feel it often,” she whispered in his ear. “The pleasure he gives will not compete with the pain I have in store.” She dug out her dagger and plunged it in again, this time in Ganymede’s shoulder.
“HERA,” boomed Zeus, and Hera—and her dagger—were torn from Ganymede.
He collapsed. Blood should have been flowing freely from his wounds, but they were dry. His hands groped for the entries, but he felt nothing but smoothness where there should have been slick, gaping skin. Already the pain that should have left him immobile was gone, save for the smallest whisper. He pushed back against the wall, trying to stay small and out of the way as the gods above him raged.
“You go too far,” Zeus said. Their violence was not physical, but metaphysical, filling the air between them so thickly, Ganymede choked on it.
“No, husband. You go too far.”
“Eros!”
Ganymede was confused by Zeus’ shouting of the god’s name, until he looked up at the doorway and saw Aphrodite’s son standing in it with a startled expression.
“Yes, Zeus?” he asked, with far more respect than he’d paid Hermes.
“Take the cup-bearer elsewhere. Don’t leave him,” Zeus ordered.
Eros didn’t wait for Ganymede to stand. He squeezed between Zeus and Hera and gathered Ganymede, easing him to his feet by the hands. He wrapped his arm around Ganymede’s shoulders and walked him from the room, not minding the way Ganymede moved as if he’d been stabbed three times, even if the wounds were already gone and there was no proof but the fear in his eyes and the triumphant smile on Hera’s lips.
The dagger was in Zeus’ hand now, but Ganymede still recoiled at the sight of it. The blade was flawless steel, and the only red on it was from the rubies encrusted on the hilt.
“Come along,” Eros said, and Ganymede was thankful of the way he blocked Hera’s body from his own as they passed her.
He knew Zeus tried to catch his eyes as they left, but Ganymede refused to meet them. He kept them down all the way through the pantheon, until the floor turned from black to gold. Instead of leading him to Zeus’ palace, Eros took them deeper into one of the courtyard gardens on the western side of the acropolis. The sun was setting, Helios already making his journey through the sky, and in the heart of the garden, against a backdrop of evening colors, was a stone table with two seats. Eros sat Ganymede in one seat and took the other for himself.
“Hermes told me you’re quite the knucklebones player,” Eros said, opening his fist to reveal a handful of bronzed bones.
Ganymede studied them with alarm. They looked nothing like the set he’d used to play with Nicolas or even, on occasion, Alexius. “Hermes said that?”
Eros shrugged. “Zeus has been keeping his eyes on you for years. And more often than not, his eyes are Hermes.”
“He watched me play knucklebones?” asked Ganymede, disbelieving Hermes had nothing better to do than spy on a boy playing games with his friends.
“He watched you win,” replied Eros, throwing the bronzed knucklebones on the table between them. “He told Zeus how clever you are. But I wonder, are you clever enough to beat a god?”
Though a challenge, Ganymede found Eros’ body language free of threat. In fact, he felt warmed to be in the company of the youth. He much preferred the idea of playing games with Eros to being stabbed by Hera, and he wondered, cocking his head as he peered at the god across him, whether he might find true friendship in Eros. He had been kind enough the day before, showing Ganymede the business of his job as cup-bearer, and now here he was, trying to distract Ganymede from the memory of a blade sinking through flesh and sinew, scraping bone.
He shuddered but nodded. “I will play you, Eros,” he decided.
It was as Hermes reported; Ganymede was clever in the ways of knucklebones, and, more often than not, he left Nicolas in frustration as he won again and again. Alexius beat him on occasion, and only some of those occasions were orchestrated by Ganymede, to purposefully keep the tutor satisfied. With a pang, he realized he would never get to beat either of his mortal companions again, nor enjoy their faces when they finally won. So far, immortality had offered him nothing but blades that couldn’t kill him. He sighed.
“Cheer up, Ganymede,” said Eros, pushing the pieces towards him. “You start.”
As it turned out, the rules of knucklebones on Mount Olympus differed from the rules in Troy. Ganymede wasn’t fast enough to pick up his pieces in the time it took to throw. He watched again and again as Eros beat him.
“You’ll learn,” Eros commented with a laugh as Ganymede lost the fourth game in a row. “It’s different, playing with gods, but you’ll learn.
Though he was losing, Ganymede slowly felt the tension Hera had put in his shoulders leave him. He was enjoying Eros’ company, as well as the game he was losing. As he continued to lose, they both laughed. Before long, Ganymede began to wonder whether he’d already made his first friend on Olympus. An eternity would certainly be easier to bear if he had a friend.
The heavens were in full brilliance, the stars bright and shining by the time Eros’ mother found them in the courtyard. She strolled up to their table with her hands on her hips, a pleasant smile on her face that left no doubt of her relation to Eros. She was a beautiful woman, as lovely as her son, with golden waves spilling down her back and generous curves.
She leaned a hip against the stone table, looking over her son’s shoulder. “Eros,” she chided after observing him take a turn with the knuckles, “that’s unkind of you.”
Both Eros and Ganymede glanced up from their game, Ganymede confused and Eros beaming. “But I’m winning,” he argued.
Aphrodite’s hand tapped gently against her son’s skull in reprimand. She shook her head. “You’re cheating,” she accused. “And with a beginner. It’s beneath you, Eros.”
“Cheating?” asked Ganymede with a blush.
Eros did not deny it. He merely shrugged at Ganymede and laughed. “It’s not my fault you don’t know the proper rules.”
“Eros,” chided Aphrodite. Her son looked up at her with big, innocent eyes.
“He’s just the cup-bearer, mother,” he said. “He’s perfectly happy to lose. Aren’t you, Ganymede?”
Perfectly happy to lose weren’t words he’d ever contributed to himself, and whether mortal or destined to live forever, they were not words he’d accept now. He stood abruptly from the table. The hands he slammed down made the knucklebones bounce, and one rolled off to the ground.
He glared at the boy-god whose friendship he’d been appreciating only moments before. Eros looked guiltlessly pleased. His mother beside him hardly looked more bothered than if Eros had kicked a particularly pretty rock she’d asked him to step around. And Ganymede . . . he felt kicked.
His temper roared to life. The betrayal in his bones made him ache. It was all too much, and he’d been handling it too well. His circumstances, he thought, allowed some room for hysteria. He’d been kidnapped, kissed, stabbed, and cheated. If he were un-killable, truly immortal, then he saw no reason to stay standing in the courtyard, not when there was a mountain’s edge only yards away.
The escape route called to him. Be
fore, he could not even think of scaling the mountain, but if he were immortal, what use was fear to him? With a last scathing look at Eros, Ganymede turned and ran. He was quick; it took no more than a dozen steps to reach the edge, and then he launched his immortal body from Mount Olympus.
For long seconds, he floated through clouds and stars. The tiny cloth at his groin whipped free and he was naked in the sky, his curls an angelic halo around his head, his arms held at his sides like a bird’s wings. If I must be immortal, let me be home. If I must never grow into a man, let me see my friends grow.
He burst through the cloud veil into the night, the stars diamonds and his breath steaming from his lips like smoke. Far below, he could see the earth, and he longed for his feet to meet the grass. Not long now. If Zeus had not caught him at his escape yet, perhaps he never would. Perhaps he would heed his wife’s warnings and Ganymede’s escape would be a blessing. They’d allow him to live as he had. His father would give up the horses and the golden vine and take back his son, his third prince of Troy, with open arms.
He wished it with all his heart. The closer the ground, the stronger the thrill.
I’m almost there.
And then he was caught, midair, by warm, sweeping arms tucking around his waist. He searched for eagle talons, but when he felt only hands, he reared back. From his awkward position, he could not see the face of the god who held him, but when he heard the flutter of tiny wings, he knew who it was.
“Let me fall!” Ganymede pleaded.
“But then who would serve the wine?” Hermes replied.
Ganymede struggled weakly, but the god’s hold was firm, and moments later, they were not in the sky, but back in the cup-bearer’s bedchamber. Hermes threw Ganymede onto the bed and smoothed his chiton. His hair sat on his forehead, charmingly windblown. He appraised his catch with amusement, even as tears slid down Ganymede’s cheeks.
“You launched yourself from Mount Olympus,” Hermes said, sounding impressed. “It’s fortunate you’re immortal now, since you lack the common sense necessary for a mortal.”
Ganymede was naked, having lost his gold loin cloth in the sky, and he covered himself with the cup of his hands as Hermes came closer. For the second time, a god kneeled in front of him. It was no less shocking now than it had been before.
“If I threw myself off mountaintops every time Hera stabbed me, I’d—well I’d be fine, because I can fly, can’t I?” Hermes laughed and set a hand around Ganymede’s ankle. It was hot on his skin, a cuff of fire that didn’t burn but smoldered, comforting and firm. “Come now, little prince” he said, still highly humored. “You will adjust to life here.”
“She hates me,” Ganymede whispered. It was surreal, having an Olympian as an enemy.
“She hates everyone right now. She’s sour about Hebe being dismissed as cup-bearer and made to marry Heracles,” began Hermes, and he spoke in such light, conversational tones that Ganymede felt himself relaxing into the touch of his hand, still on his ankle. “Be glad she hates him more than you. All she did was poke you a few times; for Heracles, she raised the Hydra. He had to kill it. Took a while.” He shivered dramatically. “The blood of that monster is so tainted, it could permeate even the indestructible skin of a god. It wouldn’t kill us, but it would make us wish we were dead, or so I’ve heard tale.”
“Why does she hate Heracles so much?”
“Because he’s living proof of her husband’s infidelity, I would imagine,” Hermes answered. “Be grateful you cannot conceive. Yet.” At Ganymede’s puzzled expression, he stood from his knees and bent down, placing a soft kiss on Ganymede’s mouth. It was a quick thing that lasted an eternity.
When he drew away, Ganymede was more bewildered than before. “You—” he began, but Hermes cut him off.
“Don’t throw yourself off any more mountains, lovely cup-bearer, but don’t turn your back on Hera either. If you were a mere dalliance, I wouldn’t be concerned. But you’re more than that.”
“I don’t want to take him from her,” insisted Ganymede. In his desperation to be believed, he clung to Hermes’ arm. “She can have Zeus all to herself if she wishes.”
“Even if that were your choice, the damage has been done. You see, Zeus has had many lovers. Hera’s never liked it, but she’s pretended at some tolerance at least. But you are the first of Zeus’ lovers he’s made immortal. You are competition to last a lifetime. I, for one, would not want to compete with you.” He brushed a curl from Ganymede’s forehead.
“But Zeus has not . . .”
One of Hermes’ eyebrows quirked curiously.
“I am not Zeus’ lover,” Ganymede confessed. “He’s not bedded me.”
Hermes laughed, petting Ganymede’s hair a final time before heading to the bedchamber door. “Not yet,” he said. “But be wary. It’s only a matter of time.”
Ganymede sat up all night, sitting at the center of his bed and waiting for the door to open.
Marriage was the talk of the next day’s feast, but the Olympians did not discuss Hebe’s marriage to Heracles, nor did Zeus bring up Hades’ interest in Core again. Instead, they discussed the Myrmidon King Peleus and the previously unconquerable Thetis. It seemed the centaur Chiron’s advice had been useful after all, and with a little determination, Peleus had claimed the nymph his own. The details made Ganymede bite anxiously at his lip as he refilled Zeus’ cup.
“He held tight as she cycled through several forms,” Hermes informed the hall. “She tried to buck him as a snake at one point.”
“Nothing Peleus couldn’t handle, apparently,” commented Poseidon, clinking his goblet against Zeus’ before requesting more from Ganymede.
He stepped between the brothers and poured the wine.
“Thetis succumbed to him?” asked Artemis. A few of the other goddesses seemed surprised, but Artemis more than anyone.
“More likely she tried to get away until she tired,” said Aphrodite with scorn. “He forced her. What a joyful wedding it will be.”
“It will be joyful,” said Zeus. “It will take place on the mountain and there will be no disruptions.”
“Then you mean to exclude Eris?” asked Athena. “Good luck with that.”
“Everyone but Eris is invited,” answered Zeus. “I won’t risk her mischievousness at this wedding.” He exchanged a wary glance with Poseidon. “As you well know.”
“Invitation or not, keep your eyes open,” Athena advised. “Eris loves no party more than the ones she’s not invited to.”
When Hermes requested more wine, Ganymede dared to whisper in his ear, “Why is Eris not invited?”
Hermes whispered back, letting his lips graze Ganymede’s cheek. “Would you want the goddess of discord to attend your wedding?”
Ganymede spent the rest of the meeting inwardly lamenting that he would never have a wedding, and at the end of it, Zeus called him to his side. Ganymede went eagerly. He’d not looked directly into the god’s eyes since Hera’s attack, and though he resented it, it was a pleasure to look at him, and to be looked at.
“My beautiful Ganymede,” Zeus said. “You will attend the wedding, as well, and be the cup-bearer to all our honored guests.”
Beside him, Hera glowered. Zeus ignored her and Ganymede tried to; his eyes only flickered to her once as he bowed his head in agreeance. The idea of serving not only the Olympians but a multitude of other minor gods and goddesses left him feeling faint, but how could he protest?
“I will pick fresh flowers for your hair,” promised Zeus, “and you will be the envy of the celebration.”
Hera summoned him to refill her goblet shortly after her husband’s declaration, and while she refrained from stabbing Ganymede, he could feel the danger of her nearness keenly.
That night, Ganymede stayed up once more, staring at the chamber door. The cloth around his groin had been replaced, and he thumbed the golden material anxiously. Whether he wished the door to open, he did not kn
ow, not until the doorknob turned and the doorway filled with Zeus.
And then he knew himself to be both delighted and distressed.
“Ganymede.” Zeus stepped into the chamber and closed the door. “I would have come to you before, if not for the fact that my temperamental wife required much sating. Stand before me and let me look at you.”
Ganymede hastened to his feet, his heart beating wildly as Zeus approached. He was so tall, so grandly broad and sleek. He towered over Ganymede like his statue used to, back in his temple in Troy. Ganymede would stare up at it in awe while his mother knelt with their sacrifices. He’d thought it powerful to behold, but it was nothing compared to the real thing. Zeus was all-consuming, and he was reaching for Ganymede.
His hands roamed down Ganymede’s side, his back, his stomach, tracing the places on his body where Hera’s blade had pierced. He found nothing, but he continued his search, down to the waist of Ganymede’s loin cloth.
“If she had killed you, I would have sent her straight to Tartarus,” he rumbled. He cupped Ganymede’s chin with one hand, while his other worked open the cloth knot at his hip. Ganymede’s only covering slipped to the floor. “She can’t hurt you now.”
Naked and trembling as Zeus’ hand slid over his waist and across his stomach, Ganymede found his voice. It was easier when he imagined he was speaking to the temple statue. “Why?” he asked. “When there are so many you favor, why give me such a gift?”
He meant immortality, and why force this upon me, as Peleus had forced Thetis. Why, when there were so many others?
Zeus’ eyes darkened, but Ganymede didn’t fear him, not with the way his hands so softly trekked up and down his spine. He drew Ganymede closer in increments, as one might coax a wild horse into its grasp. “Since the day of your birth, I’ve watched you. When Hermes informed me the most beautiful babe had been born, I was there to see you for myself. Your beauty only grew, on the hillsides as you played, as you tended your flock, as you laughed and lived.” Finally, their bodies were flush. Zeus’ huge hand cupped the back of Ganymede’s neck and the other played around his thigh. He was limp and supple in the god’s arms. “I could no longer stand to share you with the mortal world. I wanted you for myself. I want you now.”
Ganymede and Other Romantic Short Stories from Greek Mythology Page 5
