Ganymede’s gasp was swallowed by Zeus’ mouth as it pressed against him in a kiss.
“I will have you,” Zeus whispered, then kissed him again.
And though Ganymede thought of Thetis the sea nymph, and wished he had the power to take different shapes and throw off his suitor, he couldn’t deny the satisfaction he found in Zeus’ kiss. His will to protest fell away with every caress of skin and nip of worshipful teeth. Wide palms covered every inch of him, and he whimpered his pleasure against Zeus’ lips.
In the end, it was not as Nicolas had hinted. Zeus summoned the same gentleness as his eagle, and whatever pain given was swiftly taken away. He loved his cup-bearer carefully and thoroughly, pressing him first against the chamber door and then against the silken sheets. Ganymede cried and laughed and buried his face in Zeus’ neck as he was taken apart and tenderly stitched back together.
After, the god cozied between Ganymede’s parted thighs and pulled a flower from the air. “For you,” he said. “Wear it at the wedding so everyone knows of my devotion.”
He tucked it behind Ganymede’s ear, took him once more, and then broke their embrace. When he bid farewell and slipped out the door, Ganymede felt envious tears prickling at his eyes. He knew he was returning to Hera.
Lying where Zeus had left him, sprawled on his back in rumpled sheets, Ganymede plucked the flower from his hair and studied its velvety crimson petals. It was the color of blood he would never again spill.
His sleep was not fitful, but it was lonely.
But being bedded by Zeus had its benefits. When Ganymede woke the next day, there was a stirring in his chest as he anticipated the sight of him. His every step was springy. The bright blossom in his hair kept the air around him perfumed and his cheeks pink. He thought of the nighttime often as he wandered through the gardens, and the more he thought of Zeus’ devoted ministrations, the more he came to find that he’d enjoyed it. Every touch, every kiss, every whisper. The choice may not have been his, but Ganymede thought, if it had been, he would have allowed Zeus to have him. And if living atop Mount Olympus would entail that level of attention daily, it might not be so terrible to endure. For the first time since being made immortal, Ganymede began to think he might enjoy it, as long as he could spend more nights like the last one.
His change in morale did not go unnoticed. By anyone. At the evening’s gathering in the pantheon, he was met with charmed smiles and agreeable pats on the hand as he poured the wine. Zeus called for ambrosia, and Ganymede took special care selecting the fruit. Again he placed a cherry, plump and ripe, atop Zeus’ serving. He popped it in his mouth and touched Ganymede indulgently on the waist.
Hermes shot him a knowing look and might have even winked, but Ganymede was too flustered to face him long. He thought of their brief kiss, judging it against Zeus’. He wondered what Zeus would do if he knew his messenger had touched his cup-bearer.
Hera refused to even glance in Ganymede’s direction the entire evening, but he knew she was still watching him. There was not a turn of his wrist or a tip of his head she was unaware of. Nor did she miss for an instant the way Zeus repeatedly ushered him forward to slip an arm around his waist.
Ganymede was in such high spirits, not even her unspoken threats bothered him overly much. He had Zeus’ favor and Hera was his wife. They all knew she couldn’t kill him, so what was there, really, to fear?
Zeus joined him in his bedchamber again that night, and the next, and the next, until Ganymede came to expect him every evening. He never stayed the full night, but he always claimed he wanted to, and Ganymede believed him. He continued to bring him the exotic red flowers for his hair, and by the time of Thetis and Peleus’ wedding, Ganymede had enough for an entire crown.
He wore it proudly on the day, the crimson petals bringing out the gold glint of his lustrous curls. He walked at the end of the procession of Olympians to the place of the nuptials, a glade of lush forest filled with wild flowers and already set up with tables and chairs crafted elegantly by Hephaestus, harp playing nymphs and floral archways. Apollo joined his muses in one corner while Aphrodite stood between Hephaestus and Ares, both attending her with compliments. Demeter and Artemis found some seats beside the tree line. Dionysus threw himself into the largest gathering of gods, quick to laughter at the celebration. Poseidon and Zeus went straight to the bride, each kissing Thetis’ hand. Only Hermes lingered close to Ganymede. That was fortunate, since he had no idea what he was meant to do.
He held the endlessly full golden cup of wine and looked up at Hermes pleadingly.
“Do not worry for now, little cup-bearer,” said Hermes. “There will be no drinking until after the ceremony. Hold on to that and sit with me. It won’t be long now that we’ve arrived.”
Hermes was right; it wasn’t long at all before the wedding ceremony began. Ganymede watched in fascination as the sea nymph married the Myrmidon King. She was truly lovely, so lovely that every time he looked at Zeus and Zeus was looking at Thetis, he felt an uncomfortable zing of jealousy in his gut. And the feeling only grew as the celebration continued.
When Ganymede was finally requested to begin filling goblets, he tried his best to make Zeus proud. He didn’t spill a drop of wine, nor did he stumble on the uneven ground of the glade. His red flowers were as dewy as his skin, and his eyes sparkled beguilingly as he tipped his cup for one goddess, and then another. After filling the bride’s own goblet, he looked up to find Zeus at her side, his hand splayed on her back. He was clearly agitated, uneasy, and he did not favor Ganymede with a single glance.
Having expected Zeus to shower him with attention in front of the other gods, Ganymede continued on with his cup-bearing task with an air of gloominess. And when Hermes took him by the elbow and steered him to a private corner, he only made things worse.
“Why has the sunshine gone out of you?” he asked, holding out his goblet for Ganymede to fill.
He did, with a frown. “It’s nothing.”
“Already lying to the gods? All right, then. I shall have to guess. Are you sad, Ganymede, because Zeus has not taken his eyes off Thetis once since we arrived?”
Surprised he’d figured him out so easily, Ganymede nodded.
“You’ve fine instincts there,” Hermes praised, sipping his wine and leaning against the thick trunk of a moss covered tree. He’d made an extra effort with his appearance for the wedding, though he’d not needed to; he was attractive enough without the slight curl added to his hair or the newly dyed purple chiton. “Zeus and Poseidon both fancied her for a lover, and they would have had her if not for a certain prophecy that scared them off.”
“What prophecy?” Ganymede asked, looking over his shoulder to find Zeus still standing at Thetis’ side. He stood closer than her actual husband, and his eyes, when not staring at the nymph, were darting upwards. Ganymede tried to follow his gaze but found nothing in the sky but endless, crisp blue.
“You’re a curious creature,” Hermes laughed, but he indulged Ganymede all the same. “Prophecies are always so flowery, but the gist was this: if a god takes Thetis for a wife, their offspring will grow to be stronger than Zeus himself.”
“Oh.”
“Oh, yes. So Zeus decided, and Poseidon agreed, that Thetis should be made to marry a mortal man as soon as possible, to guarantee the prophecy will not come true.”
This failed to comfort Ganymede. “So he wanted her for himself, and would have had her if it wasn’t a risk to his power,” he stated numbly. The idea of it was nauseating. He could not reconcile the Zeus who came to him every night with the Zeus who was so greedy for power that he would marry off someone he loves to another.
“Don’t let it bother you,” Hermes said. “He only wanted to bed her. It was nothing serious.”
Ganymede wanted to believe him, but now that he knew the truth, it was hard for him to see Zeus standing at Thetis’ side and not see the want in his eyes. And when eventually Zeus parted from the
bride, and Ganymede thought he might have some of his affection at last, Hera began sending a flux of women in his direction. Zeus sat on his throne, his bearded chin in his hand, as a stream of beautiful goddesses and nymphs approached him with compliments and conversation. If Zeus had not needed his goblet repeatedly filled, Ganymede doubted his presence would have been noted at all.
Hera watched from across the glade as the women flirted with her husband, and every so often she would call Ganymede over to fill her goblet, greeting him with a sneer and cruel commentary. “He’s slept with her,” she said of a certain blonde nymph. “You’re not special.”
Hera and Ganymede’s moods were both made worse when Zeus began to flirt back. After imbibing many refills of nectar, Zeus was lusty and frisky, playing with skirts and nuzzling necks, and Ganymede almost preferred him sober and staring at Thetis.
Almost.
The only reprieve came when an apple fell from the sky.
Zeus’ flirtations came to an abrupt end when the news was brought to him. “ERIS,” he shouted, and a bolt of lightning struck over all their heads.
Ganymede searched the sky, but he could make out no mischievous goddess lurking above and pelting apples. It appeared she’d dropped only the one and left.
The apple in question, like so many other things on Mount Olympus, was golden. It sparkled in Athena’s hands as she approached her father. Hera flanked her on one side, Aphrodite on the other. They brought the apple to Zeus, their expressions tense. It was between the three of them the apple had fallen.
At a closer glance, Ganymede could read the inscription written on the apple: For the Fairest.
“Tell them, Father, that this gift is meant for me,” said Athena. “It fell right in front of me and I was the first to pick it up.”
“Husband, the apple belongs to me. Don’t you believe I’m the fairest?” Hera’s smile matched her gaze: wicked, wicked.
“Allow him a moment to use his eyes,” snapped Aphrodite, “and he’ll tell you both what I already did. The apple is meant for me. I mean”—she gestured at herself—“look.”
Ganymede tried not to eye all three goddesses critically, but it was hard to avoid when they were standing in front of Zeus, blustering. They were all supernaturally beautiful and all supernaturally intimidating. He would, personally, be too afraid to make a selection. And it seemed Zeus was equally hesitant.
“You must decide, Zeus,” Aphrodite insisted.
“Must I?” he asked, taking the offered apple. He turned it over in his large hands, fingers tracing over the inscription. He did not look up at the three waiting goddesses before chucking the apple high into the sky.
Everyone gasped, including Ganymede, and watched the golden fruit soar through the air until it dropped over the side of Mount Olympus and disappeared.
“Oops,” said Zeus.
Hera, Athena, and Aphrodite vanished seconds later, and for a few moments, the only sound was Hermes’ stifled cackle. More laughs shortly followed, and then the celebration returned to full swing, the apple of discord temporarily forgotten.
And with the apple’s disappearance, so did Zeus’ ill behavior disappear. He stood from his throne and set his hands on Ganymede’s shoulders, warming the chill that had grown there as a symptom of Zeus’ neglect.
“Would it not have ruined the party,” he said, leaning over to speak in Ganymede’s ear, “I would have given the apple to you.”
“Me?” asked Ganymede in surprise.
“You are the fairest, unquestionably.” A woman approached Zeus with a smile, but he brushed past her without even looking, steering Ganymede along through the crowd.
Ganymede’s heart swelled fondly as Zeus continued to ignore all but him, and when they stopped in a secluded grove, close enough to the celebration to still hear the music, but away from prying eyes, he was happy to let Zeus kiss him. He was more than happy.
With Hera gone elsewhere, Zeus entertained no hesitance before pushing Ganymede to his hands and knees in the grass and taking him with possessive abandon. A few red petals drifted to the ground between Ganymede’s hands, shaken from his hair. He leaned his head back and Zeus kissed him soundly.
“My beautiful Ganymede,” he whispered.
Ganymede may not have been awarded an apple that day, but he was awarded so many honeyed words from Zeus, he could hardly fit them all in his head.
He forgot all about the apple of discord.
For a short while.
But sometime later, Hermes arrived with news.
“About that apple,” he said, tapping his fingers against the bedpost, where he’d interrupted Zeus and Ganymede during one of their nightly trysts. “When you threw it from the mountain, it landed in Troy.”
Ganymede managed to extricate himself from under Zeus and covered himself with the sheet. “Troy?” he asked, excited to hear of his homeland. The sound of it sparked sadness in his heart, but he pushed it aside.
“Troy,” repeated Hermes. He kept his gaze at a respectable level, but Ganymede was sure if Zeus had not been there, he would have looked his fill. He remembered their kiss and pressed a hand to his warming cheek.
“What of it, Hermes?” Zeus asked impatiently. He was not near to being finished with Ganymede for the night, and disliked disruptions.
“Well, it landed right at the feet of a Trojan prince,” Hermes said.
Prince? Ganymede bolted from the bed, only to be grabbed by Zeus and coaxed back to his side. “One of my brothers?” he asked, desperate for news. “Ilus? Assaracus?”
Zeus’ hand rubbed at his back, and he bid Hermes to continue.
The messenger went on without answering Ganymede’s question. “This prince picked up the apple, and who should bombard him instantly, but Athena, Hera, and Aphrodite.”
Ganymede was practically vibrating with questions and Zeus squeezed his shoulders to calm him.
“What have they done?” Zeus asked, sounding sure that they’d done something.
“Exactly what you think. They ordered this mortal to decide who among them was the fairest.” Hermes shook his head. “They provoked him into a contest of sorts, each offering a prize if he selected them as the winner.”
“And has he selected the winner?”
“The apple has been awarded.”
“To?”
“The goddess offering the best prize.”
“HERMES.”
“Aphrodite won, Zeus,” Hermes said. “The prince liked her prize the best.”
“And what prize was that?”
“The hand of the most beautiful mortal woman.”
Zeus’ hand froze where it had been rubbing steady circles into Ganymede’s back. “She couldn’t promise that,” he said, “because the most beautiful mortal woman is already married to Menelaus.”
“There’s the rub,” admitted Hermes. “Helen has already been taken from Sparta, and the king is furious.”
“Understandably,” grumbled Zeus.
“Understandably,” Hermes agreed, glancing at Ganymede. “Ares is in the hall spouting about war on the rise, and he’s not wrong. If Paris doesn’t give back Helen, Troy will burn.”
Ganymede squinted in confusion. Something about Hermes’ declaration made no sense. “Who is Paris?” he asked. He did not miss the look between Zeus and Hermes. It scared him. He strove for more answers. “If Troy is in danger, you must let me go to my father!” He turned to Zeus, who tucked him against his chest. “Not to stay, just to see him and warn him! Please!”
Zeus hushed him, placing a finger across his lips. “Calm,” he ordered.
Ganymede did not calm, but he did stop his yelling, if only for the time being. “I must see my father. He’s the king of Troy. I can warn him of this Paris character.”
“Oh, Ganymede,” said Zeus, and his ultra-soft tone did nothing to soothe the cup-bearer.
He was overcome by a terrible foreboding. “Why do you look a
t me like that?” he asked. He turned to Hermes, whose constant smile had fallen. “Hermes?”
After a nod from Zeus, Hermes spoke. “A visit from you to the king of Troy would benefit no one, Ganymede,” he said, “because your father is no longer the Trojan King.”
Ganymede was gripped by panic. “Has he died?” he asked, clutching at Zeus’ forearms, which were wrapped snuggly around his waist. “Please don’t tell me he’s died!”
“Listen to me, little one,” Hermes continued. He stepped closer to the bed, but did not dare to sit on the edge with Zeus watching. “Your father has not been king for a very long time. He died long ago. A man named Priam now sits on his throne. Paris is his son, a prince of Troy.”
“No.” Ganymede tried to push away from Zeus, but the god’s hold was iron. “No. That cannot be. I’ve only been here a few days.”
“When you are immortal, you interpret time differently,” Hermes explained patiently. “It has been three generations since King Tros ruled Troy.”
“No, no.”
“We didn’t want you to find out this way,” Zeus said, petting his hair.
“Or find out at all,” added Hermes.
“But I—I’ve only been cup-bearer a short time,” Ganymede insisted. He ran back his memory for proof of days and found them all blurring together, ever since Zeus grasped him and gifted him with immortality. He remembered lying in the bed with Zeus between his legs, Hermes stealing a kiss, Hera stabbing him, filling goblet after goblet, picking fruit, smelling flowers, walking through the gardens, playing knucklebones with Eros. He did not remember the passing of three generations. He could not believe it. He didn’t. “It can’t be true!”
“But it is, Ganymede,” said Zeus, firmness returning to his voice. “You have been mine for a long time, and you will remain mine. I will not let you loose to run around Troy, especially during wartime, if what Hermes tells me is correct.”
Ganymede and Other Romantic Short Stories from Greek Mythology Page 6
