“It is,” Hermes cut in. “Menelaus already moves with his fleet towards Troy.”
“No!” Ganymede yelled. He pushed at Zeus, and this time, he found freedom. He ran past Hermes and out the chamber door. He ran through the hall and into the courtyard, down the paved paths of gold until he reached Olympus’ edge. The clouds were cleared in spots, and he could see down to the earth, could see the people of Troy moving about in a panic. He cried out for his father, for his mother, for his brothers, and Nicolas, and Alexius, and his hounds, but it was no use. He knew they were gone. Long dead. While he’d been serving wine, his entire family had been, one by one, finding death.
Suddenly, the clouds came together in a thick white blanket, and Ganymede could no longer see the earth. He turned. Zeus was there, beside him; he’d obscured the land.
“You shouldn’t have to watch your homeland burn,” he said, taking Ganymede’s hand and kissing it. “I don’t want this to hurt you more than it already has. Come away from the edge, my love, and lie with me. I’ll help you forget.”
“I’ll never forget,” Ganymede promised, but he went with Zeus when he was tugged, stumbling behind him until the god lifted him into his arms and carried him the rest of the way to the bedchamber. They passed Hera on the way, but Zeus never took his eyes off Ganymede. He shut the chamber door in her face and lay with Ganymede on the bed.
“I am sorry,” he whispered. “Would that I could spare you from all the pains of the world.”
Ganymede allowed himself to be kissed and conquered, but he did not allow the pain in his heart to be forgotten. It felt, to him, as if it were the only bit of him still mortal.
But immortality, he would soon discover, held the potential for a pain so agonizing, no god could ever hope to shield him from it.
Hera summoned him outside of the pantheon. That should have been his first warning, and he did heed it with caution, but Zeus’ words echoed in his head and made him stupidly brave: “She can’t hurt you now.”
It was the day following the news his family was dead—or it felt like a day, but Ganymede had no sense of time anymore. Eros had come to his bedchamber with an apology in the form of a lambskin pouch filled with jeweled knucklebones, a set of Ganymede’s own, so he could practice.
“I’m not promising I won’t cheat again,” Eros warned as he handed them over, “but I can try to resist, for your sake, cup-bearer.”
Ganymede was warmed by the sentiment. He accepted the knucklebones, testing the pouch’s weight in his palm. “I wouldn’t wish for you to deny your true nature for my benefit, Eros,” he said. “Cheat if you must, and feel even worse when I win despite it.”
Eros seemed pleased to be forgiven, and Ganymede was pleased to forgive. He held too much worry in his heart for Troy’s impending war with Sparta to have any room left over for petty annoyances, like cheating at a game.
They were trying out the new set atop Ganymede’s bed when the summons arrived, delivered by Hebe herself, whom Ganymede had not lain eyes on since the first hour of his arrival on Mount Olympus. He looked at her and wondered if she hated him as much as her mother did. Her face gave nothing away; it was blank and pretty, her cadence calm when she said, “My mother requests your presence.”
Eros rolled his turn at knuckles. “Tell her I’m busy.”
“The message was for the cup-bearer,” Hebe replied, and Ganymede detected a familiar acidity in the way she said cup-bearer. “My mother doesn’t like to wait,” she added.
Ganymede stood from the bed, too surprised to speculate. “Where can I find her?”
“She’s in the garden,” answered Hebe. “I suggest you attend her right away, lest her temper greet you.”
Eros murmured under his breath, “Imagine. Hera having a temper.”
Ganymede didn’t laugh at the jibe and neither did Hebe. She scowled at Eros before her face returned to its serene façade, and then she turned from the room, leaving the door sprawled wide open in her wake.
“Are you going?” Eros asked once she was gone.
Ganymede had not considered otherwise. “She is Hera. I must go, mustn’t I?”
Eros shrugged, fiddling with the knucklebones. They flashed jewel-bright in the sunlight streaming through the window. “You are Zeus’, not Hera’s.”
“But she is his wife, and she is a goddess. I must go.” Ganymede straightened his little gold loin cloth and touched a probing finger to the flowers in his hair—he still wore the red ones Zeus favored. “I’ll go directly. Wait here?”
“I might cheat while you’re gone.”
“I doubt that will prove to be the worst part of my day.”
He left the room and found his way to the golden path of the courtyard. He guessed which one she would be in, and he was right; she lingered beside the grove of golden apples, a peacock strutting about her ankles. He readied himself for the wrath she always saved for him, and was shocked when she turned and greeted him with a kind smile.
“Ganymede,” she said. There were no thorns in her words, no ire in her eyes. Her posture was relaxed and open. She held an ivory hand out to him, urging him to join her amongst the apple trees. “Do not fear me. I only wish to talk.”
As he’d been expecting malice, this greeting was a pleasant surprise. He should have been more cautious. He stepped towards her, his head bent in deference. He did not realize he was showing off the flowers in his hair, the tender gifts from Zeus.
“Thank you for your promptness,” Hera said. Her outstretched hand found a perch on his shoulder, her fingers digging in with more strain than the eagle’s talons.
He winced. Probably she did not realize her strength. She was a goddess, after all.
“What can I do for you?” he asked. “Do you wish for wine? Ambrosia?” It was unusual to be requested outside of the daily meetings, but not wholly strange. He was surprised it had not happened more often.
But Hera didn’t want him for his usual services. “I wish to apologize.”
That was the last thing he’d expected, and he had difficulty keeping the reaction from his face.
She laughed at him and her fingernails dug deeper into his shoulder. “Have I been so terrible that you look at me like that?” At his raised eyebrows, she laughed again. “I suppose I have been bad. The dagger incident was a mistake. But I’ve come to my senses now. I realize, Ganymede, that we must live together, both of us, for a long time. I wish to enjoy that time and not spend it harboring jealousies, don’t you?”
Unsure how to respond, Ganymede nodded.
“You see, I love my husband, as awful as he is.” She sighed, abandoning her grasp on Ganymede’s shoulder to pluck an apple from its branch. It was golden, like the apple of discord, but it held no inscription of Hera’s fairness; the roots knew better the depth of her wickedness than poor Ganymede. “He has been unfaithful as long as we’ve been wed. This has brought me constant strife, but now you are here, and do you know what that means?”
He shook his head, utterly lost.
“It means we can share that strife, you and I. Because he will stray from you as he has strayed from me.”
He struggled to find his voice, unsatisfied with its waver once he did. “I am not his wife.”
A flash of darkness in her eyes, one he missed with a blink. “No,” she said. “You are not. I am his true partner, and I seek to do better by him. You bring him pleasure, so I shall strive to be kinder to you. And when he finally grows bored of your charms, we will have one another for comfort, won’t we, Ganymede?”
“I—I suppose.”
She handed him the apple. It was much heavier than it looked. “Take this for the ambrosia tonight,” she said. “Zeus loves them so, but I have been stingy.”
“Yes, Hera,” said Ganymede. He bowed his head, unsure if he’d been properly excused. He lingered a moment longer, just in case.
He should have walked away. He should have run.
�
�Ganymede?” Hera asked.
He glanced up at her. A petal from Zeus’ flowers fluttered from his hair, dancing between them until it landed on the gold pavement. “Yes?”
“Embrace me, and we will be friends.”
He didn’t want to, was wary of the goddess’ open arms, but she was Hera and he was a cup-bearer, and he feared what she might do if he denied her token of friendship. So he stepped into her embrace and tentatively wrapped his arms around her waist in a hug.
Her arms were long and solid as she hugged him back. She smelled delightful, like apples. She gave him a squeeze that felt so genuine, he nearly relaxed into the embrace. But then her hand squeezed a bit too hard over his bare back, and one of her fingernails scraped his skin. He winced and she pulled away with an apology.
He began to tell her it was all right, and that’s when he saw it. In her hand she held an arrow. He did not know where it had come from; she had not held it before. But there it was now, grasped in her bone-white fist. The tip of the arrowhead glistened with a black ichor. A rank smell filled the air and he gagged.
“That’s strange,” Hera said, frowning at the arrow. “I imagined it working much faster.”
“What?” Ganymede asked, reaching behind his back to scratch at the nicked skin. It was beginning to itch, to burn.
“The Hydra blood on the tip of this arrow,” Hera explained, holding it out so Ganymede could have a better look. “I thought it would work faster.”
A moment later, when Ganymede fell to the ground in a writhing heap, she laughed. “Ah. There it goes.”
Pain. Pain like nothing else. Unknowable. Unimaginable. Unexplainable. Hot and bright and constant. Burning. Plunging. FIRE. CAN’T BREATHE. ONLY SCREAMS. THROBBING. PULSING. AGONY.
He heard nothing of what she said when she knelt at his side and poked him a few more times with the tainted arrow, but she didn’t speak for him. She spoke for herself. “The irony is, if you had not taken my daughter’s position as cup-bearer, she would not have been able to steal one of Heracles’ arrows. He treated many with the Hydra’s blood, after he killed it. Did you know it has the strength to penetrate even a god’s flesh? Even easier an immortals. But don’t worry. You won’t die. You’ll never die. You’ll be in pain forever. And that will teach him not to flaunt his toys in front of me, don’t you think? You stupid child.” She whispered the next words, as lightning struck the sky above her and she could hear the angry stomps heading her way. “I will make sure Troy burns.”
His screams echoed over the mountaintop. The thunder roared. When Zeus came charging into the grove of golden apples, Hermes and Eros right behind him, Hera was already gone. But there was no doubting who was responsible for Ganymede seizing on the ground, nor was there any doubt of the cause. She’d left the arrow plunged into his chest.
“GANYMEDE!” yelled Zeus, crashing to his side. The mountain shook from the fierceness of his bellow when he pulled the arrow from his cup-bearer and wrinkled his nose at the tip.
Hermes could smell it from where he stood, gathered with Eros a few feet away. “Hydra blood,” he said.
Zeus stood with Ganymede held to his chest, then threw the arrow into the sky. A bolt of lightning struck it and it was destroyed, burning up into nothing. The only evidence that remained was Ganymede. The boy could hardly breathe through the pain. When he was not screaming, he was gasping in desperate, haggard breaths. He was fiery against Zeus’ skin, beading sweat and dripping tears.
“Hermes, go to Chiron,” ordered Zeus. “If anyone knows of a cure, it’s the centaur.”
“Yes,” said Hermes, casting a solemn glance at Ganymede before his winged sandals fluttered to life and he shot from the mountaintop faster than sunlight.
“Eros,” Zeus said, turning to the horror-stricken god, “tell the others what has happened.”
“What will you do?”
“I will bring him to my bed,” Zeus answered gruffly, already walking with Ganymede through the courtyard. “Tell Hermes where I am when he returns.”
“And if Hera returns?” Eros asked.
“She won’t show herself. Not if she values the head that sits on her treacherous neck.”
Eros ran off, leaving Zeus to stride through the garden alone, Ganymede crying in his arms, groaning and screaming and seizing. He could not lie still, even when Zeus laid him on his bed and cupped his face in his hands. Ganymede knew nothing and no one, only PAIN. TOO MUCH. CAN’T THINK. CAN’T SPEAK. CAN’T SEE.
Zeus tried to soothe him, kissed him and petted him and sang to him, but his cup-bearer was unreachable. The arrow wound had healed, but his blood was tainted. The ichor was trapped inside him, a torturous maze. Zeus tried to pace the room, plotting his revenge on Hera, but as soon as Ganymede’s arms flailed out, reaching unknowingly, he rushed back to his side and took his hands. He heard the Olympians gathering outside his bedchamber door, but none were fool enough to come in. None but Hermes, when he forced his way through a short time later and slammed it quickly behind him.
“Hermes, tell me.”
“You won’t like it.”
“Hermes.”
“The centaur says there is no cure,” Hermes said, walking up to the bed, where Zeus was clutching Ganymede. His cries were still powerful, would be deafening to mortal ears. They were painful enough for Hermes to hear. Little Ganymede. “If the master healer cannot help him . . .”
“No one can,” Zeus finished. “No one but me.”
“Forgive me, but how can you help him? How can anyone?”
Zeus drew in a deep breath. The air in the room sparked and crackled. “I have one place left to send you, Hermes.”
“Anywhere.”
Zeus left Ganymede’s side, though he kept one hand closed firmly around the boy’s. He told Hermes of his plan, of the one solution left. Hermes’ face reflected Zeus’ heart. Pained.
“Are you sure?” he asked.
“I am sure I will not leave this boy to suffer an eternity, nor a single moment longer than necessary,” Zeus replied. “Go and tell him my terms.”
“Yes, Zeus. As you wish.”
Hermes left in a flutter, and after a time, Zeus left as well. But not without Ganymede. He scooped him into his arms and held him tight to his chest. The Olympians parted for him as he stormed from the bedchamber and into the courtyard.
“Sweet Ganymede,” he whispered, walking them to the edge of Olympus.
For the second time, the giant golden eagle clasped its talons around the boy’s body and flew him through the canopy of clouds. Down, down they soared, over the lights of a thousand ships sailing across the Aegean. Over the armies camped on the beaches of Troy. Down to the grassy top of a different, mortal mountain, the one where Zeus had first stolen Ganymede away.
He lay him in the grass. The day was bright and warm and Ganymede was still the most beautiful creature he had ever seen, even as he writhed. And Zeus could blame his wife and blame the Hydra and blame Chiron, but he was the greatest of the gods and he knew, he knew that this was his fault.
He hushed Ganymede and placed his curly head in his lap. He braced his hands on his cheeks and concentrated his power until he felt it thrumming in a current from his fingertips to Ganymede’s skin. It was all Zeus could manage to curb Ganymede’s suffering. It stopped the screaming but nothing more. Ganymede’s eyes fluttered. His lips parted on a heartbreaking moan.
“Ganymede,” Zeus pled. “Ganymede.”
Hermes arrived on Mount Ida long before Zeus was ready to face him.
“He said yes,” he reported, sounding torn. “It’s a deal.”
Ganymede sobbed and Zeus felt a similar yearning for release build up in his chest. But now was not the time. He shook Ganymede and repeated his name. He tightened his hands on his cheeks and demanded, in his godly tenor, for him to wake.
Ganymede’s eyes fluttered open. NO. LET IT STOP. PIERCING. HURTS. CAN’T. PLEASE. ZEUS.
“G
anymede, listen to me!” Zeus commanded.
ZEUS. HELP ME. GODS. ZEUS. “Heeeeuughn,” he groaned. A hand cracked across his face. A powerful heat spread through him. His eyes fluttered, and then they stayed open. He was lying on his back and Zeus was crouched over him. “Z—Zeus.”
“Ganymede, quickly, you must listen.”
The pain was still there, but it was further away, held in the space between Zeus’ hands and his own skin. Already he felt it inching back. He licked his lips and nodded his head. He would listen as well as he could. He swallowed, his throat raw from screaming.
“You have been poisoned, my love, and there is no cure but death,” Zeus said.
Ganymede continued to nod, panic building up in his blood. He shook, fearing the pain’s full-fledged return. Even the memory of it made him spasm. He gasped in a breath of air and it tasted familiar. He knew where he was, where Zeus had brought him. Mount Ida. Home.
“I cannot take the pain away, but I can take your immortality.”
Ganymede spotted Hermes for the first time, hovering over Zeus’ shoulder and staring down at him. His eyes glistened. His brow was bunched with concern. Ganymede was touched, so touched, and he wrapped his hand over Zeus’ wrist, trying to smile. He couldn’t, but he tried.
“You will die, Ganymede. But the pain will be gone. You won’t suffer.”
The pain was almost back. There was no time. “Heeerughnn,” he moaned, contorting his body, trying to escape its return.
“Answer me. You must answer. I will not take it unless you ask me to,” Zeus said.
Ganymede licked his lips again. His eyes met Hermes’, then Zeus’. It was not a question that required much thought, which was good, since he could hardly think. “Take it, please,” he rasped. “Please.”
He thought of his father, his family, Nicolas, the hounds, and Alexius, who had probably been in love with him, probably would have chosen him as his eromenos if Zeus had not claimed him first. And maybe Ganymede would have agreed, and he would have found happiness, would have grown hair on his chest and chin, would have been a man of Troy, instead of a boy of Olympus. Maybe. So many maybes.
Ganymede and Other Romantic Short Stories from Greek Mythology Page 7
