Pandora Gets Heart (13 page)

Nothing.

“Hermes? We’ve decided! We know where we need to go now.”

Nothing.

“You think he sleeps that soundly when he naps?” asked Iole.

“I have no idea,” Pandy said, gazing up at the clouds. “None.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN
On Olympus

Hermes’ vast apartment was, by popular immortal opinion, the destination spot of Mount Olympus, and all the beings who either lived on or visited the home of the gods wanted to spend as much time there as possible. He occupied a single, enormous room on the topmost floor of one entire wing, and when he moved in, he’d had the ceiling removed so the sun, stars, clouds, and tall, flowering potted plants were his canopy. He had a small lyre (an instrument he invented) quartet continually playing the au courant tunes, and great gold bowls filled with individual silver cups of ambrosia on ice. He also allowed gambling and other games of chance provided that, if he was playing, he won. Which usually wasn’t a problem when anyone else went up against the cleverest of all gods. It was only Athena on whom he once had to use the “hey, look over there!” ruse in order to move a token to the winning spot, and she had retaliated by turning him into a housecat for a week.

But many simply came for a cup of nectar, to pet the roosters and tortoises (his protected animals were allowed free rein), and to gaze at the amazing walls and the floor.

To the right and left as one entered, the walls were covered with poems and hymns to the Messenger, usually given to him framed when he went to speak at various academies. At the other end was a broad terrace from which one could look down onto the clouds covering the steep downhill slopes of Olympus and onto the terraces of other apartments.

One ridiculously long sidewall had written on it many of the things for which Hermes was patron— and every single individual who was blessed by that patronage. Under bold gold lettering spelling out BOUNDARIES was the name of every person who had ever crossed a boundary in his or her life. SHEPHERDS AND COWHERDS were combined because, in comparison with other rosters, their number was few. TRAVELERS also had comparatively few names. The list of ORATORS AND POETS took up hardly any space at all, but there were thousands of ATHLETES. At the far end, however, was a long list of CONSORTS AND CRONES, a huge portion of the wall was taken up by the seemingly endless names of THIEVES, and over half the wall was dedicated solely to LIARS.

The fourth wall was an enormous map, stretched lengthwise, with tiny red footprints indicating every place Hermes had ever been. It was almost completely red.

But the floor was most astonishing and frightening for anyone new to the room. It was as if one were suspended in space. The floor tiles projected a view, from a single angle that changed on a daily basis, of the earth from a high vantage point; essentially a bird’s-eye of a section of the planet, as if the bird were flying a different route each day. One day it would be a stretch of Syria, the next a portion of the Greek Islands, and the day after, the coastline of Aquitania or Belgica.

Hermes had returned, not only from Mount Ida, but also from thirteen centuries earlier, and was unusually tired. He shooed the roosters onto the large terrace, sent the musicians away, and gently but firmly ushered out a handful of nymphs who had come to see a glimpse of Britannia as it passed beneath their feet. Removing his winged sandals and hat, he set his Caduceus on its special stand and settled onto his giant sleeping cot in the center of the room. Within seconds his chest was rising and falling rhythmically, indicating, to the intruder who silently stepped into the entryway, that the god was fast asleep. The day was warm and there was no need for any kind of covering, so Hermes, even deep in slumber, was slightly surprised when he felt something fine and filmy settling over him. At that moment, one of his roosters wandered in from the terrace and crowed raucously at the strange figure in the room, someone who rarely visited and when she did, delighted in viciously kicking the roosters out of her way. Hermes woke in alarm.

But he couldn’t move.

Not a muscle. Only his eyelids blinked, staring through the gauzy coverlet. Slowly, as she moved over him, Hera’s face came into view.

“You know, I haven’t liked you ever since you slew Argus as he was watching over Io— that silly girl Zeus was carrying on with and turned into a cow.”

“Yes,” Hermes replied softly. “I’ve sensed a distance between us. Terribly sorry about that. So, what can I do for you?”

“You disappeared yesterday,” she said softly. “You and those four brats. You disappeared from Mount Pelion right under my very eyes. And you didn’t even bother to say good-bye. So what do I do? I search high and low for you all and I find nothing. Then, you just pop back into view on Mount Ida of all places! Poof! I am thrilled to see that Pandora and company are not in very good shape— my, my, blindness, bones knitted together badly . . . lovely, really. But I want to know what happened.”

Hermes tried to struggle, but the filmy coverlet was pinning him to the pallet.

“Know what this is?” Hera asked sweetly.

“No, Hera. Why don’t you clue me in,” he replied, although he had a pretty good idea of exactly what it was.

“This is the adamant net Hephaestus created when he thought Aphrodite just might be having a fling or two . . . or twenty . . . with Ares. This is the one he surprised them with, throwing it over and trapping them for all the gods to see, all of us bearing witness to Aphrodite’s . . . shall we say . . . indiscretion? And you know if it held Ares, it’s certainly going to hold you . . . runt.”

“Won’t Hephaestus miss it?”

“As if I give two acolytes what that idiot thinks or does.”

“Well, it’s a lovely gift. Thanks. But I don’t really need it.”

“Oh, but it’s my plea sure.”

“Why me?” Hermes asked.

“I want to know what the five of you have been up to for the last day and a half.”

“I’m sure you do.”

“Oh, did I forget to tell you about the new special feature I added? If you don’t tell me what that conniving maiden and her three friends are doing on Mount Ida and what they have planned, then . . .”

The adamant coverlet tightened around Hermes’ throat, all but cutting off his breathing.

Just then, on the enormous map in front of them, Mount Ida began to glow, and Pandy’s voice could be heard in the room.

“Swift and Fleet-footed Messenger. Most cunning and artful, I call to Hermes!”

“Ohhhh. She needs you, isn’t that sweet?” Hera smirked.

“Hermes? We’ve decided! We know where we need to go now.”

Hera relaxed the coverlet around his throat.

“And you are going to tell me exactly
where
that is,” she purred.

“When Apollo pulls the sun backward, that’s when I’ll tell you anything, you wretched—”

The coverlet cinched his throat again, cutting off all air and turning his face purple.

“You know, I had a feeling that you would remain uncooperative to the last. Let’s see if this will persuade you.”

Instantly there appeared, at the foot of the pallet, a golden sacrificial tripod. Hermes immediately recognized it as being one of Apollo’s prized possessions. The God of Truth used it frequently, burning a mysterious blend of herbs in the bowl, to discern the truth of a particularly perplexing matter or to increase his powers of prophecy. Without even so much as a glance in its direction, Hera flung her hand out toward the bowl and at once a thin ribbon of smoke began to rise from the center. Summoning the smoke with her forefinger, Hera floated the ribbon up over Hermes’ body, where it hung . . . waiting.

“Yeah, a little smoke . . . big deal,” he wheezed. “You forget, cow, that while I may be forced to tell you a truth, I am just cunning enough not to tell you the entire truth.”

“I thought that might be your attitude . . . or something equally antagonistic. You think I’m not prepared? Tell me,
errand boy,
what else designates the gifts of prophecy and truth telling?”

Hermes’ eyes went wide.

“No,” he muttered.

“I’ve seen you around them . . .”

“Not that.”

“. . . When Dionysus would accidentally bring them up from a forest revel, one sticking out of his toga, another in his hair. Or when you helped Perseus slay Medusa. Oh, weren’t you trying so hard to act very casual, very collected. Not at all afraid. You may have been able to fool the others . . . not me.”

“Don’t . . . please,” Hermes pleaded.

“Too late.”

With that, the thin ribbon of sacrificial smoke floated toward Hermes, streaming through the tiny holes in the adamant and becoming two long, thin black snakes, which slithered into Hermes’ nostrils, down his throat, and into his stomach as the Messenger God writhed in pain and panic.

“All right, then,” Hera said, watching the two tails disappear. “Now, where is Pandora
going
, and what is she going to do once she gets
wherever
that is?”

Completely at the mercy of the snakes, created from Apollo’s own prophetic smoke, and which were starting to lick the inside of his stomach, Hermes told everything that he knew: the wedding, the judgment, Lust in the golden apple, and the group’s journey (hopefully, if they chose the correct coin) to Aphrodisias and Aphrodite’s partially built temple to beg the apple from her.

“Thank you,” Hera said when he finished. “Now that wasn’t so hard, was it? Very good . . . and I’m off!”

“Hera,” Hermes pleaded. “The snakes . . . remove them, I beg of you!”

“Oh, don’t worry about them,” she scoffed. “You’ll get rid of them—eventually. Now, sleep!”

She snapped her fingers and Hermes went out.

“And when you wake in, oh, let’s give it ten tiny ticks on the sundial, you will remember none of this . . . only that you have slumbered peacefully,” she cooed over him as she folded the large adamant net.

Striding across the floor that showed the Britannia coastline in the early afternoon, Hera, without a backward glance, kicked a rooster that accidentally crossed her path and left the room.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Aphrodisias

“Are you feeling anything?” Iole asked Pandy.

“Nothing,” she replied, rolling the Eye of Horus around in her fingers as it hung about her neck. She extended her left arm at its new crooked angle. “Not a thing. You were right, Iole—it doesn’t fix immortal enchantments.”

“You mean curses,” Alcie muttered.

“Okay, this is nuts. I’m tired of waiting,” Pandy said, brushing the dirt and grass from her knees and legs. “He’s not coming and we have to get going.”

“I’m asking you,” Iole said, “why do you think he would just leave us? He inasmuch as said that he would be back.”

“Then where is he, Iole?” Pandy asked. The three girls sat on the grass as Homer paced back and forth. Pandy looked at Iole.

“I’ve formally called him. I used official and reverential words. Then I got less reverential and a little cutesy. I even brought my dad into it, saying he probably wouldn’t appreciate it if his best friend left his daughter on a mountain. And nothing.”

“Maybe he just wants you to say, ‘Hey, you with the silly hat!’ Try again,” Alcie said.

Pandy sighed.

“Swift Messenger, I call to you. Please Hermes . . . blah, blah, blah.”

“What’s with the blah, blah?” came Hermes’ voice from behind them.

Pandy was so startled that she turned too sharply and knocked Alcie over into the grass.

“Thank
you
!” Alcie cried, facedown.

“There you are!” Pandy said, rising. “I mean, I . . . didn’t you hear me?”

“Just now, yes. Which is, of course, why I’m here.”

“But not before?” Pandy went on.

“Heard you? Calling? No . . . don’t think so. I suppose Morpheus must have sent me some tantalizing dreams and I was just too wrapped up. But, here now, rested and refreshed. All is well. So, have you decided?”

“We have to go to Aphrodisias,” Pandy said, handing him the coin.

“Indeed you do,” Hermes said, palming it and flipping it into the air, where the coin vanished. “Nicely done, group.”

Suddenly, Hermes gripped his stomach, bending at the waist.

“Ooh!”

“What’s that?” Alcie said, turning toward the sound.

“Hermes?” Pandy asked, taking a step forward. She realized that she had never seen any of the gods vulnerable, physically distressed, or compromised in any way. It was a bit alarming.

“Nothing . . . nothing,” Hermes said after a second. “Have no idea what that was . . . probably just a bit of spoiled ambrosia or rancid nectar. Maybe one of those eggs we fried up this morning, eh, Iole?”

Iole just stared.

“At any rate, all gone now,” Hermes said. “As are we. Take hold of my garment one last time, if you please.”

As they all once again touched the silvery cloth, Hermes straightened.

“Don’t blink.”

Before any of them could think, the landscape shimmered, then began to speed past, and then they were thrown into pitch-black for several seconds. Almost immediately, with another shimmer that quickly slowed and stopped, the light returned and the world came back into focus.

The meadow and sheep were gone. Before them lay a wide road and brown, scrabble-hard hills on either side. Trees and a few travelers in the distance indicated the direction of the city.

“That was a rush,” Homer said.

“Are we there?” Alcie said.

“You are,” Hermes replied.

“Is
that
what happens when immortals disappear!” Iole asked rhetorically.

“No,” Hermes answered. “We don’t experience the darkness. We can see and comprehend the entire journey across any terrain. But it would be too much for your minds to grasp. So I put out the lights.”

“How far away are we from Aphrodisia?” Pandy asked.

“A little under five kilometers. A nice walk; you’ll be there in plenty of time for evening meal.”

“Time,” Pandy said. “We lost another fourteen days.”

“A full fourteen days. You are currently in your 76th day. Now, I am going to give you a piece of advice. Normally I would tell you not to visit Aphrodite’s temple after sunset; she’s not a night person, likes to sleep early and her temple priestesses rarely summon her after dark. However, this particular temple is still under construction and as such there won’t be much in the way of guards or activity after dark. I’d go then. There aren’t any priestesses on staff yet, no one to intercede on your behalf . . . but Aphrodite knows you, and she’ll still be keeping an eye on the building.”

“Thank you,” Pandy said.

“Not to worry,” Hermes said, then he grabbed his stomach again. “Ares’ blood . . . this is . . . unusual, to say the least. I may have to go see Apollo. It’s nice having a doctor in the family. Oh!”

He doubled over in pain.

“Can we help?” Pandy said impulsively.

“You . . . help?” Hermes smiled and grimaced at the same time. “You’re cute.”

He disappeared.

“All right,” Pandy said, gazing down the road. “Let’s go.”

Homer braced Alcie against him as Pandy took her other side. Homer’s left arm was free and ready; he looked around.

“Where’s Iole?”

“Right here!” she said, dragging herself off the side of the road. She was leaning on a rough, freshly severed tree branch.

“Walking stick,” she said, linking her right arm into Homer’s. “Ready.”

The four of them began the slow trek toward Aphrodisia.

“Gods,” Alcie said. “I can’t even see us and I know we’re a pitiful sight.”

“Less talk,” Pandy said, hugging her, “more walk.”

“. . . and because of the marble quarry close by, they established a school of sculpture, and Aphrodisian sculptors are world famous. My father is a collector; we have several portrait busts. Now, there’s an agora which lies between the temple and the acropolis . . . which is nothing like ours back in Athens, by the way. Not so large or important. And there’s a wonderful theater and probably the best stadium for athletics outside of Greece.”

“Tell her to stop,” Alcie whispered to Pandy.

“Shhhh,” Pandy said.

“I’m going to kick someone’s legs . . . hard!”

“We need to know this,” Pandy replied. “I think.”

“When my ears start bleeding, you will be responsible,” Alcie said.

“Now, the city took the name Aphrodisias only a comparatively short time ago. Before that, there seems to have been a smaller temple here dedicated to some sort of Mother Goddess of fertility. Apparently, when Aphrodite heard of this she did a little housecleaning, got rid of the other goddess, and now there’s a whole cult dedicated to her. Although, for some reason, they dress her differently in statues than we do back in Greece. And she’s a little more . . . square shaped. Boxy, if you will . . . not as curvy and not quite as . . .”

“Naked?” said Homer.

Alcie stopped in her tracks and just stared in the direction of Homer’s voice.

“What?” he said, getting her moving again as Iole went on.

“According to reports, the temple is quite something. Over forty columns.”

Then there was silence.

“And?” asked Pandy.

“And what? That’s it,” Iole replied.

“Sweet nectarines! I was actually praying to go deaf, too!” Alcie cried.

“Quiet, Alce, we’re almost to the city. And I think,” Pandy said, looking ahead, “that’s the temple just over there.”

“That’s it,” Iole said. “Matches the description.”

“Impressive,” said Homer.

“Describe it to me,” Alcie pleaded. “Hang on a sec,” Pandy said, looking at the sun sinking in the west. “We have a bit of daylight left, but I’m starving. Let’s find someplace to get a good meal. I am just not interested in dried fruit and flatbread right now and we have tip money enough to buy us a feast. I’ll tell you everything I can about the temple over evening meal, okay, Alce?”

“Deal,” she answered.

“I’ll tell you everything I know, too,” Iole said.

Alcie slumped.

“Kill me now.”

“Is this a dream?” Iole whispered.

“If it is, then we’re all having the same one,” Pandy replied.

Passing close by a building, Pandy became fascinated by the many beautifully sculpted faces set into the side. She noticed that this was commonplace on almost all of the buildings, and she also noticed the overwhelming number of statues of Aphrodite . . . but not the Aphrodite Pandy knew. Not the voluptuous vision. Not the one who had broken her arm. These statues showed the goddess well covered in matronly clothing, her feet unusually close to each other and, in every case, her arms were outstretched as if she were constantly giving . . . something. On her head was sculpted a crown, but about her neck, the citizens of Aphrodisias had placed dozens and dozens of necklaces on each statue. Pandy tried to focus, tried to recognize the immortal figures in bas-relief on the overtunic of each statue, but she was suddenly overcome by the music and a desire to dance. Looking at Alcie, she saw that Alcie, too, was moving in time with the music, feeling the overriding rhythm of the marketplace. Pandy grabbed Iole’s hands and the two spun in a circle. Unresisting, Iole started to laugh as the smells and sounds, the heady atmosphere, took over. Homer was trying to stay mindful of their purpose and goal, but he felt his body involuntarily relax a bit. That’s when he spied a dark-haired youth making his way toward Pandy and Iole, shaking a tambour in one hand. Swiftly, Homer stepped into the young man’s path and, with a glare that said “back off,” began moving the girls through the crowd, which was starting to become a bit unruly.

After Homer asked directions, they were pointed to a small, fairly crowded tavern named the Singing Artichoke at the far end of the agora. Homer settled Alcie onto a chair at a tiny table for four. A serving girl approached and began to hand out sheets of papyrus stretched over thick boards. On them, in a strange but perfectly readable language, was written the names of all sorts of delicious items that could be ordered for the evening meal: lentils cooked in saffron, bitter bulb salad with honey and sesame seeds, fried leeks with garlic, flatbread with truffle paste, and (“New item!” the menu read) chocolate cake with mint.

“I never thought I would be glad we drank a loony adviser guy in Egypt,” Homer said, referencing the ashes of the wicked Calchas and everyone’s ability to now perfectly grasp any and all languages, “but it, like, makes traveling a whole lot easier.”

“Gods . . . I don’t know what to choose!” said Iole, reading aloud for Alcie to hear.

“Let’s order everything!” Pandy countered.

“Works for me,” Alcie said.

As the heaping platters were set before them, Pandy quickly dished up a plate of bulbs, lentils, and leeks for Alcie, then one for herself. Just as everyone was about to take their first bite, the serving girl approached the table.

“If I may speak freely, sir,” said the girl. “You have three lovely wives. A tad young, maybe. Perhaps a little worse for wear, but lovely.”

“Figs!” said Alcie.

“They’re not my wives,” Homer said, answering the girl in her own tongue.

“We’re not his wives,” Iole said on top of him.

“Consorts?”

“No!” Pandy said, a little too loudly.