Lovely War(2)

Most people would flee at the malice in that deep voice. But not Hephaestus. He’s not afraid of the massive god.

“Don’t waste your breath on him, Ares,” says beautiful Aphrodite. She turns a withering gaze on her uniformed husband. “For a hotel this expensive, the service here stinks.”

Hephaestus, god of fires, blacksmiths, and volcanoes, ignores the jab. He eases himself into a soft chair and stretches his misshapen feet before him on the carpet, then addresses the battle god, who is indeed his brother. Both are Hera’s sons. “Service everywhere has gone down the toilet since your latest war began. All the good men are overseas.”

“Where they should be.” Ares thrashes again at the golden net. He tries to conjure a weapon from thin air. Normally this would be effortless for him.

“No point,” advises Hephaestus. “Might as well be mortal, for all the good your power’ll do you. My net blocks you. Can’t have you escaping.”

Aphrodite, goddess of passion, turns her back upon her husband. He catches her gaze in a long gilt-edged mirror.

“You disgust me,” she tells his reflection. “Jealous, cringing dog.”

“Jealous?” Hephaestus feigns surprise. “Who, me? With a wife so loyal and devoted?”

If his words sting Aphrodite, she doesn’t let it show. She pulls her blue jacket back on over her blouse and knots a fetching little scarf around her neck. “Well, you’ve caught us,” she tells Hephaestus. “Netted like two fish in a stream. What do you plan to do with us?”

“I’ve done it” is his reply. “Step one, anyway. Put you under arrest.”

Ares and Aphrodite look at him like he’s mad, which is possible.

“Step two: offer you a plea bargain.”

Aphrodite’s eyebrows rise. “Offer me a what?”

“A deal,” he says. “Renounce this chump, and come home with me. Be my faithful wife, and all is forgiven.”

The clock on the mantelpiece gets two or three clicks in before Aphrodite begins to snicker. Ares, who has watched for her response, now guffaws with laughter. Too big, too loud, but he’s relieved, and he’s never been a good actor.

“You think she’ll leave this for you?” He flexes his many (very, very many) muscles. They swim like dolphins under his glowing skin. The removal of his shirt has done glorious things.

Hephaestus is drowning inside, but he’s come this far and he sticks to his plan. “You reject my offer?” he says. “Then I’m taking you to trial on Olympus.”

The net, which had lain over them like a heavy blanket, now encircles and encloses Ares and Aphrodite like a laundry bag, while a chain hoists them upward. Their divine limbs, so impressive in marble statues, jumble every which way uncomfortably. The netting bag rotates slowly through the air, like a ham curing over hot coals.

“What are you doing?” Aphrodite cries. “You put us down at once.”

“Your court date has been moved up,” answers the bellhop. “Father Zeus will officiate at the bench, and the other gods will form a jury.”

The goddess of beauty has turned a delicate shade of pale green. The spectacle of the entire pantheon of immortals howling and cackling at her mortification! Nobody knows the sting of gods’ mockery better than a god. And nobody knows your weak spots better than sisters. Those prissy little virgins, Artemis and Athena, always looking down their smug, goody-goody noses at her.

Bagged like a chicken she might be, but Aphrodite still has her pride. Far better to bargain with her husband in a swanky Manhattan hotel than to quail before her entire family.

“Hephaestus,” she says smoothly—and Aphrodite can have a brown velvet voice when she wants to—“is there, perhaps, a third option?” She sees her husband is listening, so she presses her advantage. “Couldn’t we just talk this out here? The three of us?” She elbows Ares. “We’ll stay in the net and listen. Ares will behave. Surely we don’t need to drag others into such a private matter.”

Hephaestus hesitates. Privacy is Aphrodite’s domain. A hotel room practically gives her a home-court advantage. He smells a trick.

But she does have a point. He, too, has pride to sacrifice upon the altar in hashing this matter out publicly.

“Let me get this straight,” he says slowly. “You decline your right to a trial by jury?”

“Oh, come off it,” says Ares. “You’re a blacksmith, for Pete’s sake, not an attorney.”

Hephaestus turns to his wife. “All right,” he tells her. “We can do it here. A more private trial. I’ll be the judge.”

“Judge, jury, and executioner?” protests Ares. “This kangaroo court is a sham.”

Hephaestus wishes he had a bailiff who could club this unruly spectator on the head. But that’s probably not what bailiffs are supposed to do.

“Never mind him,” Aphrodite tells her husband. “You’re already sitting in judgment upon us, so, yes, be the judge if it suits you.”

Ares laughs out loud. “Tell you what, old man,” he says. “Fight me for her. May the best god win.”

Just how many times Hephaestus has imagined that satisfying prospect, not even his divine mind can count. The devious and cunning weapons he’s devised, lying awake and alone at night, plotting a thousand ways to teach his cocky brother a lesson! If only.