Stone Blind(8)

*

Hephaestus built his own forge, behind the halls in which the other gods dwelt. He was there more than not, happiest alone making things. He would create anything – from clay, bronze or stone – and it was always the most exquisite object. He remained as he had always been: disliking any kind of conflict unless he had built the armour for the combatants himself. And even then he only wanted to see how it fared in usage: whether his spear design could withstand the shield he had crafted, reinforced with layer upon layer of leather. He would indulge the whim of any god who asked. Artemis murmured to her brother that it seemed impossible anyone so amenable was related to Hera, and Apollo nodded as he admired his sister’s new quiver and her beautifully weighted bow.

*

But Zeus’s temper did not improve. He could be placated with gifts but the improvement in his mood was always transitory and the following day he would be as irascible as before.

‘What?’ Hera eventually asked him, when he reduced his cup-bearer to tears for the third time in a day. ‘How can you keep being angry with the poor boy? He does nothing except fetch and carry for you, exactly as you desire. You’re making him miserable and he isn’t even nice to look at when he cries.’

‘I know,’ Zeus said. ‘How is it that women cry so prettily and men don’t?’

‘I can’t imagine,’ Hera replied. ‘But he’s wept all over the floor, and if I slip and fall I shall blame you.’

‘I don’t care who you blame,’ her husband replied. ‘I don’t care what you do so long as you do it quietly.’

‘Are your ears hurting you?’ she asked.

‘No,’ he said. ‘Be quiet.’

‘Is your laurel wreath too tight?’

‘No. I don’t think so. How could something made of leaves be too tight?’ he asked.

‘I don’t know, I just wondered.’

‘Do you think the king of the gods can be injured by leaves?’ His rage was mounting.

‘I think something is making you angry,’ Hera snapped. ‘And it isn’t the quality of nectar that boy brought you.’

There was a long pause. His bearded face darkened with anger; her solicitous expression did not change.

‘My head aches,’ he said.

‘I didn’t quite catch that.’ Hera leaned forward, turning one elegant ear towards him.

‘I said, my head aches.’

‘A headache? That’s why you’re in a filthy temper?’

His golden eyes glittered. ‘You get enough headaches, and they put you in a terrible mood.’

‘Well, thank goodness you always manage to find comfort elsewhere,’ she replied. ‘Why haven’t you asked one of the centaurs for help?’

‘Is that what you do?’

‘They’re good at herbs, aren’t they?’

‘I think so. Apollo would know,’ he said.

‘He might even go and ask them, if you stop screaming at him for the slightest thing.’

‘You could ask him?’

‘I’m sure that would help. Perhaps if I told him you were sorry you smashed his lyre?’

‘I’m not sorry.’

‘Perhaps if I pretended you were sorry.’ They stared at one another. He loved her when she was like this. It was a pity she was so often angry.

‘Very well,’ he said. ‘Pretend I’m sorry.’

‘Yes, husband,’ she said. And she kissed him gently on the cheek before walking away to explain to the archer that his help was required, broken lyre or no.

*

The centaur produced a concoction of uncertain origin and off-putting hue. Apollo brought it to Hera, explaining that he had only just acquired a new lyre from Hephaestus, and had no intention of losing this one also. She would have to take it to Zeus and suggest he drink it. Hera walked through the lofty halls and light-filled precincts until she came to a small dark chamber, which Zeus had now made his own. She had transferred the potion to a golden cup, to try and improve its appearance. As she poured it, she thought that if anything, she had achieved the reverse: the potion looked just as unappetizing, and somehow the cup looked worse.

‘Husband?’ she said.

He groaned in response.

‘I have the centaur’s medicine for you.’ She pulled the thick curtain aside, and even the slight increase in light made Zeus groan again. ‘Here.’ He was lying on a couch, his head propped up on cushions, and she held out the cup.

He took it and drank in one long pull. His grimace showed her that it tasted at least as unpleasant as it looked. But he did not shout or hurl the heavy cup at his wife. He simply sank back into the cushions and waved her away.

Hera found herself in the upsetting position of being worried about her husband. She had no experience of this: the greatest threat to Zeus’s wellbeing was usually her.

*

But in the days that followed his condition did not improve. The halls of Olympus – which always rang with music, arguments and chatter – had fallen silent. Hermes had found a sudden rash of messages to be delivered. Ares was fomenting some small war to keep out of the way. Aphrodite was distracting herself with a handsome lover somewhere. Artemis was away in the mountains hunting, Apollo had gone with her. Hera found herself wandering alone, hearing her footsteps echoing back from the surrounding mountain peaks. She was both anxious and bored.