The Ruin of Eros

Chapter Three

I don’t know how many pillars make up the temple, but it is certainly more than a thousand. Perhaps many thousands. Now in the sun, it glows like fire, the most imposing thing I’ve ever seen. They say that some gods spend all of their time on Olympus and hardly venture into the mortal world, while others like to reside in their temples from time to time. I think that if I were Eros, I would like to live in this temple. It is a sacred place. Even on the stillest mornings they say a wind tears through here, like a herd of wild horses galloping.

“Shade at last,” I say to Hector. “Perhaps the priests will have water for you.”

For the priests are starting to emerge from the temple. Their gold and white robes shine in the sun, and the High Priest and High Priestess lead the way. They move easily, although both of them are blind. Whether they were born blind or suffered some childhood illness that left them so I do not know, but it has always been this way at the temple. They say it gives them better vision for the realm beyond ours. When I was little, I was friends with a girl who was blind. I am told she is one of the young priestesses here now.

The priests descend the steps slowly, a dozen of them moving in elegant formation. Our carriages are all drawn to a halt, waiting. The temple stands on the crest of the hill, ringed around by olive trees and rows of vines, its painted marble bright against the green and yellow land. It smells of rich earth here, and of wine.

The crowds behind us are close within earshot again now, laughing and ready for the party. I turn around and search the crowd, just now emerging over the rocky summit. There’s the king in his red palanquin—I don’t envy the servants who had to carry it up this hill. There’s Yiannis and his parents, and that horrible Vasilis. Even from here I feel I can see his watery eyes on me, fixed on the parts of my body where they shouldn’t be.

There’s my father and, behind him, her pretty face pulled into a bored pout, Dimitra. Tall, thin, beautiful, her dark hair shining in the sun. A cheer goes up as the king reaches the foreground of the temple and joins us, and the crowd surges up behind him.

And now two priests are leading out the white bull they have readied for the sacrifice. It gleams in the sun; they have washed it and anointed it already. All the way from Crete, a gift from the Demous for the temple. After the sacrifice, the bull will be roasted and all the people of Sikyon will eat.

As the bull is led out before the crowd, the cheers intensify. The bull is held fast by a rope around its neck. I see its heaving breaths; I can feel its agitation.

The other charioteers are starting to dismount. I see some of them look back toward me—mostly the girls, mostly with dislike. They hate that I was chosen for this. But two priests are walking across the foreground toward our chariot: Hector and I have one last piece of the pageant to fulfill, now that everyone’s in place.

As if by magic, Yiannis appears beside me and takes the reins.

“You were magnificent,” he murmurs in my ear, his voice a purr. “Now go—your crown awaits.”

This is the last piece of the pageant. Hector and I will come forward, and the priests will crown us each with a wreath of white roses. Then we’ll stand with them for the sacrifice.

It’s a shame to get blood all over such a dress.

My stomach roils, but I tamp the feeling down.

“Come on, Hector,” I take his sweaty young palm in mine.

There’s a strange energy in the crowd behind us and around us. It’s the same energy that was there before, but in this holy place it feels amplified. There’s a hunger in the air, a hot desire like wolves on the hunt. There’s a rumbling around us, and the crowd breaks out gradually into a chant. It starts as a murmur and grows.

Aphrodite.

Aphrodite!

Aphrodite!

It is as though something has taken them over. When I glance around at them, it scares me a little. Somehow it feels as though I am about to be sacrificed and not the bull.

They’re shouting Aphrodite’s name, but it’s me they’re looking at—not at the temple, not at the statues and paintings that adorn it, not at the marble figure of Aphrodite placed in the olive grove next to that of Eros. It’s as though they’ve forgotten where they are. It’s as though they’re worshipping me.

I kneel, pulling Hector down beside me. I feel the eyes of the crowd as the priestess approaches us, two crowns in her hands. I just hope they removed the thorns.

She looks to the crowd, and then down at Hector, who’s beaming with anticipation. A shadow crosses over her face, and it sends a chill through me. She leans forward and places the crown gently on his head. Cheers erupt behind us. Then she turns to me.

I meet her gaze, although something in me is afraid. I don’t know why. She studies me for a moment.

“So, this is the face they say is more beautiful than the goddess herself.”

I do not think she is making fun of me, or even reproaching me. If anything, I hear something like regret: the voice of someone who knows it’s too late to change what has already been done. She looks at the single wreath of white roses that remains in her hands, and then out toward the crowd. Then she sighs, and lowers it onto my head.

I feel it settle, but barely have the time to notice its weight, because something is happening now in the sky. That breeze I felt earlier: it’s back, but now it’s more than just a ribbon of cold around my neck. It’s like a wall of damp, freezing air, and out of nowhere the sky has turned a roiling grey. A minute ago there was not a single cloud; now it could almost be nightfall.

The white bull paws at the ground; the horses shy and whinny. I feel a hush go over the crowd, a moment of uncertainty. The king hesitates, then steps forward. There is a script to be followed. Storm or no storm, he means to proceed.

“Great Aphrodite, Great God Eros,” he intones. “In your honor we bring this snow-white bull, and the best of our season’s wine…”

But his voice trails off as the wind whips louder, drowning him out. There’s no doubt of it now: this is no ordinary storm. I look at the priestess, but she won’t meet my eyes. The crowd’s nervous murmuring breaks into shouts.

“The gods are displeased,” a townsperson says.

“We must hurry the sacrifice!” calls another.

The murmuring is a rumble now. The townspeople are staring at me, but not as they stared before. The wind does not whip around them like this. It punishes only me.

My hair flies in wild hanks around my face and I try to claw it back from eyes, but it’s entangled in the crown of roses. The wind howls once more, and then I scream in pain as the crown, with my hair still knotted in it, is wrenched from my scalp as if by a mighty hand. Beside me Hector gasps as the crown sails through the air, losing rose petals in a flurry as it wheels around, then collides furiously with the steps of the temple, falling in a heap on the dusty ground. I put a hand to my stinging scalp.

“Your daughter, Andreos!” someone shouts. “What is this? What has she done!”

And that’s when lightning splits the sky.

There’s a blinding light, then a high shriek, humans or animal, I can’t tell. There is a terrible, searing sound, then pandemonium, and when I can see again, here is what I see:

The white bull is dead.

It lies on the ground, charred, a circle of scorched earth all around it. I’m too shocked to cry out. I stare at the circle of earth and the bull’s body inside, and I know it beyond a shadow of a doubt, as everyone else must too: this is the work of the gods.