Aphrodite's Choice

Chapter 29 – The Livid Goddess

The nymphs were no stranger to Aphrodite’s tantrums, so they immediately retreated from the room with heads bowed, each one fearing that they would be subjected to her wrath. What surprised them was when she turned her back to them without so much a word and grabbed the bouquet of flowers hanging on the wall behind her. She proceeded to beat it against the floor and began stomping on the petals as well. Her companions were aghast. Even in her previous bursts of anger, the goddess spared certain things, things that she loved. They all knew her fondness for flowers and her actions right now were more than disquieting to them.

Had there been another god in the room, he or she could have easily calmed down Aphrodite and talked sense into her. But there was no one. The nymphs were certainly not going to risk their necks pointing out that the goddess of beauty was overreacting. The depths of her anger were certainly new to her, but in her rage, she wasn’t able to see it.

A cold sensation suddenly cut through the haze of anger clouding her mind. It was as if she was on a sandy beach, the coming-and-going of the surf cooling one’s feet. Aphrodite looked down and saw that the water from the now-broken vase was causing the color to bleed from the rose petals strewn all over the floor. It looked like her feet were bleeding profusely. The sight upset her and she bewailed, “How could he do this to me!”

It was the last straw. The room, along with the rest of Aphrodite’s palace, began to shake as if there was an earthquake that could touch Olympus. Pillars began to shake as if they were legs of drunken men, dust fell from the ceilings like so much flour, and the floor rattled like the teeth of shivering mortals. But the nymphs knew better: like any god or goddess, she had immense powers to do just about anything. Destroying something made of mortar and stone took her as much as effort as to tear sheets of parchment with her bare hands.

Through the panicked screams of Aphrodite’s nymphs, a stern voice cut sharply through the noise and into the goddess’ consciousness.

“What is happening here?”

The goddess of love blinked, the rage within her dissipating like the water flowing from an overturned jar. Just as quickly, the world around them stopped trembling, much to the nymphs’ relief. If it was anyone else, she might have quickly snapped at him. Or her. But this wasn’t just anyone. In fact, this was not someone you even raised your voice at.

“Athena.”

“Yes, that’s me. I’m glad you still recognized me,” the other deity said with a disarming half-smile. Without giving her a chance to respond, much less think, Athena went on, saying, “Aphrodite, I’ll start by saying that I hope you feel better to see me as the messenger. And…”

***

The banquet table was set up beside a huge marble fountain where a dark red wine flowed through instead of water. The table itself was groaning under the weight of so many dishes containing delicacies from all over the table. Ambrosia, the famed food reserved only for the deities, were everywhere as well. It was time for the feast again, a tradition that began after Zeus and his generation of gods and goddesses took power from the older ones, one that was observed every tenth day.

With their foes vanquished, there was nothing to distract the residents of Olympus from their perfect, immortal existences. Bored, many of them turned to the mortal world. The more altruistic ones aimed to help suffering humans. Others had malevolent and malicious motives. All were motivated by the fact that after the war between the gods and goddesses, they were free of the daily grind of challenges which occupied every waking moment of mortals.

Whatever their reasons, the results of their actions were a mess, to say the least. Zeus, despite having his fair share of such transgressions, recognized the need to stop his brethren. Hence, this tradition: if they were too drunk, too full, then they would be too preoccupied to think of interfering in other worlds.