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Chapter Eighteen

Hebe

F ortunately, the rest of our chariot ride is uneventful. We drive off the path, jolting over every stone until an alternative path rises. This one leads to a stone building rising in the distance.

I lean forward, both to put some distance between Prometheus and me— not that there is much of a point of it now— and to get a better view of the building. Back at the village, all our homes are built from clay, and our stone altar has no shelter from the elements we ask it to shield us from. The few travelers who have reached our village spoke of stone buildings, but this is the first I’ve seen of one with my own eyes.

It is a circular building with a wall curved around the entrance. The wall isn’t tall enough to obscure the view of three tall statues on either side of an equally tall stone door. The two statues on the left are feminine while the one on the right is clearly a man— or, well, a masculine god. He doesn’t look a thing like Atum, though, since the statue’s hair flows around a face that is hard rather than kind— and not just because it is made of marble.

The building is only partially visible since the rest of it vanishes into the hill it is built next to.

Prometheus brings the chariot to a halt, and two women wearing flowing garments like Prometheus’ hurry from behind the wall. They bow and then hasten to attend to the horses.

Another woman, this one much shorter than the others, strides out next. Her garment is cut the same as the others, but it is dyed the same shade of pale green as Atum’s mask was.

Atum seems to remember his mask when he sees the woman, because he touches his face. He seems flustered to not be wearing it.

The woman doesn’t seem to mind as she bows before him. “Your High Priestess welcomes you.”

“Rise, Klea. You know that isn’t necessary.”

At his words, the High Priestess stands. Her golden-brown curls are coiled high on her head, making me realize she’s even shorter than she first appeared. There is a heavy scent of spices about her, and her sharp eyes are focused on Atum.

“Tell me how you would like to be served,” Klea says.

“See to it that Prometheus and his new bride are well attended to. Oh, and please ensure that these are seasoned and stored properly.” Atum hoists the sack of meat out of the chariot.

Klea doesn’t see it, however, since her focus has finally darted to me. Her eyes widen. “She’s mortal.”

“Indeed,” Atum says, only a hint of strain in his voice as he continues to hold up the sack of meat.

“But you said such unions between mortals and Primordials are unheard of!”

“They are, and shall continue to remain so for me .” Atum adds this part quickly in the same tone the kinder village boys used when confessing they had no plans to pursue me. “But you are witnessing the dawn of a new age, Klea.” His words would be more dramatic if he didn’t lose his grip on the sack just then.

Two more women appear to deal with that. I step off the chariot to assist, but then Prometheus grasps my hand and leads me toward the temple.

“Leave it to the priestesses,” he says. “You are of too high a station for such things.”

I purse my lips, but I’m too weary to argue. Instead, I glance toward the statues we’re approaching. “None of those look like you or Atum. In fact, if I didn’t know better, I would say this was a temple to Persephone and Demeter.”

“It is.” Prometheus nods toward the masculine statue. “There’s Hades.”

“Believe me,” Atum mutters as he walks past us, “we both hate being associated with each other.”

“Associated with each other? I don’t understand.”

A wide grin stretches across my husband’s face, and he nods toward the statue of Persephone. “That’s how Atum is represented by you Greeks.”

“Is it any wonder I prefer my Egyptian name?” Atum mutters as he disappears into the temple.

I turn to Prometheus in surprise. “I don’t understand.”

“Due to a very complicated series of misunderstandings— it’s actually a hilarious story I am unfortunately forbidden to retell— Atum is known to your people as the god dess of spring.”

We step into the dark temple entrance that is illuminated by the open door and high windows that don’t reach the center of the room. Despite the shadows, I can still sense Atum’s glare aimed at us— well, Prometheus.

I glance between Atum and back toward where I can no longer see the feminine statue. “That must have been quite the misunderstanding.”

“It was.” Prometheus chuckles. “Mayhap when we are fully bonded, I can tell you.”

“You most certainly will not,” Atum mutters, sounding almost petulant.

Prometheus leans a little closer to me, his voice dropping low. “Unlike the rest of us, Atum is capable of dying like a mortal. But instead of staying dead, he traverses through the entire Underworld and is born again because of his authority over life.”

“So, I can see how springtime might be associated with him, but what about the godd ess part?”

Atum turns to glare at us over his shoulder.

Giggling, I pat my husband’s arm. “Fine, just tell me this. If he’s Persephone . . . does that make you Demeter?”

Prometheus stiffens, apparently not expecting that line of reasoning.

Atum laughs in surprise.

And that is how the High Priestess finds us. She appears to have sacrificed her sense of humor long ago, because her expression remains hard in the face of our laughter. “Should I summon Sia for you, O Reborn One?”

“Not yet. Alert him of our arrival and ensure he has everything he believes the ritual will demand. We can begin at moonrise, but there is a mortal in our company with needs to be metp.”

“And what of you?” the High Priestess asks, hurrying to keep pace with him.

“I must meditate in my chambers until dusk. Attend to the newlyweds!”

Prometheus leans toward me. “We try to keep the fact that he becomes mortal a secret even from his own acolytes. They would be who his enemies would capture and question.”

My gaze darts up to him, though he remains focused on Atum’s retreat. “There are those who would lay hands on a priestess?”

“We are at war, and both mortals and Primordials have been known to misuse those loyal to Atum.” Prometheus wrinkles his nose, and for a moment, I think it’s a display of compassion fueled by disgust. Then he turns back to me with that same disgust. “Unfortunately, Atum is waiting until his full power has returned before we begin the ritual. He’s using you as an excuse.”

I step away from Prometheus. When did we draw so close that I was leaning on him, anyway? “He isn’t wrong. It would be good to rest, dine, and— if possible— bathe before any bonding.”

“I can assist you with that, goddess.”

Startling, I turn to see that the High Priestess must have sent an acolyte to assist us instead of coming forward. “I-I’m not a goddess.” Not yet, at least.

The girl is young— barely even marriageable age. “Which need would you prefer met first?”

The lion meat and waterskins have satisfied the worst of my hunger and thirst. I am still quite weary after the journey, but the thought of lying on a bed in my current state is abhorrent. “A bath, please.”

“Oh, yes,” Prometheus agrees. “She certainly needs it.”

I glare at my husband, but then the priestess is striding deeper into the temple. Hurrying to catch up with her, I glance around the stone walls we pass. Stone columns uphold the domed ceiling.

The priestess turns to the right and pushes open a heavy door.

On the other side is a room with no light except what we let in. At least not until the priestess lights a bowl-shaped beeswax candle.

Our guide goes deeper into the darkness, touching her flames to candles only she can see until the entire room is illuminated.

Now I can see that this round, domed room has a deep cut in the center of the stone floor filed with water. There are several stones set up against the wall rounding the pool. Most bear a candle, but some uphold bottles of ointments, and at least three bear stacks of garments.

The priestess goes to one of the stones bearing ointments and pours a generous amount into the pool. “The waters have been prepared.” With that, the priestess moves to walk past us, apparently confident that we have all we need.

I narrow my eyes at the garments, trying to determine if they are masculine or feminine. It is hard to tell with their flowing cuts. “Is this the men’s bathing house, or the women’s?”

Lips parting in surprise, the young priestess turns back to me. “Only the High Priestess and we panageis live within the temple. The priests and torchbearers live among the people and come only on the holy days. The bath house is sacred to us women, but it belongs to our Guardians when they honor us with their presence.” She casts a wide-eyed look of adoration at my husband before bowing again and backing away— apparently overwhelmed by his oh-so-honorable presence.

A moment later, the stone door is closed between us and the rest of the temple.

I turn to Prometheus. “If you desire to bathe first, I will wait outside.”

Prometheus glances at me in surprise as he removes the lion skin draped around his shoulders. “Why? You desperately need a bath now . And Atum might recover any moment now and summon us for the ritual.” Snorting, Prometheus undoes his chiton rope next. “It’ll be easier to bond with you if you didn’t smell like dirty river water.”

“Well, it would be easier to bond with you if you ever said a kind word.”

Prometheus removes the clasp on his sleeve, causing his chiton falls away. His muscular physique threatens to make me a liar. Just now, it seems like it would be quite easy to bond with him . . .

“You barely speak at all, so it seems strange that you should comment on my actually using my tongue.” Prometheus’ hands move to his perizoma .

I quickly avert my eyes. “What are you doing?!”

“Bathing, just like you ought to. Don’t tell me your people are too primitive for such things.” The sound of swishing water accompanies his words.

“I know how to bathe perfectly well. But men and women do not do so together .”

“And I’ve never shared a pool with a mortal. But since you are my wife— and because you stink— I’ll make an exception. You can make one, too.”

“I’m sure we have enough time if I just wait until you’re finished . . .”

“ Woman ,” he growls.

I glance at Prometheus before I can stop myself and find him in the pool, leaning against the edge. His arms are braced like he’s about to climb out and come after me.

Darting to the opposite side of the room— as much as a circular room can be described as having sides— I accidentally put out a candle in my haste. The room becomes more comfortable with more shadows shielding my eyes.

“Hebe, my stubborn bride,” Prometheus calls, “it would please me if you saw to your basic needs before you force me to take matters into my own hands.”

Panicking, I put out another candle and— for lack of a better word— bathe this corner in darkness. “Can you see me?”

“No, but I can smell you just fine.” Prometheus moves as if to swim across the pool that is only about six cubits wide.

“Stay over there!” I cry, staring at the water. It is far more enticing than the muddy creek water I haven’t had the opportunity to wash off yet. I would give anything for a bath.

Anything except completely surrender to my new husband.

“ Hebe.”

“I’ll bathe.” I put out one more candle just to be safe. “But only if you stay on your side.”

Prometheus grunts like he’s not sure I’ll actually comply, but he retreats to his side. He’s also no longer looking directly at me, so I hope that means he can’t clearly see me.

I strip quickly before I can second-guess myself. Unfortunately, my speed nearly causes me to lose my balance. The last thing I need would be for Prometheus to have no choice but to rescue me while I am naked. His insults are cruel enough when I am fully clothed.

Finally, I slide into the water, feeling a little better now that it covers me. I do my best to pretend that the person on the other side of the pool is just my cousin’s wife.

Since Prometheus is has apparently dismissed me now that I’m complying with his wishes, it’s easy enough to do. The only sounds are splashes as he makes use of the oils for his hair.

I avert my eyes and focus on using the pumice on the nearest stone to scrape the filth off my skin.

Then Prometheus just has to open his mouth. “Atum tells me there is a mortal bonding tradition you haven’t shared with me yet.”

The pumice falls from my hand and splashes into the water as my gaze darts to his.

Prometheus smirks, leaning against the wall of the pool. Even if he can’t see my reaction clearly, I know he heard it. “Tell me, my now less odorous bride, what do you know of kissing ?”