For the Most Beautiful by Emily Hauser Page B

you say, Hera. A thousand ships is far too many.’ Zeus sips at his nectar with supreme nonchalance. He has had his throne moved out into the garden of his palace to get a breath of fresh air, and he must say he is enjoying it. He watches, amused, as a butterfly flits towards him, lands briefly on his hand, and then, unaware that it has just communed with the divine, flies off again. ‘Pass the ambrosia, Hermes. You’re taking it too personally.’
    â€˜Personally?’ snaps Hera. ‘How am I supposed to take it, when Paris gave the prize to that tart?’
    Aphrodite, who is reclining near the rose bushes on a chaise longue forged from golden cloud, raises one arched eyebrow, but says nothing. She does not need to. No man, not even a god, would let a goddess so beautiful go undefended.
    â€˜I really don’t see what the problem is,’ Hermes says, popping a bunch of ambrosia into his mouth, then passing the remainder to Zeus. ‘You asked Paris to judge, and he did. I’m afraid you may just have to admit, my dear stepmother, that Aphrodite won the contest fair and square.’ He grins at Aphrodite, who gleams a smile back at him.
    Hera ignores Hermes and continues. ‘I’m the queen of the gods,’ she thunders at Zeus. ‘I’m your wife! And look at Athena – your own daughter!’ She motions to Athena, who is sitting beside her, her arms crossed over her breastplate. ‘Don’t you want to teach the Trojans to show us a little respect?’
    Zeus sighs and turns his goblet round in his hands. ‘It’s not that simple,’ he says. ‘We can’t just burn down the city of Troy because of a slight to your beauty by one Trojan prince.’
    Hera puts her hands on her hips. ‘And why not?’
    â€˜Because there is more to it than just you, my dear wife. We are supposed to be looking after the mortals, in case you’ve forgotten. This is a job we’re doing. Do you remember the last time I had a holiday?’
    Hermes starts muttering something about a summer trip to the Ethiopians, but Zeus silences him with a single gesture.
    â€˜Exactly. We look after them, answer some of their prayers, and in return we get honour and praise and the fat from their sacrifices. In short, we need them, they need us. We can’t just wipe them out.’
    â€˜Who said anything about wiping out?’ asks Hera. ‘It’s just one city, not the whole race of men. All I want is Troy.’ Her eyes flash. ‘And I might remind you, Zeus, that you’re not so holy either. Remember the flood? When you tried to wipe out the whole earth because one man didn’t pay you enough respect?’ She snorts. ‘And you say I’m overreacting.’
    Zeus passes over the reference with regal indifference.
    â€˜It might be “just Troy” to you,’ he says. ‘You’d batter down the gates singlehanded, given the chance. But you know how much I love that city. Priam and his sons are good people. They never leave my altars empty. I won’t punish them, not even for you.’
    She hesitates for a moment, thinking. The fountain at the centre of the garden – a dolphin spraying nectar from its snout – tinkles in the silence. Then she glances at him from the corner of her eye, a sly look on her face. ‘Maybe not for me. But would you do it for a city?’
    Zeus’ head jerks up, so that his beard ripples like the River Styx. ‘What do you mean?’ he asks.
    â€˜I’ll do a deal with you,’ says Hera, leaning forwards. ‘Give me Troy, and I’ll give you three of my most beloved cities in return. How does Mycenae sound? And Sparta, and Argos? Imagine – whenever you feel like it, I’ll step back without a word, and you can smash them to the ground. The three biggest cities in Greece,’ she adds seductively.
    Zeus is clearly tempted. Everyone knows that Mycenae and