The Necklace of Aphrodite

The Necklace of Aphrodite

The Greek gods were supernatural beings of immense power, worshipped by the ancient inhabitants of Greece. They were conceived in human form and symbolized the fears and desires of mankind. They ruled the forces of nature, guided the sky, the earth, the sun, the rivers, the sea, the stars, the wind… and so forth.

And yet, despite being immortal, they possessed utterly human attitudes and behaviors—kindness, beauty, humility, and love… but also wickedness, selfishness, weakness, strength, and revenge. According to the ancient Greeks, the gods dwelled upon Mount Olympus. Olympus was that celestial dome in the sky—divine, inaccessible—where Zeus, Athena, Artemis, Hades, Hephaestus, Apollo and so many others lived out the eternity of their existence, supervising human affairs.

In that radiant city of divinity, elegance, and splendor dwelled Aphrodite—or “the foam-born”—goddess of love and beauty, of power and fertility, the most beautiful creature in the world. It was said she emerged from the sea and that no other being could compare. She was made of the purest beauty, of the rarest sensuality, of the sweetest words, of the most delicate charms and the most hypnotic eyes. Her figure seemed carved from the most perfect material in the universe; her movements were music, and her hair resembled the softest clouds in the landscape. So much beauty, so much perfection and so much power resided in Aphrodite.

Yet even when her charms were irresistible and her results unfailingly certain, she craved only superficially the worship, desire, and obsession of gods and immortals. Behind that appetite to be adored and venerated lay her deepest hunger—to be loved. The elixir of her eternal life was the devotion others deposited in her. Always praised, always desired… but loved? She had not been loved because she had not been known. Her soul was untouched and her heart a perfect, uninhabited terrain. She was desired for what was seen of her—for her character and her natural charm—but not loved for her essence.

For this exquisite goddess, love was the currency she had never possessed. She was rich in desire, obsession, and devotion, yet she did not know true love. And although she secretly longed for it, she did not believe it possible.

“Aphrodite, my dear creature! Are you alone here? You should not wander at this hour of the day! You should go to your petal fountain. Are there not enough flowers, roses, and leaves there?”

Hephaestus’ voice echoed with hardness and interrogation through the white marble chamber. Aphrodite walked gracefully, gathering pink heart-shaped petals from the most delicate and aromatic flower of Olympus.

Without lifting her gaze from the tiny petals, she whispered to her troubled husband—who uttered words of unreciprocated passion and never paid attention, appearing rather ill-tempered:

“Oh, my husband. I assure you I am just fine here, collecting these beautiful heart-shaped leaves. Are they not divine? But then again, everything here is divine! And if it is my solitude you are worried about, perhaps you would like to stay and walk with me for a while… I would welcome the company.”

She offered a slight smile and the gleam in her eyes became evident. Aphrodite longed for company, presence, and consistency—not fleeting passions and burning words.

“My lady! What are you saying! I must be off. I leave you in the company of your lovely leaves.”

Hephaestus disapproved of Aphrodite’s volatile and changeable nature, and though he admired her beauty, he felt intimidated and uncomfortable whenever she attempted conversation. He frowned and withdrew, limping away, leaving Aphrodite alone with her thoughts and her eternal time.

“For the suns, a moon; for the moon, a sun; for the birds, the wind; and for the wind, a love…”

Aphrodite sang with honeyed sweetness, her hips swaying from side to side and a smile painted on her face. She loved being alone, loved collecting asymmetrical heart-shaped leaves, and singing that ancient song.

She finally left the chamber in search of a change of scenery and perhaps something to drink. As she pondered her next move, like a cold martial arrow, Ares appeared. Dressed in red, his features were sharp, his large hands rested at his sides, and he walked with heavy steps—almost marching.

“Oh, Aphrodite! What is the sun in comparison to your beauty? I ought to remove that blazing star and place you in the firmament—you shine brighter, my precious creature! With every passing millennium, with every sigh of my heart, you are the sovereign of my passions. One kiss from you would restore calm to this defeated soldier, fallen prisoner to your charms.”

His words were resolute, and with each syllable pronounced, his neck flushed redder.

“If what you say is true, then I ought to hide from you, for I do not wish to be anyone’s sun. I am quite content simply being luminous—and indeed, I am. Besides, do you yourself not indulge in countless other affairs? It is ignominious of you to be here! I ask that you mind your words. But if you desire my affection so dearly, you may accompany me on a walk. It guarantees you nothing, but it may help me hold you in greater esteem.”

She delivered the last part with shrewdness, fully aware of the effect she produced on men. She glided toward the exit with precision and ease, scattering pink heart-petals as she went. Their aroma filled the air.

Ares was stunned—he could make no sense of Aphrodite’s games, her words and actions always contradictory. He followed and quickly caught up to her.

“Across the highest mountains, the deepest seas, the wildest jungles and the sandiest deserts—everything the earth below has offered, everything I have seen and everything I have destroyed: the fallen men, the brilliance of battle, the waters dyed red and the scorching fire that burns the enemy alive. None of my passions compare to you! To you! You are the most addictive substance in the universe!”

Ares resembled a volcano on the verge of eruption; his warlike passions and violent nature became flattering and compliant beside Aphrodite, as happened to all men—mortal and immortal. Beside her he became a volcano that did not erupt, but simmered slow and hot… only a little time and it would become a spectacle of chaos and disorder.

“Oh, Ares! I am immensely disappointed that you cannot conceal your desires. You know well we have nothing in common; the battles and blood-baths you recount only disgust me. I ask that you recognize my fragile resistance to such mundane matters. Men kill one another, stab each other in the back as they embrace in brotherhood. They are exceedingly strange! Your passions for me have no justification. If I am indeed addictive, you will do everything in your power to obtain an antidote and resist. Now release my hand, for I will leave.”

The goddess of love withdrew her hand with feigned indignation and a slight smile at the corner of her lips—revealing she was intrigued and excited, yet wished to be conquered with greater attention and passion.

Upon the golden staircase engraved in shades of pink and green, Ares remained after Aphrodite departed, leaving behind her delicious scent and the echo of her words.

I will do something tremendous and grand to dispel her doubts, he thought. I will have her heart for myself. She will be mine.

He strode away toward where he knew best what to do—the land of men.

Mortals were the most elaborate contradiction; their feelings and actions exposed the fragility of their character. Their instincts and governments perpetuated clear cycles of violence and confrontation that reduced their populations. They longed for peace and the moment they achieved it, desperately created war. They were unhappy in happiness and happy in unhappiness. Yet despite all this, they were romantics. They possessed the ability to bestow meaning upon what held none. They crafted relics that were nothing but wood and dust, and through the power of their ideas and convictions, transformed them into the most precious objects.

And the most precious of objects deserved to rest beside the most precious goddess of Olympus. Aphrodite. His beloved.

“I know what I must do to win the heart of my goddess of love. With her I will live the sweetest honey, the warmest and longest spring afternoons; through her water will taste like purified sky and the wind will wipe the dust of my past. With her I will have everything—all I have ever desired! Oh, Aphrodite! You are the key to my salvation!”

Ares was intoxicated by fiery emotions—elevated feelings and a new fervor that coursed through his entire being. Would Aphrodite be the salvation of his eternal existence, or merely the beautiful toy that promised to purify him? Is love a tool that forces us to become better in order to conquer the beloved? Is the beloved the highest of all creatures?

Oh, Aphrodite! Soon you will discover that a necklace will be the perfect trap to strike your uncharted heart and leave it bleeding—bleeding with love. Is pain justifiable through love?

With the silent twilight as his witness, Ares departed Olympus in search of a gift for his beloved. He waited for the opportune moment to vanish into the darkness of the night, to slip between earthly sounds and make an unequivocal display of his passions. Aphrodite did not know it, but Ares was doing far more than he had ever done for anyone.