A. S. Field: Aphrodite wants to die

He still sits there in the agora by the well today. His smile is like a shining ray of sunshine, his hair is wavy, wind-blown golden wreath. His gaze is provocative and lustful, there is definitely something wild and sexy about him. His body is like that of the gods, and his skin has a golden glow. They call him Ares; it's not a very good name, you can't even call him a nickname. Let's say, mine is not to be complained about either, it means one who rises from the foam. It's funny because I can't even swim; I would just sink in the foam, not rise from it.

My mother wanted me to be called that; it was her last wish before she died of childbed fever. They say I look like her, and I'm beautiful. My dusk-colored hair falls in lush waves to my hips, my cheeks are like those of the mountain nymphs, my stature is like those of Artemis' deers. My father calls me Dite, or come here, girl. He quickly gave me over.

As soon as I was fourteen he sent me to the temple to be a servant of the slut goddess after whom I got my name. That's exactly two years. I'm mostly a slave to the priests, and to everyone else who pays for me. Of course I don't see any of the money; because thirty percent is my father's, the priests spend the rest on whatever they want; mostly on themselves. They call it all a cult, but I think it's slavery and forced prostitution; but I have no schooling, so I can't understand the lofty things.

He looks at me. He's eating a pomegranate, the blood-red juice running down the corners of his mouth. Looking at him makes me feel naked, I blush, my skin is burning; I'm sure my neck is red too. I can't speak, although I'm a good talker, but I peek at him. Everything in me tingles from his smile.

He speaks for both of us. He keeps boasting about his countless adventures, and I think that at such a young age he couldn't have participated in so many battles, so many adventures and loves. I want him. Really. Finally, I want to be with someone I want, someone I desire, someone I like, someone who doesn't pay, and someone who is kind and gentle. Someone with a beautiful face and body, clean and fragrant. Someone who would caress, stroke down me, pamper every inch of my body. But he only has his mouth. He never invites me anywhere, even though I could find some excuse to spend half an hour a day with him. He never comes to church either. Maybe he doesn't have the money, or he doesn't want to pay because he's a pretty boy and he can get anyone for free, just like he could get me anywhere, anytime. I'd even stand in a doorway with him like street whores. But he just talks while I fill the jug with water. Even now he just keeps talking about what heroes he fought with in the Trojan War, even though that was long before I was born. In fact, before my father was born, almost fifty years ago, and he's barely twenty. Just another impostor who thinks I know nothing about the gods and that I believe he's the Olympian himself. A braggart who won't redeem me from the priests anyway, just like the rest, no matter how much they promise. But his eyes! His eyes are like the summer sky reflected in the water of the bay.

I don't know, I don't want to believe that my life means that. I can't accept that this is how my days and years are spent, that I serve the lords and have to endure all the humiliation and abuse. Whether they are happy or sad, we will take the short cut. According to rumors, it will be no different now, because our lord has clashed with the lord of the neighboring town. There will be war if they don't make peace; and they won't, because it's not worth it for either of them, since they can only get each other's treasures, cattle and slaves by fighting. The lives of soldiers and peasants are worth nothing, so let them die. At least there will be fewer hungry mouths to distribute grain to during a drought. They are hateful. Only plunder, nothing else. Nothing is ever enough for them. As unlucky as I am, the other lord will surely win, and then that's it for us. All those bloodthirsty, starving soldiers, whipped by murder and fear of death are flocking here. It doesn't take much brains to figure out what this would mean for us. For me.

I haven't seen Ares for days, but today he's sitting by the well again. His bird is on his shoulder, the red crest of which can already be seen from afar. He's eating roast meat. He's tearing it like a wolf a goat with his snow-white teeth. I imagine him gently plowing my skin with them. His tongue, with which he licks the shiny juice from the corner of his mouth, lingers on my neck and chest. I'm trembling at the thought. I can barely hold the jug while the servant draws water into it.

He's chattering again. He's staring into mine, boasting that he's the one who made my lord and his neighbor fight. He's already looking forward to the fight that's about to break out. I've never seen him like this before. He's excited like a little boy. His eyes are on fire, his dilated pupils are a sharp contrast to the blue of his irises. His whole body is tense and soaring with freedom at the same time. He explains his tricks and intrigues with which he forced the war. I stare in amazement. Who is this boy who has access to the lords and has such influence over them that he calls them to battle.

I listen to his chatter and see him as beautiful as never before. He stands up from the well in excitement, his body leans towards me, his face leans towards mine. His figure seems to have grown, when he was sitting I didn't even think he was so tall, he almost towers over me. His muscles swell like those of athletes, the tendons are stretched to the point of breaking on his arms and legs. There is a sun crown around his head, his hair is almost on fire in the light of the setting sun. His skin is like amber, shining and velvety, his breath is sweet and bitter. He is wonderfully beautiful, there are no words to describe how beautiful he is. And repulsive. A horrible monster. The gods could have sent him to us in revenge for our sins or because we didn't sacrifice enough to them.

They're always unhappy with us. They're always punishing us for something. Anything. Just when they get up on their right or left feet. With some, you don't even know why they're angry, because it's almost always about everything. The sacrifice wasn't enough or it wasn't appropriate. It was too cheap or the location wasn't to their liking. I didn't cut with my left hand, I didn't pick it up with my right, or vice versa. they didn't want it in the evening, they didn't want it at sunrise. I wasn't wearing the right clothes, my hair wasn't tied up or the opposite. I'm not appropriate because I'm a temple prostitute. As if I could do anything about it. As if I wanted this fate for myself.

And now here he stands before me, named after the god of war—or is he the Ore-Covered One himself, I don't know—and he is as beautiful as a woman could wish for, and he delights in what brings me and my people to misery and death. I would like to scream at him, hit him, kick him, so that he would come to his senses, so that he would stop listing the horrors, but I cannot. I am a slave. I cannot raise my voice, I cannot even speak, unless he gives me permission.

I lower my eyes so that he cannot see my anger, my despair, but I am shaking so much that my hand cannot hold the full jug. I can hardly hear the crash, I only see the terror in the eyes of the servant who draws the water. The jug breaks into a thousand pieces, the water splashes over both of us. Cursing, he shakes his sandaled feet angrily, his hands clenched into fists. I dare not look up, I do not want to see what he looks like when he is angry. He is the object of my adoration, my hatred and my fear at the same time. Someone who could be everything, yet in an instant he is nobody and nothing to me. An enemy who attacks my life and ravages our city, destroys and tramples our already miserable life. I cannot stay here with him any longer, I run to the church.

The priests, of course, punish me for the jug. They don't beat me, because with a body stained blue and green and a swollen face they wouldn't be able to ask for money for me, but they pass me from hand to hand for days and rent me out to the most disgusting men. I have almost no rest. My body hurts terribly.

The enemy attacks me in this state. Since I couldn't even go out into the street for days, I didn't hear the gossip, I didn't see the terrified people fleeing. My days consisted of continuous service and washing. Service. What a beautiful word for violence and brutality.

I can't even describe the horrors we experienced. The priests, the church girls and boys were pulled and dragged by their hair. Anyone who resisted was killed like a day-old lamb at the sacrifice. We, the ones who remained, walked through the hell for days.

There is a point when almost nothing hurts anymore. When the body no longer reacts to pain; the soul closes, distances from itself. You have to suffer a lot until this moment comes, but from then on I don't remember anything, and that's fine.

I came to my senses at dawn, everyone around me was either in a drunken sleep or half-dead, unconscious. I will never forget how my best friend, little Daphne, lay against the wall, naked, bloody, covered in wounds. Her eyes were wide open, staring into nothing, her breathing was barely perceptible. I pulled and tugged in vain, but she didn't respond to anything, even though she was alive, her body was warm, feverish, yet she didn't move; she didn't even blink. I couldn't cry, I just knelt beside her emotionless, feeling nothing. I didn't feel sorry, I didn't feel anger, fear, pain or sorrow. I was empty like the broken jar at the well. The well. Ares. I see before me his golden hair, his velvety skin. That beautiful man. He did this to me. To all of us.

I went out into the street, into the square. Everywhere there were dead or dying people. Young, vigorous soldiers, old men, women, small children. And that silence. The heavy silence filled with immeasurable pain. Only the flies buzzed everywhere.

I walked down to the river. On its banks the sacred grove had been set on fire, my bare feet were walking on gangrenous stubble, but that didn't hurt either. I waded into the foam to wash away the blood that had been drying on me for days, but I just stood in the knee-deep water and let the rising sun warm my body.

What happens next? Where, to whom do I go? I will be a slave to any lord, as long as I live. My beauty will fade, my body will age prematurely torn and broken. When I can no longer work, I will be put on the streets, not fed. I can beg for the rest of my life. But I have absolutely no desire for that. I walk further in, where the water reaches my waist, then my chest. Then I push myself into the water. I float on my back, my arms and legs spread. I didn't even know I could do this. Maybe the name obliges me after all.

The sky is beautiful. It is just as blue as my love's eyes. Ares, I whisper. I chant his name as the weak current carries me down the lazy river. Ares. Ares. I feel him bending over me, embracing me. His arms wrap gently around me, his lips hover over mine. His golden hair falls on my face, his scent is like a mixture of sweet honey and bloody citrus. He pulls me to him, lifts me up and flies me up, up into the beautiful summer sky.

THE END