EVERY LITTLE GIRL wants to be a princess, but no one wants to be a queen. Even before the word became a synonym for men dressed in women’s clothing lip syncing to 70s disco hits, fairytales and folklore conspired to relegate the title to witches, hags and whores. And if they did happen to be ‘good’, they never died a natural death. Either they were poisoned by booby-trapped fruit, or they had their beating hearts ripped from their chests by some un-manicured mercenary while their would-be replacements laughed and fucked the fickle king. Historical figures barely fared any better. They were either ruthless virgins, despite the syphilis and mysterious six month absences, or they were having it off with their brothers while the country burned around them. Or they were so boring that the most newsworthy aspect of their existence was their failure to die.
But in spite of the image problem, Hera rather enjoyed being queen. It gave her a sense of purpose quite apart from the duty-bound drudgery of being an Olympian. True, being married to Zeus had its drawbacks but on the whole it was an acceptable trade-off. In particular, it gave her access to certain sources reserved for the highest office in the realm, and as long as Zeus could be trusted to keep his mouth shut, it gave her a considerable information advantage when it came to staying one step ahead of the Council.
Hera’s brilliant red robes flashed like a stab wound along the stark marble corridor. It was so early that not even the palace pets were awake, but not so early that the darkness was without shadow. There was still plenty of time to meet her source undetected and return to bed long before the mountain of her husband rumbled sleepily onto her side of the bed, ‘accidentally’ propositioning her with his royal thunderbolt; a boyishly optimistic ruse she still found charming after all these years.
As Hera approached the pretty rotunda at the bottom of the garden, she felt a chill whip through the air and settle over her like a gloomy afternoon. This was all the confirmation she needed that her source was close at hand; yet there were others. A green and yellow patch of sky, like an old bruise, seemed to hover above the rotunda, illuminating it with a sickly spotlight. Most telling of all, however, was the citrus smell of death, licking seductively at the yawning edge of morning as it rubbed its eyes and stretched out towards the day.
The cloaked figure leaned quietly against a column on the far side of the rotunda. Only a thin foot was visible under its voluminous garment. Not exactly grotesque, it was hardly a pedicurist’s dream either, with toes that curled over like claws as they traced a spiral on the dusty stone. In the thin light, the skin appeared to be a pale grey, but in more favorable conditions it was closer to combat fatigue. Whatever the color, it was not a hue that inspired joy. Rather, it was the color of embalming, of reptiles stored in glass bottles, their dead eyes peering out in venomous contempt.
‘My queen,’ said the figure, lifting her hood and letting it fall back to reveal a face of surprising beauty. Surprising, because the skin was still the color of camouflage and the hair was a shock of silver. But the yellow eyes were luminous as a full moon and the purple mouth held the promise of passion. Discounting her coloring, and perhaps her unfortunate toenails, the demonic princess was as beautiful as any of her Olympian counterparts.
‘Megaera,’ said Hera, holding out her hand. ‘It is a pleasure to see you.’ Unlike many immortals, Hera had no fear of the Erinyes, or ‘Furies’ as they preferred to be known. Although the whole of Olympus relied on the three sisters for their regular fix of gossip and rumor, most were deeply suspicious of the trio and many were outright terrified. As the only beings who could travel freely between Hades, Earth and Olympus, they possessed a power that was little understood and therefore demonized. That suited the Furies just fine, because it allowed them to pursue their true desires at a distance, while appearing to do little more than pedal the fluff that filled the idle minds of immortals.
‘I am honored to be at your service,’ said Megaera. Her voice was low and husky and slightly masculine, like a 1930s movie star. It lent a certain air of sophistication to the radio show that she and her sisters broadcast weekly from various covert locations, raising the tone of what was essentially a montage of tabloid schlock.
‘Of course,’ said Hera, handing her a small red velvet pouch that exactly matched the color of her robes. Inside was a set of smooth pearlescent stones, which, when rubbed together the right way, would allow Megaera and her sisters to set up a temporary frequency vortex between Hades and Olympus. It was a mystery to even the geekiest of the geek gods how the Furies managed to continue their salacious broadcasts without detection, little suspecting that it was Hera herself who facilitated the subterfuge. Although to be fair, they were all so addicted to the backstabbing and bitchiness that none of them had tried particularly hard to crack the code.
Hera’s view of gossip was much like the view held by the Furies themselves. While her agenda was different to theirs, she was equally supportive of the notion that the more trivialities you fed the masses, the more inclined they were to ignore what was really going on, even when it was marching past them with snare drums and baton-twirling majorettes. Her patronage, therefore, was essentially self-serving, and she was careful to infuse the stones with only enough power to last until she herself needed information or a favor, which, on average, was once every couple of hundred years. Recently, however, the frequency had increased.
‘I require a portal,’ said Hera, not bothering with pleasantries.
‘Into Hades?’ said Megaera, raising an eyebrow. It wasn’t unheard of for the Olympians to travel to Hades, but it was highly unusual. And for the Queen of the Heavens, it was extraordinary.
‘Why in Hades would I want to go to Hades?’ snapped Hera. Sometimes she wondered whether the Furies were as dim as the mindless drivel they pedaled. ‘I require a portal from Hades, of course.’
Megaera’s eyes narrowed. ‘The dead,’ she said, ‘are best left to the dead.’
‘Oh please,’ said Hera, gathering her robes around her as an icy breeze whipped through the portico, ‘I have about as much interest in dead mortals as my husband has in monogamy.’
Megaera frowned. ‘I don’t follow,’ she said slowly, punctuating each word with a perfect smoke ring, although she wasn’t actually smoking.
Hera sighed, as if disappointed with a puppy who had once again pissed in her favorite urn, despite treats, threats and divine intervention. ‘The portal I require is for one of us. Or rather, one of you. I need to speak to his son.’
‘His son,’ breathed Megaera, turning a slightly paler shade of pallid. It wasn’t really a question, yet she seemed to be waiting for some kind of response.
‘Hades’ son,’ said Hera, resisting the urge to glance impatiently at the sky. Of course, the infuriating Fury knew exactly who she was talking about, but for some reason, she seemed determined to drag things out until dawn. Slowly, elegantly, Hera yawned. If this was the game they were playing, she would play it until the end, because more than anything, she needed that portal. ‘Plutus,’ she added, with a condescending smile.
‘I knew who you meant,’ said Megaera sullenly.
‘Oh good,’ purred Hera. ‘Then we have a deal. I’ll let you know the time and place.’
‘Very well,’ said Megaera, her expression difficult to read. As she started to slip into the shadows, Hera thought she caught a faint hint of something in the pale yellow eyes.
‘Wait!’ she commanded.
Megaera had no choice but to obey. Slowly, reluctantly, she turned around to face the goddess. ‘Yes, my queen?’
‘Tell me about the mood in Hades,’ said Hera.
‘The mood?’ said Megaera. Again, her eyes flashed something that Hera couldn’t place. Despite the rapidly approaching day, she was determined to get to the bottom of it.
‘The mood, the tone, the ambiance,’ said Hera, waving her hand expansively. ‘What is the vibe, if you like, from Hades himself?’
Megaera took a step back, her arms outstretched. ‘Who put you up to this?’ she hissed. ‘My sisters?’
Got you, thought Hera, although exactly what she had ensnared, she wasn’t quite sure. ‘Your sisters had nothing to do with this,’ she said, rising up to her full queenly height. ‘And I am the one asking the questions!’
Megaera shrunk back further still, until she was almost teetering on the edge of the portico. ‘I shouldn’t have come here,’ she breathed, her purple lips quivering. ‘I must go back.’
‘Not before you tell me what is going on.’
‘I can’t,’ whispered Megaera.
‘What do you mean you can’t?’
‘I can’t tell you,’ said Megaera, her hair floating up around her in eerie tendrils, as if propelled by an invisible wind machine, ‘because I don’t know. Hades is AWOL.’
‘AWOL!’ said Hera at the top of her voice, temporarily forgetting that she was on a clandestine mission. ‘AWOL how? Where? With whom?’ But before the concept of AWOL could be clearly explained to her, Megaera had disappeared in a puff of noxious odor.
AWOL my Olympian ass, muttered Hera as she hurried back towards the palace. The dawn was creeping rapidly over the horizon and she didn’t have much time to scrub the smell of death from her skin before she slipped into bed beside her snoring husband. The thing was, Hades was confined to the underworld. For eternity. There was nowhere for him to go. Unlike his son, who had been known to make a nuisance of himself on Earth from time-to-time; a trait she was about to exploit.
In the inky pre-dawn, a solitary light glowed above the palace entrance, as misty and indistinct as a streetlight in London, moments before a murder. But no heinous crime was about to be committed, at least not just then. Rather, the goddess of garter belts and giving trees was merely muttering under her breath, cursing the useless Furies for making up stories, brazen as you like, which were not only obvious bullshit, but dangerous bullshit too. ‘Bunch of drama queens,’ she started to say, and then stopped herself. It was time for a new paradigm, one in which the lazy and entitled daughters of the grown-ups who did all the actual ruling were exposed for the spoiled, manipulative bitches they were. ‘Bunch of drama princesses,’ she corrected herself.