Lady of Marble: Rebels of Olympus, #9

By Michele Amitrani

Can a heart beat inside stone?

 

Young Pygmalion is haunted by a dark past. Fatherless, betrayed by his mother, and forced to run away from home, he vowed to never rely on other people to survive.

 

After a childhood plagued by hardship, Pygmalion finds solace in practicing the noble art of sculpting.

 

His inventive mind makes him the most successful artist in Greece, but his proud stance against love earns him the hate of the goddess Aphrodite.

 

When his greatest artistic achievement forces him to reevaluate everything he believed in, it begins a journey to rediscover life's meaning.

 

Will Pygmalion be able to dispel the ghosts of the past, or will he succumb to his inability to relate to other people and never find the true meaning of love?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michele Amitrani
• Release date: Mar 29, 2024
• ISBN: 9781988770703

Book preview

1

THE ART OF DOMISTITE

Iwas ten years old when I found out how my father died. Domistite was a painter who spent all his life in Amathus, a city on the southern coast of Cyprus famous for the magnificent temple to the goddess of love, Aphrodite.

He was a mediocre artist. The proceeds from the sale of his paintings were not enough to feed his family, so he was forced to work other jobs.

Throughout the years he was a carpenter, a potter, and a barber. Although he did not possess a real talent, he always returned to painting.

It is art that makes us similar to the gods, Pygmalion, he told me one evening, as he massaged his calloused hands after a hard day’s work.

The gods? I replied, frowning. "Us, Father?"

Of course. He smiled at me. The Titan Prometheus stole the sacred fire and gave it to humankind. He endowed us with enterprise and ingenuity, and on that day we turned into more than simple beasts. We became god-like, capable of creating wonders.

I swallowed. What you say… I trailed off, glanced around the room. It…it isn’t blasphemy, Father?

It isn’t. A firm reply that showed no doubt. It’s what makes us who we are. Never forget that, my son.

My father’s love for art was second only to his love for my mother, Argona.

Every day Domistite would bring her a gift. These were small things—he couldn’t afford anything else—like a bouquet of flowers, a seashell he found on the beach, or a brooch he made with his hands.

One day, as I was helping him weave flowers to create a garland for my mother, I asked him why he gave her gifts.

To remind her I never take her for granted, was his reply. Love is like a flower, Pygmalion. It is something that must be constantly cared for, otherwise it withers and dies.

Argona was a tall woman with long raven hair and dark brown eyes. Domistite often reminded me she was considered the most beautiful girl in her village.

Look at her, he said, pointing to my mother with a rapt look. Isn’t she perfection? A work of art in the flesh.

Argona always accepted his gifts with a smile that lit the room. The following day, when my father left for work, she would always throw the gift out of the window.

Bury it before your father comes back, she would say dryly, without looking at me.

Disposing of Father’s gifts had always been one of my chores, like emptying the latrine and sweeping in front of the door. I had never asked why; it was something I took for granted since I had always done it. I thought that was what any woman did: bury the gift the day after you received it. Wait for the next one.

Then came the tenth anniversary of their marriage. Domistite gave my mother a small terracotta sculpture he made for the occasion: a woman and a man embracing each other. It was the most beautiful gift he had given her, and I suspect it had required weeks of hard work.

When the next day my mother ordered me to bury it, I asked if I could keep it.

She turned to me sharply, eyes narrowed to slits. Keep it?

Yes, Mother. I swallowed hard, avoiding her stare. It’s beautiful. Can I… Can I keep Father’s gift?

Mother took my face into her hands. This isn’t a gift, my heart and soul. She shook her head. "It’s garbage. You need silver to afford a proper present. Your father never had coins. You want to see a real gift? She fished something from under her robe and showed it to me. It was a bronze pendant in the shape of an elaborate spiral. It had a large sky-blue stone set inside it. This is a gift. This is the way a man shows his affection to a woman."

I stared at the object. Did Father give it to you?

My mother slapped me so hard it made my head spin.

Didn’t you listen? she hissed, her eyes bright with rage. I said your father only ever gave me garbage.

I rubbed my cheek as I glanced at her. She had a strange expression on her face as she stared at the pendant. A twisted smile touched her eyes.

I had never seen her smile like that.

I should have noticed the change in her behavior much earlier, but there are things that escape the eyes of a nine-year-old, clues that become clear only when examined in hindsight, like the time I saw her leave the house in the middle of the night, while father was sleeping, or the hole in the garden where she hid a silver box.

All the clues were there, but she kept things concealed until it was too late.

She received other gifts over the next weeks, one more beautiful than the next: earrings, bracelets, pendants, small ivory figurines. She would show them to me when we were alone, singing their praises.

Did you see how much love I received today? she said as she showed me an iron ring with a large red