I had been coming to the Biblioteca Vallicelliana since its ignoble beginnings as a place for educated men with dangerous points of view to gather in secrecy. Barely a mile away from Vatican City, the walls of the papal palace could be seen from the rooftop balcony. It was a daring affront, and these men of science, alchemy, and letters would toast the health of the Pope before falling to their discussions and study. I was there for it all. In secrecy of course, in the shadows… but I was there.

Pieces from my own collection had seeded the library in its early days—where else would they have acquired such dangerous pieces of literature—and I continued to donate manuscripts and scrolls when I felt the need, or when a particular topic struck my interest. The city had grown up around the library, and the power of the church had waxed and waned, but the books… the books retained their magic and their ability to inspire. I had little patience for mortals; their time on earth was so short, while their time in my domain was, well, eternal.

It was fascinating to me how much mortality, and the fear of ‘disappearing’ after death seemed to fuel such passionate creativity. If only they knew they would continue on… just not the way they expected.

I stared at the books in front of me, and chose one at random… but perhaps it was not random that my fingers had fallen upon it. An archaeological journal devoted to the excavation of a temple at Dodona.

Taking cues from Herodotus, Homer, and Apollonius of Rhodes, the archaeologists had sought the origins of worship of oracles, knowing that there must be more than Delphi at which penitents could worship and receive the words of the gods.

When Zeus discovered Hera’s treachery, he went to Dodona. The Dione, four priestesses of the oracle, had been dedicated to him since the founding of the city and they dispensed prophecy in his name, interpreting the sound of the wind as it passed through the sacred oak tree that had grown on that spot for centuries. It sounded ridiculous. Priests and priestesses dedicated to listening to the sound of the rustling leaves… but sometimes, they were hearing my brother’s true voice. Though he seemed to only lend his insight when the penitent was particularly beautiful.

But Zeus didn’t go to Dodona alone. He needed a witness, and the only god qualified to accompany him was his son, Apollo.

The god of oracles and prophecy, my nephew had only vacated his seat at Delphi at his father’s command. I watched as he struggled to remain neutral, but his rage at his stepmother’s betrayal, and that of his own twin sister, had filled him with poison. I knew it was dangerous for them to go together to confront the oracle, but, as usual, they ignored my counsel.

I had watched from the cistern on Olympus as they approached the temple in disguise and spoke to the priest who interpreted the words of the Dione. Each moment was etched upon my memories with diamond precision. I watched the man laugh and show his blackened teeth as he told them of the prophecy. Watched as he confirmed the curse that had been laid upon the gods by the vengeful goddesses.

Hera’s spite had infected Zeus’ own oracle, and the words of the Dione echoed up to me, and probably in the ears of my brothers and nephews scattered across the heavens.

“How can it be reversed?” Apollo had cried. “Every curse has a mirror, every prophecy an alternate…” But the priest had laughed in his face and the Dione answered him instead, their voices echoed in the oracle’s chamber as they spoke with one voice:  

I watched as Zeus and Apollo struggled to control their emotions as they recognized the names and titles of their kin—sisters, wives, and daughters. The laughter of the Dione and their priest bounced off the marble columns and into the courtyard.

My own fists were clenched in rage as I realized Persephone’s part in all of this. Of course it had been she who had come to Hera’s aid. Who else among the goddesses was so uniquely placed to assist?

Persephone. Artemis. Amphitrite. Aphrodite. Athena. They had all done it. They had united against us, and there was nothing we could do to reverse what had been done.

Overcome with rage at the defilement of his own oracle, Zeus revealed himself in all his divine glory, and the lightning storm that split the skies over Dodona set fires that could be seen burning for hundreds of miles. The bolts he threw cracked the marble plinth beneath his colossal statue and split the great oak tree in half.

Following his father’s lead, Apollo pulled the temple down on the heads of the tainted oracles and their priest, finally cutting off their laughter. It righted no wrongs, healed no hurts, reversed no curses… but it must have felt damned good.  

If only the archaeologists had known what had really happened at Dodona. It wasn’t the Christians who dismantled the temple and burned the sacred oak. But the mortals could keep their fictions. How would the truth be explained, anyway?

I ran my fingers over the sketch of the temple precinct. Here, where the great oak had been split by Zeus’ thunderbolt. His prophecies would never whisper through those leaves again. There, where Apollo had thrown off his wool cloak and revealed his golden curls. A photo of the rubble that was once a great colossal statue of my brother. Dodona had been his favorite—his first sanctuary on the Hellenic Peninsula. And he had reduced it to rubble.  

It was Persephone’s hand in all of this… that was what had left me cold. It would have been easier for her to retreat to the villa I had built her in the Underworld for the duration of her time with me. Hate I could stomach with little difficulty. I would have baskets of pomegranates delivered to her doorstep for each day of our six months together, and I could bask in the knowledge that with each day that passed she would hate me more, and yet would never be free of me. But lying… lying to my face.

I gritted my teeth as I wondered again if I could have stopped all of this; if I could have halted Hera’s revenge—

“Excuse me…” A quiet voice, almost familiar, dragged me from the deep recess of history and I felt rage at being drawn out of it so abruptly.

I slammed the book closed and turned on whatever hapless mortal had chosen to interrupt me. I had allowed myself to slide deeper into my memories than usual, and I did not regret that some of my power leapt forward as I turned. While there was no good time to disturb me, this was quite possibly one of the worst.

“What.” I fairly shouted the word, and a chorus of “Shhhh!” rippled through the library in immediate response. I glowered at the aged faces that glared in my direction before looking down at the mortal who had interrupted me.

A pair of wide brown eyes stared up at me through a pair of black-rimmed glasses that were sliding down the nose of the argumentative librarian I had met in the mezzanine.

He had been bolder than any other mortal I’d met before, arguing with me over a trolley full of ancient books. The librarian. Over the last few weeks, he had been watching me as I stalked the halls of the Biblioteca Vallicelliana, and if I was reading his nervous expression and flushed cheeks correctly, he had been doing more than just watching me.     

He wasn’t afraid either. That was new.

The young man held something clutched close to his chest.

“What do you want.” It wasn’t a question.

“Signore de Sarno sent me to bring this to you,” the young man stammered. “You requested this specific copy of the Divine Comedy.”

Shit. I had.

“Give it here,” I snapped.  

Gideon. That was his name.   

The young man handed it to me carefully; his eyes were bright, and held mine unwaveringly. But as our fingers touched, I saw him flinch ever so slightly.

That was all I needed, that inch of surrender.