The others fled. Alone in the central hall of her palace, the giant figure of Pythia swayed back and forth. Softly she hissed to herself, “Why? Why has he burdened himself with women?”
FORTY-SIX
The fire fiends continued to hover close, but Horatius would not be deterred. The burning globes did not attack him again however. “They seem more inclined to hinder you than to harm you,” Pepan remarked.
“Perhaps I can’t be harmed in the Netherworld.”
“Make no mistake; you can. Only in the Kingdom of the Dead is there total safety, and you’re not dead.”
“What about you?”
Pepan replied, “As long as I remain outside the kingdom I too am vulnerable.”
“Yet you choose to remain with me?”
“I do.”
Horatius paused for a moment and turned to look the other man squarely in the eyes. “I owe you a debt,” he said.
“You do not. I am atoning for failing your mother and grandmother a long time ago. I made them a promise I could not keep. Now, through you, I have a second chance. If anything, it is I who am in your debt.”
They struggled on. In time they found themselves skirting a broad plain that stretched almost to the horizon. The ground was littered with immense slabs of limestone like a giant’s paving stones. Leafless, spiny plants thrived in the gaps between them.
When Horatius tried to go over for a better look, the fire fiends closed around him, attempting to prevent him. Stubbornly he forced his way forward. When he reached the first of the stones the burning globes drew back. “It looks as if they can’t follow us here. We can escape them now, Pepan! Come on!” He ran onto the limestone plain and began leaping from one stone square to another. Pepan hurried after him.
The fire fiends hung in the air at the edge of the rocky expanse like a swarm of frustrated hornets. The tiny plants growing between the stones crisped and flamed, only to immediately reappear, then burn again.
The rough-surfaced stones were split and fissured, frequently unstable, shifting underfoot. Running proved impossible and Horatius and Pepan were forced to slow to a walk. The young man felt an uneasy prickling at the back of his neck. Beneath the lurid red sky that was not a sky, the plain had an eerie, haunted quality. “What is this place, Pepan, do you know?”
“I cannot say I do, much of the Netherworld is unexplored, but … look over there, Horatius.”
Pepan was pointing toward a massive framework emerging from between two slabs of stone. Like the ruin of an ancient building, a set of curved vertical timbers clawed at the sky. Horatius went to take a look. Moments later he called over his shoulder, “These are bones, Pepan!”
The Lord of the Rasne hastened to join him. Together the two gazed down at the ribcage of a giant skeleton, crushed and broken, slowly being freed by natural forces as the stones shifted and the soil wore away. Once a creature of monstrous size had been buried there. Now all that remained was its decaying frame.
“What was it, Pepan?”
The older man studied the bizarre shape, running his hand over the hard surface. “No creature you or I have ever seen. Nor are these actually bones, not as we know them. They are made from some other substance entirely. Not stone, but not bone either.”
“Can you say what the creature looked like when it was alive?”
“I cannot even say if it ever was alive. This is the Netherworld, remember. Earthworld life is alien here. I … where are you going?”
“There’s another one over there!” Careless of his footing, Horatius trotted off at a tangent across the stony expanse.
Pepan caught up with him as he bent over another recumbent form. This one was much smaller and of a different shape. It included a skull of vaguely human proportions but with curving tusks and a bony crest across the top. From the shoulder blades spread a fan of bones that might once have supported wings. The entire skeleton reminded Pepan of something only glimpsed in dreams.
They found another, a human skeleton, with the skull of a bull and curving horns. Beside it lay a creature that had the body of a horse, but the foreparts of a man. A few paces farther on was a huge skull that possessed three sets of eye sockets, three gaping mouths.
Pepan crouched to rub his hand over the three-faced skull. “May the Ais forgive us,” he whispered. “I believe we have stumbled into a graveyard of the gods.”
“But the gods are immortal, surely.” Horatius was staring down at the perfectly preserved skeleton of a man—but a man four times taller than a normal human. He tried to imagine a limit to immortality and failed.
The two continued on their quest. Horatius was troubled by what they had seen. From time to time they found other relics, each hinting at some mystery, some legend. He paused by each one, struggling anew to understand the mystery.
Gods die.
And if gods can die, what hope for man?
He was turning to put the question to Pepan when he heard a low groan. The sound was soft and musical, so sweet that at first Horatius thought he was hearing a song or a melody played by the wind moaning through the bones of dead gods.
When it came again, he followed the sound to its source.
At the foot of a towering vertical stone that pointed to the crimson sky was a pit littered with bones. A huddled figure lay in the bottom of the pit. “Pepan! Look here!”
The Lord of the Rasne hurried over to put a cautionary hand on his arm. “It might be a trap.”
“Or it could be someone in pain,” argued Horatius. As if to confirm his words, another moan sounded from the pit. He shook off Pepan’s hand and jumped down. His companion could only follow, shaking his head.
When Horatius and Pepan tossed aside the piled debris of ancient bones and knelt beside him, the being opened his eyes. Orange eyes. Star-shaped eyes set in a pale but perfect oval face, surrounded by a mane of curling, golden hair like the petals of a flower. He was very beautiful but he was not human.
When he saw them he groaned again and closed his eyes.
“Who are you?” Horatius asked gently. “Can we help you?”
The voice that answered was very weak. “You cannot help me. I am dying.”
“Are you wounded?”
“No, merely starved.”
“We have no food.”
“I need no food.”
“Who are you?”
“Why do you care? But if you do—I am what you call a god. A once-god.”
Pepan tensed. “Be careful, Horatius.”
“You need not fear me.” The orange-eyed being attempted to sit up. “I am the one who should be afraid of you. My enemies have sent you to mock me in my weakness. I take satisfaction from knowing that their time will come. One day they too will lie here and wait for oblivion.”
Horatius crouched beside the god. With tender care he gathered the being into his arms and stroked the pallid brow, brushing strands of golden hair away from the extraordinary eyes. “We have no intention of mocking you; we are not cruel. But if you are a god, why are you not immortal?”
“I am immortal; I have always existed and always will. But not with this face and form. Their substance was created by the imaginations of humans who long ago conferred godhood upon my spirit. They encased me in this image. Now humans no longer worship at my shrines. My temples have fallen; no power of faith sustains me. My beauty is dying and I grieve for its loss.”
“Of course!” exclaimed Pepan. “Horatius, long before there were Etruscans other people walked the earth, people who worshipped very different gods from ours. When those folk died out, their vision of the gods must have died with them. Here we see an example of someone’s god dying because the belief has died. Don’t you see? The Ais need us as much as we need them!”
Horatius was deeply moved by the beautiful, fading creature. “Is there no way I can help you?”
The orange eyes gazed up into his. “Believe in the reality of me. As long as I am real to you, the form you see will survive. In return I will give you my
help in your hour of greatest need.”
“You have my pledge,” promised Horatius. “May I know your name?”
“Some have called me … Eosphorus.”
“Eosphorus,” Horatius repeated, his mouth full of the word. “Eosphorus.” Even as he said the name, the creature in his arms began to change. A glow appeared beneath the clear skin, then grew in power until Eosphorus was radiant. His beauty became so great Horatius had to turn his face away. “I cannot look at you; you dazzle me.”
“I was once known as the Shining One,” the god in his arms said.
FORTY-SEVEN
When he saw the two mountain peaks rising ahead of him Lars Porsena smiled. “We are nearing Pythia’s palace,” he told Justine.
“Is that where we’re going? But you told me she hates you and wants to harm you.”
“She does. I am tired of fleeing however. I want to put an end to the quarrel between us and rid myself of fear. Cowardice ill becomes me, dear child.”
“So you are going into her den to confront her?” In spite of herself, Justine could not keep a throb of admiration from her voice. Hiding from trouble, or running from it, or not admitting its existence—these were her ways of coping. They had failed her miserably, as her life proved. Yet the one time she had taken her courage in both hands and faced a tormentor, it had proved to be this demon at her side.
Lars Porsena uttered his demonic chuckle. “‘Den’ is hardly the word I would use for Pythia’s palace. She is lazy and likes her comfort, as you will soon see. Her taste is a bit bizarre, perhaps, but reflects her true self. There, just ahead. Those gates in that high wall are hers. Beyond them is a long road that leads to her, ah, den.”
The gates were made of metal bars cunningly contorted to resemble a tangle of briars. Large, needle-sharp thorns protruded in every direction. Anyone who attempted to force the gates open, or climb over them, would be badly lacerated. But there was a handle; a single smooth handle shaped into a serpentine curve.
“Try it,” Lars Porsena suggested.
Brushing past Justine, Vesi reached forward and took hold of the handle.
From somewhere among the thorns came a dry, menacing rattle.
Vesi, unintimidated, twisted the handle until both gates swung open. Lars Porsena’s eyebrows shot upward in surprise, but he recovered to reward her with a sweeping bow. “After you,” he said.
Once the three had passed through the gates they heard them slam shut. Justine glanced back. No visible agency had closed the gates, and there was no handle on the inside.
Ahead lay a road that wound down a dark valley between two somber peaks. No light reached that road; it lay in eternal shadow.
“This place frightens me,” Justine whispered.
“So it should,” Lars Porsena laughed. “This is the Valley of the Shadow.”
They had gone some distance before Lars Porsena stumbled. Then, visibly faltering, he stumbled again and came to a halt. “I am growing weaker,” he complained to Justine.
“Surely not here, not so soon.”
“Yes, dear child, right here. Right now! I dare not approach Pythia unless I am at my full strength. And for that I need you. It is your reason for being. Come to me now,” he said in a seductive voice. “Come to me.”
The demon opened his arms.
Afterward Justine walked in a daze for a time. When at last she took notice of her surroundings she discovered they were approaching a round, oily-looking black building that rose layer upon horrid layer, each successive coil smaller than the one below. There was no peak at the top of the structure, no tower, no turret. Merely an awful emptiness.
“Pythia’s palace,” announced Lars Porsena, striding forward.
Scale-cloaked and hooded figures guarded the double doors that led into the palace. Although their faces were concealed by the enveloping hoods, Justine sensed they were apprehensive at the arrival of the visitors.
Lars Porsena said brazenly, “Tell the dark goddess her favorite acolyte has returned. Announce the arrival of Bur-Sin of Babylon.”
The guards drew back; the doors swung wide.
A second set of figures wrapped in iridescent, scaled cloaks appeared from within the palace to usher Lars Porsena and the two women into a large audience chamber. The room was devoid of furniture aside from benches of obsidian and onyx lining the black walls. Sullen yellow flames flickered in bronze braziers. Pythia’s servants indicated silently that the new arrivals were to seat themselves. Then they all but ran from the hall.
The central feature of the audience chamber was a circular pool brimming with black liquid. From time to time a lazy bubble surfaced, glistened, broke. Justine found herself gazing at the pool as if hypnotized. Her mouth was dry, her tongue thick with an ancient and irrational fear of the unknown.
A disturbance destroyed the apparent tranquillity of the pool, a slow roiling that gradually intensified, a sense of some mighty body moving below the surface.
When Pythia’s head emerged from the pool Justine gasped and opened her mouth to scream, but Lars Porsena’s fingers tightened in a savage grip over her jaw. She choked on her fear in silence.
Vesi sat unmoving, looking straight ahead.
The goddess rose from the water just far enough to reveal the upper curve of her breasts and fixed unblinking eyes on Lars Porsena. “You.”
“Yes.”
“You never fail to surprise me, Bur-Sin; I suppose that is why I tolerated your insolence and your insubordination for so long,” said Pythia in a terrifyingly soft and sibilant voice. “But this time you go too far. Or have you returned to submit to the punishment you so richly deserve?”
“No, Pythia, I have a different resolution of our conflict in mind.”
“What could you possibly suggest that would give me more pleasure than reducing you to blubbering madness?”
“A sacrifice.”
Justine’s stomach contracted with fear. But instead, Lars Porsena gestured toward Vesi. “I have brought you this woman as an offering. Visit upon her whatever punishment you had in mind for me.”
Justine observed that Pythia had yet to look at Vesi. “Why should I accede to your request, Bur-Sin?” the goddess inquired. “What makes you think she would be a sufficient substitute for you?”
“Because she is not just any woman, Great Goddess. She is quite remarkable: an oracle, a seer. I personally witnessed her prophesying for the king of Rome. We both know that oracles are favored by the gods. Therefore she is a very valuable sacrifice and one that should more than repay my, ah, misdeed.”
At last Pythia transferred her gaze to Vesi. “An oracle, you say,” she continued in the same conversational tone. “Unless my eyes deceive me, she is also an Etruscan. She certainly has Etrurian features; the race beloved of the gods, or so they claim.”
“Therefore she is twice valuable, Pythia. And in addition—just so you will know how much I am willing to pay for your forgiveness—she is the mother of my child,” Lars Porsena finished triumphantly.
“Indeed! You would do that, surrender the mother of your child to me? An impressive sacrifice, Bur-Sin. But”—the tongue of the goddess flickered fretfully between parted lips—“is one woman enough to atone for your crime against me? Even if she is all you claim.”
“Oh, she is, Great Pythia! I can prove it.” Lars Porsena caught Vesi by both shoulders and clamped his fingers painfully deep into her flesh.
“Say something,” he growled at her. “Look into the future and tell us what you see.”
Vesi did not move, did not blink.
“You are trying to deceive me, Bur-Sin,” drawled Pythia. “I expected as much.”
“This is no deception! She is a seer, I tell you! If you once hear her speak, you’ll be convinced.”
“Oh, I have heard her speak,” replied Pythia in that unmistakable voice. But the words did not come from the goddess in the pool.
They came from the lips of Vesi.
Lars Porsena snatch
ed his hands away from her shoulders as if burned by her flesh. “I have not only heard her speak,” the voice went on, “but I have spoken through her. I even used her as a tool to tear apart a human for my amusement. Bur-Sin, you fool, you have brought me my own plaything as a sacrifice. The mother of your child, indeed! How ironic, since my minions have exhausted themselves searching for your son. Once they found him, he was to be used as a lure to draw you: and I then thought I might kill him in front of you as part of your punishment. But now that I have you in my coils, I do not really need him. I can punish you quite sufficiently in a thousand other ways. Ah, Bur-Sin, for you I will create undreamed of tortures! You will die each night, awaken reborn in the morning, suffer and die again. Remember, I warned you.”
As Vesi fell silent, Pythia emerged farther from the pool, revealing a second and then a third row of breasts. Justine fought an insane desire to giggle. A whore in Rome could make a fortune with those, she thought. Then she noticed that one breast was desiccated, as flat and flaccid as an empty purse.
Pythia noted the direction of her glance. “He did this to me,” she hissed. “Bur-Sin, whom I trusted, whom I even loved. He crept close to me as if he found my form beautiful, and when he was nestled on my bosom, moaning with what I thought was pleasure, he … did … this!” The voice of the goddess shrilled to a screech.
Rising still higher, she turned toward the demon. The great mantle on either side of her neck flared wide. “You stole enough of my power to make a body for yourself! Several bodies, apparently. That is a fine one you wear now, Bur-Sin. Tell me, is it virile? Is it a worthy lover for a goddess?”
Her sarcasm was like the lash of a whip. Lars Porsena clung to the tatters of his courage. “Accept the sacrifice I have brought you, Great Pythia,” he pleaded, “and I will demonstrate the prowess of this splendid body in whatever way pleases you.”
Her cold laughter was even more unpleasant than a demon’s chuckle. “Until you return what you stole from me, nothing you do could possibly please me.”
“You want me to return the power of embodiment? I beg you, Pythia—reconsider. Without it, I would lose the body I now wear.”
Etruscans Page 27