“. . . Breaking news from Rome today indicates that Caesarion IX has suffered a heart attack. As the Imperator is a known god-born, this is unusual, so there are suspicions of poison or magic, which are being investigated. The reigning Emperor is in critical condition in the hospital at the moment, and his eldest son, Julianus, has stepped into his father’s position for the interim.”
Adam sat in his living room, staring blindly past the far-viewer, his expression bleak. Caesarion IX had clasped his wrist, damn it all. Caesarion IX had been Livorus’ pupil. One by one, his links to the past were being destroyed.
The news report droned on: “Candlelight vigils are being held throughout the Empire, but the Imperator’s illness comes at a critical juncture. Hundreds of thousands of Goths who have been encamped in the Alps have begun migrating by foot and by the truckload west and east, making for the coasts. Refugees who agreed to be interviewed on condition of anonymity indicate that those heading west hope to take refuge in Iberian Gaul, while those heading east hope to make the treacherous passage through Hellas, around the edge of the Mediterranean, through Asia Minor, to request asylum in Judea, Tyre, and Damascus. This suggests that the Goths hold no confidence in the negotiations that have been on-going between Rome and the provinces . . . .”
Two days later, Iunius 18: “. . . sources close to the negotiations indicate that Julianus is taking a hard line with the Goths and Gauls; his father had taken a conciliatory stance, but Julianus is apparently using the issue to demonstrate that he is as strong a leader as his father was . . . .”
The day after that: “. . . Caesarion IX died today. Nine days of public mourning have been declared throughout the Empire . . . . There is confirmation that magic played a part in Caesarion’s death, but the Praetorian Guard has no current suspects. . . .”
Adam grimaced. “A good thing they think Kanmi is dead, eh? Agent Duilus would be questioning him now, I think.” he said, waiting for Sigrun’s response, and then realized that she wasn’t there with a dull shock of recollection.
Ten days later, on Iunius 29: “. . . Julianus has summoned his various siblings home for them to swear their oaths of allegiance during his coronation. Caesarion, the third son of Caesarion IX, has requested that his oath of allegiance be transmitted by telephone, as travel between Judea and Rome has become increasingly dangerous . . . .”
And two days after that? “. . . negotiations between Germania, Gaul, and Rome have broken down completely, with Gallic and Gothic representatives leaving the bargaining table, only to be arrested by the new Emperor’s Praetorian Guards.”
Adam pounded the side of his hand against the arm of his chair. “We’re not supposed to do that!” he snapped at the far-viewer. The we in regards to the Praetorians was habitual. He’d never really left the Guard, in his heart. “They’re ambassadors! We can’t arrest ambassadors!”
Loki popped his head in the doorway. I do not think that they can hear you.
“I don’t think they’d hear me even if I were standing the same room with them,” Adam snarled, and then looked up in consternation when he realized precisely to whom he’d just said that. “I . . . beg your pardon.”
Loki and Prometheus had been his discomfiting houseguests for weeks now, as they waited to see if the assassin of the Roman gods would come here for Sigrun after all. It was apparently possible for the human mind to get used to anything, Adam had to acknowledge, if he’d just snapped at a god.
Your candor is refreshing. Loki stepped into the room, and shook his head. If Mercury comes, he will come now. To drive us back into Rome’s loving embrace.
“If we don’t all stand together, we will all fall separately,” Adam warned, more temperately now. “You’ve been trying to get permission to cross national boundaries to defend against the mad gods all this time. Splitting from the Empire won’t help with that.”
No, but we will also not put Sigrun’s head on the block to allow Rome to look mightier than it is. The old Emperor understood that the vast bulk of Rome’s might actually comes from our people, and the Gauls. This new one? Understands little. Loki exhaled. Be ready, Steelsoul. You may have to kill another god shortly. A quick, fox-like grin. Try not to aim for me.
Adam grunted, and then said, “Since you like my candor . . . may I ask a very candid question?”
Loki snickered. Certainly.
Adam tried to choose his words carefully. “Odin and Freya are . . . married.”
That is more or less the relationship, yes. The Aesir and Vanir became allied about twenty-three hundred years ago, give or take. They became lovers at that time out of politics . . . and because humans imagined them as wed.
“So when I hear of someone who’s a god-born of Freya . . . they’re descended from Freya and Odin both, correct? They just happen to express Freya’s powers?”
Loki’s expression shifted, and for a moment, Adam thought the god was about to laugh at him. His fingers itched, suddenly, for the sensation of Caliburn’s grip . . . and then Loki looked, of all things, sorrowful. No, Steelsoul. Some of Freya’s god-born descend from the times before her affiliation with the Aesir. The rest descend from her after that time. The same can be said of Odin’s god-born as well.
Adam struggled with it. “So . . . they come from god-touched humans? Sigrun’s great-grandmother was just . . . bound by Tyr. She was already married to a human man when she became a valkyrie.”
Another flicker of amusement and sympathy across Loki’s face. I would recommend not asking Tyr One-Hand, when next you meet, the particulars of his relationship with Solveig Caetia. He can be quite touchy, and he was very fond of her, short-lived though she was.
“Please be serious.”
I am being serious. It is you who are being somewhat ridiculous, but in a very human way. You already know the answer to the question you are so reluctant to ask. You have merely chosen to forget.
Memory seared across Adam’s mind then. Visiting the Imperial Palace in 1960, and Sigrun explaining her lineage to Caesarion IX. “. . . my father’s mother’s mother, Solveig, was very fair indeed, and just, and wise. That she was a law-giver in 1840 or so, when Tyr listened to her judgments and gave to her some of his power. Their daughter, my grandmother, Saga, was born mortal, however.” Sigrun’s voice had been matter-of-fact. Adam cleared his throat. “Apparently the Hellene gods aren’t the only ones cuckolding human men. Solveig’s husband couldn’t possibly have been pleased with the situation.” So much for Tyr’s honor.
Loki sighed. Morals are a human invention, Steelsoul. Almost all of them were created to determine who was responsible for the upkeep of children. We of the Veil can make children in many more ways than humans can. Early humans couldn’t grasp that I made my first children—Fenris, Hel, Jormangand, and Sleipnir—out of my own essence, so they invented lovers for me. Angrboda the frost-giantess is fair indeed, but I have never joined myself with her. Sigyn? A goddess no one worships and who has no powers, because she is the wholesale invention of poets and priests. Loki snorted. I am not usually in the position of having to defend Tyr for anything, but I believe he gave Solveig her powers because he cherished her fine mind, and gave her a child because her husband was sterile.
Adam grimaced. Put that way, it sounded less bad, yes, though lacking somewhat in detail. Loki arched his brows at Adam now. I have lain with humans, male and female alike. I have god-born descendants from some of those unions. Baldur and the Evening Star made Fritti their child, but never lay with her, and she is bound to me, and I to her, but she is no child of mine. All of which is a long way of saying that your morals and conventions do not apply to us, because we are not you. He paused and gave Adam a direct look. And while we might love a mortal for a time, we know that unless they are god-born, or unless we make them immortal, they cannot stand beside us in time. I doubt that Freya and Odin are threatened by each other’s mortal liaisons. They are, after all, only temporary. His tone wavered between sorrow and certainty.
Adam’s head snapped
up. “Is that how you see Fritti?” he asked, levelly. “As something temporary?” I’ve slain gods before, and questioned my own, but this is daring even by my standards . . . .
Loki regarded him steadily. Frittigil is . . . something new to me. And unexpected. But you should bear in mind that she is no more mortal than Sigrun is.
Adam swallowed down his anger, and renewed his questions, startled by the novelty of asking them, and getting answers. “But you never hear of any god-born of Hera,” he said. “Or Juno. And damned few of Artemis, Hestia, or Athena.”
Three of those five are ‘virgin’ goddesses. Loki shrugged. I don’t claim to understand the Romans or the Hellenes—better to ask Prometheus for his insights. But since we gain power by having god-born . . . mortal connections to this world . . . perhaps the virginal goddesses felt that the power they could gain with their believers was enough to outweigh what they could have gained by having god-born. Some have only given their power to virginal priestesses of theirs. . . who either subsequently fell from their vows, or had children that were the product of rape. I cannot explain Juno.
I can, in part, Prometheus said, moving into the doorway now, himself. The titan grimaced. Zeus never permitted Hera to make any conduits of her own. I think he feared how much power she might come to wield. She was of the same stock as he was, with just as much potential, and she had the full sympathies of half the population of their believers. He bound her, forbade her any mortal lovers. She could not even make a mortal woman a conduit of her power, beyond blood-binding one of her priestesses. And of course, while I am certain he has . . . consummated their union, between his fear of her bearing a child that could supplant him, and her own distaste for him, their union is a barren one. The same seems to pertain between Jupiter and Juno. The titan shook his head. I calculate a ninety-eight percent probability that we will have an unwanted guest in the next four hours. Are you ready, Steelsoul?
No, Adam thought, but said out loud, “As ready as I’m going to be.” His mind swirled with disquiet, and he moved Caliburn to the table beside him, and began cleaning the weapon. He thought he might need something bigger than a handgun to deal with the messenger of the Roman gods, and in answer, Caliburn seemed to be . . . glowing a little. Readying itself to transform. “I don’t suppose you can manage rocket-launcher?” he asked the weapon, under his breath.
At close to midnight, the front door of the house clicked open, and Adam’s eyes snapped open with it as he sat, drowsing, at the kitchen table. Caliburn settled into his hands, and he looked up as a familiar shape in night-black armor moved into the doorway. No alarms from the black dogs at the doors. The figure reached up and removed her helmet, and Sigrun smiled at him, no shadow in her eyes. “Adam. Why are you still up? Come now, let’s go to bed.”
No visible reaction from her at Caliburn, in his hands. But every other time Sigrun had seen that weapon for the past thirty years, she’d stopped moving, and raised her hands. And there were no shadows of guilt or sorrow in her eyes; just joy at seeing him. Adam smiled faintly, and pointed Inti’s weapon at the figure of his wife. “A very good illusion, Mercury. But Sigrun knows this weapon very well indeed.”
Caliburn shimmered in his hands, and became a fully automatic assault rifle, still with the usual sunblaze symbol on the stock. Adam didn’t take his eyes off the figure in front of him, as Sigrun finally raised her hands. “Adam, it’s me,” she said, her eyes wide. “I know that you are on edge right now, but this is ridiculous.”
“What’s my Name, Sig?” Adam asked. “It’s a pretty simple shibboleth.”
Her eyes flicked to the side. “Steelsoul.”
“Steelsoul what?”
She licked her lips. “Adam, you’re upset with me, I realize that, but this is taking it too far—”
Adam’s finger curled around the trigger. “Mercury, we just want to talk. Drop the act, and maybe I won’t pull the trigger. I’ve killed four gods in this lifetime, and I’m probably ultimately responsible for the deaths of thousands of humans. One life more will really not add much to the tally weighing down my soul. But you came here to kill my wife, so don’t push your luck. Also, don’t move. I can see you shifting your weight, ready to leap to the side. Don’t. My reflexes are still pretty damned good with this gun.”
The gray eyes darted from side to side. “We? Adam, what are you talking about?”
Loki emerged from the kitchen, seiðr blooming around him. Don’t mind me. I’m just here to keep you honest. The person who’s really here to talk? Is him.
He pointed, and Prometheus stepped out from his own hiding place. Hello, Hermes. It’s been a long time.
Sigrun’s form shifted. Melted. And Adam took his first full breath in five minutes as it became the figure of a slim, well-built man with tanned skin and startled sky-blue eyes. Prometheus? But you’re dead! I watched you die at Zeus’ command!
Yes. Hecate brought me back. She is the lady of doors, after all, and what is death but one more door? Prometheus shrugged. Do you remember why Zeus ordered me killed?
You continued to prophesy that he would be slain by one of his own descendants. By one of his own sons. Mercury’s head whipped from one to the other of them, his eyes wide.
What strikes me now, three thousand years later, is this: that line of probability still exists. Prometheus smiled. And you are still a son of Zeus.
Chapter 9: Dissolution
Brœðr muno beriaz ok at bǫnom verðaz
muno systrungar sifiom spilla.
Hart er í heimi, hórdómr mikill
—skeggǫld, skálmǫld —skildir ro klofnir—
vindǫld, vargǫld— áðr verǫld steypiz.
Mun engi maðr ǫðrom þyrma.
Brothers will fight and kill each other,
sisters' children will defile kinship.
It is harsh in the world, whoredom rife
—an axe age, a sword age —shields are riven—
a wind age, a wolf age— before the world goes headlong.
No man will have mercy on another.
—Völuspá, ca. 1314 AC.
Starless skies will swim with smoke
Born of the fire of a fallen earth
Wyrms will writhe over the welkin
The spirits of darkness will swallow whole
Every creature, every spirit, every god.
Yet every end brings new beginnings
New gods arise, and some old are forgiven.
This world will die. But Naglfar will carry us home.
—Notes found scrawled in Sophia Caetia’s diary, undated.
______________________
Iulius 1, 1993 AC
Adam had rarely seen an entity at a loss for words before. If circumstances had been any different, he might have laughed. As it was, his fingers tightened on Caliburn’s trigger.
Mercury stared at Prometheus, and finally, his jaw clicked shut. This is a test of my loyalty, isn’t it? His tone was as wary as any informant Adam had ever questioned, and for an instant, the human could suddenly see the entire Roman pantheon of gods as a criminal cartel, with Jupiter as the boss. You’re dead, and this is one of Loki’s tricks. A look of inhuman fury crossed the god’s face, and drew his sword and spun towards Loki, only to have the other trickster disperse and blow in a dozen different directions before the sword even cleared the sheath.
Adam exhaled, and pointed the muzzle of his weapon at a window that opened into the backyard, and the wall of solid stone that enclosed it, and then pulled the trigger. Three shards of light spat from the weapon’s muzzle, shearing through the air in front of Mercury’s face. They hit the window, but didn’t shatter it; they melted their way through, leaving vaguely oval holes, and disappeared into the yard. Adam could smell smoke, and hoped he hadn’t just started a fire.
He swung muzzle back towards Mercury now; the god had stopped in mid-motion, and now stared at him, warily. “You’re said to be the fleetest-footed entity that there is,” Adam said, quietly.
“I’m perfectly willing to accept that I might not be faster than you are. But it doesn’t take much time to pull a trigger. So I’m asking you to listen.” He paused. “You put up your sword, I put up my gun, and we talk about this as if we were civilized beings.”
Mercury laughed, a bitterly cynical sound that was at odds with his youthful countenance. Civilized beings. The ancient Hellenes considered themselves the height of civilization, and all others around them barbarians, as they ate barley bread and crafted their bronze weapons. As they left sickly and malformed infants to die on the edges of town. The Persians considered themselves the height of civilization. So did the Romans and the Egyptians. I have seen what civilization means to humanity . . . and yet, I still prefer your company to that of the gods. Mercury’s tone was derisive. Prometheus, if that really is you, what a marvelous jest this is. And explain how this is not some plan to regain Zeus’ favor.
Prometheus had remained where he was, and Adam could feel tension singing in the air. Zeus already killed me once. I care nothing for his favor now. No, Mercury, son of Maia. Your mother was my niece. Zeus, your father, was born of Cronus, my brother. We are kin, and I would not mislead you. Prometheus’ eyes gleamed. But even so, you are a son of Zeus.
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