"You believe all of this stuff, don't you?" Sam said. "You're thoroughly convinced you're divine beings."
"Belief implies the absence of fact," Aphrodite replied. "I don't need to be convinced of anything about myself. One look in the mirror is all it takes. I am Aphrodite, Laughing Aphrodite, Aphrodite the Dark-Eyed, the Silver-Footed and, yes, the Beautiful-Buttocked. I have always been, will always be. I fear, however, that this digression isn't getting us anywhere. Calling my and Dionysus's godhood into question may be childishly satisfying for you but it's hardly diplomacy, and that, after all, is what we're here for, isn't it? Diplomacy? Otherwise I might act undiplomatically myself and point out that there's a certain irony in someone who calls herself Tethys but knows she really isn't accusing someone of not being Aphrodite who knows she really is."
"I'm glad to hear you wouldn't do that."
"Love is forgiveness," said Aphrodite, with magnanimous grace, "and I am the goddess of love."
"So," said Dionysus, "is there any way we can persuade you that not trying to kill us might be a good idea?" The wine was starting to take effect. His speech had begun to slur: sho, pershuade, ush. "Can we tempt you with something? Is it money you want? Land? A kingdom to rule over yourselves? I'm sure it could be arranged. Perhaps you'd like Britain. We could afford to let you have it, I'm sure. Nice enough place, bit too damp for my liking and no viniculture to speak of, but architecturally impressive and the British, as a race, have a scrappy tenacity that one can admire if not necessarily warm to. All we'd have to do is ask Bartlett to step down and have you installed in his place. Not difficult. Would that suit?"
"Throw in Outer Mongolia and you've got yourself a deal," said Ramsay.
"Really? Oh. No. I see. Flippancy."
"I was going for sarcasm but, hey, flippancy'll do."
"We're not in this for material gain, Dionysus," said Sam. "If you want to offer us something, how about unconditional surrender?"
Dionysus almost popped with laughter. "What, we shuffle off to Olympus and stay there for ever and never bother anyone again?" he said, refilling his glass for the third time.
"Pretty much."
"And who would keep an eye on things? Who would suppress the oppressors and tame the tyrants and generally keep humankind on the straight and narrow? Because, let me tell you, if it weren't for us this world would be in a very sorry state indeed. You surely couldn't expect us to sit on our hands and do nothing while injustice and inequality and greed and environmental despoliation all rear their ugly heads again. With our powers? Our strength? What is the point of us if not to save you from your own worst impulses?"
"The point of gods, surely, is not to punish people for doing wrong but encourage people to do right by setting an example," Sam said. "Gods should be an inspiration, something to aspire to, not a bunch of bullies throwing their weight around."
"Jesus Christ and that Mohammed fellow certainly claimed as much," Dionysus said, "but then they were men mediating on behalf of a supreme being, trying to reconcile his will with human hopes, and when you get down to it that monotheistic deity of theirs was hardly a poster boy for virtue and tolerance, now was he? Floods. Plagues. Ferocious edicts against homosexuals and women. Ring any bells?"
"But you could be different. You could be the first gods truly deserving of worship. Instead of just slaughtering anyone who disagrees with you or opposes you, you could show compassion and forb- forb- What's the damn word?"
"Forbearance?"
"That's the one." Sam paused to check on herself. Was Dionysus bringing his power to bear on her, fuddling her wits, or had she merely misplaced a word she was looking for, as you did from time to time? She felt OK, she thought. Heart rate a little elevated, which was only to be expected, but otherwise normal. The hypos were within easy reach. Proceed, then, with caution. "Forbearance. You could take a constructive rather than destructive approach. Help out. Be kind." She looked significantly at Aphrodite. "Show love."
"Love must sometimes be stern," Aphrodite said. "A mother must chide and scold, no matter how profoundly she adores her children - because she adores them and wants them to learn rules and manners and do themselves no harm."
"What was the Obliteration, then?" said Ramsay. "Hell of a chiding, if you ask me, and it wasn't even like Hong Kong had done anything to offend you."
"An example had to be set. A city was chosen, one that had prestige and status and seemed to embody everything that mortals hold dear: wealth, ambition, success, acquisitiveness. We had to demonstrate exactly what we were capable of and how far we'd be prepared to go to subdue resistance and bring peace."
"At a cost of seven million lives?" said Sam.
"Any fewer and you might not have sat up and taken notice. And they had to be civilians, because up until then the Pantheon had caused tens of thousands of military casualties and nobody seemed any too bothered by that. The Obliteration was expedience, on a necessarily grand scale."
"And you wonder why we hate you," Mahmoud seethed, "why we want to depose you. To talk so coolly about a massacre, a holocaust..."
Aphrodite aimed a placid look at her. "Have you ever owned a pet?"
"No. Why?"
"If you'd owned a pet, you'd know that if it becomes terminally ill, the kindest thing you can do is have it put down. It grieves you but it must be done. That is how we felt about the Obliteration - tragic but unavoidable, an act of love that would appear, on the surface at least, cruel, but was well intentioned. We love you mortals. Truly, we do. We want only what's best for you."
"And you determine what's best," said Sam.
"Someone has to. You seem so incapable of doing it yourselves."
Sam rose.
"Oh," said Dionysus, wine glass halfway to lips. "Are we done? So soon? I thought we all seemed to be getting along."
"I've given you our terms," Sam said. "You Olympians stand down. You no longer interfere. In return, we leave you be."
"You drive a hard bargain," said Aphrodite. "No concessions? No room for manoeuvre? We can't make a counteroffer? It's that or nothing?"
"Believe me, this is me being generous. Go and tell Zeus what's on the table."
"He won't like it," said Dionysus.
"Use your influence on him, both of you."
"We wouldn't dare to."
"Then try appealing to his good nature, if he has one. It's for your own good, yours and the whole Pantheon's."
"We will at least consider it," said Aphrodite. "I promise we will give it great thought. Won't we, Dionysus? We will also sound out the Cloud-Gatherer, circumspectly, to see if there's any likelihood at all of him budging in his viewpoint. If I know my nephew, there won't be, but we can always hope. And maybe, in a day or so, we can meet up again?"
"Maybe."
"How should we get in touch with you? Passing messages via the Lotus Eaters isn't the most reliable method of communication. If you were to let us have a phone number...?"
Sam deliberated. "I don't know."
"We won't try and trace it, if that's what you're worried about. I swear."
Finally she relented. She scribbled her mobile number down on a scrap of paper. A mobile was less easily traced than a landline, and as long as she kept the conversation brief she doubted Argus would have time to pinpoint her whereabouts.
Before handing the scrap of paper to Aphrodite she said, "The Olympians keep the world honest through fear. Perhaps the Titans can keep the Olympians honest the same way. Perhaps that's the best we can hope for, détente, a balance of power, a kind of new Cold War."
Aphrodite, in answer, flashed a white and dazzling smile.
Even her teeth were perfect. The bitch.
56. THE CALL
"You were bluffing," Ramsay said in the taxi back to Sam's house. "All that stuff about a Cold War, a balance of power - psyching them out, yeah?"
"Well, to work, any good bluff has to have an element of sincerity."
"But détente - doesn't that mean they
have to believe we're a force equal to them?"
"As long as they believe it, then it makes no difference whether we are or aren't."
He whistled through his teeth. "You are some piece of work, woman. You've got even me thinking there could be a nonviolent solution to all this, and I'm a 'shoot first, don't bother asking any questions' type of guy. This comes off, and a certain former billionaire we all know is going to be mighty pissed."
"And I care what he thinks because...?"
Ramsay downpipe-gurgled, and Sam realised she'd missed that wonderful ugly sound.
"Can we trust those two back there, though?" asked Mahmoud. No one was mentioning any names. The partition between the taxi driver and his passengers was shut, but it was as well to be discreet.
"I trust their sense of self-interest," Sam said. "And I think, by their own standards, they're trying to do what's best for all concerned."
"So now we wait for them to call."
"We do. It all depends how far they get with their leader. I'm not holding out much hope, but you never know."
"A part of me doesn't like the idea," Mahmoud said, "them not being brought to book for what they've done."
"Your brothers?"
"And all the rest of it. But another part of me thinks your proposal could actually be the right thing under the circumstances. It shows that we're better than them. We're not descending to their level. As a cop I was never in favour of the death penalty, even for the worst kind of murderers. Bang them up for life, yes, but don't kill them. The law shouldn't stoop to the level of the lawbreakers, it should rise above. I felt differently after what happened to my brothers and what that did to my dad and mum, but now, if there really is an alternative available, I think I could live with it."
Back at Kensal Rise, Sam put her mobile on charge and left it switched on, and a day passed and the only call she got was from her phone service provider enquiring whether she would like to upgrade to a pricier and staggeringly more complicated tariff. Another day passed, and still no word from Dionysus and Aphrodite. Her initiative appeared to have failed. She was disappointed but, if she was honest with herself, not that surprised. It was doubtful that Zeus could be persuaded to surrender his authority, his position, all he had gained, just like that, whatever the perceived threat to him and his cronies. Xander Landesman had dedicated five years of his life to plotting revenge against his father and a further decade to seeing it through and consolidating his grip over the world. Such a fire of spite and pride burned inside him that nothing short of death, it seemed, could extinguish it. And what he decided, all the other Olympians, beholden to him for the gift of their extraordinary powers, would loyally go along with.
"At least you tried," Ramsay said to Sam on the evening of the second day, over beers in the back garden. It was actually warm out, something of a miracle. The first proper good weather of the year, and they'd celebrated it with a barbecue on the patio and two six-packs of Samuel Adams which Ramsay had found at a local, specialist off-licence and pounced on like a man lost in the desert finding water. Now, on deckchairs, beneath a purple sky streaked with flamingo-pink contrails, slightly drunk on the beer, he and Sam were consoling themselves. Mahmoud was indoors, catching up on Corrie.
"Shot for the moon and missed," Sam said.
"More like Pluto than the moon. But still worth trying."
"I take it you mean the planet, not the cartoon dog."
"There's a planet called Pluto?"
"Don't think so any longer, actually. Hasn't it been downgraded to a dwarf planet or some such?"
"Oh, so now it's Dopey, not Pluto."
Sam laughed. "By the way, did you hear about those astronomers who want to rename the planets? It was on the news just the other day. They want to switch them from their Roman-god names to their Greek-god equivalents. Neptune to become Poseidon, Jupiter Zeus, Mars Ares, et cetera. Can't believe it. It's not enough that the Olympians have the earth, they have to have the solar system as well?"
"Ah, it's just whackjob scientists trying to be controversial, get noticed, maybe hoover up some extra funding," said Ramsay. "It'll never gain any traction."
"But why, even still, are there people who want to suck up to the Olympians? We were changing things, weren't we? Turning everyone against them, even the waverers. What happened?"
"We stopped. The campaign went into hiatus. That's what happened. Halfway through the game us guys suddenly walked off the field, and now folks in the bleachers are all confused. Who do they support? They thought the underdogs were going to bring the league champions down. The Olympians were the team they hated to love and they were just beginning to love to hate them, and think it was safe to, and then..." He flapped his lips, making a noise like a deflating balloon. "All over, so maybe they should start to hate to love them again." A shrug. "Crowd psychology's not one of my strong suits, but that would be my guess. We've let them down when we least needed to. I'm sure we can pick up from where we left off, though."
"Is this you trying to re-recruit me?"
He held out a fresh bottle of Samuel Adams. "Right now I'd settle for us, you and me, getting back to where we were not so long ago. The rest I can take or leave."
"I'll consider it," she said, twisting off the cap. Beer foamed, and for no good reason she thought of Aphrodite and her mythical birth in a turbulent froth of divine semen and sea water.
"Thank you for that," Ramsay said. "Not least 'cause sleeping on that couch of yours is giving me a hell of a crick in the neck."
"So all you're after is somewhere comfy for the night. How romantic."
"I thought romance didn't enter into this."
"You have me there," Sam admitted.
Indoors, her mobile rang.
She and Ramsay exchanged glances.
"Probably just another sales call," she said, starting to get up.
"I'll go!" Mahmoud shouted from the house.
"Would you mind?" Sam shouted back. The deckchair was proving tricky to extricate herself from. She was perhaps a little tipsier than she thought.
The twiddly melody of her ringtone halted and she heard Mahmoud say, "Yes?"
Then there was silence.
A long silence.
That got longer still.
Sam and Ramsay exchanged glances again.
"Zaina?" Sam called out. "Did you pick that up? Did they ring off? Who was it?"
No reply.
A chilly breeze prickled the back of Sam's neck.
Except that there was no breeze.
She and Ramsay levered themselves out of the deckchairs and crossed the lawn. Ramsay looked as apprehensive as Sam felt, and as puzzled about it too, for there was no cause for apprehension, was there?
The back door led through a utility room extension into the kitchen, where Sam's mobile lay on the countertop, still hooked up to the mains. Of Mahmoud there was no sign. Sam grabbed the phone and checked the memory. Whoever had rung a couple of minutes ago had withheld their number.
"Zaina?"
A creak of a floorboard, overhead.
Ramsay pointed in that direction, then aimed two fingers at his eyes for look, followed by a pumping of the fist to indicate move out.
Sam would have laughed at him, but somehow, as things stood, the use of military patrol hand signals didn't seem so absurd. Not least because at that moment she noticed something. A knife was absent from the knife block next to the toaster. The slot where one of the large carvers was normally sheathed gaped empty.
She drew Ramsay's attention to this.
He looked a question at her: you're sure?
"Don't think we used it tonight," she whispered. "It should be there."
"But not for definite?" he whispered back.
"If it's not there, I don't know where else it would be."
"Shit." He rolled his eyes. "OK, there could be a perfectly innocent explanation for all this. That was a wrong number and Zaina's gone up to her room to get a book or something and the
knife's been mislaid and you and I are making a big deal outta nothing."
The fearful note in his voice undermined everything he said.
"Why hasn't she answered me then?" Sam said.
"I'm trying not to think about that. Come on."
They headed up the stairs single file, stealthy. The guest room, which Mahmoud was using, lay directly above the kitchen. It used to be Sam's bedroom when she was a girl, and still visible on the door were the shapes of eight wooden letters that had spelled out her name, bright white against the surrounding age-yellowed paintwork. She kept meaning to sand the door down and repaint it, get rid of the ghost name. She had repapered the walls of the guest room itself to cover up the greasy Blu-Tack residue which marked where posters of Take That and the Spice Girls - and, later, Jarvis Cocker and Blur - used to hang. The door had been next on her to-do list, but somehow she couldn't bring herself to erase every last trace of her childhood from the house.
Now the door stood slightly ajar and the white letter silhouettes seemed to be calling to her, beckoning her in. The light inside the guest room was not on. Yet she knew Mahmoud was there. She could sense her, a waiting presence in the dark.
Ramsay rapped carefully with one knuckle, just above the second A of SAMANTHA.
"Zaina? You OK? Sam and I were wondering if there's a problem of some kind. Who was that on the phone? Was it, maybe, Aphrodite?"
Please not, Sam said to herself, but she had been thinking exactly the same thing. Aphrodite had called and had spoken to Mahmoud in her special way, her influential way, and had ordered her to do something - something that involved a carving knife.
"Zaina, we're going to come in," said Ramsay. "Nice and gentle. This is me and Sam. Your friends."
"Titans," came Mahmoud's voice from the dark. The word rose and fell, eerily neutral, neither quite interrogative nor statement.
"Yeah, Titans. Like you. So is it OK? Us coming in?"
No answer.
Ramsay eased the door inwards, a hinge squeaking softly. He and Sam peered into the darkness, trying to make out as much detail as they could by the twilight glow coming in through the uncurtained window. Bed, wardrobe, dresser, chair, fireplace, radiator - but nothing of Mahmoud.
The Age Of Zeus Page 33