by 4 Ye Gods!
'Morning,' said the eagle.
'Morning,' replied the good giant.
The eagle hesitated for a moment and stared at the clouds through its cruel, lidless eyes. 'Weather's on the turn again,' it said.
'Oh yes?' replied the giant politely.
*It's a myth that Prometheus was rescued by Hercules. That's what they want you to believe...
'More snow; said the eagle. 'Heavy frost, I shouldn't wonder. Anything I can do for you?'
'You could turn my page if you like,' said the giant. 'Hold on,' said the eagle, wiping its beak on its wing-feathers. Then it hopped over to the giant's head, flipped over the leaf of the huge book spread out under the giant's nose, and weighted the pages down with small stones to stop them blowing over in the biting wind.
'Good, is it?' asked the eagle.
'It's okay,' said the giant. 'Not as good as his last one, though.'
'You can't win 'em all,' said the eagle.
Prometheus wiggled his ears -- it was the only gesture he could make, what with the chains and everything -- and sighed. 'A bit self-indulgent in places,' he continued. 'Slightly over the top, you know. Still, it'll do.'
'You got much more to read?' asked the eagle.
Prometheus considered. 'No, not really,' he replied. 'Could you just switch on the dictating machine before you go?'
'Sure,' said the eagle, scratching its ear with a meat hook talon. 'Oh, and by the way.'
'Yes?'
'Faldo was one up on the thirteenth,' said the eagle, 'with Ballesteros trailing by three and Langer nowhere. I thought you'd like to know.'
'That's right,' groaned Prometheus, 'cheer me up.' The eagle shrugged its wings. 'I could bring you a radio; it said. 'No trouble.'
Prometheus smiled. 'That's very kind of you; he said, 'but how could I switch it off when it started playing music again? It's not exactly fun and games up here as it is without Vivaldi banging away at you as well.'
'Well, if you're sure...'
The eagle spread its wings, pressed the record button on the dictating machine perched beside the giant's nose, thanked him for lunch and soared away. Soon it was nothing but a tiny speck among the distant peaks.
No, what really got up the noses of the immortal gods wasn't fire. Give human beings fire, they reasoned, and sooner or later they will use it to burn each other's houses down, which scores four any day of the week and six when the moon is in Scorpio. It was the other thing they could never forgive. Remembering, Prometheus chuckled. Then he lifted his head and started to roar with laughter.
'What time is it?' asked Apollo as they raced across the firmament towards the Earth.
'April,' Minerva replied. 'If we get a move on, we'll be there in time for Easter.'
They looked at each other for a moment. Then they started to snigger.
Among the gods, there is a dispute as to which one of them originally thought of Christianity; or, as they call it, the Great Leg Pull. Apollo has the best claim, but a size-able minority support Pluto, ex-God of the Dead, on the grounds that he has a really sick sense of humour.
How would it be, suggested the unidentified god, if first we tell them all to love their neighbour, pack in the killing and thieving, and be nice to each other. Then we let them start burning heretics.
It is therefore scarcely surprising that the Olympians find it hard to keep a straight face when they think of the religion that has effectively replaced them all over the world (except, of course, for parts of California). What they think of as the world, at any rate; the Olympians were always a touch on the xenophobic side and preferred to ignore the existence of the world beyond the frontiers of the Roman empire, probably because the inhabitants couldn't speak Greek or Latin and the gods could speak nothing else. They tried, of course; they tried speaking very loudly and slowly, but the mortals didn't understand, taking the peculiar noise for thunder.
The chariot of the Sun soared down over the Iberian peninsula, causing a flurry of frantic arguments amongst half the air traffic controllers in Europe, and landed on a hillside outside Delphi.
'Why are we stopping here?' Minerva asked.
'I just want to see if there are any messages,' replied Apollo. He hopped out of the chariot, transformed himself into a small, elderly German with a video-camera, and made his way down towards the ruins of his temple.
Over the lintel of the door of the Treasury of the Athenians is an inscription. Time has ground it almost smooth, but that still doesn't excuse the generations of distinguished classical archaeologists who translated it as
KNOW THYSELF
when it actually says
WHILE YOU WERE OUT
and certainly doesn't explain why none of them has ever gone on to read the rest of it. This would, of course, be difficult, as the text of the inscription changes subtly every few years.
The German tourist paused and looked up at the faint lettering. As he did so, he became aware of a small, dumpy female figure beside him.
'Betty,' he said, 'I do believe your writing is getting worse.'
'Sony,' said the female. 'It's my arthritis,' she explained.
'Ah.' Apollo made a mental note to do something about it. 'Anything important, was there?'
Betty-Lou Fisichelli, the eight-thousand-and-sixth Sibyl of Delphi, took a notebook from her bag and started to leaf through it. 'Napoleon called,' she said, 'please call back... Bit late for that now, I suppose. A guy from Chicago wants to know how the Bears are going to do this season. There was a party of British guys with portable telephones who asked -- I may have got this down wrong -- they asked if it was the right time to sell Guilt.'
'Gilts; corrected Apollo. Then he grinned wickedly. 'If they come back,' he said, 'tell them yes. Anything else?'
'No, I don't think so; said the Sibyl. 'Oh yes, there was a woman asking about her kid. Seems he's been playing her up or something. Sounded like hyperactivity to me: you know, too much chocolate. Phyllis somebody.'
Apollo turned round and stared at her. 'Phyllis Derry?' he demanded.
'That's right,' said the Sybil. 'Was it important?'
Apollo ignored her. 'When was this?' he asked.
'About ...' The Sibyl looked at her watch. It had two concentric dials: one for human and one for Divine time. 'About January,' she said. 'Sorry,' she added, 'you didn't say you were expecting...'
'That's all right,' said Apollo quietly, 'I wasn't. Look did she leave a number?'
'I think so,' said the Sibyl, leafing through her book. 'Hold on a moment ... No, that's the Delphi Pizza Express. Now, let me just...'
Apollo frowned. Something scuttled about nervously under the Earth's crust. Several large olive trees wilted on the hillside opposite. The Sibyl swallowed hard and found the right page. 'Got it,' she said. 'It's... Look, is that a five or a three?'
'I don't know, do I?' replied the god, and for a moment the EC olive oil lake seemed likely to dry up for a year or so.
'I think it's a five,' said the Sibyl nervously. She wrote the number out again, tore out the page and handed it to the god, who smiled grimly and thanked her. 'If she calls again,' he added, 'just let me know immediately, will you?'
The Sibyl trembled slightly. 'How?' she asked.
Apollo looked blank for a moment, and then snapped, 'Use your bloody imagination.' Then he turned himself into a swarm of bees and buzzed off.
'Have a nice day; the Sybil whispered, and made a note in her book: If Phyllis Derry calls back, tell A. at once. Then she turned round and walked away slowly, reflecting (not for the first time) that she hadn't wanted the lousy job in the first place. Partly it was the industrial relations --women through the ages who had offended Apollo suddenly found themselves transformed into flowering shrubs, and Ms. Fisichelli, who came from New York, where they don't hold with such things, shuddered at the very thought. She had a cousin called Myrtle, from Wisconsin, and that was bad enough. Mainly, though, it was the feeling that she hadn't spent ten years of her life at a s
election of universities getting her Doctorate in Classical Philology just to be a glorified receptionist. Many was the time, she reminded herself, that she'd been on the point of giving in her notice and telling him what he could do with his gods-damned job. Then she would catch sight of a clematis or a wisteria and decide to put it off till tomorrow. But the worst part of it, if she was going to be honest, was the job description. For, of course, the senior priestess of the Delphi Oracle isn't called the Sibyl at all. The correct term is the Pythoness, and Ms. Fisichelli, who was only human -- well, mostly human -- could only take so much.
A small American lady tapped her gently on the arm, mistaking her for the tour guide. The Sibyl turned and glowered at her.
'Excuse me; said the lady, 'do you think it's going to rain?'
Ms. Fisichelli grinned. The god had given her the gift of prophecy, but so what?
'No,' she said.
CHAPTER TWO
In the beginning was the Word. Nobody knows what it actually was, although it would be nice to think it was 'Sorry.'
After a while, the Word began to feel bored. It checked its spelling, but that was all right. It tried rhyming with itself, but it had an idea that that made you go blind. It put itself into italics, but they hurt. There was nothing for it but to create some other words and see what happened.
To begin with, the Words just bounced about, like a lot of random particles; and when they bumped into each other, small bits and corners were chipped off, fell through space, acquired momentum and became Matter. Then, most of the original Words decided to form a gang, dress up in white sheets and beat the pulp out of the Adjectives, who they felt were getting above themselves, and so engrossed did they become in this that they failed to notice that a rival group of sentient beings had materialised out of nowhere. By the time they realised they were not alone, the Words had been scooped up, parsed senseless and imprisoned in the first ever word processor.
The newcomers were the gods. According to the oldest versions of the story, there were three of them: Cronus, Rhea and Thing.
Cronus created order out of chaos. Rhea separated darkness from light and wallpapered the firmament with stars. Then they coated the Words with molecules, until each one had become the thing it stood for, and set them to work colonising the firmament. In all the excitement they forgot about Thing, who was no good at carpentry and tended to trip over the paste-bucket. When the work of creation was finished, the gods stepped back and looked at it, and saw that it was good; or, at least, that it could have been worse. They knocked off for the weekend.
When he was quite sure that they'd all gone, Thing crept out of the supernova in which he'd been hiding, brushed stardust off his trousers and scowled.
He'd show them.
Softly but persuasively, he announced himself to the Words as they clanked about awkwardly in their new shells. You don't like the gods, he said, I don't like them; let's teach those mothers a lesson they'll never forget.
The Words didn't say anything; they just nodded. Then Thing took a deep breath and dematerialised, turning his body into billions of tiny particles. The Words shrieked, as well they might -- each one felt like an oyster who's just had a full-sized pearl inserted into it.
It was some time before the gods found out about this, and by then it was too late. All they could do was hope and pray (as it were) that none of the little bits of Thing ever got into the hands of the newly-created human race; because if they did, there'd be trouble. And, thanks to Prometheus, trouble there was...
Jupiter put down the asteroid he had been about to throw and blushed.
'I'm sorry, too; he said. 'And yes, you're still my fluffy little wifekin.' He transformed the asteroid into a huge bunch of flowers and handed it to Juno, who simpered slightly.
Far overhead, a comet with a large, jagged sliver of solidified helium sticking right through it expressed the wish that the great Sky-King could have found it in him to say that a few minutes earlier. He had been knocked some way off his trajectory, and if there's one thing that really upsets comets, it's being late. Messes things up for the princes, they say. Makes the beggars get uppity.
'I didn't mean to get so cross, Jo,' said Juno pacifically. 'I don't know what came over me.'
'That's all right.'
'But you did promise...'
'I know,' said Jupiter. 'And I'm sorry.'
'It's not that I mind you ... well, turning into things. You're like that, and that's fine. It's just...'
What?'
'Jo,' said Juno, as winsomely as a great Sky-Queen can (which is not very), 'why do the little bastards always have to be Heroes?'
'I don't know,' Jupiter confessed. 'They just do, that's all.'
'They upset things, you see,' Juno continued. 'They get difficult. They go about righting wrongs and protecting the mortals.'
'I know,' Jupiter sighed. 'I don't like it either.'
'They rescue princesses,' Juno continued. 'They kill dragons. They retrieve golden fleeces. They bring back the Secret of Truth. You can't put something down for five minutes without some hero or other scuttling off with it. And you can't just tread on them or give them scarlet fever, that's the worst thing. They're all woven into the Skein of Destiny, and you know what that's like. Ladders as soon as look at it.'
'Yes,' said Jupiter, smiling like a doorknocker. 'I had noticed. Look...'
'And now,' said Juno remorselessly, 'it looks like you've gone and sired another one of the little terrors. What's it called, by the way?'
'Jason.'
'Jason,' Juno repeated. 'Scarcely original.'
'True,' Jupiter replied, 'but inconspicuous. Look, it'll be different this time, promise. We aren't involved any more, remember. So what if the little toerag does succeed in banishing Discord from the Earth...'
'If he does,' snapped Juno, 'she's not coming back here. Last time we had her to stay, she left grubby marks on all the towels.'
'Whatever,' said Jupiter firmly. 'Fulfilling his destiny, then. Even if he does succeed in fulfilling his destiny, who gives a toss anyway? Nobody believes in us any more, so what possible difference could it make? It'll just make the Game that bit more interesting,' he added, wickedly.
Juno gave him one of her looks. 'You are going to tell them?' she said.
'Eventually,' Jupiter replied.
'Eventually?'
'Yes,' said the Father of Gods and Men with a chuckle. 'Just as soon as I've had a chance to put a few side-bets on.'
Meanwhile, on another part of the sun, it was Mars's go.
Mars, ex-God of War, can easily be distinguished from his fellow gods by his twitch. Most things bring it on -- the ticking of a clock, the sound of a speck of dust settling on a distant asteroid, even (especially) dead silence. Years of living with it had got on the nerves of the other eleven Olympians. That just made it worse.
The place of Mars, Feeder of Vultures, has traditionally been in the forefront of battle. This was originally no problem; in the good old days when the nastiest thing Mankind had thought up by way of settling disputes between neighbours was a poisoned arrow, golden armour, no worries. However, things had changed rather, what with armour-piercing ammunition, high explosives, napalm, chemical weapons, Exocets and Cruise missiles; in fact, the only thing that hasn't kept up with the times is Mars's defensive capability, which still consists of about three millimetres of gilded, low-tech bronze.
Theology is at best an imprecise science. The best definition of an immortal is someone who hasn't died yet.
Hence the fact, not perhaps widely enough known, that on his shield Mars has painted probably the biggest CND symbol in the entire galaxy. Next time you go to one of those big demonstrations, look out for a tall, thin, gaunt chap with a serious nervous tic. That'll be Mars.
Sitting opposite him in the observation dome of the sun was his three-quarter-sister-once removed (divine relationships are rather complex), the ex-Goddess of the Moon, Diana. Unlike Mars, nobody ever shoots at her and
therefore she tends to be a trifle scornful of Mars's new-found pacifism. To her, as to the rest of Olympus, the way to a man's heart is through his ribcage.
'Seven,' said Diana. 'Hold on, here we go. One-two-three-four-five-six-seven and here we are. Now then.'
She took a golden tile from the neat stack that hovered in the air beside the bejewelled abacus and read it.
'You are assessed for street repairs,' she recited disgustedly. 'Pay one billion drachmas for each city...'
She peered down at the surface of the planet and counted. Then she reached for her trusty bow and arrow, drew careful aim and skewered dense bank of cloud hovering over a major Western city. At once, the cloud burst, sending furious torrents of water rushing through the streets. Mars turned his head away, hoping she wouldn't notice.
'There,' she said happily, 'that's saved me a few bob.'
Roofs floated by on their way to the sea. Mars opened his eyes and decided, for only the seventh time that day, that this was a truly horrid game.
'I'm not sure he said, in a high, strained voice, 'that you're allowed to do that.'
'You reckon?'
Mars's head twitched sharply a couple of times. Diana was giving him one of her looks.
'On the other hand,' he said, 'who cares? My turn, isn't it?'
He picked up the dice-shaker, threw hard and prayed. This is an unusual thing for a god to do, but he'd got into the habit during the Cuban missile crisis and it was hard to stop. The dice wobbled for a moment and landed.
'Lucky you,' Diana said. 'Double four.'
Another reason why Mars hadn't kicked the habit was that it seemed to work. Funny, that; when human beings used to pray to him, it had always been a complete washout.
'Let me see,' Mars said. 'That's nice, peace negotiations under way in Geneva, strategic arms limitation talks resumed, cease-fire in the Middle East conflict...'