Winter of the Gods

by Jordanna Max Brodsky

  So far, she’d had no visions since the flashback to the massacre of Niobe’s children, but she knew the reprieve wouldn’t last. What next? she wondered. The metamorphosis of Acteon, the murder of Coronis, the killing of Orion? She had caused so many deaths in her day, could she bear to relive them all?

  She tried to busy her mind with happier thoughts instead, to push away the future that Aphrodite’s mirror had foretold and imagine a different one instead. When I get out of here, she decided, I will take Theo to Greece. She hadn’t been to her homeland since the Diaspora, but Zeus’s prohibition would no longer stop her. They would visit Knossos where the Minotaur once lurked in the Labyrinth. They would climb the steps of the Acropolis and sit in the shadow of the Parthenon’s colonnade. They would hike to the summit of Mount Olympus and stand above the clouds. And all the while, she would tell him stories of her past—not the tales of bloody vengeance, but the moments of joy and peace and laughter. Those are true too, she reminded herself. I helped women, I danced with my nymphs, I protected my cities. It was not all terrible. How Theo’s eyes would grow wide! He would smile and laugh, and she’d bask in a warmth far kinder than the merciless Mediterranean sun.

  Then a faint humming, like a speaker turning on, broke her reverie. She stood and craned her neck toward the vent overhead. “Prometheus?” she called softly. “What is that?”

  He didn’t reply. Instead, a familiar voice blared through her cell.

  “You are mistaken, Pater.”

  “Theo!” She couldn’t help herself from crying out. But an instant later, as the conversation continued, she realized he couldn’t hear her.

  “I bear no loyalty to Diana, or Artemis, or whatever you want to call her,” Theo went on, his voice stern. “At first, I didn’t know what she was. And when I found out, she warned me that if I left her, she would kill me. You’ve heard the myths—you know how possessive the gods are. How jealous and petty. So I stayed because I had no choice, and I bided my time, waiting for allies strong enough to help me escape. By capturing her, you made my life a hell of a lot easier. But the others hold me in their thrall now. I’ve got the whole pantheon trying to make me their slave. I need you to help me get rid of them, so I can find my own path. My own salvation.”

  Selene sat back down with a thud. She could barely hear the voice of Theo’s interviewer over the pounding of the blood in her ears.

  “And you claim to be able to find them. All of them.” That must be the Pater speaking, Selene decided.

  “I know their aliases,” Theo said. “I know what they do. Hermes is Dash Mercer, Hollywood movie producer. Apollo is Paul Solson, the musician.”

  “We know that.”

  “But do you know of the goddess Demeter, living in Peru?”

  Another voice came over the speaker. “Our brethren abroad have not spoken of her,” it said softly, as if murmuring to the Pater.

  So there are more of them, Selene realized, her heart sinking. Even if they defeated this branch, the cult would survive.

  As the Pater urged Theo to continue, Selene could hear the note of excitement in his voice.

  “Aphrodite in Paris. Dionysus right here in New York.” Theo kept talking, revealing all the gods’ secrets, until finally, with only a breath of hesitation, he said, “Zeus in his cave in Crete.”

  Selene could hear the Pater’s intake of breath.

  This must all be part of a plan, she assured herself. Theo didn’t know where my father lives. So my brothers must have told him to reveal the location. Unless Theo’s betraying them in order to save me. Does that make it any more forgivable?

  “You’ve taken Selene, but you won’t be able to break her,” Theo continued. “I know what happened to Mars at the end. He slowly went mad until he was resigned to his fate. You probably did the same thing to Hades.”

  “A sacrifice must go willingly,” the Pater replied calmly.

  “Or it doesn’t carry the same power. Yeah, I know how the old cults worked. So you send the Pretenders hallucinations until they lose the will to live. But Selene thinks herself the Relentless One. She’ll never submit to torture—no matter if it’s nightmares or thumbscrews. But I know all her weaknesses. I can get her to crumble.”

  “Go on.”

  “She’s scared.”

  “The all-powerful Olympian?” The Pater’s voice carried the barest hint of amusement.

  “She’s not all-powerful anymore. She’s supposed to be so fierce. The Stormy One. The Untamed. But inside she’s still a little girl. Afraid of growing old. Afraid of looking weak. She’s as scared of being unloved as she is of being loved. So for all the hold she has on me, she’s still vulnerable.”

  He must be trying to infiltrate the cult, she reminded herself, so he’ll say anything. But in her heart, she knew that if he could imagine such horrible things to say, at some point, he must have considered them. Awful, dangerous, disrespectful things. Selene searched for her old accustomed fury, but found only despair. She had said terrible things to him—should she be surprised that he could say terrible things in return? Things that, for all their viciousness, bore the ring of truth?

  “She’s even scared of her own body.”

  Selene put her hands over her ears, but the speaker’s volume only increased. They’re watching me, she realized. She put down her hands and squared her shoulders. They wanted her to grow weak and afraid—she refused to give them the satisfaction.

  Theo’s voice continued, merciless. “I try to touch her and she flinches away even as her flesh cries out for mine. She’s the ultimate prude. Wanting to be fucked and hating to be touched all at the same time. She’s completely neurotic, unfriendly, and so egotistical that she can’t imagine that I would ever betray her. It makes her an easy target.”

  Selene wished for a vision, no matter how devastating, to take her away from this moment. But for once, she remained rooted to the present, listening to Theo rip their relationship to shreds.

  The Pater Patrum raised an arm, silhouetted in the firelight, and beckoned Theo closer. As he approached, the female syndexios at his side backed farther into the shadows. Theo could just make out the leather mask she wore—a hyena with a toothy grin. Beaten gold covered the Pater’s entire face, like the death mask of some ancient Mycenaean king. Thick white hair hung to his shoulders and arthritis swelled his knuckles, but he sat with a king’s poise.

  “Theodore. You cannot progress any farther without initiation into the Host.”

  Theo nodded. “If that’s what it takes to be free of the Pretenders, then sign me up.”

  “Yet you know almost nothing about us.”

  “I’ve done a fair bit of research—”

  He held up a hand. “You know nothing. As such, you may only be initiated as a syndexios of the lowest rank, where you will not be privy to our secrets. We risk little by allowing you this far. You risk all.”

  All? He’d barely formed the thought before the Pater spoke again.

  “If we find you false, you will be killed. No more mercy will be shown to you than was shown to the Pretenders Mars and Hades. And be assured, if they, who survived for so many millennia, could not escape the arm of our justice, then you will not either.”

  Theo swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. He’d gotten this far, but he had little faith in Flint’s plan. To make matters worse, he’d have to get deep enough into the cult to learn its motives and methods. The way the Pater was speaking, he doubted he’d make it that far before they saw right through him.

  “Now we will see how genuine your desire to help us is.” The Pater stood and moved toward the fireplace. Only then did Theo notice the metal rods hanging from the mantel. Not a shovel and poker like you might see in a cozy hearth, but a row of seven instruments, each topped by a different wrought iron design. Too late, Theo realized the planetary symbols the syndexioi bore weren’t tattoos at all. He tried not to let the panic show on his face. He failed.

  The Pater’s laugh scraped like metal on m
etal. “Did you think this little talk would be the end of your initiation, not the beginning?” He picked up the leftmost branding iron, lifting it so Theo could see the symbol at the bottom: Mercury. “I told you that you knew nothing of our ways. This is only the first step—the initiation into our humblest rank: the Corvus. A way to weed out those who aren’t serious. Trust me, when we are done with you, you’ll think this is the easiest part.”

  Chapter 31

  THE CORVUS

  This is the moment in the movie when the villain laughs maniacally and says, “Did you really think we would brand someone as unworthy as you?” and puts down the red-hot poker. Or a messenger bursts in and distracts the Big Bad by saying, “Sir! Someone’s breaking into our secret lair!” and he puts down the red-hot poker. Or the consiglieri whispers into the evil genius’s ear and he turns to the hero and says, “Dominic’s correct—we will wait until the time is right,” and then he PUTS DOWN THE RED-HOT POKER.

  But the poker just kept coming.

  The pain burned so hot it felt like ice.

  Worse was the sound. A sizzle like bacon. Then the smell of cooking flesh. They’d given Theo a leather strap to put between his teeth—he nearly bit through it as he stifled the screech that climbed up his throat. Then the Pater removed the iron, and the pain dissipated.

  Theo looked down at the wound in the center of his bare chest. An upside-down Mercury symbol, the size of a man’s hand. He’d thought it’d be red with blood, or black like charred barbecue. Instead, it gleamed pale yellow, edged with white. His flesh wasn’t burned—it was just gone. Until that moment, he realized, he’d secretly held on to a child’s conception of his own body, imagining somehow that he wasn’t just muscle and tissue, but rather some glowing essence. But here lay the truth: nothing under the skin but a thin layer of yellow fat that melted and sizzled just like any other meat.

  He tore his eyes away from the burn. The Hyaena removed the leather strap from his mouth. Her hands, he noticed, were veined and calloused like those of an older woman. He saw no brand on her wrist or neck. The Pater’s mark, if indeed he bore one, was similarly concealed. The woman placed a gauze bandage over the brand.

  “Until your ordeal is complete,” the Pater explained, “the brand remains simply a wound. Only once you’ve finished your initiation into the rank will we color it.”

  “My ordeal?” Theo couldn’t help asking.

  “Didn’t your ‘research’ mention the ordeal pit?”

  “Pit?” He could do little more than repeat the words, hoping he’d heard wrong.

  “The Host is an order of soldiers, and has been for nearly two thousand years. To become a syndexios you must prove that you can withstand whatever pain the battle brings.”

  The battle? Theo nearly parroted. But he kept his jaw clenched shut. Whatever happened from here on out would be beyond his control.

  The door to the Pater’s chambers opened behind him. A Roman legionary stood waiting to escort him out. He wore a gilded helmet, complete with an armored face mask and red horsehair crest. His leather breastplate rippled with carven muscles. Beneath a short, pleated skirt, his thick legs shone with oil. The mask bore an uncanny resemblance to the god he’d seen laid out on the banquet table at the Rainbow Room. Not in its features—the mask was an exaggerated visage with an overlarge jaw and a slash of brows—but in the eyes. They’d been painted onto the mask, steely gray, flat, and dead.

  The Pater spoke. “This is our Miles Primus,” he said, drawing out the first syllable—Mee-lais—as if savoring the Latin word for “soldier.” “Someday, you may ascend to his rank. But only if you survive this one.” He turned to the legionary. “Take our new Corvus to the Templo.”

  The Miles gestured curtly for Theo to follow him into the hallway.

  “You’ve got quite the revealing uniform,” Theo commented. He knew the only way to combat his escalating terror was to pretend he felt no fear at all. If they weren’t going to give him a mask like everyone else in this place, he’d make his own out of humor. “The leather muscles were very hip in the second century AD.”

  The soldier didn’t react. His thigh alone was as big around as Theo’s waist. Did they make him a Miles because of his physique, or did he get the physique after he became a Miles? These were mortals—surely their ranks had no supernatural effect on their appearance—but he wasn’t ruling anything out. Maybe I’m about to start cawing and flapping my wings like Corvus the Crow. Unlikely, he decided. I probably won’t survive long enough for any sort of interesting metamorphosis. Just plain old Theo Schultz, lanky and nearsighted and distractible, meeting his untimely end at the hands of another homicidal—or should I say deicidal?—Mystery Cult. Awesome.

  A few steps down the hallway, the Miles came to a sharp halt. He finally spoke, his voice as deep and stern as would be expected from his rank. “It’s time.”

  “Time for dinner?” Theo said hopefully. “Time for a bath? ’Cause let me tell you—”

  “Remove your clothing.”

  “Ah, the bath then.”

  “Remove it now.”

  “I’d rather not.”

  “Then fail the ordeal.”

  “Right.” He didn’t have a good comeback for that one. The Miles simply stood silently. Waiting.

  Theo kicked off his shoes then peeled off the rest of his clothing. He stood naked, resisting the urge to cover his dick like some medieval Adam. This was an all-male cult, after all, with the exception of the Hyaena woman. It seemed like the kind of place where men would walk around loud and proud. “So do I get a ceremonial robe or something?” He tried not to sound too hopeful. “Maybe something in a soft terrycloth?”

  The Miles just turned and continued his progress down the hall. Theo took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and followed. Thankfully, the hallway stood empty. He tried to ignore the way his balls had retreated in the chill air—he expected them to disappear completely at any moment.

  The Miles stopped at the end of the hall, where a large round portal with an iron knob in the center signaled a chamber of some import. The mithraic sanctuary, Theo thought, his heart picking up speed. But he refused to look scared before this lunk in a helmet.

  “Very Lord of the Rings,” he observed, nodding at the circular door. “I feel like I’m entering a hobbit hole.”

  At that, the Miles shot him a stare, his anger evident despite the mask. “I will inform the Pater that you make a mockery of the rite.”

  “No, no, just a nervous tic,” Theo replied hastily. “I tend to crack jokes at the most inappropriate times. Like a teenager giggling through a drunk driving video. See, there I go again.”

  “You have a mouth like a leaky faucet. Drip-drip-drip-drip-drip.” The words conjured an image of blood, slowly dripping from a slit throat.

  That finally shut Theo up.

  The Miles continued in a monotone. “Once your meditation is complete, I will return to take you inside the ordeal pit. There, we speak only Latin. We train many years to speak the holy tongue. The Pater Patrum must believe you able, or he would not allow you to enter.”

  “I’ve got a Ph.D. in classical languages, so carpe linguam Latinam.” He spitefully tried to recall all the Latin puns he’d ever learned.

  “We will see what happens in the midst of the ordeal.”

  “Ah. So if I start cursing in English …”

  “You fail.”

  “And if I fail …”

  “No one can be allowed to know the secrets who is not an initiate.”

  “In other words …”

  The Miles just stared at him with his flat painted eyes.

  “I see.” He pushed his glasses more firmly up his nose, wishing they were held on with one of those elastic headbands like a 1970s NBA player so that when the lion jumped out at him—or whatever monster inhabited the “ordeal pit”—he’d be able to see it coming.

  “For now, inside the Templo, you will sit in silence, meditating on the images that are revea
led to you. Do not speak.”

  Theo opened his mouth—

  “I said, do not speak. It seems that may be the hardest ordeal of all for you.”

  Theo stifled a snarky retort only because he didn’t want to prove the Miles right.

  The round door swung open to reveal a long, stone chamber with a low, vaulted roof. It looked very much like the mithraea Theo’d seen in his research. The Miles led him down the narrow central aisle. To either side, a wide stone ledge ran the length of the chamber, providing a place for the syndexioi to recline during the cult’s feasts. Detailed frescoes covered the walls in bright hues. The ceiling above dripped with small plaster stalactites, giving it the appearance of a cave.

  Like most mithraea, the chamber was fairly small. He doubted more than twenty men would fit along the room’s ledges. That meant the cult’s forces, though well armed, might be small enough that three Athanatoi could defeat them—especially if they had Captain Hansen’s Counterterrorism task force as backup.

  At the end of the aisle stood a small rectangular altar decorated with carved reliefs. Behind it sat an elevated chair for the Pater. But the central image of the temple was the tauroctony itself: a large marble statue, twice the height of a man, that glowed in a beam of artificial sun pouring through a “skylight” above.

  The bull lay with his legs curled beneath him and his neck thrown back. Mithras, one foot upon the bull’s back hoof and the other knee bent upon its back, held the animal’s nostrils in one hand and a knife in the other. Like the statues in antiquity, this one was painted in bright colors. From the wound in the bull’s throat, red blood drops streamed down its neck. A wiry brown hound and a thick green serpent each pressed their tongues to the blood. An ochre scorpion scuttled at the bull’s side. A black crow perched upon its back.