Winter of the Gods

by Jordanna Max Brodsky

  It was all just as Theo had expected—except for Mithras himself. No Phrygian cap covered his head. Instead, he wore the rayed crown of Sol Invictus, made not of marble but of hammered gold. His face, too, was gilded, as were his hands. He was the Sun incarnate, glowing so brightly Theo had to squint. From the god’s back hung a cloak painted cinnabar red, its brilliant blue lining spangled with stars, as if Mithras, like Atlas, bore the solar system on his shoulders.

  “On your knees, initiate,” the Miles ordered. “I will return when you’ve finished contemplating the glory of the God.”

  Theo found himself alone, his bare knees sore from the stone floor after only a few seconds. He folded his hands across his lap and tried to look pious. Okay, he decided, this is the calm before the storm. A chance to prepare for the ordeal ahead. He felt like an idiot college student, walking into a final exam, knowing for sure that he should’ve studied a damn sight harder. He wished he’d had just another few hours to review the research on Mithraism. Instead, he had only the mithraeum itself to teach him more about the cult he’d just joined.

  He looked at the frescos. The figures processing down the wall must be syndexioi, ordered according to rank. On the back of the right-hand wall stood a man with a black crow’s head, carrying a caduceus: the Corvus. The familiar symbol of the planet Mercury floated above his head. Before him strode a veiled man beneath the hand mirror symbol of Venus. He wore a diadem on his brow, and looked like a Roman virgin bride. Let’s hope I’m never elevated to that particular rank, Theo thought with a shudder, imagining what duties the bride might perform for the other initiates. Next came the familiar Miles, the Soldier, walking below the symbol of Mars.

  The left wall bore paintings of three other types of syndexioi—clearly the higher ranks. At the back of the procession walked a man in a lion-head mask. The thunderbolt in his hand indicated he was under the protection of Jupiter/Zeus, the Sky God.

  In front of the lion-man was a figure with a Phrygian cap and a curved sword. A Persian, or Perses. His tutelary planet was not a planet at all, but the moon. Selene would appreciate that she gets a higher rank than her father, he thought. But she might bridle over the fact that her twin brother was even higher still.

  The next man in line stood beneath the symbol of the sun. He wore red robes and a rayed crown, not unlike that adorning the head of the Mithras statue, and carried a whip in one hand. That must be the Sun-Runner, Theo decided. The rank for whom the “Procession of the Heliodromus” was named.

  The Hyaena did not appear anywhere in the fresco. Six ranks depicted in all, corresponding to six of the seven heavenly bodies, and to the celestial spheres theorized by Plato. As initiates climbed from rank to rank, they likely learned more of the cult’s secrets and, supposedly, moved closer to ultimate salvation. A bit like a first-century version of Scientology, Theo reflected.

  One other figure was missing—the seventh rank, the seventh celestial body. Theo finally found his image on the altar itself, holding a sickle just like the one Saturn used to slice the balls off his father Uranus in the Roman creation myth. Strange, Theo thought, that Saturn, rather than mighty Jupiter, protects the Mithraists’ most revered leader. Then again, the Romans always had a thing for Saturn, an indigenous agricultural god whom they’d syncretized with the Greek Kronos. They’d stored their treasury beneath his temple in the Roman Forum and considered the winter Saturnalia one of their most important feasts—another reason the December timing made sense for the Mithraists’ rituals. Still, Theo couldn’t quite make sense of any of it. And considering scholars have been trying to figure out this cult for over a thousand years and still have no idea what went on, I probably never will either.

  Theo wasn’t sure how long he knelt in the mithraeum. He only knew that he expected his knees to start bleeding at any moment. When the Miles finally returned, Theo welcomed it. Whatever ordeal awaited, it had to be better than the torture of anticipation.

  He tried to school his face into a solemn mask, lest he be faulted again for not correctly revering the god. The Miles led him past the altar and the Pater’s seat, through a small door behind the tauroctony.

  The large circular chamber they entered dwarfed the mithraeum. Torches hung in brackets along the wall, casting flickering shadows around the room. A round pit, at least ten feet deep, dominated the center. Surrounding it stood the syndexioi, each in the garb of his rank, their faces concealed behind a variety of masks. Two members of each of the five higher ranks were present, but only one veiled man and a single crow-headed Corvus. Two men had died on Governors Island, he knew, which explained the gaps. Glad I could help shore up the ranks, he thought grimly.

  The higher ranks stood on the far side of the pit, and Theo could only dimly make out the two figures in their lion masks and the Persae with their Phrygian caps. The two Heliodromi, however, were hard to miss in their bright red robes, matching silk masks, and rayed crowns. One held a torch upright. The other held one facing downward.

  Between them stood the Pater Patrum. The firelight illuminated the old man in the gold mask so that Theo noticed his clothes for the first time. He was clad in a white, long-sleeved tunic with red piping, baggy Persian trousers like those worn by Mithras, and a long red cloak. Sort of M.C. Hammer meets Magneto, Theo decided with a desperate attempt at levity.

  The Miles at Theo’s side escorted him to a ladder at the edge of the pit. Around him, the syndexioi stood in silence. As he put a foot on the first rung, a waft of cold air circulated up from the pit to shrink his testicles still further. Then his mind momentarily went blank with terror, and he found himself standing in the center of the empty pit, the ladder pulled up to the rim, removing his only means of escape.

  The slick stone walls around him reached far overhead—even Selene would’ve been hard pressed to scale them. At the thought of her, Theo felt a rush of adrenaline through his veins. She’d once told him that at the height of her powers, she could hear the prayers of the faithful as they entreated her for aid. Worth a shot, he decided.

  I sing of Artemis, Protector of the Innocent.

  I sing of She Who Helps One Climb Out.

  Hear my prayer, Good Maiden, and lend your mighty arm in my moment of need.

  It would’ve been better in Greek, but he was having a hard enough time getting his terrified brain to remember Latin. And this is before anything enters the pit. Maybe this is all it is—ordeal by anticipation. I stand here awaiting some unknown torture for half an hour, nearly shitting myself, and then they all take off their masks and yell, “Surprise!” and buy me a drink.

  Then the flames began.

  All around the circumference of the pit, a ring of fire shot six feet into the air. He could feel the waves of heat licking his skin. A voice sounded from beyond the flames. The Pater.

  “Corvus per ignem intactus volat. Ita suo deo se probat.”

  Somehow, Theo’s churning brain managed to translate the Latin: A crow flies through fire unscathed. Thus does he prove himself before his god.

  Wait … did he say … through fire? he wondered belatedly. Only then did he notice the narrow channels in the floor running toward him from the ring of flame like the spokes of a wheel. Even as his eyes traveled their length, the fire poured down the metal paths. Instinctively, he raised his arms to shield his face. He tried to dodge out of the way, but found that the tongues of fire formed a new circle, this one only three feet across, with him at its center. He wondered how much longer he could withstand the blistering heat.

  Dimly, he realized that the outer ring of fire and its spokes had vanished; only a single line of flames stood between him and safety. Now the object of the ordeal became clear. Pass through.

  He peeked out from behind his arm, but had to close his eyes against the heat. Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, he thought, biting back the English words. Okay, just like passing your finger through a candle flame. The kind of thing a fifth grade boy does to impress the girls. Theo’d always preferred to charm
the ladies with an erudite joke or two, but it was never too late to regress. Indian fakirs do this all the time, right? It’s just a mental exercise. Of course, they at least have loincloths.

  He kept one arm in front of his face and decided to forgo manly pride and cover his groin with the other. He took a few heaving breaths, not unlike a woman in labor, then sprinted through the flames.

  He thought he’d made it through, miraculously unscathed, until he realized his hair was on fire.

  “Merda sancta!” he cursed, batting at his head ineffectually. Then water poured down on him from an overhead pipe, a blessed, healing flood that doused the flames instantly. He patted his skull, relieved to find he wasn’t bald. The hair on his arms and legs, however, had all been singed off. But the water’s a good sign, he decided. They don’t actually want me to die.

  Except the water didn’t stop. He tried to step out from underneath the deluge, but it tracked him like a follow spot on an opera singer. He could still breathe, barely, if he ducked his head and sucked air. Then he started shivering uncontrollably in the icy torrent. Maybe I’m shaking from shock, he hoped, not hypothermia. He knelt down anyway, clutching his arms around his knees for warmth. Still the water didn’t cease.

  He could barely hear the Pater’s voice over the roar. “Auctor luminis … illuminare lumine intelligentiae … dignus gratia Baptismi tui effectus … doctrinam sanctam.” Theo didn’t catch every word—his teeth chattered too loudly—but he heard something about “baptism” and “enlighten him with wisdom.” A pleasant liturgy for a torturous experience.

  His shivering slowed. At first, he thought that was a good sign, then he realized it might mean his body had simply stopped fighting. He pushed hard against the torrent to stand up on numb feet and tried to slap some warmth back into his arms and flanks. He reached back to childhood memories of books about the high Arctic. Keep moving, he decided, that’s the key. He did a few jumping jacks, head still bowed beneath the water. Then he tried to jog in place. Next, he resorted to a medley of 1980s dancercise moves, forgoing all dignity in the pursuit of survival. The water only came harder. The gauze ripped off his brand, and the water struck his raw flesh like a hammer.

  Baptism, his frozen brain remembered. It’s supposed to be a baptism. The Miles had made it clear the rite required solemnity. Theo sucked in a deep breath, then forced himself to turn his face upward into the pounding water. It slammed against his eyelids and cheeks, it streamed up his nose, but he held out his arms to welcome the cleansing of his sin and stood as still as a crucifix. Even as his lungs screamed for air, he tried to look calm, composed, a willing supplicant. His outstretched arms began to shake with the strain, and he felt the floor beneath his feet tilt as the oxygen left his brain. In another second, he’d have to either bend his head away from the water or pass out.

  The water ceased.

  He found himself standing in a puddle, with only a few frigid drops falling on his skull like Chinese water torture.

  The assembled crowd hadn’t moved. But the Pater nodded his head slowly, as if in grudging approval. Theo tried to look calm and confident, even though he felt like begging for a cup of hot tea and one of those foil emergency blankets.

  He dared not trust that the ordeal was over. Good things always come in threes.

  Sure enough, a hidden panel in the side of the ring slid open. Now come the lions, Theo decided. Very gladiatorial. If only he had a short sword and net …

  Instead, the goddess Diana stepped into the pit.

  Chapter 32

  DIANA

  Selene entered the ordeal pit to find Theo standing naked before her. Water plastered his fair hair against his skull, the ends tipped black with char. The skin of his arms and legs flared bright pink, as if from extreme heat or cold. Just below his collarbone, a Mercury symbol, yellow and oozing, carved his flesh.

  She watched his eyes travel across the clothes they’d forced upon her: a short white tunic pinned at one shoulder, sandals laced to her knees, and a crescent moon tiara in her black hair. For the first time in millennia, she dressed like a goddess, and yet she’d never felt her own mortality more acutely: They might have garbed her as Diana, but they hadn’t given her the Huntress’s bow. Before her stood a man she no longer felt she knew. How much of what he’d said to the Pater were his secret feelings, and how much just for show? She tried to read the truth in his eyes, but all she saw was fear.

  He lifted his face to speak to someone who stood above her on the rim of the pit. The Pater, she assumed, although she dared not turn around to look. She felt safest with the wall of the pit at her back.

  “Estne Spartaci somnium quoddam depravatum est?” he asked. Is this some perverted Spartacus fantasy? Selene hadn’t bothered with Latin in many lifetimes, but she had no problem understanding a tongue she’d spoken daily for centuries. As always, she was both impressed and alarmed that Theo mocked those who threatened him—and in a long dead language, no less. He went on, still in Latin. “Would you have us wrestle as gladiators?”

  The Pater spoke above her head. “I do not doubt that Diana is still strong enough to make short work of you. No. We have a better idea. Tomorrow is the Procession of the Heliodromus, and there must be a willing sacrifice to the God of Three Aspects. Yet Diana is still convinced that she should live. Sure that, weak as she is, she is still a goddess. She must learn her place. And you, Makarites, have promised to teach her.”

  Theo didn’t look at Selene. “You want me to do it … right now?”

  “Just tell the truth.”

  “About what?”

  “About her.”

  “I told you already. You can use the information however you want.”

  “You told us what we wanted to hear. Now tell us the truth. We will know if you lie.”

  “She is cold, unfeeling—”

  “You lie.”

  A river of icy water crashed down on Selene’s head. She crouched beneath the onslaught. Then it stopped as suddenly as it had begun. She stood up shakily, dashing wet hair out of her eyes, and turned to face the men standing on the rim behind her. She knew that the white tunic clung to her skin, revealing every curve and color of her body, but she willed herself not to care. You would see me naked again, is that it? Have you forgotten the legends of my wrath? Any mortal who dares look upon my bare flesh will be ripped to pieces.

  She tried to meet the Pater’s eyes through the holes in his golden mask. “Recte dicis,” she said. You speak right. She continued in Latin: “I am not cold, nor unfeeling. I am filled with fury. And you will feel its lash.”

  The Pater gave a rusty laugh and motioned to the man at his side, who wore a rayed crown and held a downward torch in his hand. Despite the silk mask that covered the top half of his face, Selene recognized the hawk-faced man by the sharp jut of his jaw. He drew a sleek remote control from his robes, incongruous in the flickering torchlight.

  A sudden whirring of gears sounded from the floor beneath her. She looked down to see tall walls of glass shoot up to imprison her in a narrow transparent cylinder. Instinctively, she kicked against the glass, hoping it had been made to hold mortals, not gods. But the wall didn’t crack, and she only bruised her toe. She hadn’t realized how much she’d appreciated the invention of close-toed boots until she’d been thrust back into Roman sandals.

  “Let us try again, Makarites,” the Pater intoned. “Tell us about Diana.”

  “She pretends she can hurt you,” Theo said after a moment. “But she is weaker than you think. She brags, but inside she is weak and scared—”

  “A half truth.”

  This time, the sheet of water didn’t stop. It pounded down upon her with brutal force, bruising her scalp and her bare shoulders. She bent her head and breathed in shallow gasps, then dared open her eyes. What she saw sent a tremor of terror through her.

  The water didn’t drain away.

  She was trapped inside a quickly filling prison. Already the water had reached her thighs. S
he slammed her fist futilely against the glass. Theo wasn’t lying, she thought. I am weak and scared.

  The water kept coming.

  “Again, Makarites. You said you knew how to break her. She will drown if you don’t start telling us the full truth. Now.”

  Selene managed to raise her head to look at Theo. His face remained stern as he watched her, but she could see the terror in his eyes. His fists clenched at his sides. Whether he truly cared for her or not, she could tell that he wanted to run to her. Good old Theo, always trying to play the hero. But what was the point? The initiates had him outnumbered, and no doubt if Theo moved toward her, another glass chamber would appear to stop him. To have any chance of escape, he would have to give them what they wanted.

  “The truth.” He spoke the word softly, almost wistfully. The water climbed to her ribs. She kicked off from the floor and started to tread water, but her flailing limbs knocked against the glass, and the force of the deluge kept pushing her downward. She braced her feet and hands against the walls of the chamber instead and started to shimmy her way up. As she climbed swiftly toward the top, hope sparked within her. She saw an answering gleam in Theo’s eye. In a second, she’d be over the wall, leaping from the glass rim onto the stone ledge surrounding the pit and sinking her fist in the Pater’s face.

  Then an iron grate slammed down from the ceiling, trapping her inside the cylinder while the water continued to rise.

  Feet still braced on the glass, she reached upward to push off the iron bars. Her flesh sizzled on contact with an electric shock. She screamed and fell back into the churning water, the force of the redoubled onslaught pinning her to the floor of her prison. She pressed her face against the glass, peering out at Theo. She knew she should urge him to resist: Whatever the Pater wanted him to do couldn’t be good for her. And yet she couldn’t control the desperation in her gaze.

  Theo’s face had gone ashen. Tears stood in his eyes as he shouted a single word: “Siste!”