by Tom Holt
‘Quite so,’ Apollo replied. ‘Your point is, of course, entirely valid. But the message I’m trying to get across . . .’
Apollo fell silent. Hell, it was on the tip of his tongue. Something about something important. At that moment some words drifted down out of the air into his mouth, and he spoke them. They had come a long way, were slightly scorched and tasted disconcertingly of marzipan.
‘Oh yes,’ he said. ‘The world is about to end.’
‘Riv . . .’
‘There is,’ Apollo went on, ‘absolutely no cause for alarm. The situation is under control, and even as I speak negotiations are in hand to attempt to reach a settlement that will be satisfactory in the eyes of all parties.’ Just then, a cloud passed over the sun, and Apollo drew himself up short. Why was it, he wondered, that sitting in this chair being stared at by a camera made you say all sorts of silly things you didn’t mean? ‘They’ll all fail, of course,’ he added. ‘Absolutely bugger all you lot can do about it, anyway. It’s all up to the Derry boy and the dog and the eagle. And Prometheus, of course, and Gelos too, if he’s turned up yet. But all I can say is they’re cutting it a bit fine, because, well, there’s a board meeting going on right now up in the sun and pretty soon they’re all going to start chucking thunderbolts about and then it’ll be you lot for the chop and why have you switched the cameras off, I haven’t finished yet.’
‘Now look,’ said the producer’s voice, ‘I’ve had some nut cases on this show in my time but if you think I’m going to put my job on the line letting you say things like that over the ark ark ark ark . . .’
Apollo turned slightly in his chair and smiled at the camera, smiling as brightly as the sun (which had just emerged from the clouds overhead). The camera was being operated by a natterjack toad in a leather jacket and designer jeans. Do what you like to him, a television cameraman will always basically remain the same.
‘Ladies and gentlemen of humanity,’ Apollo said. It was easy once you got the hang of it, which was basically bearing in mind that if you let your brain register the fact that there are ninety billion people out there staring right at you then you’re inevitably going to dry up, but if you just don’t think about it then there’s no problem, no problem at all. ‘This is the god Apollo speaking. Throughout history it has been my pleasant task to pass on the messages of heaven to mortal men. Well, all good things must come to an end. The world’s been a good thing, by and large, hasn’t it? Well, it’s got to come to an end, too. Now I know that’s going to be hard on some of you, perhaps even all of you, but in the final analysis you’ll all have the satisfaction of knowing that it’s part of a divine plan that stretches back many thousands of years to the time of the creation of mankind itself.’
Apollo paused for a moment, rallied his mental forces, and tilted his head slightly on one side as if he’d been doing this sort of thing all his life. After all, he reasoned, PR is PR, whether it’s done by television broadcasts or the entrails of sacrificial animals or posters on the sides of buses.
Now some of you,’ he went on, ‘will be saying to yourselves “Now hang on, that’s a bit thick, isn’t it?” And let me assure you that the Divine community as a whole has a great deal of sympathy with this view. We know only too well how hard it is to make sacrifices - or in our case, how to go without sacrifices. We understand, and we’re going to do everything in our power to make what I would call the transitional period as painless as we possibly can. But . . .’
At that moment, a large eagle smashed its way through a skylight and pitched on Danny’s chair, with the result that about nine hundred thousand viewers who had just come back from the kitchen with the tea got the impression that it was one of those ventriloquism acts that never quite ring true on television.
Apollo frowned, trying to remember who he’d turned into what, and while his mind was temporarily engaged in this fashion, the eagle spoke to him.
This statement simply cries out for qualification. The eagle didn’t speak as much as transmit telepathic messages direct from its brain to his; and the messages were in fact being relayed via the eagle from a huge composite brain presently in possibility orbit round the entire concept of Earth. To complicate matters, there was a mild thunder-storm in the vicinity and the composite voice was transmitting on a rather popular mental frequency, with the result that there was a lot of crackling and a few distant snippets of a conversation between two CB Radio enthusiasts driving Leyland Roadmasters round the M25, but the messages were more or less intelligible.
‘What the hell do you think you’re playing at?’ he they said.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Come on, Pol, pull your finger out. Have you heard what you’ve just been saying?’
‘I . . .’
‘Listen.’ The entire interview so far was played back through the eagle’s brain. Telepathic communication is very rapid indeed; compared with two seasoned telepaths thinking quickly, words are second-class letters to Penzance posted in Dundee on a Sunday. ‘Is that what you intended to say?’
‘No,’ Apollo replied, puzzled. ‘Far from it.’
‘What were you going to say?’
‘I was going to say that the gods were about to betray humanity, and the only way out of it was for everyone to believe in them as quickly and as sincerely as possible. I was going to help by doing a few miracles.’
‘Do you know what’s happened?’
‘I’ve been got at.’
‘Who by?’
‘Jupiter.’
‘Correct. He’s just passed a resolution that you aren’t a god any more.’
‘He’s done what?’
‘You heard me. You’ve been reduced to the ranks. As soon as the meeting’s over, they’re going to snatch you back to Olympus, and then it’ll be a career in the real estate business for you. Meanwhile, he’s using you as a mouthpiece, beaming signals down from the sun into your brain. Fortunately, I we have just put a green baize cloth over the sun . . .’
‘How . . .’
‘Don’t ask. I we reckon that gives you about three minutes. Whose side are you on, Pol?’
‘Reduced to the ranks!’ Divine wrath filled Apollo’s mind. He fizzed slightly, and the tubular steel arms of his chair were transmuted into pure gold. I’ll show that jumped-up son of a concept exactly where he gets off . . .’
‘That’s the ticket, Pol. Now, why don’t you tell the folks at home the truth?’
‘Roll em.’
It seemed to Jason as if he were flying, and also standing still at the same time. Air appeared to be rushing past him, but he wasn’t conscious of any movement on his part. He was standing still and the world was turning very fast. You could get travel sick very quickly this way.
There was a click; the world jolted to a halt, paused for a stomach churning fraction of a second, and rushed back in the other direction. Then another click.
‘This looks like it,’ he they said. ‘Right. Watch very carefully. ’
The world was moving yet again, but this time at its normal pace; in fact, Jason wouldn’t have noticed the motion if he hadn’t been aware of the lack of it in between clicks. This was time running on playback speed.
He had apparently moved in space as well as in time, for he was inside a building of some sort now; a dark building, not particularly cheerful. Despite his innate optimism, Jason couldn’t quite bring himself to believe that it was a restaurant. Which was not to suggest that it wasn’t a place designed at least in part for eating in; it was just that a human being standing there would be justified in wondering on which end of the fork he was ultimately going to wind up.
‘The temple of Jupiter in Londinium,’ he they whispered. ‘Not everybody’s cup of tea.’
‘Talking of . . .’
It was only then that Jason became aware that the place was full of people; thousands of them, but they were so extraordinarily still and quiet that they simply hadn’t registered in his mind. They were all dressed ali
ke, in rather threadbare homespun jackets and knee-length kilts. The women had their heads covered. All of them had that air of nervous resignation that you usually only find in doctors’ waiting rooms and tax offices. Jason wondered what they were all doing there.
‘Having a good time,’ he they whispered.
Jason frowned. ‘Are you sure?’ he asked.
‘I we use the term loosely,’ he they replied. ‘Actually there’s no such thing as a good time here; the nearest equivalent is a pious time, and I we suppose you could say they’re having that. This is popular entertainment, Betamax style.’
‘What is it, exactly?’
‘It’s a game show,’ he they replied. ‘Listen.’
Jason was on the point of applying for further and better particulars when two huge curtains parted at the far end of the hall and a procession entered. At the head of it were two enormous men with black masks and very large axes, followed by a third man carrying what looked startlingly like a chopping-block; then came three very sour-faced young women in extremely decorous costumes - in Jason’s world they would have been dentists’ receptionists - carrying silver vessels of indeterminate use. Finally there was a tall, white-haired man with a beard like a silver doormat, dressed in the most outlandishly ornate robes Jason had ever seen; the sort of thing Louis XIV would have gone in for if only he’d had the money.
The procession halted in the middle of a sort of raised dais, and the masked men grounded their axes with a crash. The overdressed man stepped forward, stood for a moment and then spoke.
‘A pious evening to you all, worshippers and females; my name is Godfearing George Maniakis, and I’m your host for tonight, when we’re all going to play God’s My Witness. Now before we begin, let me tell you all about a very spiritually uplifting thing which happened to me on the way to the temple tonight . . .’
Jason looked round nervously. The building was almost as ornate as Godfearing George’s costume; it had butresses, archetraves, roodscreens, pilasters and what Jason failed entirely to recognise as a narthex, but no doors. Pity.
‘“Thy Will be done?” I said, well you could have knocked me down with a simpulum, so I turned to him and I said . . .’ Godfearing George was getting steadily more solemn as his routine continued, and some of the congregation were starting to quiver slightly. Any minute now, Jason felt, some idiot was going to shout ‘Hallelujah!’ He did his best to ignore the rest of the story, which had something to do with everlasting punishment and the transmigration of the soul. Finally it ground to a halt, and there was a deep, respectful silence.
‘And now,’ said Godfearing George, ‘it only remains for me to welcome tonight’s first contestants, who are going to join me in playing God’s My Witness. Mr. and Mrs. Constans; many are called but tonight, you’ve been chosen!’
There was a shriek from the second row of the congregation. Not that sort of shriek. A real shriek. For a moment nothing seemed to be happening; then the two axemen sprang forwards and returned shortly afterwards with an elderly couple, who were struggling with them in a spirited but entirely pointless way. At last the remaining dribble of fight evaporated and they stood facing Godfearing George with all the light-hearted exuberance of rabbits caught in the headlamps of a rapidly approaching lorry.
‘And your name is?’
‘Mmmmmmm.’
‘Could you just speak up, Mr. Constans? The gods can hear you, of course, but we can’t.’
‘Flavius Constans,’ the man whimpered.
‘And you’re a retired executioner?’ Mr. Constans nodded feebly. ‘That must have been a horrible job, Flavius. Didn’t you ever wonder whether the people you executed might actually have been innocent?’
Mr. Constans snivelled. Clearly the thought had occurred to him, once or twice. Godfearing George turned to Mrs. Constans, who was somewhat belatedly trying never to have been born, and gave her a smile that would have stripped paint.
‘And how about you - Domitilla, isn’t it?’ Mrs. Constans made a very small, very shrill noise, like a fieldmouse in a blender. ‘How did you feel about all this, Domitilla, sharing your bed with a man who made his living by killing people? Didn’t you sometimes wonder, Domitilla? Anyway, worshippers and females, how about a good, fervent prayer for the souls of our two contestants, who are going to play God’s My Witness here tonight.’
There was a confused mumbling, like many angry bees. Mr. and Mrs. Constans tried to cling to each other, but the axemen parted them with the shafts of their axes. Godfearing George took a bundle of cards from a cedarwood chest which one of the stern young women had presented to him. Someone somewhere dimmed some lights. There was absolute silence.
‘Now,’ Godfearing George intoned. ‘I’m sure I don’t have to remind you of the rules. This first round is all about religious knowledge. For each question you get wrong, you get the opportunity to spend five thousand years in the Bottomless Pit Of Sulphur - that’s after you’re dead, of course, although I’m sure you don’t need me to tell you that life is but a dream. For each correct answer, you get five denarii, which you’ll be entitled to offer to the god of your choice when we play Sacrifice of the Century - always supposing you live that long, of course. Right then, Flavius, you have the choice of answering questions on Myths, Orthodoxy or Heresy.’
‘Myths, please,’ said Mr. Constans.
‘You’ve chosen Myths,’ said Godfearing George, ‘and you have five seconds in which to answer the following question.’
The lights dimmed ever so slightly. You could have built tower blocks on the silence.
‘Tell me, then, Flavius,’ said Godfearing George, and Jason could feel the palms of his hands becoming distinctly moist, ‘in the legend of the Seven Against Thebes, what were the names of King Adrastus’s daughters?’
Mr. Constans seemed to freeze. A great drum somewhere offstage marked the passing of the seconds: one, two, three . . .
‘Deipyla,’ Mr. Constans croaked.
‘And?’
‘Aegeia.’
‘Correct!’ The congregation sagged with relief, and someone actually did shout ‘Hallalujah’. ‘Heaven be praised, Mr. Constans,’ said Godfearing George, ‘Deipyla and Aegeia is right. Now, Mr. Constans, your second question is . . .’
To his utter astonishment, Jason knew the answer to this one (who removed the bones of Orestes from Tegea?), which was plainly more than could be said for Mr. Constans. On the fifth drumbeat he gasped out ‘Mercury,’ and the silence in the hall solidified still further. A wild guess. Jason shuddered to think what you got for a wild guess. It almost certainly wasn’t a souvenir cheque-book and pen.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Godfearing George, ‘but your sins have found you out, Mr. Constans. The answer is, of course, Lichas. I expect it was on the tip of your tongue, wasn’t it? Well, you’ll have five thousand years in Tartarus to reflect on that, won’t you? Now then, Mrs. Constans, do you want to answer questions on Myths, Orthodoxy or Heresy?’
Mrs. Constans squeaked pitifully.
‘Heresy it is, then. Now, in the accursed rituals of the Paphlagonians . . .’
Mrs. Constans didn’t do terribly well.
‘Oh dear,’ said Godfearing George, ‘that’s two incorrect answers, Mrs. Constans, and as I’m sure you’re aware that means immediate decapitation. Never mind, let’s have a really heartfelt prayer for the soul of Mrs. Constans, worshippers and females. She’s been a truly wretched contestant . . .’
And that was more or less all that Jason could take for one day. There were some people, he knew, who didn’t believe in the gods; not these gods, not any gods. That had always amazed him; it was like not believing in cholera. The two certain things about human life are, first, that there are gods; second, that pretty well all the gods would benefit enormously from a good hard kick in the head. With a yell that should have caused serious damage to the structure of the building, he unsheathed the Sword of Thingummytite and hurled himself at the dais . . .
Only
to find that it wasn’t there. And neither was he.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
‘Well, then.’
Jason considered his options. He had, within the space of a relatively short time, defied the gods, been to Hell, beaten up the Driver of the Spoil and the Grim Reaper, been made to feel about twelve years old by his mother, discovered that he had Free Will, discovered that, on the contrary, his entire life had been planned out for him from the start by the personification of laughter and an eagle, acquired a three-headed dog, mislaid a three-headed dog, been taught most but not all of the funniest joke ever, routed a divine army, spent a long time in his own shirt pocket and tried without success to murder a game show host. More or less the only thing he hadn’t done in the last few days, in fact, was have a decent meal.
But there is that within a man that drives him ever onwards, just as the power of the seasons drives the roots of flowers into the hard earth; and so he decided, against his better judgment, to open his eyes and find out what was going to happen to him next. He was, after all, a Hero whether he liked it or not, and when he had been offered the choice between the path of Luxury and the path of Glory he had chosen the path marked Diversion. Although he was no expert, he had an instinctive feeling that that came under the heading of Asking for Trouble. Anyway, he opened his eyes.
‘So?’
He looked round, and the first thing he saw was sandwiches. Ham, beef, cheese, sardine and prawn sandwiches; also a pork pie, a plate of sausage rolls, two Cornish pasties and an iced bun.
‘This,’ said the voice above his head, ‘is not a bribe.’
‘No,’ Jason replied, torn with indecision. ‘Of course it isn’t.’ It had been difficult, but he had made up his mind. To start with, the beef.
‘And since it’s not a bribe,’ the voice continued, as the sandwich jacknifed out of his hand and skittered away like a frightened kitten, ‘it would be best if you didn’t eat any of it until you’ve decided on your verdict.’