Shimmering Splendor

by Roberta Gellis

  Aphrodite giggled. “Oh, Hermes is a lovely boy.” Then she frowned. “But I’m not sure you’ll want to use this one. It takes a lot of power, and it will place you almost a full day’s walk from the palace in Iolkas. The only place Hermes knew was the top of Mount Pelion, and you know he cannot cast a spell for a place unless he has seen it himself or can take an image from a scryer. You wouldn’t want to appear in the middle of the palace or the town square, which are the only places beside the temple my scryer has seen. But I can take you to the temple with my own spell.”

  “I have never lacked for power,” Eros said slowly.

  “But there are the love spells for father and daughter, also,” she said, looking doubtful. “Can you manage all?”

  “I believe so.”

  Eros looked away as he spoke, as if he were thinking about Aphrodite’s question, but he really only wished to hide the bitterness he felt. He knew he could have been a mage, perhaps even one of the great mages, but no one would ever teach him. He had asked more than once, before Kronos had fallen and he had become a scarcely tolerated resident, not citizen, of Olympus. Even then, however welcome his beauty and his body, he had been driven away as soon as he’d made his request. His beauty was dangerous enough, he had been told; that beauty combined with knowledge would be a major catastrophe poised on a knife-edge.

  “In any case,” he continued, “I will not need to cast all three spells at one time. I will have several days’ rest between arriving on Mount Pelion and deciding how best to punish Anerios and his daughter.”

  “You prefer to go to Pelion?” Aphrodite asked.

  “Oh, yes,” Eros assured her. “You know the stir your coming will make at the temple. There would be no way to hide the fact that you had brought me. My presence at the court so soon afterward, even in disguise, might be associated with your arrival—I do not imagine the illusion will change my size; Zeus knows quite well that it would look too strange if, for example, a man the height of a native stooped to pass a doorway. No, it will be better if I walk in from Mount Pelion. Then I will be properly travel-stained and can say I come from…”

  “Where? And what name will you choose?”

  “The name…Atomos. The natives will not know that means ‘a person’ in the old language. And Atomos will come from…from far Macedon, from Pella, or, no, from Cellae, I think. King Anerios will not know Cellae, and I can be the king’s son.”

  “But why would a Macedonian travel to Iolkas?”

  Eros laughed. “Why, to pay court to the most beautiful woman in the world. Why else?”

  Chapter 2

  Translocation spells, Eros thought, lying back on the dry grass in a hollow not far from the huge, flat-topped boulder the natives used as an altar, really did take a lot of power. He was not dangerously depleted, but the fact that he had noticed the drain was significant. He felt a little, rather pleasantly, tired—physically tired, not the weariness of boredom and emptiness that more and more made him sleep away both days and nights.

  The air was different here, much cooler than the sheltered valley of Olympus, and the scents that came to his nostrils were sharper, tinged with resin from the pines, an earthy smell of decaying leaves, and a faint acridity from crushed weeds in the hollow where he lay. Aphrodite’s house smelled of flowers, always flowers, even in winter.

  Lazily he put out a hand to check that everything had arrived safely with him. His cloak was under his head, the travel pack propping it comfortably pillow-high. His bow and quiver were right under his right hand, where he had released his grip on them when he lay down. His sword was strapped around his waist; he could feel the hilt digging into his ribs because the belt had ridden up when he’d slid into a more comfortable position. The pouch of metal bits—gold, silver, and copper, lay on his abdomen. By his left hand was the small clay pot of ashes which contained several coals.

  Eros smiled into the dark. He had remembered to put on old hunting clothes but had packed flint and steel in his pouch before realizing his carelessness, removing them, and preparing the firepot. Anerios might have some firemaking tool, but not steel—that was Hephaestus’s art, and Hades’s, of course. But somehow one did not think of homely things like a firemaking steel in connection with Hades, only miracles like the full-length mirror he had brought Aphrodite after she had reconciled Demeter to the loss of her daughter.

  Actually, it was no longer truly dark as it had been when he arrived. Eros lifted a hand out of the shadow of the altar stone and a heavy ring on his middle finger glinted in the pale silvery light from a bright three-quarter moon that had risen. He dropped the hand listlessly. Aphrodite had objected to his leaving that night, saying anxiously there was no need for him to go in the dark, that he could wait a day or even two. He could not tell her the truth—how eager he was to be away. He could not hurt her by admitting that even her kindness was losing its ability to create a vital spark in him, that their idle talk and confidences, no matter how pleasant, had long been insufficient to engage his mind and spirit. He had pointed out instead that Anerios’s punishment should follow his crime swiftly and that the day or two would be better spent deciding what that punishment should be. Aphrodite never seemed to understand that he needed something to do, and in Olympus, even hunting for food was unnecessary.

  The thought of food surprised him, but his stomach growled in response and he laughed suddenly. Idiot that he was, he had forgotten that he had slept through dinner—not that he had missed it; he had had no appetite for it then. Now, of course, he was hungry as a newly awakened bear. He cocked his head as the word came to mind. Yes, there was a distant rustling in the brush beyond the clearing, and only a bear—or a man—would make so much noise. Bears were indifferent to noise because they did not hunt and were not instinctively careful of alarming wary prey, and men, most of them, were simply too clumsy to be silent.

  Eros rose smoothly to one knee, simultaneously moving closer to the altar stone. As he moved he caught up his bow with his right hand and swung the strap of his quiver over his head with his left so the arrows were in easy reach of his hand near his hip. He knelt quietly in the shadow of the boulder, watching. No man, unless he actually approached the altar, would notice him, and probably a bear would ignore him if he offered no threat. Had he been in Olympus, he would have challenged the beast and slain it. Dangerous animals were not permitted near the valley, although some still roamed the mountainsides around it. But here it would be a waste. His stomach growled softly again, and Eros grinned and admonished it. To kill a whole bear for one steak—

  On the thought, the crashing increased and the animal roared. Eros cursed softly. He knew he was downwind, but he had not had time to change his position after he became aware of the creature and in any case, he had not thought it necessary. Ordinarily a bear regarded the scent of a human as something to avoid.

  The bear burst into the clearing, surprising Eros by blundering into a tree on its left and twisting to slash at it before it came fully out into the moonlight and reared upright. Eros’s eyes widened. It was huge, the largest bear he had ever seen. Then he also saw the gleam of moonlight on the pale fur of the muzzle, on patches and streaks around the creature’s head that marked old scars, the ragged ears. It was old. Still Eros did not move. Let it live out its life; there were berries and nuts enough so it would not starve and it would probably die peacefully enough during its winter sleep.

  Then it swung its head and Eros rose from his crouch, an arrow already fitted to his bow. The whole side of the head was a pale glistening. Something had torn away skin and eye and the wound was corrupted. Perhaps it was testing the air, but it was blind on the side turned to Eros and he had time to loose his arrow. Just as it struck, the bear roared again, coming down on all fours to charge. Eros knew he had missed any vital spot. A second arrow took it in the throat, and it stumbled but came on, shaking its head in pain or fury. The third arrow tore out the beast’s good eye but did not penetrate the head. The bear screamed,
drowning out Eros’s obscenity as he laid a hand on the altar stone and leapt atop it.

  The sound of movement was enough. The beast’s head swung. Eros had to decide in that split second whether to loose a fourth arrow or draw his sword. He chose the arrow, letting fly into the mass of corruption where he thought the eye socket might have been. Then, having no choice, he leapt backward off the stone, stumbling and dropping his bow in the effort to find his balance and draw his sword. The bear had plunged straight forward, however, right into the altar stone. Half atop it, it scrabbled weakly toward Eros and then stilled.

  Eros stood, breathing hard, heart pounding, sword half bared. Then the bear started to slip off the stone, and Eros slammed his sword back into its scabbard and leapt forward to grasp the beast’s forearm. Muscles cracking, he dragged it toward him, fully atop the altar. When he had caught his breath, he looked up, smiling slightly.

  “That is a rather unwieldy sacrifice, Mother, and I do not worship Your aspects that demand blood. Forgive me if I use this place merely as a skinning table.”

  Having said it, Eros drew his knife, looked at the bear, looked back at the knife, and shook his head. No one man, not even Heracles, was going to skin that bear—at least, not in a few hours. And what would he do with the carcass and the skin when he was done? Skinless, the carcass would attract more flies and carrion eaters than the complete corpse, and that would be a sad waste of meat. He licked his lips, suppressed the thought of a sizzling bear steak, and decided he needed help.

  A moment’s search uncovered his bow. Another few moments and he had settled his cloak around him, his pack on his back, and his firepot into the heavy leather pouch designed to carry it. A quick circuit of the clearing showed one well-worn track, no doubt used by the people who came here to make sacrifice. Eros frowned. Had not the bear come into the clearing just about in this same spot? If it stayed near a track men used—reasonably often, from the look of it—could the bear, because it was old, have preyed on the men, perhaps frightening them from their supplies so it could eat? If so, killing it might make him welcome to Anerios.

  He put the idea in the back of his mind to be drawn forth if needed and looked at the track. Although it was bright enough at the edge of the clearing, the moonlight was blocked by a screen of well-leafed trees and did not penetrate far. Muttering what he thought of himself for forgetting to bring a torch, Eros set about finding a suitable stick of green wood with a thick knobbed end and pine trees with oozing galls from which he could scrape the resin to coat the branch. By the time he was ready to light a small grass fire with a coal from his firepot, the moon had reached its zenith and was starting down.

  A moment later the torch was aflame, the little grass fire stamped out, and Eros was on his way. The rough-made torch spat and sputtered, flaring and coming near dying. It was soon apparent, owing to the path twisting and turning to avoid steep slopes and places where parts of the mountain had given way, that it would never last long enough for him to escape the wooded area. He grunted with discontent when he thought of the time it would cost to make another torch or to feel his way down the dangerous track like a blind man. Fortunately, neither was necessary. About halfway down, a tiny valley had been carved by a stream. The moonlight showed a small orchard, some narrow fields, and several houses.

  “Epikaloumai Atomos,” Eros muttered. He hesitated while a feeling like itching or even a mild pain passed over his skin and then went toward the nearest house to pound on the door.

  He was surprised at the size of the building, even more surprised when a voice answered his first knock, crying, “Wait, wait. I am coming.”

  “You are very late,” the voice continued, as the door opened wide, exposing an old man clutching a dim lamp in one hand and holding around him with the other a worn and patched blanket. “Come in, come in,” he muttered, not lifting his head to look at Eros. “Your supper will be overdone, but I could do no more than set it by the fire to wait for you.”

  “I am afraid you have mistaken me for someone else,” Eros said. “Not that I would not welcome a cooked supper, no matter how overdone, but you could not have known I was coming. I did not know it myself. I was camped by the altar at the top of Pelion and I was attacked by a bear.”

  The old man had lifted his head as soon as Eros spoke, and he gaped stupidly until he heard the last words. Then he looked nervously toward the road and said, “You escaped him. Thanks be to Hermes the swift. Come in, quickly. You will be safe here. The buildings are too strong even for him, and he has not been back since he clawed Georg to death before we could drive him off. That was more than a week ago.”

  “He will not follow me,” Eros said. “I killed him. I hope he was not sacred, but something, maybe a younger animal, tore the skin from his head and it was rotting.”

  For a moment the old man gaped again. Then he swallowed. “Sacred? No! A plague, rather. How did you kill him? How? I cannot tell you how many hunting parties have tried.”

  Eros shrugged. “Perhaps he was sick from the corruption, and I am a strong archer. The body is atop the altar on Pelion. I came for help. It seemed a shame to waste so much meat and the hide also, but I could not carry so much.”

  “Arktos is dead!” The old man uttered a rusty chuckle. “That is good news. Come in. Eat if you are hungry. I will rouse the men and they will go back with you.”

  “Thank you.”

  Eros dropped his torch to the ground and stepped on the head, quenching the sputtering flame. The old man preceded him into the large chamber, leading the way toward the central hearth and stopping to light two more oil lamps hung from tall metal tripods. The light they gave was sufficient for Eros to make out a small loaf of bread sheltered behind two covered pots on the edge of the raised stone hearth around which were several benches. He nodded and the old man turned away and hurried back the way he had come. Eros used the edge of his cloak to lift the pots onto one end of a bench and remove their lids.

  Bending over, he sniffed the contents of the nearest pot and sighed. Ah well, one could not expect the excitement of killing bears and the elegance of Aphrodite’s cook at the same time. He broke off a piece of bread and dipped it into the pot while he seated himself on the bench. The stew had cooked itself into a kind of gluey paste, but with hunger as a spice it was good. The contents of the other pot, once they had cooled enough for Eros to extract them, were even better. Some kind of baked fish, drier than he preferred, but tasty.

  He had finished the fish and much of the stew when half a dozen men entered on the old man’s heels. As the door opened, Eros heard the protesting bray of an ass or a mule. He rose, smiling, and shook his head when he was asked politely if he did not wish to finish his meal, saying he had eaten enough. The eagerness the men felt to discover whether he had really killed the animal they feared was apparent when hospitality was skimped. No one urged him to eat more, offering instead a ride in the cart if he were tired. Laughing, Eros refused this treat also; he said, most truthfully, if one excluded the use of the translocation spell, that he had spent a very restful day.

  He suspected that the jolting of the cart, which was clearly not floored with the bands of leather that absorbed some of the shocks in a chariot, would be less restful than a second journey, even uphill, on his own feet. However, his main reason was to learn something about Iolkas from the men who accompanied him. To his pleasure, they talked freely, but this puzzled him also because their easy manner did not fit well with being subjects of a cruel and autocratic king.

  In fact, he learned no ill of Anerios from them. On the way back up the mountain they told him that the small settlement had been established by King Anerios for the convenience of pilgrims who wished to make sacrifice on the mountain. The large central building was the visitors’ lodge, the old man its keeper, and the others had been offered the chance to make the land their own in exchange for providing food for the visitors to the lodge.

  It was a fair enough exchange, one said cheerfully.
There was game in plenty in the forest, and now that they did not need to fear the bear, hunting would be less dangerous, so meat would not need to come from their small herds. Pilgrims usually came in small groups, and not too frequently. For the large processions that were made at seasonal times of sacrifice, the king usually sent extra supplies.

  “He is a pious man, King Anerios?” Eros asked.

  “He does his duty in all things,” an older man walking just beside Eros answered. “My name is Erasmion. King Anerios is a good king, and with many years left to him, I pray, for we have had peace and plenty in his reign thus far, and will have—unless the suitors mad for Psyche bring war upon us.”

  “Then the Lady Psyche is not yet bestowed?”

  “No,” the man beside Eros answered, but there was a kind of constraint in his voice.

  “Another one!” someone Eros could not see muttered, his voice redolent with disgust.

  “I hardly expected she would still be free,” Eros said. “I came to look upon this wonder for tale of the beauty of Lady Psyche has reached even to Cellae in far Macedon.”

  “Macedon,” Erasmion said in a musing tone. “Is Cellae on the coast?”

  “No, and I am not fond of ships,” Eros stated most untruthfully. “I came down through the mountains to Doliche, thence to Larissa, around the lake to Pherae, from where I set out for Iolkas. I have been traveling since spring.”

  “That is a long way to look on a woman’s face, no matter how beautiful,” Erasmion remarked.

  “Ah, well,” Eros said, smiling, “Cellae is a quiet place and I had a desire to see more of the world. If I could also win a beautiful bride, my journey would have a good purpose.”

  “Did you sacrifice on Pelion for good fortune?” someone just behind asked with a touch of amusement.

  “I should rather go to the temple of Aphrodite for that purpose, should I not?”

  There was a brief and, Eros thought, uncomfortable silence, and then Erasmion said, “The altar on Pelion serves all the great ones. You can call on any name there.”