Tom Holt (3 page)

'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 selection 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...'

Diana shook her head. She threw.

'Twelve,' she said. 'Go to... Oh,
nuts!'

Thank you, said Mars under his breath, whoever you are. Three whole throws and not a shot fired in anger. Not even a shot fired in a spirit of reckless jollity, which can sometimes be a great deal worse. The Driver of the Spoil crossed his fingers, shook the dice-box gently, and spilt the dice.

Nine.

Mars twitched like a fisherman's float with a whale on the end of the line and turned towards the Earth. The wail of sirens was dimly audible across the emptiness of the solar system.

'Fire alarm?' he asked hopefully.

No chance. Pausing only for his head to stop moving long enough for him to put his helmet on it, Mars shouldered his shield and spear, whistled for his chariot, and trudged off to war.

Three small lumps of rock in the middle of a frozen sea.

The nearest land: the Argentine coast, approximately two hundred miles away. Natural resources: rock, ice and snow (in season). Strategic value: nil. Population: four.

Until recently, of course. Now, the population is fluctuating around the twelve thousand mark, as huge numbers of men hop out of big green aeroplanes on the ends of pieces of string tied to sheets. Down below, someone is staging an impromptu fireworks display.

In the middle of it all stands Mars, Destroyer of Men, holding a golden spear with the spearhead shot off and feeling a complete nana. Fortunately, he is invisible and his body, being composed of ichor and ambrosia, doesn't give off enough heat to attract the attention of the large number of heat-seeking missiles nosing about in the air like psychotic dolphins. Cautiously, his head bobbing up and down like one of those nodding dogs you see in the backs of cars, Mars starts to unwrap his sandwiches.

Cheese and gherkin, notes the Father of Battles with disgust. Cheese and gherkin, as if I didn't have enough to put up with as it is.