The Seventh of the Month
She'd had a name, once. A family. Now she had the god, the light of the sun.
She listened to the barbarian robber's question, cloaked in the forms of reverence. Forms wrapped around a self-seeking heart that had only the barest scrap of room to place itself below the gods.
And yet, as always, she kept her features schooled behind the hieratic mask that came so easily to her now. And she breathed deep of the fumes still rising from the place, deep underground, where her forebears had taught her that the far-shooting god had slain the monster Pytho, in defense of his mother.
The
enthusiasmos took her. The sweet smell of ethylene, and the stranger, more tantalizing scent of oleander, filled her nostrils. Her eyes rolled back in her head, and she knew no more of the waking world.
She awoke to glory. The robes of her office made her a spot of color on a vast mountain of cloud-stuff. But this was a cloud as children might imagine one, not a fogbank floating in the sky. The view around her was bright-lit by the sun above, with wisps drifting around spires never seen by mortals from the ground below, and
solid underfoot, with just the hint of springiness found in the richest of earthly rugs.
Then the sun came down to her.
He was glory and poetry and music and the Sun incarnate. Rapt, she knelt at His feet. The god spoke to her, and His most banal utterance was as the most beautiful lyric poetry of a hundred generations. Every word carried perfection, and once again, the priestess learned the secrets of her age at the feet of her Lord.
"Another Roman? I am not so fond of these newcomers as Ares, but they may serve to preserve our glory. And I must admit, they cause quite a stir. The coming decades are going to be
delightful. We haven't had a game this fun since the fall of Troy!" Boyishly the solar deity rubbed His hands, showing glee so bright the priestess marveled that she did not melt into a puddle at the sight. "But details, details. Speak to Me of thy...
supplicant."
The sun grew cold for a moment.
"He mouths the words, Lord, but honors them not in his secret heart. He came to Delphi with the worst men of his legions, and though the threat of pillage was unspoken... he threatened."
"And thou- did yield."
"...Yes." The priestess collapsed and sank a finger's breadth into the springy surface of the cloud. She lay, abject in shame, almost
wishing that the god would obliterate her with the arcing fires of the sun that He was.
He reached down with a hand that inexplicably failed to incinerate her, as it brushed her cheek fondly. She thrilled at the benediction in the words that followed. "Beloved, think thou that I would have thy person mistreated by these western barbarians and their arrogance? Gold and silver are as dross and the ashes of corpses, to the eternal stars. These Romans may steal, today, so long as thou art safe. I will make them pay, tomorrow." He reached down, fingering the quiver full of arrows lashed to the side of His chariot.
"Lord, I am unworthy..."
The god smiled, kindly. "And yet, thou wilt satisfy. Here is My gift of prophecy, beloved. Firstly, two arrows shall I loose against the robber, for his temerity. One of the chosen of Ares, sharp and quick to strike. He'd be dangerous, even in defeat and exile. And the boy, the austere man in a city gone decadent, who cares not that he lives in the Age of Iron, too maddened with reckless courage and the traditions of his race to fear tyrants."
That perfect jaw, the exact line that a million sculptors had tried in vain to capture, flexed slightly. "But Tyche is subtle, I have thought to Myself. The robber has cheated the Fates before, and the arrows may yet be blocked or deflected by her wiles. So why stop at two? Athena, in the wake of recent events, was quite ready to withdraw her aegis from the robber's side. After all, her champion is of age now; she has better things than the robber to attend to, after Athenai. So- two darts more."
At the prospect of further troubles for the man who had wronged His temple, the god smiled. Radiant with divine charisma, His smile shone. It was a thing of light and inspiration and triumph and perfection and glory beyond mortal comprehension. The priestess could feel its radiance burning at the very days of her lifespan, and rejoiced in the sacrifice, as He spoke again.
"The old man, saved from death by My healing, for one last grand conquest. The robber will have to roll the bones quickly, to outwit him. And Athena's champion- the lad whose
psyche shifts the course of the tempest with a flap of its wings. I have lent the lad a bit of My grace too; who knows what he may get up to? Already his speeches light fires in the hearts of men a lifetime his senior, hot enough to melt their steel. He may yet come into play, and play his part in the means by which My dear cousin may be avenged upon the robber for the plunder of her city- and I for the aspersions cast upon My temple."
The god beamed down upon her, warming her soul with his shining visage. "Thou wilt have a question. Speak, beloved."
"My Lord, there is no question, for there is no doubt. Surely Yours is the far-seeing inspiration, to prepare a blasphemer's destruction before the wrongs against Your glory are committed."
"Thou art wise in mortal fashion, beloved, and speak truth. The old man and the lad, I loosed seasons ago. I knew full well the extent of the robber's outrages, after all, and it was simple enough to do. Athena was- sensible- about lifting her protections, amenable to persuasion even before the sack of her capital. Very ready to concentrate on favoring her champion. She feels it was quite the coup, managing to ensure his birth despite the curses of the gods of Qart-Hadesh. I- am glad for her."
The god spoke slowly, His perfect face expressing a strange emotion she had not seen before. Musingly He continued, shaking His head. "We fit well together, as I learned on the Adriatic shore in higher, wilder days- has it been four centuries already?"
"In any case, that is Truth. The conqueror in his dotage and the one in his prime. The lad black of hair and wide of mind, and the boy fated to stand in the path of Destiny and the ages, and bid the tides to stop. Some, Tyche may guide him past, but all? I think not. For all these, and more, must the robber beware. The Fates have changed their weaving. His destiny, once carved in stone, is now written on the sand-tray. The river of prophecy has forked, these nineteen years, from the time of your forebear, and History's scroll is rewritten. Be thou watchful!"
Again the perfect smile, directed at
her! "Now go, and do My work in the waking world. Warn this robber, that he may know, at the end, of his doom."
