Zeus is Dead

by Michael G. Munz

  “People? It’s just you and me here, Thalia.”

  She patronized him with a pat on the hand that didn’t help his diminishment issues.

  “Further on the subject of undermining my authority, exactly who gave you permission to loose the Idiot Ball into the real world?”

  Thalia gulped and fluttered her lashes. “It was necessary? Well, it was! We don’t know who to trust, like you said, so tossing the Idiot Ball at someone who’s cornered us could get us out of a very tight spot, especially with the mortals running around without your protection! And it did, I might add! In fact I am adding it, see? It’s added. How about a game of Scrabble?”

  “And where were the mortals when you were off calling forth the Idiot Ball? Running around alone like that without the protection I told you to provide them?”

  “Oh, yes, but they were headed to see Dionysus and I thought it best if I stayed out of that!” She fixed him with a defiant stare that swiftly crumpled. “I gave her my bangle; they weren’t in that much danger! And—well, it seemed like a good idea at the time. And it all turned out just fine!”

  Apollo punctuated his nod with a sigh. She was probably right. “Even so, the Idiot Ball is out there now, and that’s not what it’s for. Getting it back to its place in the Hall of Creative Abstract Concepts will be a chore.”

  “Hmm, well that’s really not our biggest priority right now, is it? Dionysus has it and he’s against us, so really, for the moment, it’s fine where it is, I should say.”

  “When this is all over, it’s your responsibility to put it back,” he told her. “Do your sisters know?”

  “Of course they know. Who do you think helped me get it? And so we can’t use it for a while, so what? We only kept it around to use when lousy writers asked us for help and we didn’t want to deal with them. We can just ignore them in the meantime.” She blinked. “And what do you mean it’s my responsibility to put it back?”

  Apollo ignored the question. “I shudder to think how this will crash the production schedules of all those sitcoms, but we’ll worry about damage control another time.”

  “Calliope’s the one who coalesced it for me,” Thalia grumbled. “Make her put it back.”

  The Delphic Oracle’s quest for Tracy came via text message a few moments later. Tracy was busy finishing her final bit of packing, marveling at the sudden changes in her life and wondering if the slight weakness she’d been feeling since getting the amulet back was due to stress or something else. She figured that with her luck, it was something else—and anyone who disagrees with her can answer the question of just why we’d bother to mention it at all if that were not the case.

  Not that it isn't sometimes fun to mention things for no reason. The platypus, for example, is not actually a terrestrial animal but a bioengineered probe designed to blend in amongst the planet’s other creatures, sent to Earth by aliens who did not do enough research. There’s no reason at all to mention that right now, but wasn’t it fun?

  Don’t make that face; it’s rude.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  “Despite the obvious potential, gods never demand that other gods swear loyalty oaths by the binding power of the river Styx. It is simply not done. Such a demand both insults the honor of the one asked to swear allegiance and undermines the power of the one demanding it. Is the oath-maker an untrustworthy liar because their word alone is not good enough? No god would brook such an insult easily. Is the god making the demand so weak that he must lean on the crutch of the Styx rather than inspiring obedience on his or her own merit? Such oaths may be offered freely, but never demanded. This may perhaps be difficult for some mortals to understand, but then perhaps that is why we are gods.”

  —Athena’s Little Book of Wisdom, p. 1066

  “WHAT IS IT?”

  “It’s a little golden ball!”

  “And you took it from the Muse?”

  “That is what I said, isn’t it? Whatever it is, she was going to give it to the blond mortal.”

  “And now it’s ours.”

  “Watch it, Ares. I didn’t say you could have it. Get your own little golden ball.”

  “I got the most balls of this whole damn group! Don’t see how I shouldn’t get this one too.”

  The Idiot Ball sat in the center of the table, which itself sat in the center of the secret room on Olympus, which itself sat not quite in the center of the Olympian halls. Four of the five conspirators clustered around the table, peering at the ball, mesmerized. None had seen it before. None beyond Apollo and the Muses were even aware of its existence, for the same reason Apollo had never heard of Dionysus’s Hangover Hammer or Ares’s Flamin’ Racism Tongs; it was out of their purview.

  “If anyone gets it,” Hermes said, “it should be neither of you. All present who’ve not fouled things up by trying to kill the blond or letting him escape, raise your hand.” He raised his. So did the goddess. Hades merely brooded against the wall and studied the ball from a distance. Hermes turned to the goddess. “Oh, and anyone whose son didn’t disobey orders—”

  “My son stole the amulet! He brought it to Dionysus, who then proceeded to lose it! If anyone gets the blame—”

  “And maybe if your son hadn’t sat around in a hot tub while those mortals were off finding this amulet, they wouldn’t have gotten it in the first place, hmm?” Dionysus fired back.

  Hermes smirked. “Since when have you taken offense to lounging around in a hot tub?”

  “When it’s me? Never! But mortals ought to do as they’re told, wouldn’t you say? And it’s my ball! Get your own!”

  The four gods at the table suddenly broke out in a squabble of accusations. Within moments they all stood, leaning over the table, shouting across the glow of the ball, none willing to make the first grab for it.

  “Silence,” Hades spoke finally. Though only a whisper, the word snaked through the room with a power that slithered around each of the four arguing necks and squeezed until it had their attention. Hades never shouted. He never had to.

  “Focus,” he continued. “What is the significance of the amulet? Apollo only mentioned the Karlson mortal in his vision. Why, then, did he give this amulet to the woman, rather than to Karlson himself? Is Apollo using the mortal’s infatuation to his advantage? Where have they gone? Answer these first.”

  “Not to mention, how we can pressure Poseidon to declare Apollo permanently suspended?” Hermes added.

  “And who gets which parts of his portfolio when he does?” the goddess appended.

  “And who gets the ruttin’ ball!” Ares shouted.

  Dionysus nodded and crouched down to peer at it lovingly. “It’s a little golden ball!”

  Hades strode inexorably toward the ball and scooped it up for himself. “I am the eldest. It is mine. The argument is settled.”

  The other four stared.

  “He took the little golden ball!”

  “Ah, big deal,” Ares sneered. “I got two big brass ones already!”

  “Hades is right,” Hermes agreed. Already the need to argue over the ball’s ownership was fading with its absence. “Do you have any clue what this amulet is?”

  Dionysus shook his head.

  “It was purple, right?” Ares tried. “Maybe that means somethin’.”

  “It matters not,” Hades declared, peering at the ball more closely. “We must find and stop Apollo. All else will fall into place after.”

  “But you just said—”

  “It matters not.”

  Ares grumbled at that. “I still can't figure why Poseidon can’t find ’im the regular way.”

  “Ares, you can’t even figure where the bread's gone when the toast pops up,” Hermes quipped.

  “You give it back, you thievin’ bastard!”

  “And why’s Ares still allowed in these meetings, anyway?” Hermes asked of Hades. “Didn’t he try to kill Karlson, despite what we all agreed?”

  Any response was preempted by a clarion horn that reso
nated throughout the gods’ domain. The others stood in response before the echo faded. “The Dodekatheon,” Hades spoke. “Poseidon summons us. If there is speaking to do, I shall do it.”

  Ares growled as they made for the door. “Speakin’s a waste of time, anyway.”

  Hermes smirked. “Well spoken.”

  Hades pointed to both of them. “Incur not my wrath.”

  Poseidon’s glare stormed over the gathered Dodekatheon. Save for Apollo, all were in attendance. The new king of the gods began the proceedings immediately.

  “Apollo’s time to return to us on his own and explain himself is now gone. Until such time as I declare otherwise, all gods are tasked with actively seeking him. We will track Apollo, capture Apollo, and return him to Olympus to answer for his crimes.”

  Ares and Artemis both surged to their feet, with Ares stopping just short of shooting his mouth off and instead merely giving a few triumphant fist pumps. Artemis was less thrilled.

  “King Poseidon, it has been only one of your three granted days. Why is this so?”

  “Because I am king, and I say it is so.”

  “Oh, tish-tosh, Brother!” Demeter declared. She held in her arms a bowl of gingerbread dough that she was industriously stirring. “I’m sure the little dear means it would help us all to be the best little Apollo- searchers we can be if we understood what moved you to this decision. Isn’t that right, sweetheart?”

  Artemis nodded to this.

  Poseidon tossed a scowl at Demeter that the goddess utterly failed to register. “Between our last meeting and now, Apollo visited the Fates. Therefore, he has been on Olympus without so much as a word of explanation to myself or Hera. As he could not have been here and left without subterfuge, his motives are suspect. He must be found. He must be stopped.”

  Artemis swallowed. “How do we know he’s visited the Fates? Yet another of Ares’s accusations?”

  Athena chuckled. “I’m not sure Ares is smart enough for that.”

  “I myself spoke with the Fates within the hour,” spoke Poseidon. “They reported his presence to me.”

  “Did they give you any indication of his whereabouts?” Athena asked.

  Poseidon bristled. “Beyond mentioning his recent presence, they were tight lipped as usual.”

  The storm in his eyes made it clear to all present that further questioning along those lines was unwelcome. All Olympians knew that the Fates could not be coerced into revealing anything they did not wish to. Even Zeus could not bend the Fates’ will to his. Nevertheless, it had remained a sore spot for Zeus right up until his death, and Poseidon had possessed far less time to grow accustomed to this shortcoming in his authority. Only a fool would dare call attention to it by asking why he hadn’t learned more.

  “That’s it?” cried Ares. “They didn’t tell you more? Where’re we supposed to look?”

  Poseidon’s vengeful gaze cut across the silence. Ares merely shrugged it off with a glance at Hades, who was busy attempting to roll the Idiot Ball in a full orbit around his palm and the back of his hand.

  “The longer Apollo hides, the clearer it becomes in my mind that he must have had something to do with Zeus’s murder,” Athena declared. “I salute and support you, Poseidon, in this wise decree.”

  Artemis turned to Athena. “Clear in your mind? And how does that follow? He strikes Ares, and thus he is guilty of killing Zeus? Is wisdom not one of your purviews, Athena?”

  Athena would not condescend to acknowledge Artemis’s gaze, continuing to address the group as a whole. “Apollo has the power to hide himself from his elder gods. He has slinked about Olympus and ignored Queen Hera’s summons. He has attacked one of us. I see a great many things of which to be suspicious. We cannot allow a likely murderer to run free!”

  “Oh, dear. ” Demeter clucked her tongue. “Murderer is such an ugly word. Why not call him, oh, ‘harvester of immortal life’? Come to think of it, what proof do we really have that Zeus was murdered at all? Perhaps he merely slipped in the shower?”

  Artemis sighed. “Athena, your failure to protect Zeus is no reason to throw about foolish accusations like a cottonwood loosing seeds.”

  Athena met Artemis’s gaze for the first time and bit off each word as she spoke it. “I cannot help but wonder, huntress, just how involved you really are in your twin’s transgressions.”

  “I am involved in nothing!”

  Athena smirked. “Such protestation. One would think she knows more than she is telling.”

  “Screw-up!”

  “Hippie!”

  “Silence!” Poseidon demanded. The word echoed throughout the broad chamber and took a few moments to fade away into nothingness. The two goddesses returned to the seats from which they’d sprung. Hades spun the Idiot Ball atop a grim fingertip.

  “Has anyone checked the shower?” Demeter asked.

  “Artemis,” Poseidon spoke, “have you had any contact with your brother since his assault on Ares?”

  “I have not, King Poseidon.”

  “Do not answer so quickly,” Hera advised. “When this council adjourns, I will check the logs of the Olympian grounds for traces of Apollo. Will I find any of his movements to have crossed with your own?”

  Hephaestus spoke before Artemis could. “Even if you do, Queen Hera, that would only prove that they moved through the same area within, what, five minutes of each other? If Apollo has some means of concealing himself, what would be the proof that Artemis spoke with him or even knew he was there at all?”

  The god of war sneered. “Since when do we need proof for somethin’? We already know Artemis pals around with Apollo!”

  “I simply appeal to the Dodekatheon for sanity and caution,” Hephaestus answered. The god of fire reached toward Aphrodite and gently squeezed his wife’s hand, as if trying to hold the entire group together with that strong, supportive clasp. “This whole business is a sad one.”

  “Indeed,” Poseidon nodded, momentarily distracted at the sight of Hades bouncing the Idiot Ball between his palm and the bend of his arm. The coolly attentive gaze that the god of the underworld gave Poseidon as he did so unsettled him a touch.

  “And yet,” Poseidon continued finally, “the regret of it changes nothing. Does your own answer change, Artemis?”

  “It does not, King Poseidon. And if Hera’s check of the logs does indicate Apollo’s presence near my own, I assure you I saw not his visage nor heard his voice. I pledge my efforts toward locating him.”

  Not a noise sounded in the chamber as Poseidon regarded her, save for the slow grinding of Ares’s teeth.

  “Very well,” Poseidon declared finally. “You shall help. As for the Muses, I hereby recall them to Olympus and confine them to quarters for the duration of this crisis.”

  “About damned time!” Ares declared. He returned to his seat under the weight of numerous dirty looks. “Just sayin’.”

  One of those dirty looks belonged to Hades. The ruler of the underworld waited until he judged the brute well and truly silenced before standing to face Poseidon. “King-brother, I would add the Orthlaelapsian wraith to this search.”

  A few gasps traveled through the room. Seldom did Hades speak in the Dodekatheon unless the topic of the underworld itself came up, and his suggestion itself was worthy enough of trepidation.

  “The Orthlaelapsian wraith?” Hephaestus asked. “Is that truly necessary?”

  A brief aside for the curious: The Orthlaelapsian wraith represented one of Hades’s first triumphs in the field of shade recombinatorics. Combining the spirits of two slain mythological creatures, the wraith possessed the best traits of each with nary the trouble of free will that always made a living being so darned tricky to deal with.

  Half of the beast was formed from the spirit of the two-headed hound Orthrus, brother to the three-headed Cerberus (who to this day guards the entrance to Hades and makes a monthly appearance at the meetings of the Westminster Kennel Club). A magnificently ferocious creature posses
sed of terrible strength, power, and the fearsome ability to simultaneously chew up a pair of new shoes and lick itself, Orthrus nonetheless fell to the blade of Hercules during one of the first cattle rustling episodes in history.

  Hades created the wraith’s other half from the shade of another hound known as Laelaps. While (amazingly) possessed of only one head, Laelaps was so skilled a tracker that it was invariably bound to catch whatever it chased. Passed down to various owners from Zeus himself, Laelaps was finally set against the Teumessian fox, an animal so deviously clever that, also invariably, it could never be caught. News of the matchup ran like lightning throughout the world. Who would win in a contest between a hound that unfailingly caught its prey and a fox that would always get away? It promised to become one of the world’s greatest existential conundrums, a contest of immensely philosophical proportions up there with the Irresistible Force versus the Immovable Object. Indeed, it may even have eclipsed that timeless and irritating smug philosopher’s favorite “Can God create a rock so heavy he himself cannot lift it?”—were it not for the fact that Zeus got wind of it. So greatly did the matter perplex him that he decided he wouldn’t put up with that sort of crap, turned both the fox and hound to stone, and spent the rest of the evening taking the form of a pole at an early Athenian strip club.

  Laelaps, of course, died instantly, his shade consigned to the underworld, where Hades wove it together with that of Orthrus to create the Orthlaelapsian wraith. Empowered with the bloodthirsty strength of Orthrus and the unfailing tracking of Laelaps—wrapped together in a delicious wraith-like shell that was invisible when standing still—it would guard whatever the god wished. None could surprise the two-headed wraith. If by some miracle a thief did manage to make off with what it was guarding, it could track the thief to the ends of the earth to recover what was stolen. Unburdened of the troubles of being alive, the wraith was allowed the patience of the grave as it performed its duty with single-minded devotion. Re-tasking it was something of a pain, but as it had guarded the same thing for more than two millennia, Hades didn’t particularly care.