Minori put her head against his shoulder. “I don’t think they’re ever going to be able to count them all.”
A quarter to half of the population, Amaterasu said, quietly, will die within the next year. I felt millions die on the first day. Sekhmet—and Set, if he survives—will be the sole gods of a diminished people . . . but very powerful, for all of that. Being the sole focus, having the power of the rest of your brothers and sisters flowing into you . . . . She paused. It has enriched me. But it has taken time to assimilate it all.
Minori nodded, and she stared at the far-view screen, unseeing. “The thing that is really killing me in all of this,” Kanmi said, adding, “if you’ll pardon the term . . . .”
She covered her brief expression of distress by leaning in, stroking hair that had once more become dark and wavy, and skin uncreased now by time, and he kissed her. “You were saying?”
“The thing that really bothers me,” he rephrased, “is that it once again boils down to Rome. I spent half my life fighting for what Rome did well. It organized and unified people, and established laws, and I’ll admit, the Pax Romana did a lot of good. I’m all for the abolition of human sacrifice.” Kanmi exhaled. “And on the other hand, I’ve spent half my life wondering what the world would be like if Rome didn’t dominate everyone’s lives. So here we are, at the end of time, and what is Rome doing? Dictating how we’re all going to die.” His dark eyes narrowed, and he went on with a certain savage cynicism, “You can’t tell me that if Rome’s gods had worked with Set and Isis and Horus, that they couldn’t have beaten back the mad gods. Instead, we have reports that Yum Kaax has killed Chalchiuhtlicue and Chaac. That Ītzpāpālōtl, the Obsidian Butterfly, after killing Anoku of Gaul, killed Ixchel of the Quecha. That Orcus just finished killing Thrud—and no one can catch him, or fucking Apollo of Rome. The gods of Valhalla are so busy trying to protect their people and their Gallic allies, that they don’t have the manpower—excuse me, godpower— to defend Judea, Tyre, and the Caledonian Woods. The Gallic gods are in the same boat.” Kanmi threw up his hands. “We’ve got Persia sniffing at the gates, we’re out of allies, and we’ve got Rome sitting there and saying play the game our way, or you can damned well die.”
Not Rome, Amaterasu corrected. Jupiter. The untried Emperor would not last long, if he did not have the protection of his gods, I think. And Rome’s gods are all terrified of Jupiter. Minori felt her eyes close without her volition. I would speak with Prometheus, if the two of you would be so good as to come with me. I wish to investigate a . . . line of probability.
And so, once more, they arrived at Erida’s house. As far as consulting oracles went, Minori infinitely preferred visiting Prometheus to visiting Sophia Caetia—before or after her final breakdown. Prometheus, she could understand, and respect. Sophia . . . was simply mad. You wished to speak with me? the titan inquired, entering Erida’s living room.
I did. Amaterasu pushed herself forwards in Minori’s head, and Minori ceded control with a mental gesture of profound respect, retreating to the back of her own mind. You have run probability calculations indicating that if Odin or Quetzalcoatl were the last surviving member of their kin, they might be able to challenge Jupiter, and win. Is that correct?
Prometheus blinked, and held up a finger. For them to have any hope of winning, they would have to absorb all the power of their brethren, and their current population base of followers would have to remain the same. Anything that decreases the belief base of the Roman gods would help to make Jupiter’s power wane . . . but of course, antiquity makes a difference. All those spirits, all that belief, over the centuries . . . makes a god who has been here for several thousand years much more powerful than a new one.
Amaterasu nodded Minori’s head. Now perform those same calculations with Sekhmet, as the sole focus of her people’s faith, as the potential assassin. She paused. And then perform them again, with me.
Kanmi’s mouth dropped open. “No,” he said, his voice quiet and appalled. “That’s . . . an incredibly bad idea.” He blinked rapidly, and spun towards Prometheus, who’d just taken a seat, and whose eyes were now rapidly scanning from side to side, evaluating information. “Prometheus, tell her—tell them—that this is the worst idea in the history of the world.”
Prometheus held up a hand for silence, and processed, in his fashion. After a long moment, he replied, cautiously, Odin, total population before past seven years, after which all census records are invalid or unavailable . . . two hundred and twenty-five million. Quetzalcoatl, one hundred and fifty million. Amaterasu, one hundred and twenty-seven million. Sekhmet, eighty million. Duration of worship or relative ‘antiquity’ . . . he paused. Sekhmet, approximately five thousand years. Amaterasu, arguable from the historical record, but at least twenty-five hundred years since your worship was formalized . . . .
Longer, Amaterasu said. I have a history with my people that goes back to the stone caves. I can claim seven thousand years of human interaction.
Minori swallowed. The number put her kami guest firmly in the range of power of Baal-Hamon or the Egyptian gods, if not above. Prometheus nodded, though his expression was politely skeptical, and went on, Odin, just around twenty-five hundred. Quetzalcoatl . . . arguable, again. The Nahautl’s emergence as the dominant culture of their region dates back scarcely more than six hundred years. Though previous cultures certainly worshipped a feathered serpent, it was without quite the raw population that the Nahautl have given him.
Kanmi took a seat, scowling. “All right. Maybe if they all worked together, they could take out Jupiter. Jupiter has the belief of a billion people, give or take. They might not like him, they might not be praying to him, but they believe in him. Adding everyone’s numbers up, we get less than six hundred million humans behind them. It’s not enough.”
Prometheus hesitated, and then shook his head. It is not a question of raw population, Kanmi Emberstone. Amaterasu and Sekhmet have been worshipped for a long time. That adds . . . gravitas to them. He paused. Millions of people’s past belief . . . and you must also understand, that once belief has been evoked, because of the nature of the Veil . . . it stays evoked, unless the human becomes, in some manner, apostate. They cease to believe, or bind themselves to another god. There are reasons why apostasy is punished so severely in most cultures. He paused. Those whose spirits come to join with ours after their deaths, also add to us. There is also the fact that being the sole focus of all those people, past and present, intensifies the power.
“And the rest of the gods of Valhalla are very much alive, and it’s in our best interests to keep them that way,” Minori said, regaining control of her mouth for a moment. “I don’t think Sigrun’s in the market for any more promotions.”
Kanmi actually snorted at that, but his eyes were alive at the pleasure of a puzzle now. “Trying to get Quetzalcoatl to do something as insane as this . . . it wouldn’t work right now, anyway. Many his brethren are still alive. And we can’t exactly go kill all his allies and then tell him ‘could you take care of Jupiter for us?’”
Correct, Prometheus said. Odin, stripped of the rest of his pantheon, having absorbed all of their power, was my best probability, three months ago, with a seventy-percent chance of success. Quetzalcoatl was behind him, at fifty-five percent. He studied Minori, and Amaterasu-within. Sekhmet is a different proposition. Eighty-three percent chance of success.
And me? Amaterasu said, pointedly. Armed with the Grass-Cutting sword, and carrying the Mirror of Truth?
Eighty-nine percent chance. Prometheus covered his face with his hands for a moment, wearily. If you and Sekhmet were somehow to work together, the chances increase to almost ninety-five percent.
Amaterasu clasped Minori’s hands in front of her. That is exceedingly interesting, respected seer of the multitudinous future.
Kanmi shook his head. “Someone please explain to me why Jupiter has to be killed.” His tone was defiant, and he was glaring at Minori now. No. Not at Minori
. At Amaterasu.
Minori felt herself pushed aside again, gently. I have listened to generals discuss Sun-Tzu’s Art of War for generations. I would like to believe that I have learned a few things, both by observing my people at war, and by listening to their words on tactics. The goddess paused. At the moment, we have been pushed into a defensive posture, both by policy and by circumstance. The young ruler of this Eastern Alliance wishes to retain the moral high ground, by only defending against attacks, and waiting for his brother’s Praetorians to oust the Emperor. For a war-weary population to rise against the Emperor. Thus, we are attacked, and do not aggressively counterattack. We only defend. Amaterasu paused. We are also forced to defend everywhere at once, where Rome must only defend one small piece of land: Rome itself. They are at the center of the Mediterranean. The Alps are not a sufficient deterrent, in this modern world, to attack; they are not high and unassailable walls, as they were in the days of chariots and horses. If this were an era in which we did not see attacks by mad gods, which make humans uneasy to cross the seas, if this were an era in which the Goths had not had to retreat from their homelands into Gaul . . . attacks could be launched on Rome from all sides—from Germania, Gaul, Iberian Gaul, from Carthage, from Judea, and from Asia Minor, and it would not matter how strong the gods of Rome were. Because in very short order, they would have no worshippers left. She paused, her tone becoming pointed. Rome is surrounded, and yet, they have us at their mercy?
Minori blinked, and cleared her throat as she regained control of her voice. “She . . . has a very good point,” she acknowledged.
Kanmi nodded, and stared at the floor. “But the human reality is, Judea can’t move against Rome alone,” he said, looking up. “If they take their troops off the eastern and southern approaches, Persia will attack. Take them off the north, and the grendels and lindworms will keep migrating south. Germania and Gaul are both in turmoil, and they’re being forced to defend themselves against attack in the western hemisphere, anyway. The gods of Rome can appear pretty much anywhere in the world, and attack another god, and then vanish again. Maybe not unscathed, but every time they kill a god, it’s the humans underfoot who suffer and die in the millions.”
Correct, Amaterasu said, crisply. Which is why I propose taking the fight to them. In war, attack where the enemy does not defend themselves, and where least expected. Jupiter does not expect to be personally attacked. Oh, his Olympians expect it. But he will not expect anyone to dare . . . or to have any chance of success.
Kanmi frowned. “Zeus didn’t expect it, and died. I doubt Jupiter will fall for the same ruse.”
Correct. Which is why it will take a somewhat dishonorable subterfuge to lure him out of the Veil. Minori felt her face crumple into a grimace of distaste. But do you understand now, Kanmi Emberstone? Wars fought solely on the defensive are inevitably doomed. We will lose. Humanity will lose, in the meantime. Odin cannot sacrifice all of his fellow gods to do this. Sekhmet and I have already lost all of our kin. Amaterasu’s voice was bleak, but pragmatic. My humans are scattered throughout Qin and Asia, and I cannot go to them to defend them—the remaining gods of Qin are not in a mood to tolerate interlopers. They, too, have been beset with losses. I would estimate half their number have been destroyed. With horrifying consequences to their population. And their population is close to a billion, as you’ll recall. Minori found herself looking at the floor. My people, in their lands, have suffered as a result, too. If we could ask a Qin god to destroy Jupiter, I would bargain with them myself for it, and be damned to my pride, but as I said, they are not in a mood to hear outside voices. The gods of India are likewise hard-pressed, though powerful. They will hold on for some time yet, I think. Amaterasu paused. But now, we must work to end this war, with a decisive stroke. Once Jupiter falls, his fellows may well ally with the rest of us to destroy the mad godlings.
Kanmi covered his face for a moment. “It’s hard to believe how much damage fifteen men are still doing, a decade after they died.”
Prometheus shook his head. That is because they are not fifteen, anymore. Five godlings have been killed, that we have had witnesses present to attest to the deaths. And we have seen that other than when my host Zhi consumed one, when it was younger and weaker than we see today, the godlings split. Sometimes into dozens, or a hundred smaller creatures. They consume each other and coalesce, or find new prey.
“Like primitive bacteria,” Kanmi said, quietly. “No mitosis or meiosis. They find an obstacle that ruptures them, and then may recover enough to continue on.” He looked up at Prometheus. “Can you estimate how many large ones are out there currently? And by large, I mean ‘ones that can harm a notable spirit—like Saraid in her Forest, before . . . everything.”
Using the russalka Mladena as a marker for notability . . . . Prometheus looked into the distance. Between seventy-four and two hundred and forty. That is assuming that six of the original fifteen have remained unfractured. If they were all divided, then the numbers become larger. And if they have been successively divided—forming more than one generation of ‘descendants’ . . . . Between six hundred and thirty thousand.
Minori’s mouth dropped open. Prometheus shrugged. You asked for a relatively low power marker. Mad godlings that would be capable of threatening Zhi, for example, would be fewer in number—only in the hundreds, perhaps a thousand at most, if there have, indeed, been successive generations. Ones capable of threatening Amaterasu . . . the number drops to approximately twelve. Of course, we have only really taken note of the largest. No one really pays heed when a local forest spirit vanishes. But everyone notices when a god dies.
Minori reached out and caught Kanmi’s hand, which she could see was shaking. “Do you . . .” he looked up, and met her eyes, and she could feel him reaching out to her, with the power he’d had since he’d come back to her, to this world. Most respected Amaterasu, he said, with deliberate courtesy, must you be in Minori’s body when this confrontation takes place? I know my wife. I know that she would . . . very likely volunteer.
I can speak for myself—
You can and you do, but I’m not talking to you at the moment, Min. I’m talking to your guest.
Amaterasu hesitated. I have the power to manifest once more, she said, quietly. I have chosen to stay within Truthsayer so as to remain hidden. It seemed a courtesy, while living in exile in another’s land, not to flaunt my presence. She tilted Minori’s head towards Prometheus. Do the odds change substantially, in either direction, if Truthsayer goes with me?
They increase by almost a full percentage point. That is remarkable, given that Truthsayer is mortal.
Minori wanted to laugh. It was an excellent reminder that she was a dot in space-time, relative to the cosmos.
Kanmi bared his teeth. And if I go, as well?
Min wrestled control of her mouth back. “Kanmi-kun, you mustn’t—”
“You think I’m going to let you go get yourself killed, after it took me close to seven years to come back to you?” Kanmi shook his head, his jaw set. “Give me the odds, Prometheus.”
Prometheus hesitated. You are young, he told Kanmi, but his brow crinkled. The amount of belief in you is mainly localized. But you are the most substantive heir to Baal-Hamon, with a greater proportion of his power than Visionweaver, Lassair, or Saraid. Probability increases by almost another three percent with you present. We are sitting at a ninety-nine percent chance of success. If Jupiter is taken alone outside the Veil, and off-guard. Arranging for those circumstances may be utterly impossible.
Amaterasu smiled, a sad, slightly shamed expression that Minori could feel curling her lips. Ah. And that is where my thoughts on dishonorable subterfuges come into play. Both Sekhmet and I are refugees. And Jupiter’s great hall in Olympus has lost two major gods of late. Neptune and Diana.
Kanmi’s head snapped up again. “You’re proposing that he should recruit you?”
I may have spent too long in Truthsayer’s memories of your ‘unde
rcover’ work, but it is a time-honored tactic.
Prometheus bared his teeth. We could also build you a very large, cunningly-designed wooden horse in which Emberstone and Truthsayer may hide. I am certain that Jupiter would not recognize the gambit at all.
Amaterasu laughed. The details can be worked out later. First, I must meet with Sekhmet. And see if the bloody-handed one and I can come to an accommodation.
Ianuarius 2, 1996 AC
Ehecatl Itztli was now seventy-six years old. His hair had gone white, though he still wore it shaved on both sides, and long at the center, and his bronze-toned skin, which had once gleamed with health, was now as fragile as ancient parchment. The sharp lines of the eagle and jaguar tattoos on his arms had blurred with encroaching age, but still held their magic; they’d kept his hide largely bullet and arrow-free for sixty years. His son, Mazatl, had to help him, discreetly, out of the car, however. “How much longer are you going to be able to drive that thing?” Ehecatl asked his son, trying to repress his shivering. It was far too cold here, and he reflected nostalgically on new year’s celebrations in the muggy heat of Tenochtitlan.
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