This was not the Argo, but it was a ship. And as my mind came back to me, burdened with the memories of Jason’s mind, I heard in the wind the far, faint braying of trumpets, not Triton’s conch, but a brazen crying, importunate and menacing.
I opened my eyes. Bright golden decks blazed around me. Two men in dazzling mail, silhouetted against the blue sky, watched me disinterestedly. There must have been a second galley following the Argo, I thought in confusion. One we had rammed and sank, but there was this ship still in waiting offshore.
One of the men above me lifted a quizzical eyebrow and met my eyes.
“We’ll be in Helios in half an hour,” he said. “I wouldn’t be in your shoes for a good sum, Jason of Iolcus.”
CHAPTER V
Priests of Apollo
VEILING mists parted, and for the second time I looked on Helios—Helios, burning with beauty, bright as the ardor of the sun-god himself. Trumpets called from its walls. I heard the bireme’s overseer shout, whips cracked and the ship leaped forward toward the golden quays of Apollo’s city.
Roughly my bright-mailed guardians hurried me down the gangplank to the pier. Anger was rising in me, perhaps the beginnings of rebellion, but I was too interested just now to protest. The city was a strange and fascinating place, lifting behind its bright walls in a series of multiformed roofs.
For a moment a familiar shivering and the icy sweat of Jason’s memories swept me—the locked door in my mind opened and Jason’s thoughts surged in. I thought, there will be darkness upon Helios soon.
The sound of trumpets shattered that foreboding. Shrill and high from the towering walls it rang. And Jason’s fear walked with me as I stepped forward toward the gateway to Apollo’s citadel.
Greek the city was—but more than Greek, too. Somewhere along the line of its culture it had turned a little away from the classic foundations, and there were hints of strange and fascinating newness blending with the familiar Greek simplicities of design.
Nowhere was this clearer to the eye than in the great golden temple in the heart of Helios. Gold it could not be, I told myself, unless the transmuting of metals was one of these people’s secrets, but gold it seemed to the eye, as the galleys had been golden, dazzling, impossible to look at except obliquely. Three hundred feet high those glittering walls loomed, straight and unadorned except by their own brilliance. I did not need to be told that this was a god’s house—Apollo the Sun.
Strangely, we did not move directly toward that shining building. The streets were thronged and narrow. Strange faces stared at me. And then, suddenly, I was no longer in the custody of the bireme’s mailed men.
Their firm grip had vanished from my elbows. The street lay crowded and impersonal before me. For this instant I was free to run, if I chose to run. But remembering those voices overheard in the daze of my awakening, I stood still, rapid thoughts moving through my brain.
I was tired of being a pawn in the hands of these unknown forces. They thought I was wholly Jason, with Jason’s full memories. They thought I knew where to run. Well, I did not know.
“Hanged if I’ll play into their hands,” I told myself angrily. “Let them take over, for I don’t know the rules of the game! They want me to run. Well, we’ll see what they do if I won’t run. I want a talk with this high priest of theirs. I’ll wait and see.”
So I stood motionless while the crowd eddied around me, curiously glancing at my strange clothing as they passed. And in a moment or two I saw a gold-helmed head peering at me from around the corner of a building. Almost laughing—for this game had its ridiculous side—I crossed the street toward him. Another soldier stood behind him.
“Let’s go on to the temple,” I said calmly. “I want a talk with this—Phrontis, did you call him? Will you lead, or shall I?” The man scowled at me. Then a reluctant grin creased his face. He shrugged and pointed me on toward the looming walls of Apollo’s golden house. In silence we three trudged toward it through the crowds.
We went up a ramp where a great gate creaked solemnly open to admit us. We passed through a doorway like a chasm in the gold. Then we were hurrying along hallways broad as city streets, and as crowded with courtiers and priests and men in armor that was pure gold to look at. No one noticed us. Jason’s coming to Helios was apparently secret from these busy throngs.
Many races moved among the tall Greeks here, Nubians, Orientals in jeweled turbans, slave girls in bright tunics, young acolytes to priesthood, every age and condition of humanity seemed to swarm in the golden halls—from slim, pale Scythian courtesan to black-bearded Persian fighting-man.
We turned down what would have been an alleyway had these great streets been open to the sky, moved rapidly among more furtive denizens of the temple, and my guides paused before a grilled door, while the elder drew the hilt of his dagger across the grill, swiftly, twice over, making the iron ring with a sharp, vibrant music.
WITHOUT a sound of hinges the door swung open. A violent shove upon my back thrust me stumbling forward.
I got my footing again in a dim place inside, hearing the clang of the door behind me.
Then a girl’s voice murmured, “Will my lord please to follow me?”
I looked down. A little Nubian girl with the silver collar of a Helot clasped about her slim, dark neck was smiling up at me, her teeth very bright in her pretty, polished ebony face. She wore a turban and brief tunic of pale blue, and her feet were bare and ankleted with silver bells. She looked like someone’s pampered servant, as she no doubt was. There was faint impudence in her smile, and she had a pretty, delicate face. Behind her another girl, golden-skinned and slant-eyed above her slave collar, watched me in silence.
“This way, my lord,” the Nubian murmured, and went tinkling away down the dim hall. The other girl bent her head to me and fell in at my heels as I turned to follow.
There was only darkness at the end of the hall. No door, no hangings, no wall, but darkness like thick mist. My small guide paused before it and looked up at me with, a gleam of teeth and eyes in the dimness.
“My lord will await the high priest of Apollo,” she told me. “here in the high priest’s private chambers. Will my lord please to enter?” And she put out a silver-braceleted arm and—drew back the darkness.
It was mist, but it folded away to her touch like cloth. No, not to her touch. I looked closer to be sure. It seemed to retreat beneath her hand, so that her gesture was like a command that it draw back—and it did. I walked forward under an “opening torn in the dark by her gesture. Light poured softly through from beyond. I paused on the threshold.
The room before me was Greek again, but with a difference. White columns ringed the room, with darkness hanging between them like the darkness at the portal through which I had passed. Overhead were clouds, pale, billowing clouds faintly rosy as if touched by the first hint of sunset or dawn. Slowly, drowsily they were moving, and between them now and then I caught glimpses of a blue mosaic ceiling in which points of brilliance glittered like stars.
The floor was mossily green and gave a little underfoot. There were divans in the room, low tables, chests carved with scenes from familiar legends, for the most part, though a few were unknown to me in subject and detail. A brazier glowed in the center of the room, sending out a fresh, aromatic fragrance.
I thought, the priest of Apollo does himself very well, and turned to look for the little slave girls who had brought me here. But I was alone. I wasn’t even sure which dark-hung interval between the pillars had admitted me.
There was sudden music in the air. I looked around sharply at that thrill of unseen strings; and saw the darkness flow apart across the room, and a familiar horned head grinned at me through the opening.
As I stared I saw one sardonic, goat-yellow eye close in a slow wink. Then the faun laughed, glanced back across his shoulder, and said:
“Well, this is the man. At least, he’s the one the Circe named Jason.”
“Good,” a new, deeper voice
said. “The Circe should know, at least. Well—so this is Jason!”
Through the rift in the darkness came Panyr and, behind him, a tall, golden-haired man, one who might have stepped out of some antique myth. He looked like, a demigod—tall, strongly made, with sleek muscles that rippled under his thin golden tunic, and blue eyes that held in them something faintly disturbing. A tinge of lambent radiance seemed to linger on his tanned skin, almost luminous, almost as though the sun-god himself, radiant Apollo, stood before me.
“This is Phrontis,” the faun said. “I’ll leave you with him. For a while, at least.” He moved nimbly toward the pillars and the darkness parted to engulf him.
Phrontis went without haste to a couch, nodded toward another near him, and dropped down casually. He stared at me as I found a seat.
“Jason,” he said lingeringly. “I suppose we are enemies, then. At least, our gods are enemies. Whether or not there’s sense in it, is not for me to say. However, at the moment, there are no gods in this room—I hope. So drink with me while we talk.”
FROM behind his couch he brought a crystal vase, filled with yellow wine, sipped, and passed the goblet to me. I drank long and thirstily. Then I put it aside and took a deep breath.
“I haven’t said I’m Jason,” I told Phrontis.
He shrugged. “Well,” he said disarmingly, “I am a young priest, as priests go. It’s an accident that I hold the power that I do. There’s much I don’t know—and that may be to your advantage. The young are skeptical. Ophion, now—he is the real priest of Apollo, and he’s very dangerous to you. Because he believes in the gods.”
“You do not?”
“Why, yes,” he said, smiling. “But I don’t think they are gods, except to men like us.
Is there wine left? Good.” He drank. “Now, Jason, let us talk for a while like sensible men. Ophion is tortured by superstition, and he is justified enough. I have studied. It’s true that there are things I don’t understand—the ghostly ship, for example—but nevertheless it is only at the temple festivals that I fall on my face before Apollo. Here, in this private apartment, we can talk and question. For example, why didn’t you escape when you were given every chance?”
“The ignorant are blind,” I said. “And the blind don’t run without making certain there are no gulfs in their path.”
He watched me. “The ghostly ship sailed by Helios today, and two of our biremes gave chase. One of them brought you back. There are prophecies and legends and warnings—too many of them! When Jason returns, it is said, a curse will either be lifted or redoubled. It’s cryptic. Very much so. But if a man questions the gods, he’s apt to be blasted with a thunderbolt. Which is an excellent way to discourage criticism.” Phrontis chuckled, and shrugged again. “Well, this is not the sanctum or the altar chambers. You wear strange clothes. Generations have passed since the first Jason.
I know you are not that one. Who are you?”
How could I explain? I looked at him dumbly, and he laughed and proffered the wine-vase again.
“I’m a student of science as well as of theology,” he said. “Let me hazard a guess. There is another world somewhere in time and space, the world from which you came. You are of Jason’s seed. Jason must have been of your world, originally. And you have Jason’s memories, as the soul of the first Circe dwells in the Mask, and enters whichever Circe happens to serve the goddess in Aeaea.”
“You know that?” I asked. “Then you’re the first one I’ve met here with any semblance of civilization. You’re right, I think. But I’m still a blind man. I don’t even know where I am.”
“Nature tends toward the norm,” he said. “This is my own theory, but I think it’s accurate. By its own standards, your world is the normal one. Call it the positive pole in the time-stream. There are variants in your world, but they don’t last long. Mutants are born; miracles happen, but not often, and they pass quickly. For they are the norm of this world—the negative pole in the time-stream.
“As for how these two worlds meet—to know that, we must be able to comprehend dimensions beyond our scope. Perhaps the course of your world’s time is like a winding stream, while ours runs straight as a canal. And sometimes the two streams intersect. One such intersection, I know, came generations on generations ago for us. How long ago for you?”
“Jason lived three thousand years ago,” I said.
“As long in our world,” he said. “Three thousand years ago the two worlds intersected as the time-streams crossed. We have legends of the Argo’s voyage but I think that voyage took place on both our worlds, yours and mine. They mingled for a while then. Look, now. I’ve said your world is the positive norm. Whenever too many negative concepts are built up there, the time-streams intersect, and an exchange takes place. Your—mutants—are drained off into my world, as our positive concepts are drained into yours, to strike the balance. Do you understand?”
I had a glimmering—the principle of the simple electromagnet. Positive force building up at one pole till polarity was reversed. Yes, I thought I could understand the principle. It was not basic logic by any means, but I could visualize a cosmic seesaw, continually rising and falling whenever the twin worlds crossed in that cosmic stream of time.
Phrontis spoke. “The gods are dangerous enough, but—well, they simply have nonpositive powers, less limited in this world than in yours from which they may originally have come.” He glanced toward the columns. “I hear Ophion, the high priest. He’s still called that, though I perform most of his duties for him, since Apollo accepts only perfection in his priests. Ophion was injured some while ago.
“Listen, Jason who is not Jason. Ophion will speak to you. Remember, he has served the god for a long while and is superstitious. Use your judgment. I wanted to talk with you first, because I shall be high priest soon, and I prefer science to theology. Ophion believes in flaming thunderbolts to solve his problems. I have other ideas. We’re both sensible men—so remember what I’ve told you.”
He smiled and stood up as the darkness parted between two pillars, and a man hobbled awkwardly into the room.
Hephaestus—Vulcan! Vulcan, who was flung from Olympus by his father Zeus and lamed by that titanic fall. This man was godlike—and fallen too.
Within him glowed the same golden, luminous quality that seemed to permeate Phrontis, but it was the light of beauty permeating a crumbled Praxilitean marble, hinting at the original perfection despite the ruinous attacks of time.
It was not time alone that had marked Ophion’s face, though. I thought that the attack had, somehow, come from within. As for his appearance, he might have been Phrontis’ brother, but a brother who was not only older, but sadder, and afraid.
CHAPTER VI
Echoes of the Past
OPHION stood there, stooping a little, his heavy shoulders bent forward. His eyes were blue like Phrontis’, but deeper, a winter sky as Phrontis’ eyes were the summer sky. Lurking in those depths was a knowledge that Phrontis, for all his skeptical wisdom, did not have.
He said slowly, “You could not wait for me, Phrontis?”
“I’ve saved you trouble,” Phrontis answered. “There’ll be no need to waste your time in elementary questioning now. Jason knows all that is necessary for him to know.”
“He is Jason?”
Phrontis waved toward the pillars. “The faun Panyr has said so.”
Ophion turned to me. His voice was disinterested, as though he recited by rote.
“Listen, then,” he said. “There has always been war between Apollo and the dark goddess Hecate. Long ago Jason stole the Golden Fleece, Apollo’s special treasure, and fled to the protection of Hecate, on Aeaea’s isle. Because the Circe loved Jason, she aided him. Then Jason died, or passed, or vanished, and the war went on. There was a prophecy that when Jason came again, he would be as a sword against Apollo in Hecate’s hand. So—we will break that sword now.”
He studied me.
“There is also the matter o
f the Circe. She is Hecate’s arm, as you were to be her sword. Till the Circe dies and the Mask is broken. Hecate has power. And the war between Hecate and Apollo must never be allowed to reach the point where Apollo must fight the dark goddess on her own ground. Never yet—” His voice sank. “At least, only once has Apollo turned his dark face upon this land. He is lord, of the eclipse, as he is also lord of the bright sun. But once, it is told, Apollo walked in Helios during the eclipse—the Helios on whose ruins we have built this new city.
“There will be an eclipse, of the sun soon. You must die before then. But your death alone will not be enough. For Jason died, and now has come again. Hecate’s arm must be destroyed as well.
“The Mask—and the Circe—they must be destroyed forever, so there will be peace under Apollo.”
Silence brimmed the room. Phrontis broke it. “Still you have not told Jason what he is to do.”
Ophion moved suddenly, shivering where he stood. Those deep, strange eyes moved from Phrontis to me.
I said, “Why was I supposed to make my escape from your soldiers?”
But Ophion did not speak. Phrontis said, “Why not tell him? He’s no fool. Perhaps we can bargain.”
Ophion remained silent, and the younger priest, after a brief pause, seemed to make up his mind.
“Well, Jason, here’s the reason. We wanted you to escape so you could lead us to the young Circe. You can still do that. If you can, you need not die. Is that true, Ophion?”
“It is true,” the priest said somberly.
I thought mockery showed briefly on Phrontis’ face. “So we can bargain, perhaps, Jason. Life is better than death, after all—no?”
“Perhaps, perhaps not,” I said. “I don’t know who the devil the young Circe is. Why not look for her on Aeaea? I last saw Circe there.”
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