Olympus Bound

by Jordanna Max Brodsky

  “Okay, no worries,” Theo said, more to reassure himself than Scooter. “We don’t need the Smith’s unbelievably helpful, pseudo-magical inventions, right? They always come with a massive chip on Flint’s shoulder and a side order of surly, anyway.”

  “Exactly.”

  Theo patted the bulging satchel under his arm. “I’ve got what we need. We’ll be fine.” Or not. But I’m too close to stop now—I’m not going to wait around for Scooter to summon some other relative for backup. Selene’s waited long enough already.

  “Glad to hear it. Now tell me you have a plan besides walking up to Pope Francis and demanding he let you into the secret pagan cult temple in the attic.”

  “Not the attic,” Theo said with a smile. “The basement.”

  “Oh. Much better.”

  “The mithraeum has to be underground, since the cult always placed its sanctuaries in hidden spaces or caves. And it has to have a relationship with death and the afterlife, so I’m thinking we start our little treasure hunt in the necropolis.”

  Scooter cocked a quizzical eyebrow, and Theo had to remind himself that the gods hadn’t kept up with contemporary archeological discoveries. They’d left during the Diaspora and, for the most part, never looked back.

  “In the 1930s, while the rest of Europe was worried about a little thing called the future of the world,” he explained, “the Vatican was navel-gazing into its own past. They started excavating underneath the basilica, looking for the grave of Saint Peter, the disciple who spread Christianity to Rome—the guy they consider the first pope. Smacks of fascism, honestly, like Mussolini reviving old Roman Empire symbols for his parades, but since it resulted in some pretty remarkable archeological finds, I guess I can’t complain.”

  Theo kept talking as he led Scooter into the massive, vaulted sanctuary of Saint Peter’s and headed toward the center of the nave. “The excavators found the remains of a necropolis—an ancient street of mausoleums. Seems Emperor Constantine, everyone’s favorite Christian convert, buried the whole thing in the fourth century AD and then used it as a foundation for his first basilica. Twelve hundred years later, a pope knocked that down and stuck this basilica on the same spot. Which means the original necropolis is about thirty feet below us right now.”

  “What do we want with a Christian graveyard?”

  “It’s older than Constantine, remember? It’s a pagan necropolis. A perfect meeting place of religions old and new, all centered on the portals between life and death. How can Saturn resist putting an entrance to his mithraeum right there?”

  “Uh-huh.” Scooter looked doubtful. “And how are we supposed to get inside?”

  “Easy.” Theo gestured to a line of people waiting beside a small sign labeled VATICAN EXCAVATIONS. “We just take the tour.” He opened the satchel wide enough for Scooter to glimpse the dark helm inside. “And since no one will see us in the first place, they’ll never notice when we slip away.”

  A few minutes later, they were scuttling arm in arm behind a tour group.

  “Stop stepping on my feet,” Theo whispered in Scooter’s ear.

  “You don’t need to hold me so tight!” the god hissed back.

  “I don’t think it’ll work for both of us if I’m just holding your pinky!”

  He couldn’t see Scooter’s expression—wearing Hades’ Helm of Invisibility, Theo couldn’t even see himself—but from the exasperated sigh, he could imagine it.

  They squeezed down the stairs to the ancient necropolis. The alleyway ahead looked much as it had seventeen centuries earlier—except for the low ceiling and LED spotlights. On either side of them stood walls of layered brick with travertine lintels marking the entrances to the various mausoleums.

  “Any idea what we’re looking for?” hissed Scooter as they peered into the first doorway. The tour group had already moved on, leaving the two invisible prowlers to scope the scene in peace.

  “I’m hoping we’ll know it when we see it.”

  They stepped inside the small chamber. Layers of earth had protected its walls for so long that the frescoes’ colors remained bright. Red-breasted birds with wings of brilliant blue flew above pomegranates and lilies. Dozens of rectangular and semicircular niches, each bordered in ochre paint, lined the room. The smaller cubbies once held funerary urns, the larger ones corpses. The entire mausoleum looked like a very crowded apartment house for the dead. Now all the niches stood empty. Theo was grateful—he didn’t need any further reminders of his own impending doom.

  They moved on to the next mausoleum. A black-and-white floral mosaic covered the floor, sagging in the middle like an old mattress. With no other visitors around, Theo released Scooter’s arm.

  “Finally,” the god grumbled as he popped into sight, rubbing at his elbow. “You’ve been gripping me like a movie ingenue at her first premiere. Tense much, Theo?”

  “You think?”

  Scooter’s eyes skimmed right past him. “Hearing your voice without seeing you is giving me the creeps.”

  “Get used to it. I’m not about to go to my death with a Swiss Guard’s halberd up my ass—I’ve got other plans for my demise.”

  Scooter made a sound of choked protest, clearly still not on board with Theo’s plans for suicide.

  Theo ignored him, crouching down to examine the floor. In each corner of the room lay small marble panels with a round hole cut in their center. “Any idea what these are for?”

  “These what? I can’t see you, remember?”

  “Sorry, the holes in the floor.”

  “To pour libations to the ancestors. Or to the chthonic gods of the Underworld. At least … I think. It’s been a while.”

  Theo lowered himself to all fours and pressed his eye to the hole. Nothing but darkness. He took a sniff but smelled only dust. Shining his flashlight through the opening, he saw a layer of packed dirt a mere foot away.

  After knocking on the inside walls of all the tomb niches, looking for hidden panels inside the frescoes, and even tapping out random codes on the mosaic tiles, they finally gave up.

  Scooter reluctantly grabbed hold of Theo’s waist again, and they walked back into the alleyway. The tour group emerged from one of the mausoleums far ahead, talking excitedly to each other before heading up the spiral stairway at the far end of the necropolis.

  “That one must be good,” Scooter whispered. “Let’s say we skip the boring part and head for the main attraction.”

  Still wary of being seen, they scurried forward arm in arm and entered a chamber much smaller than the last. Theo took an astonished breath and turned in a slow circle, gazing at the brilliant yellow mosaic that covered the walls.

  “I thought you said this was a pagan necropolis,” Scooter said with a huff.

  “It is.”

  “Then why, pray, is Jonah here?” Scooter broke free of Theo’s grip to jab an accusatory finger at a depiction of a man swallowed headfirst by a sea monster. “And if the fisherman behind him isn’t a Christ symbol, I don’t know what is.”

  “It’s pagan because of that,” Theo said, pointing upward. Then, at Scooter’s exasperated expression, he added, “On the ceiling.”

  The vault curved into a shallow dome above them. In the center gleamed a mosaic depicting a man in a chariot drawn by four white horses. On his head sat a seven-rayed crown.

  Scooter whistled. “All hail Sol Invictus, the Invincible Sun.”

  “Who just happens to be a common manifestation of Mithras. And occasionally mistaken for Christ. This mausoleum isn’t exactly Mithraic, but it sure as hell isn’t fully Christian. Which makes it the perfect place for our cult.”

  Together, they scoured every corner of the small room. Mosaics of dark green grapevines twined across the ceiling and walls, framing the images of Jonah on one side and two fishermen on the other. Is the ivy a Dionysus reference? Theo wondered. Perhaps even Orphic? Yet despite the intriguing meld of religions, they found no sign of secret entrances.

  Theo glanced
at his watch before he realized he couldn’t see it. “Shit. What time is it?”

  Scooter looked at his own watch—something heavy and expensive, Theo couldn’t help noticing—and let out a yelp. “Almost six. We’ve got to hurry up or we’re going to be locked down here all night.”

  “Is that a problem for the God of Thieves? I thought you were a master of the lock pick.”

  “Sure, except when it’s the Vatican. Their security goes a little beyond the usual five-pin tumbler. I’m just saying, I’ve got a reservation at a very exclusive nineteenth-century villa for us tonight, and I’ve already booked a massage, so if we could hurry this up—”

  “Scooter,” Theo interrupted. “I know life to you is just a series of adventures punctuated by stays in luxury hotels, but I’m not leaving here without Selene. Either we find the mithraeum and I do it there”—He couldn’t quite bring himself to say what “it” was—“or we don’t, and I just pick my favorite mausoleum and take the chance that it’s good enough.” He looked once more at the Christ-as-Sol-as-Mithras mosaic and the curling grapevines. “Honestly, this one may be our best bet.”

  “Hold on, we’ve got a few hours before the solstice—June twenty-first doesn’t start until midnight,” Scooter said quickly. “Let’s go back and check the other mausoleums that we skipped before you go all ‘Romeo at the apothecary’ on me.” Despite his quips, his smile looked plastered on.

  He has no intention of letting me kill myself, Theo knew. He’s only playing along until we find the mithraeum. Theo had no brilliant plan to avoid Scooter’s protectiveness. He just knew that when the time came, he would find Selene. And nothing, not even Hermes, the legendary Trickster, would stop him.

  They examined each room in turn. One held plaster statues of the Olympians—Scooter looked peeved the whole time that there was no effigy of Hermes among them. Another was decorated with delicate frescoes of gazelles and birds.

  Finally, they stepped into a larger mausoleum with a mosaic floor bordered on two sides by libation holes. Theo stood at its base and examined the design. A slow smile spread across his face, even while his heart began to trip with fear. This was it. He could feel it. The image on the floor was Hades, Lord of the Dead, in a chariot drawn by black horses. A naked Hermes stood before him, the Psychopompos guiding the way to the Underworld with his snake-twined caduceus. A perfect symbol of the journey into death—and back to life.

  Scooter stepped into the center of the floor, tilting his head at his own nude image. “That’s more like it. I’m liking the six-pack, although the cock is way too small.”

  Theo ignored him. “The entrance must be here.” Or it’s not in the necropolis at all, he admitted silently. He couldn’t bear the thought that he’d been wrong, although it certainly wouldn’t have been the first time.

  “All right, Makarites, I hear you,” Scooter said, already beginning to examine the tomb niches. Theo peered into a few of the libation holes, but once again found nothing but dirt a few inches below the surface. He moved on to the frescoes, checking each one for signs of recent disturbance.

  After nearly an hour, Scooter sat gracefully on the ground, pulled his silk handkerchief from his pocket, and wiped his brow. The gesture seemed more a learned affectation than anything else, since Theo didn’t see any sweat on the god’s forehead, but it got the idea across. They hadn’t seen or heard any more tour groups, and the basilica had officially closed a half hour earlier, so Theo finally removed the bronze helm. It had stopped emitting its usual frosty chill and had instead become just as hot and sweaty as any other incredibly heavy, totally non-breathable metal bucket. He rubbed at the broad indentation carved into his forehead.

  “Oh, Theo, you’ve looked better.”

  “Thanks. Not exactly worried about my nonexistent online dating profile at the moment.” He reached into his satchel, pulled out a bottle of water, and took a much-needed swig.

  “Always prepared, I see. Any for me?”

  Theo tossed Scooter the bottle, but whether due to his unusual exhaustion or his typical lack of athleticism, it fell two feet shy of the mark. The cap snapped off, and water glugged out across the floor. Theo leaped to his feet.

  “The mosaic!” Two-thousand-year-old art about to be destroyed by his clumsiness.

  “No, wait.” Scooter held up a hand to stop him. His eyes were fixed on the water now streaming through a libation hole—one Theo hadn’t bothered to check. “Listen.”

  The unmistakable sound of liquid splattering onto a surface from a great height. A very great height.

  At the same time, the two men scrambled forward and nearly knocked heads trying to peer down the hole. Theo angled his flashlight once more. “I can see the reflection off the water,” he said, his voice hushed with awe. “It’s got to be at least a hundred feet down.”

  “So it’s a tunnel?” Scooter asked excitedly.

  “No, it’s too narrow. Just a pipe—maybe a foot across.”

  “So it’s not an entrance.” Scooter sounded disappointed. “Maybe it’s just a drainage hole for rainwater.”

  “The mausoleum always had a roof. So why have a drainage hole?” Theo got down on all fours, craning his head to see the interior of the pipe, and then sat up with a smile. “Also, the Romans didn’t build with PVC pipe, as far as I know.”

  “You think the Vatican put it in?”

  “Nope. They wouldn’t disturb the floor that way. The Host, on the other hand, has no problem destroying ancient artifacts for their own purposes.”

  “Sure. But what purpose? Why bother?”

  Theo didn’t have an answer for that one. He sat cross-legged in front of the hole and stared at it intently, willing it to divulge its secrets. Scooter tapped an impatient rhythm on his own knee, his eyes roaming the room like a fidgety schoolkid’s. Theo tried to ignore him—Olympians could be the best of allies and the most useless of ones.

  Finally, Theo picked up the nearly empty water bottle and poured the last of its contents in a careful stream through the hole.

  “What are you doing?” Scooter asked, coming to stand beside him.

  “Offering a libation. That’s what the hole was for, right? Well, the Host believes it’s practicing an authentic ancient cult. Libations were an essential component of nearly all Greco-Roman religions, so why not—”

  “Shh!” Scooter grabbed Theo’s arm. Deep below the ground, a soft clonk, like a piece of machinery moving into place. “It’s working.”

  They both peered around the room, fully expecting a secret entrance to swing open. Nothing happened.

  “Pour some more.”

  “I’m out of water.”

  “Pour something else!”

  Theo reached into his satchel for his toiletry bag and took out a travel-size mouthwash. Feeling increasingly guilty for defacing priceless antiquities, he poured the liquid through the hole. It splashed far below, but no machinery clanked in response.

  “Ouranos’s balls,” Scooter cursed. “Guess a Listerine libation’s not good enough.”

  “You think it matters what sort of liquid we pour?”

  “Of course! When I was a god, if you tried to offer me that shit I’d make your cattle’s teats go dry. If you were lucky. I demanded wine or water—no substitutions.”

  “Well we’re out of water, and unless you’re holding back on me about your god-powers and can magically turn shampoo into wine, we’re out of luck there, too. So if Mithras’s taste in libations is as picky as yours—” He stopped, openmouthed.

  “What?”

  “He’s the god of the tauroctony. The bull sacrifice. He’s the god of blood.”

  “Theo, wait—”

  But he’d already pulled the divine sword from his satchel. The blade of Orion, who now lived only in a pattern of stars but once had hunted wild boar at Artemis’s side. A blade of untarnished bronze forged by the Sea God Poseidon, still razor-sharp, its seashell pommel glinting gold. Before Scooter could stop him, Theo drew the blade
across his wrist.

  A thin stream of blood spurted into the libation hole like air escaping a punctured balloon. He heard the splatter as it struck the pooled water below.

  Scooter lunged toward Theo’s wrist, his face pale.

  “Calm down,” Theo said. “I’m not going die here. I just want to see if—”

  The scraping of metal interrupted him. The splatter ceased, as if a panel had opened to allow the blood to pass through. A moment later, a terrible grinding of stone heralded their success.

  The back of a grave niche slid open.

  A narrow tunnel stretched into blackness.

  Chapter 20

  FATHER OF THE GODS

  The King of the Gods’ hand trembled as he held it out to his daughter.

  Selene crossed the Mithraic schoolroom and knelt beside him. “What have they done to you?” she begged. Filth marred Zeus’s once proud visage, staining his deep wrinkles brown. A long white ridge trailed from cheekbone to chin, and heavy purple bags shadowed his eyes. He rocked back and forth like a child trapped in a closet, afraid of the dark. His ragged blanket smelled like stale piss.

  “Did they beat you?” Selene asked, afraid of what she might hear. “You’re covered in scars.”

  “Scars?” he asked, sounding confused. He touched the ridge on his face. “Time,” he said after a moment, as if the import of her words had finally made it through a brain grown slow and stiff. “Time carved these.” His voice, which once had rumbled like thunder, now wheezed weak and thin.

  “Time,” she said bitterly. “You mean Kronos. Saturn.”

  He chortled wetly. “Time is”—he searched for the word—“unstoppable.” He moved a hand, his ring finger as crooked as a wind-sculpted branch, and traced the lock of white hair at his daughter’s temple. “You understand that.”

  She could only nod.

  “Still,” he went on, “you came. For me.” In his voice, she heard the gentle warmth that fearsome Zeus showed only to his children. Now, when the titles of King, Lightning Bringer, Raging One had all been lost, Father remained.