Quetzalcoatl had remained silent for much of the discussion, but now lifted his head. We have not all disregarded our treaty with Rome, he said, rephrasing the issue so that it was not an issue of subjects rebelling against a ruler, but one group breaking a treaty with another. Mercury noticed the subtlety, immediately. Many of us adhere to the agreed-upon terms of our bargain. But we do not see Rome taking action against those who have caused us harm, either. There are two sides to every bargain, messenger. And while it is not just to break a treaty, just because the other side did so first? It is yet understandable.
Rationality, to be expected from Quetzalcoatl, but with the steely core of resolve, and the ability to reach for vengeance that came from his Morning Star attributes. Mercury considered making Quetzalcoatl the recipient of his message for a moment, and then disregarded the notion. Jupiter had given him wide latitude in this mission, and in Mercury’s opinion, Quetzalcoatl was far too valuable an ally to be discarded. And, truthfully, probably too powerful to be overcome easily. He leaned back and considered the rest, replying, easily, Do not mistake silence for indifference. Do not mistake the moment of judgment for hesitation. For judgment is coming. And it comes on winged feet. He concealed his inwards smile, and stretched his legs out, propping his golden sandals up on a stone for the moment.
Close to four decades of mortal time, Tlaloc has been dead, Xipe Totec snarled. That is a considerable pause for reflection, and you may tell your masters so, messenger.
Mercury smiled. What is time to us? he said, mildly. Black Tezcatlipoca was accepting sacrifices, but he was a balancing force to Quetzalcoatl. Xipe Totec, the Red Tezcatlipoca, was accepting sacrifices. And the Blue Tezcatlipoca was already dead, so it made a certain amount of sense to remove the Red now, too. He had no balance, no counter. There were dozens of other deities available, of course. But Mercury had been directed to make the message extremely clear: no one is above the rule of Rome. In times past, the compact of Rome was that gods should not fight gods. It is too detrimental to the mortal realm. Instead, we allowed mortal agents to investigate and act on issues relating to the people, and indeed, even gods, subject to us. Ancillary clauses of that agreement included an end to human sacrifice, which would not be needed if gods would not fight gods directly. No one would require the additional empowerment. That compact has been broken, in many ways, and by many individuals. Therefore, there is no further need to use mortals as our agents of investigation and intervention, is there. It wasn’t a question. His tone was light, insouciant, and he even smiled.
Of all the gods there assembled, only Quetzalcoatl looked disquieted, and shook his head, the blue-green feathers that adorned his golden mask bobbing with the motion.
The debate continued for what could have been hours, or even days. Tlalocan was part of the Veil, and timeless. Near the end, Mercury began to wrap himself in layer after layer of illusion. He habitually made himself opaque to others’ sight; he prided himself on no one, not even Jupiter, knowing truly what he thought. Of course, there were reasons that he was able to hide from Zeus and Jupiter. Maia, his mother the titan, had ensured that . . . .
Mercury pushed the line of thought away, hastily. He had several thousand years of practice.
He created a duplicate of himself, just as opaque as he was to Veil senses, and wrapped himself in invisibility. And then allowed that duplicate self to be escorted out of Tlalocan to the mortal world. As he remained behind, he watched through his double’s eyes, and listened to the conversation as well. And he turned his puppet-self, just at the exit, to ask the Nahautl gods, Do you know the story of Medusa? She was a beautiful god-born woman, a priestess of Athena. She had two sisters, Stheno and Euryale, both earth-spirits. Both immortal, as their sister was mortal. Mercury kept his tone that of a bed-time story. Poseidon was so taken with Medusa, that he raped her on Athena’s very altar. And, enraged as she was by this profanation, Athena could not retaliate against Poseidon, her uncle. So she cursed Medusa with the power that her face would turn men to stone. You must understand, Athena thought of this as a mercy, in her fashion. The smile on his apparition’s face widened, and he let a tinge of manic glee show. She could have slain her priestess, after all, for not having fled before Poseidon could touch her, as any number of nymphs fled Apollo’s lust. Medusa didn’t even have the great good sense to fling herself from a cliff. Then, all would have been forgiven! Mercury gestured expansively. So Athena let her keep her beauty, but ensured that no man or god could ever lay a hand on her again, or so she thought. Her sisters, who protested her fate, shared it. They were crammed into ugly mortal bodies and bound there. Bound in those hideous, twisted forms until the sister they loved, died. Immortality as a curse. And then along came god-born Perseus, who borrowed my sword, Athena’s polished shield, and Hades’ helmet, and it was off with Medusa’s head. Mercury’s image spread his hands. Athena insisted on carrying the head around for centuries. To this day, I don’t know if it is a trophy or a memento for her.
The various Nahautl gods stared uneasily at his apparition. To what end do you remind us of this tale? Quetzalcoatl finally asked. You have some subtle point, I am sure, regarding the justice of your Hellene twins, to whom you Romans are bound?
Mercury had, by this time, latched onto Xipe Totec’s essence. No matter where he went, Mercury would be dragged along in his wake. As he waited, he puppeted his duplicate-self. Made it laugh almost amiably. Our Hellene twins were uncivilized savages in their infancy, but so, too, was mankind. I would like to think that we have all learned . . . subtlety. Most humans today would tell me that punishing Medusa for Poseidon’s crime was punishing the victim. I would prefer not to punish the victims in the world today. Invisibly, Mercury grimaced. The Hellene gods had been conquerors. And like conquerors everywhere, they had asserted their dominance in all the ways that humanity had taught them to do. Rapine and slavery, in the main.
Xipe Totec’s head rose. Then you agree that we are hardly the aggressors here? We have lost three of our number, and not even to the mad godlings . . . but to the hands and teeth of the Goths and their gods.
Mercury’s image smiled. I will tend to all that needs to be done. You may rest assured of that.
His apparition vanished, and he was able to listen in on their pleased, relieved conversations, though he noted that Quetzalcoatl remained silent, and looked deeply disturbed. The god finally told his brethren, I have warned you all before against accepting human sacrifices. It would be wise for all of you to tell your priests to stop the sacrifices now. Mercury’s words were a warning. If Medusa could expect a lifetime of torment, followed by death, for the great sin of not protecting herself, and her sisters, who challenged the greater gods for love of her, were punished so greatly for their defiance . . . what do you think our punishment will be?
Tezcatlipoca scoffed, You have not accepted any sacrifices. Your compunctions weaken you, while the rest of us gain in strength. They will not dare come against us, not while Valhalla and the gods of the Gauls stand in rebellion. He snorted. And yet you include yourself in our supposed punishments, you with your lily-white hands?
I do. For I would be one of the sisters, punished for protesting your fates. Stop now, my brother. Before it is too late.
It is already too late, Mercury thought, silently. It was too late the instant the Gauls found that you were accepting human sacrifices once more. Even if Fenris hadn’t leaped into action and across the border, risking war for an ally’s sake . . . the Gauls would have moved to arms. They would have brought this to Rome . . . and it would have been impossible to conceal or smooth over. Jupiter’s decree is that one god from each of the pantheons accepting sacrifices must die. And one god each from the rebellious Goths and Gauls must die, too. That is my lord’s order. And I will carry it out. As I always do. It is my duty to smile when I relay Rome’s words . . . and be a villain in Rome’s name, if that is Jupiter’s command.
Their meeting broke up, and Mercury, attached to Xipe To
tec like a string to a kite, fleeted along through the Veil behind the flayed god, until he transited out into the mortal realm once more.
Mercury glanced around, recognizing his location in terms of latitude and longitude immediately; they were somewhere in Tlaxcala, about two hours east of Tenochtitlan—a major center for the worship of Xipe Totec under the name of Camaxtli. Though Camaxtli was actually a minor god that Totec had killed and consumed, in the days of the Nahautl conquests. Mercury could smell blood and smoke in the air, and could hear screams of terror in the distance. They had exited the Veil into an antechamber within a pyramidal temple, from the feel of the stone around him, and he could see the outlines of priests, all blood-bound to Totec, through the walls as they approached the room to venerate their god. Now. Before he grows stronger.
He drew his sword, which was actually a line of golden light, and drove it into Xipe Totec’s back, manifesting just enough to catch Totec as he fell forwards; he knew the god wasn’t dead yet. He flung a band of his own power at the door, holding it barred, while pulling a dome of force around them, dampening all sound. The two gods struggled, Mercury tearing the life out of Totec through the wound in his avatar’s back, and Totec lashing out with all his strength. The skin rippled off his avatar’s back, and leaped up to wrap itself around Mercury, caustic blood burning the Roman’s own avatar. The skin began to feed on Mercury in turn, trying to leech the life-essence out of him. Mercury hissed and the snakes on his kerykeion staff, tucked into his belt, slithered free and slipped up to wrap around Totec’s throat, constricting there as they bit, again and again, allowing Mercury just a moment to obliterate the skin with a spark of fire. The serpents’ venom tore at Totec’s avatar from the inside, faster than the god could heal himself.
Pounding at the door now. Mortals outside, vibrations of the impacts rippling through the floor. Mercury shifted his grip on his sword, changed the angle, and drove the blade into Totec’s heart. He caught almost all of the god’s essence; the little that he allowed to escape, did so as a shockwave that leveled the pyramid, crushing priests and prisoners alike.
Mercury was barely aware of this; Jove’s winged messenger had already fleeted away. He reached across Nahautl, and using the full flow of Totec’s memories to find every idol, every representation of the Flayed One . . . and shattered it. Every inscription of his name in stone, chipped away. And every god-born descendent of Totec screamed as Mercury found the fine cord of power that connected them to their ancestor, and used Totec’s own power to burn them from within. Their skins sloughed from their bodies, agonizingly, leaving nothing but raw, red flesh to bleed out as they collapsed in temples, in marketplaces, and in schools. Flash of horrified faces around them, through hundreds of dying eyes, as the humans around them gathered close to try to help them . . . or fled, entirely, fearing that the same fate would befall them.
Rome’s message was clear: Do you not remember why you feared us? Defy us, and even your descendants will not exist to remember your name.
Mercury took no joy in these acts. No spite, no malice. He was just the messenger of Jupiter, and today, death happened to be his message. He did enjoy the power of Xipe Totec burning inside of him . . . but he knew it was a fleeting thing, though heady.
Reluctantly, he slipped through the Veil to Olympus, the realm held in common between the Hellene and Roman gods, and hastened to the great hall. Gold and silver thrones towered along the length of the echoing marble chamber with its fluted pillars. One for every god. Most of the golden thrones, reserved for the greater gods, were doubles, with wide seats and two backs, and a heavy golden canopy above each, so that each Roman god could sit beside his or her Hellene counterpart. With one exception. Mercury’s own throne was singular. He had no Hellene twin. He had always and ever been Hermes, son of Maia and Zeus.
When the Romans had come with their offer of bonds and contracts, it had been Hermes, the prince of lies, merchants, and negotiations, who had bargained with the Romans. He’d warned Zeus and all the others that becoming twinned so might have unforeseen consequences. That they might be turned into slaves, or shadows of themselves. And Zeus had bidden him to make the bargain, and warned him not to try to ape Prometheus. Yours is not the gift of foresight.
He’d done his duty. All had been bound, except for him. But then, there had been only a handful of tiny spirits associated with the marketplace in Rome’s earliest days. Hermes had laughed at the notion of being bound to them . . . and had bound himself to Jupiter, instead. As a servant, not a twin. He’d take the chance of death in the mortal realm for the taste of freedom that the others would forget they’d ever known. Here I am. Best-loved of all the gods of Rome. The trickster, the merchant, the magician . . . to mortals, at least. Yet what am I to Jupiter? A messenger. An assassin. Foresight is not my gift, indeed. I should have run as far and as fast as I could.
Mercury kept his eyes on the ground as he knelt, but could feel and sense everyone in the hall. Mars, stern and strong, on his golden throne, doing his best to ignore petulant Ares. Aphrodite and Venus each combing the others’ hair and flirting with Ares or Mars, respectively. Before Rome subsumed the Hellenes, Venus and Mars Pater were the union of male and female opposites. He was the father, Venus the mother, and together, they brought fertility to the land, in their humans’ eyes. And then Rome inherited the sordid domestic disputes of Olympus, and they were cleft asunder as Jupiter took control.
His awareness took in the others, rapidly. Hestia and Vesta, both sitting at the central fire in the great hall, watching the goings-on around them tiredly. Hera was a faint echo of Juno, and they both sat both with their chins elevated, but where Hera appeared weary, unloved, and cross, Juno appeared cool and remote, a heart hardened by time and political circumstances. Both barren, of course. Neither Zeus nor Jupiter would take the chance that an actual legitimate heir, born to the powerful queen of the heavens, might fulfill Prometheus’ ancient prophecy, and kill its father. What does it say that the heart of Rome is founded on a barren and profitless union? What should be a concordant opposition, a balance of opposing principles, leading to fertility is . . . empty. Just as the rest of Olympus is.
Frankly, Mercury thought that Hera and Juno should have taken lovers millennia ago, and improved their outlook. Then again, they were meant to be the model for all wives, and thus, humanity would not allow them to stray. And neither would Zeus or Jupiter. Hera had no god-born, though she’d produced Hephaestus through parthenogenesis. Neither did Artemis-Diana or Hestia-Vesta.
In a dark corner of the chamber, gloomy Hades slouched on the double throne he shared with Pluto. Both were only discernable by the clothing they manifested around their avatars. Even to Veil senses, their essences were as hidden as Mercury’s own, allowing no one to see into their hearts. Even their faces and bodies were imperceptible. Mercury couldn’t remember what they really looked like. Persephone and Proserpine probably knew, but the dual queens of the underworld sat rigidly, facing away from their husbands. Mercury had no sympathy for Hades; Hades had kidnapped and raped Persephone, ages ago . . . admittedly, shortly after she’d been raped by Zeus, her own father, and borne him two minor godlings.
But Pluto had never, as far as Mercury knew, laid a hand on any goddess. Or god. He was famous for his lack of mirth, and was noted as the most impartial judge in existence. All that sobriety would have made him an excellent target for practical jokes, if it weren’t for the fact that Pluto also terrified Mercury. Pluto could challenge Jupiter for power. That he had never done so . . . ? A matter of an oath of allegiance, taken centuries ago. Pluto did not break oaths. Ever.
Jupiter sat on his own throne, radiating gravitas and power; almost too brilliant even for another god to look upon. Zeus, beside him, was a pettish shadow, mostly ignored by the Roman gods. He was, at the moment, playing some sort of game with his cupbearer, Ganymede, which involved feeding the young male grapes. This would probably devolve into foreplay and spanking in short order, if Jupiter di
dn’t put Zeus on a leash, first. Mercury felt sorry for Hera, being married to Zeus, but it was difficult to pity her, when she usually took out her spite on everyone around her. Even the victims, a voice whispered at the back of his head, and he pushed it down. Hard.
The lesser gods all received silver thrones, like Hecate’s behind him, which gaped like a missing tooth. She had a weak Roman twin, Trivia, who was barely more than a house-spirit. The Hellene goddess of magic had apparently destroyed a mad god, and then vanished from Olympus. Not dead. Simply invisible, for some unknown reason. Forlorn Trivia fluttered just above the bench-like seat, clearly nervous in this august assemblage.
Silence had been gathering in the hall. Finally, Jupiter spoke. You have delivered my message?
Yes, my lord. The first of four.
Give me your homage then, Mercury, and know that I am well-pleased with you.
Mercury sighed inwardly, and rose. Walked to Jupiter’s throne, and knelt once more. Felt Jupiter’s hand drop to his forehead, and braced himself.
It hurt. It always hurt. Jupiter drained him of every whisper of Xipe Totec’s power. Rome’s gods had long held a feudal dynamic. All of them fed Jupiter from the power of their worshippers, and Jupiter also derived enormous power from his own mortal worshippers. Even people who worshipped the gods of Valhalla or of Nahautl tossed a coin at his altars. All of them believed in his existence and power . . . and in his ability to wipe out any threat he chose. Any hint of wavering in that faith threatened Jupiter’s power. Power had to be cultivated. Fertilized with fear. Today would refresh the belief throughout Nahautl in Jupiter . . . or so Jupiter believed. You still fear the consequences of today’s actions? Jupiter said, one hand still on Mercury’s brow.
The Goddess Embraced (The Saga of Edda-Earth Book 3) Page 53
