Fred Saberhagen - The Book of the Gods 01 - The Face of Apollo

The Face of Apollo

By Fred Saberhagen

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this novel are either fictitious or are

used fictitiously.

THE FACE OF APOLLO

This book is printed on acid-free paper.

A Tor Book

Published by Tom Doherty Associates, Inc.

175 Fifth Avenue

New York, NY 10010

Tor® Books on the World Wide Web:

http://www.tor.com

Tor is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, Inc.

Design by Basha Durand

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Saberhagen, Fred

The face of Apollo / Fred Saberhagen.—1st ed.

p. cm.—(The first Book of the gods)

"A Tom Doherty Associates book."

ISBN 0-312-86623-2(HC)

ISBN 0-312-86408-6(PK)

I. Title. II. Series: Saberhagen, Fred. Book of the gods; 1.

PS3569.A215F3 1998

813'.54—dc21 97-34384

CIP

First Edition: April 1998

Printed in the United States of America

0987654321

I know more than Apollo,

For oft when he lies sleeping,

I see the stars at bloody wars

In the wounded welkin weeping

—Tom O'Bedlam's Song,Anonymous

PROLOGUE

To the people who could not escape the Cave, it seemed that the bones of the earth were shaking. The

sun and stars, sources of light and courage, were out of sight and very far away.

On and on the murderous struggle raged, filling the under-ground darkness with reverberating thunder,

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

lancing it through with flares of unnatural light. Two titans fought against each other, each commanding the

personal powers of a god and each supported by a squad of merely human allies. Two gods, dueling to

the death in the echoing chambers of a vast cavern, came to-gether with profound hatred and full

abandon, each committing every scrap of resource, holding nothing in reserve. Here was all-out bitter

violence, carried extravagantly beyond the merely human.

When their most powerful weapons had been exhausted, they came at last to grappling hand to hand.

The thunder of their bat-tle, the bellowing of their two voices raised in rage and pain, deafened and dazed

the few humans—less than two dozen alto-gether—unlucky enough to have been trapped with the pair

in-side the Cave of Prophecy. The searing lightning of divine wrath, the flaring blasts of godlike power,

came near to blinding human eyes that had earlier grown accustomed to the Cave's deep dark-ness.

Clouds of dust from newly shattered rock, along with the fumes of slagged and burning earth, choked

human lungs.

Well before the struggle entered its climactic stage, the two factions of human warriors had ceased trying

to accomplish any-thing beyond their own survival. It was obvious to all of them that nothing they were

capable of doing would affect the out-come, and those who were still capable of movement now bent all

their efforts on crawling, scrambling, for their lives, concerned only to get out of the way of the pair of

monsters wielding su-perhuman force.

From one second to the next it seemed that the level of fury al-ready reached could not possibly be

sustained. And yet that level not only endured but was surpassed, turning the cave into an in-ferno,

shaking the walls of solid rock.

One of the mere humans who was still alive, a lithe young woman with darkish blond hair, had crawled

aside, seeking shel-ter behind a hump of limestone on the Cave's floor. Her clothing was torn, her skin

bleeding from half a dozen minor injuries.

Meanwhile the giants' struggle stormed on, its outcome im-possible for anyone to know. Now one of the

fighters was down and now the other.

Just when it seemed to the cowering human witnesses that there could be no end, that the fight must

swallow the whole world and drag on through eternity, there came at last an unexpected lull in violence, a

little breathing space in which it was pos-sible for men and women in the Cave to regain the ability to see

and hear. Some of them, recovering with amazing speed, tried to raise a chant, the words of which were

promptly lost again in the renewed fury of the fight. The lips of the young woman moved, mouthing the

words no one could hear:

Apollo, Apollo, Apollo must win.

And across the Cave, in another half-protected niche, another human chanted:Hades, Hades, King of

Darkness!

In the next instant the tumult rose up again, reaching its cli-max in a last burst of violence more

cataclysmic than any that had gone before. Once more the bones of earth were set quiver-ing, and high in

the rocky wall of one of the Cave's great cham-bers a rent was torn—letting in a single shaft of sunlight.

The beam of light was sharply outlined in its passage through the dusty air within the Cave.

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

When the echoes of that splitting rock had died away, there followed an interval of relative near-silence,

broken only by shud-derings, quivering of the stony walls, receding roarings, and gur-glings, where veins

of water had been turned to steam in the abused and ravaged earth. Here and there the lesser sound of

human sobbing fell on deafened ears, evidence that breath still re-mained in yet another human body.

Only seven human followers of great Apollo had survived inside the Cave until this moment, close

enough to see the fight and yet managing to live through it. The ranking officer among them, a man

accustomed to the leadership of a hundred warriors, now counted only six behind him. Their monstrous

chief opponent had withdrawn, to do so needing the help of the remnant of his own human army.

Apollo's seven were left in possession of the field.

But the retreat of their enemies meant almost nothing when balanced against their loss.

All seven were stunned by the fearful knowledge that their god was dead.

Moved by a common impulse, they crawled and staggered, dragging their wounded, deafened,

half-blinded bodies out of their separate hiding places and back into the great Cave room where the

climax of the fight had taken place. There the disaster was confirmed.

In their several ways the human survivors vocalized and acted out their grief. One or two of them

wondered aloud, and seri-ously, if the sun was going to come up ever again.

They derived a certain measure of relief, these folk who had served Apollo, simply from seeing that light

shine in, however faintly, through the great Cave's newly riven walls. The light of the universe had not

been extinguished with Apollo's death. That fact alone was enough to give them strength to carry on.

The filtered light was faint, but it was enough to let their eyes confirm what their ears had already told

them, that their master's monstrous opponent, Hades the Pitiless, most hated of all di-vinities, had

withdrawn.

A haggard, bloodstained woman among the seven, her black hair scorched, raised empty hands in a

vague gesture. "Damned Hades must be injured, too."

"He's gone to where he may recover—down, far down below." The surviving officer was looking at one

of the doorways to the Cave room, a void of black that swallowed the faint wash of sun-light, giving

nothing back. Gray clouds of dust still hung thick in the air.

Another man choked out: "May he burn and melt in his own hell!"

"But he will not. He will be back, to eat us all." The tones of the last speaker, another woman, were dull

and hopeless."Ourgod is dead." In their battle-deafness the seven were almost shouting at each other,

though none realized the fact.

"We must not give up hope," said the man who had once com-manded a hundred. "Not yet! Apollo is

dead. Long live Apollo." He looked round, coughing in clouds of choking dust. "We must have light in

here. Someone get me more light. There is Some-thing I must find."

A hush fell over the other six. Presently one of them, guided in near-darkness by the sight of sparks in

smoldering wood, lo-cated a fragment of what had once been a tool or weapon. The piece had caught

part of a bolt of electric force, hurled by one or the other of the chief combatants. Now human lungs

blew into sure life the faint seeds of a mundane material fire. Human skill nurtured a small flame into

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

steadiness, giving human eyes light enough to distinguish objects in the deep shadows where the thin shaft

of sunlight could not penetrate.

Crude torchlight flaring orange enabled the human survivors to look at one another—only three of them

had picked up their weapons again; all of them were smeared with dust and most with blood. None were

as old as thirty years, and all of their eyes were desperate.

Around them on the rock floor of the Cave of Prophecy were scattered a score and more of other

human bodies, friend and foe commingled, and some of each still breathed. But that could wait. All that

could wait.

More light as usual gave courage. First they were compelled to make absolutely sure of the tragedy

—their god had perished. They could see all that was left of him—which was not much.

Apollo was dead, but hope was not. Not yet.

The officer was down on his knees, sifting through the rubble with his fingers. "You know what we must

find. Help me to look for it."

"Here's something," another remarked after a few moments' search. "That way did Hades go." Now in

the crude torchlight the visual evidence was plain. There were marks were someone— or

something—had been dragged away, gone dragging and slid-ing down, into impenetrable darkness.

"Helped by humans. The Bad One was hit so hard that he needed human help, even to crawl away."

"Gravely wounded, then! Is that not blood?"

They all stared at the dark stains on the rocks. It was blood, but whose? No one could tell if it had

spilled from divine veins.

"Not dead, though. Hades is not dead, l-l-like, l-l-like—" The words came stuttering and stumbling, in a

voice on the point of breaking into wrenching sobs.

Another found a crumb of hope. "It might be that our Enemy will die of his wounds, down there."

"No. Down in the depths he will recover." Several people drew back a step. It was all too easy to

imagine the Lord of Darkness returning at any moment and with a single gesture sweeping them all out of

existence.

"I fear that the Pitiless One still lives." A voice broke in agony."But Apollo is dead!"

"Enough of that!" the officer shouted hoarsely. "Long live Apollo!"

And with that he rose to his feet, having found what he had been groping for in the dust, a small object

and inconspicuous. With the sound of a sob in his throat, he hastened to wrap his right hand in a fragment

of cloth, torn from his own tattered uni-form. Only then did he touch his discovery, holding it up in the

torchlight for all to see. It was no bigger than the palm of his hand, a thin and ragged-looking object of

translucent gray, with a hint of restless movement inside.

"The Face!" another cried.

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

"We must save it."

Hoarse murmurs echoed that thought. "Until, in time, our god may be reborn."

"Save it, and carry it, to ... who knows the names of worthy folk?"

The people in the Cave exchanged looks expressing ignorance. Finally the leader said, "I can think of

only two. Certainly none of us."

There followed a violent shaking of heads. Unanimously the seven counted themselves unworthy even to

touch the remnant of Apollo's Face.

"But how can we carry it to safety?" asked the young woman with the dark blond hair. "It's damned

unlikely that any of us are ever going to leave the Cave alive."

No one in the small group had much doubt that the human al-lies of Hades were in command of all the

known exits—but the struggle of titans had created some new openings in the rock.

The weight of decision rested on the officer, and he assumed it firmly: "I think our chances are better

than that. But we must split up and go in seven different ways. We will draw lots to see which of us

carries ... this."

Moments later, the seven had cast lots and the eyes of the other six were all turned upon the young

woman with dark blond hair.

In the days that followed, the spreading reports and rumors telling of the fight were in general agreement

on the fact that the god Apollo, known also as Lord of Light, Far-Worker, Phoe-bus, Lord of the Silver

Bow, and by an almost uncountable num-ber of other names, was truly dead. But the accounts were by

no means unanimous regarding the fate of Hades, the Sun God's dreadful dark opponent. Some said that

the two superbeings had annihilated each other. Others insisted that the Dark One, at-tended by the

monster Cerberus, had now dared to emerge into the world and was stalking victoriously about. A third

group held that the Lord of the Underworld, the final destroyer of Apollo, had been himself gravely

injured in the duel and had re-treated deep into the bowels of the earth to nurse his wounds.

And there were many humans now—none of whom had been close to the Mountain and the Cave of the

Oracle during the fight—who insisted that all the gods were dead and had been dead for decades or

even centuries, if indeed they had ever been more than superstitions.

The full truth turned out to be stranger than any of the stories that were told.

ONE

Weeks later, and more than a hundred miles from the Cave of Prophecy, dusk had ended the day's

work for the inhabitants of a quiet riverside village. In a small house on the edge of the village, three

people sat at a table: a gray-haired man and woman and a red-haired boy who had just turned fif-teen.

By the dim and flaring light of a smoky fish-oil lamp the three were concluding an uneventful day with a

supper of oat-meal, raisins, and fresh-caught fish.

This was, in fact, a very minor birthday party. Aunt Lynn had sung Jeremy a song—and poured him a

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

second glass of wine.

Tonight gray-bearded Uncle Humbert had emptied somewhat more of the wine jug into his own cup

than usual and had started telling stories. On most nights, and most days, Jeremy's uncle had little enough

to say about anything. But tonight the birthday occasion had been melded with the prospect of a good

harvest, now in late summer already under way. For the latter reason Humbert was in a good mood now,

refilling his clay cup yet again from the cheap jug on the table.

Tonight was going to be one of the rare times when Uncle drank enough wine to alter his behavior. Not

that Jeremy had ever seen his uncle take enough to bring on any drastic change. The only noticeable

effect was that he would start chuckling and hiccuping and then reel off a string of stories concerning the

legendary gods, gradually focusing more and more on their romantic encounters.

Months ago Jeremy had given up expecting ever to be thanked for his hard work. He had to admit that

the old people worked hard, too, most of the time. It was just the way things were when you lived on the

land.

As a rule, the boy consumed only one cup of wine at a meal. His uncle was stingy about that, as about

much else. But tonight

Jeremy dared to pour himself a second cup, and his uncle looked at him for a moment but then let it

pass.

The boy was not particularly restricted in his consumption of wine but so far had not been tempted to

overdo it—he wasn't sure he liked the sensations brought on by swallowing more than a little of the red

stuff straight.

Earlier Aunt Lynn, contemplating the fact of his turning fif-teen, had asked him, "S'pose you might be

marrying soon?"

That was a surprise; he wondered if the old woman really hadn't noticed that he was barely on speaking

terms with any of the other villagers, male or female, young or old. The folk here tended to view any

outsiders with suspicion. "Don't know who I'd marry."

Aunt Lynn sat thinking that over. Or more likely her mind was already on something else—the gods

knew what. Now Je-remy sat drawing little circles with his finger in the spots of spilled wine on the table.

Often it seemed to the boy that there must be more than one generation between himself and the two

gray people now sitting at his right and left. Such were the dif-ferences. Now Uncle Humbert, tongue

well loosened, was well into his third tale concerned with the old days, a time when the world was young

and the gods, too, were young and vital beings, fully capable of bearing the responsibility for keeping the

uni-verse more or less in order. Jeremy supposed the old folk must have heard the stories thousands of

times, but they never seemed tired of telling or hearing them yet again.

Many people viewed the past, when supposedly the gods had been dependable and frequently

beneficent, as a Golden Age, ir-retrievably lost in this late and degenerate period of the world. But Uncle

Humbert's view, as his nephew had become ac-quainted with it over the past several months, was

somewhat dif-ferent. A deity might do a human being a favor now and then, on a whim, but by and large

the gods were not beneficent. Instead they viewed the world as their own playground and humanity as

merely an amusing set of toys.

Humbert derived a kind of satisfaction from this view of life—it was not his fault that the world, as he

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

saw it, had cheated him in many ways. Certain of the gods seemed to spend a good deal of their time

thinking up nasty tricks to play on UncleHumbert. Jeremy supposed that seeing himself as a victim of the

gods allowed Humbert to have a feeling of importance.

The other half of Humbert's audience on most nights for the past five months had been his weary,

overworked nephew. Tonight was no exception, and the boy sat, head spinning over his second cup,

falling asleep with his head propped up in one hand, both his elbows on the table. Nothing was forcing

him to stay at the table—he could have got up at any moment and climbed the ladder to his bed. But, in

fact, he wanted to hear the stories. Any distraction from the mundane world in which he spent the

monotony of his days was welcome.

Now Jeremy's eyelids opened a little wider. Uncle Humbert was varying his performance somewhat

tonight. He was actually telling a tale that the boy hadn't heard before, in the five months that he'd been

living here.

The legend that Jeremy had never heard before related how two male gods, Dionysus and one other,

Mercury according to Uncle, who happened to be traveling together in disguise, made a wager between

themselves as to what kind of reception they would be granted at the next peasants' hut if they appeared

incognito.

"So, they wrapped 'emselves up in their cloaks, and—hiccup— walked on."

Aunt Lynn, who tonight had hoisted an extra cup or two her-self, was already shrieking with laughter at

almost every line of every story and pounding her husband on the arm. Silently Je-remy marveled at her.

No doubt she had heard this one a hun-dred times before, or a thousand, in a quarter-century or so of

marriage and already knew the point of the joke, but that didn't dampen her enjoyment. Jeremy hadn't

heard it yet and didn't much care whether he heard it now.

Uncle Humbert's raspy voice resumed. "So great Hermes— some call'm Mercury—'n' Lord Di'nysus

went on and stopped at the next peasants' hut. It was a grim old man who came to th' door, but the gods

could see he had a young and lively wife. . .. She was jus' standing there behind the old man, kind of

smiling at the visitors ... an' when she saw they were two han'some, young-lookin' men, dressed like they

were rich, she winked at 'em...."

Aunt Lynn had largely got over her latest laughing fit and now sat smiling, giggling a little, listening

patiently. She might be thinking that she could have been burdened with a husband a lot worse than

Humbert, who hardly ever beat her. And Jeremy was already so well grown that Uncle, not exactly huge

and powerful himself, would doubtless have thought twice or thrice before whaling into him—but then,

such speculation was probably un-fair. In the boy's experience Uncle Humbert had never demon-strated

a wish to beat on anyone—his faults were of a different kind.

The story came quickly to its inevitable end, with the grim, greedy old peasant cuckolded, the lecherous

gods triumphant, the young wife, for the moment, satisfied. Judging by Uncle Humbert's laughter, the old

man still enjoyed the joke as much as the first time he'd heard it, doubtless when he was a young and

lecherous lad himself. The thought crossed Jeremy's mind that his father would never have told stories

like this—not in the family circle, anyway—and his mother would never have laughed at them.

That was the last joke of the night, probably because it was the last that Uncle could dredge up out of

his memory just now. When all three people stood up from the table, the boy, still too young to have a

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

beard at all, was exactly the same height as the aging graybeard who was not yet fifty.

While the woman puttered about, carrying out a minimum of table clearing and kitchen work, young

Jeremy turned away from his elders with a muttered, "Good night," and began to drag his tired body up

to the loft where he routinely slept. That second cup of wine was buzzing in his head, and once his

callused foot sole almost slipped free from a smooth-worn rung on the built-in wooden ladder.

Now in the early night the tiny unlighted loft was still hot with' the day-long roasting of summer sun.

Without pausing, the boy crawled straight through the narrow, cramped, oven-like space and slid right on

out of it again, through the crude opening that served as its single window. He emerged into moonlit night

on the flat roof of an adjoining shed.

Here he immediately paused to pull off his homespun shirt.

The open air was cooler now than it had been all day, and a slight breeze had come up at sunset,

promising to minimize the number of active mosquitoes. To Jeremy's right and left the branches of a

shade tree rustled faintly, brushing the shed roof. Even in daylight this flat space, obscured by leaves and

branches, was all but invisible from any of the other village houses. In a moment Jeremy had shed his

trousers, too.

He drained his bladder over the edge of the roof, saving him-self a walk to the backyard privy. Then he

stretched out naked on the sun-warmed shingles of the flat, slightly sloping surface, his shirt rolled up for

a pillow beneath his head.

There, almost straight above him, was the moon. Jeremy could manage to locate a bright moon in a clear

sky, though for him its image had never been more than a blur and talk of lunar phases was practically

meaningless. Stars were far beyond his capabil-ity—never in his life had his nearsighted vision let him

discover even the brightest, except that once or twice, on frozen winter nights, he'd seen, or thought he'd

seen, a blurry version of the Dog Star's twinkling point. Now and then, when Venus was es-pecially

bright, he had been able to make out her wandering image near dawn or sunset, a smaller, whiter version

of the moon blur. But tonight, though his eyelids were sagging with wine and weariness, he marveled at

how moonlight—and what must be the communal glow of the multitude of bright points he had been told

were there—had transformed the world into a silvery mystery.

Earlier in the day, Aunt Lynn had said she'd heard a boatman from downriver talking about some kind of

strange battle, sup-posed to have recently taken place at the Cave of Prophecy. Whole human armies

had been engaged, and two or more gods had fought to the death.

Uncle had only sighed on hearing the story. "The gods all died a long time ago," was his comment finally.

" 'Fore I was born." Then he went on to speak of several deities as if they had been personal

acquaintances. "Dionysus, now—there was a god for you. One who led aninterestinglife." Uncle

Humbert, whose voice was gravelly but not unpleasant, supplied the emphasis with a wink and a nod and

a laugh.

Jeremy wanted to ask his uncle just how well he had known Dionysus—who had died before Humbert

was born—just to see what the old man would say. But the boy felt too tired to bother. Besides, he had

the feeling that his uncle would simply ig-nore the question.

Now, despite fatigue, an inner restlessness compelled Jeremy to hold his eyelids open a little longer. Not

everyone agreed with Uncle Humbert that all the gods had been dead for a human lifetime or longer.

Somewhere up there in the distant heavens, or so the stories had it, the gods still lived, or some of them

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

at least, though they were no more to be seen by any human eyes than Je-remy could see the stars.

Unless the stories about a recent battle might be true. . . .

Others of that divine company, according to other stories, pre-ferred to spend their time in inaccessible

mountain fastnesses on earth—high places, from which they sometimes came down to bother people or

befriend them.... At least in the old days, hun-dreds of years ago, they had done that.

He wondered if the gods, whatever gods there might be in re-ality, behaved anything at all like their

representations in Uncle's stories. People who were inclined to philosophy argued about such matters,

and even Jeremy's parents had not been sure. But Jeremy preferred to believe that there weresomegods

in the world. Because magic really happened, sometimes. Not that he had actually experienced any

himself. But there were so many stories that he thought there must be something ...

... his mind was drifting now. Let Dionysus and Hermes come to the door of this house tonight, and

they'd find a crabbed old man, but no young wife to make the visit worth their while. Nei-ther gods nor

men could work up much craving for Aunt Lynn. From down in the dark house the rhythmic snores of

Jeremy's aunt and uncle were already drifting up. Wine and hard work had stupefied them; and in the real

world, what else could any-one look forward to but sleep?

Weariness and wine quickly pushed Jeremy over into the bor-derland of sleep. And now the invisible

boundary had been passed. Bright dreams came, beginning with the young peasant wife of Uncle

Humbert's tale, as she lay on her back in her small bedroom, making an eager offering of herself to the

gods. Her husband had been got cleverly out of the way, and now she wantonly displayed her naked

body. Between her raised knees stood the towering figure of jolly, bearded Dionysus, his muscles and his

phallus alike demonstrating his superiority to mere mankind.

And now, in the sudden manner of dreams, the body of the farmwife on her bed was replaced by that of

a certain village girl about Jeremy's age. Her name was Myra, and more than once this summer the boy

had seen her cooling herself in the river. Each time, Myra and her younger girl companions had looked

their suspicion and dislike at the red-haired, odd-looking newcomer. They'd turned their backs on the

intruder in their vil-lage, who spoke with a strange accent. Whichever way Myra stood in the water,

however she moved, her long dark hair tan-talizingly obscured her bare breasts and the curved flesh of

her body jiggled.

The boy on the shed roof was drifting now, between sleep and waking. Something delightful was about

to happen.

Well, and what did he care if some ignorant village girl might choose not to let him near her? Let her act

any way she liked. Here, behind the closed lids of his eyes, he was the king, the god, the ruler, and he

would decide what happened and what did not.

And even in the dream, the question could arise: What would Dionysus, if there really was a Dionysus,

do with a girl like Myra? How great, how marvelous, to be a god!

But in another moment the dream was deepening again. The fascinating images were as real as life itself.

And it was Jeremy, not Dionysus, who stood between the raised knees of the female on the bed. Even as

Myra smiled up at him and reached out her arms, even as their bodies melted into one . . .

Groaning, he came partially awake at the last moment, enough to know that he was lying alone and had

spent himself on wooden shingles. Real life was messy, however marvelous the dreams it sometimes

brought.

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

Fred Saberhagen - The Book of the Gods 01 - The Face of Apollo

相关推荐

开通VIP享超值会员特权

作者详情

相关内容

热门标签

举报选择: