Doctor Who_ Fallen Gods Part 3

-Oh they are. But not to me. You've got the instincts ... you've done better than my wildest dreams. But if you take me up there, you're not giving me a gift, you're showing me something I can never have.

And all she could do was meet his gaze and gently touch his cheek, not knowing whether that would help either.

Alcestis meets the bull halfway.

Before she sees the fingers pointing at the sky, before she hears someone shriek, she's darting out from her house, trailing silk, one hand closed around the shaft of a light javelin.

Above, a low bank of cloud has become a miniature dawn, lit from inside by orange firelight. The crowds are frozen, staring high.

The ground drops away from her. There's no sensation of effort, of pushing away. She's floating up towards the light too bright to look at now the silk billowing softly around her. Already the wind is blanking out the cries of the crowd below.

Alcestis gathers speed. Her thoughts are trailing behind her body's automatic response: can she prevent the demon from reaching the ground at all? What would the Doctor think of that?First, she has to show the creature she means business.

The bull breaks through the clouds with a roar like dry thunder. Its face is huge, the features sketched in burning orange against a smouldering red and black shape. The body is a wall behind the head, a ma.s.s of charred meat that tapers like the body of a leech. The legs seem to stretch and fade down to points, to nothing.

It faces her, snorting plumes of volcanic ash and steam. The wind picks them up and sends them whirling to her. The monster's breath stinks of volcano.

They're both slowing, reaching the same height. Alcestis is in a world of air, sky, clouds; she doesn't dare look down at the ground, not yet. She lets herself drift, making sure the sun is not behind the bull, not behind her. It needs to have a clear view of her.

The bull's brute face contorts in surprise as Alcestis comes towards it, rushing now, the javelin clutched tight. The wind wants to pry it from her fingers, the same way it's whipping the breath out of her mouth.She knows the bull will not move.With a roll and a flick she launches the shaft, aiming for a burning eye. Only at the last moment, before the spear strikes it, does it flinch, turning its head.

The javelin drives into the bull's shoulder, disintegrating in the blackred heat as though flung into a run of lava. Even as the javelin crumbles, the bull is bellowing. It has been struck. It has been hurt. It can be hurt.It charges, thrusting a face full of rage at her. Alcestis turns and flees.She plummets, her arms instinctively flying up above, her head to streamline her shape. The garment clings to her instead of flapping upwards over her head; he's thought of everything. As the streets turn beneath her, vertigo arrives, trailing panic. She lets them pa.s.s over and through her and concentrates on the map spread out beneath her feet.

She glances up, knowing that the bull will still be high above her it is. Despite all its strength, its danger, its infusion of divine fire, it's just like the bull in the field. Stupid, and slow to change direction. The pounding of a ba.s.s drum, around which a flute melody can wind.

She allows herself a few seconds to slow before she reaches the ground. The buildings rise up around her, suddenly, and she's running across the dusty ground where a house used to stand, her sandals kicking fine grey powder into the air.

Despite the devastation, she's surrounded by half-walls. They chose this spot because the demons' last, dance created a maze of rubble and wreckage. It won't stand up to the bull's ageing touch, but it's confusing, distracting.Not for Alcestis. She has been over this ground a dozen times.The bull breaks the earth like a boulder dropped over a cliff. Dust explodes upwards, like smoke, obscuring its form. Circling slowly, keeping her back against the standing walls, waiting for it to see her.

Somewhere here, the Doctor is chasing people away from the ruins. His part is to empty the area, break up any watching crowds. Hers is to fill that empty arena with movement and fascination until the bull's fire dies away.It charges, darting out of the cloud with unexpected suddenness. Alcestis lifts six inches off the ground before she catches herself, forces herself to hold her place.

This time she can't grasp the bull's horns as she springs, flies over it, face up to the sky, her back above, its back and curving down into the trail of dust behind it. Landing, facing away from it, turning, stumbling, almost losing her footing in the powder, wiping the grit away from her eyes.

It's better than she could have hoped. The bull can't stop or turn before it strikes the wall. It smashes into the stones, then through them, and a moment later the wreckage of the house comes down on it.

At once, the mound of rubble starts to creak and crack, and suddenly fragments into a rain of pieces, sliding down around the angry, struggling figure of the monster. A vision: her own bones like the walls of that house, crumbling down.

The demon hauls itself out with a satisfied grunt and steps daintily down from the sand on its slender legs. Its vanishingly small hooves leave no marks in the dust. The heat of it dries out her eyeb.a.l.l.s in an instant she has to blink, but even a blink feels too long.

It comes for her again. This time Alcestis runs, cutting across the open s.p.a.ce of the ruins, across the line of its charge. The bull is forced to swerve: an ugly, grunting manoeuvre.She runs along a wall, just above, the height of the bull's head. It slams its burning horns into the bricks beneath her. The moment's struggle to free itself, before the wall shatters and falls like an unhooked curtain, gives her time to leap over its back and away.

Hot grit beneath the toes of her left foot. Her sandal brushed the bull; it's gone. A moment later a sharp pain begins in the sole of her foot, making her draw her leg up, feeling for the burned skin.

There isn't time. The bull staggers at her sideways, trying to turn its bulk. She stumbles backwards, the remaining sandal unbalancing her as she tries to escape that awkward, swinging weight. She catches her heels on a sharp edge of brick and tumbles onto her back in the dust.

The bull lowers its head and snuffles towards her, snorting contentedly. Weight in her limbs. A sharp cold in her marrow. The monster has run her down, and her arms and legs are too tired to drag herself out of its path. This dance is done.She closes her eyes and falls into the sky.Beneath her, the bull snorts and stamps. Mother Rhea, she prays silently, send the wind to cradle me, to carry me away.

She turns as she rises, until she's facing the maze below her. She can see the people milling about the ruins, a safe margin of clear streets between the crowds and the battlefield. In the centre of the grey, a black spot.

The bull clambers up into the sky after her. Its colour changes, the orange spreading to cover its body, then hot yellow, then white. A moment later there is nothing but a stinking cloud of sulphurous dust, blowing upwards, and after that, the winds clear it away and there's nothing left at all.

She slows, hangs there staring at where it was, blinking the stain from her eyes.

Alcestis makes no effort now. The winds carry her in a gentle swirl, she has no idea for how long. Finally she feels the earth reaching up for her, lets her feet come down to the ground, outside her own house.

The Doctor is there. He takes her arm and takes her inside, helps her out of the clinging garment, holds a cool jug of water to her lips. She tips it right back, flooding her mouth and her burning face, until the dust is clear of her throat and she can speak.-No-one died.He puts down the water while she hangs onto the door frame and screams into the street. -This time no-one died!She sags into his arms, laughing. -Not even me.

When morning comes, once the story has spread, she stands, again in the fluttering silk and reaches her arms around the Doctor from behind. He's in his foreign finery, cool and composed in the heat, but she can see the clouds gathering in his eyes.

She leans over his shoulder, close to his ear, and whispers -Just enjoy what you can.

He twists his head to look at her and smiles. She's never before seen a sun move to hide clouds. -Foolish, really. I should be grateful for what I've got.

And she lifts him gently off the ground. He reaches back and hangs onto her waist as the street drops away. A moment of vertigo as she finds her balance, straining with the unfamiliar weight; eventually she hooks her legs around his, to hold him in place, and tips forward. Carrying him close beneath her as she soars towards the sea.

She feels the tension and resistance in his back, feels it slowly melt away. Her chin rests on his shoulder. As she banks, she lets her hips swing against his, pushing him, trying to pa.s.s on to him some of the feel of the dance. At last, she can fly unenc.u.mbered by thoughts of what she's flying for.

Below them the town looks no different. The scars still cut through the squared-off blocks of white plaster, the people are no more likely to look towards the horizon. Down there Neleus is as mean as ever, Anaxibia no more likely to spare a thought. No different. But given how different the landscape could have looked, that itself still feels like a victory.

-Small mercies, she hears him murmur, as he tries to match her rhythm.

She grasps him tighter as they begin their descent.

-Now, this is the bit I've been looking forward to all along, he says.

He's checked that the same soldiers are on duty at the docks that day, just so he can savour their slack-jawed astonishment when the unknown saviour of their city descends upon them. They back away against the boat, cringing with awe at the sight of her as she settles to the earth. And she unfolds her wings to reveal the insolent foreigner, who grins smugly at them and says -Now, about that lift to the palace?

Two: Child

Kamenai: yolk within the white of Thera. Alabaster palace-city gleaminggolden under hot, high sun. Harsh, sulphurous rock against the sky-blue ocean, softened by fields and apple orchards on the gentler slopes. And in the midst of the yellow, the blood-spot of the volcano at its heart.

Down now, across the encircled sea towards the gap in the natural battlements of the outer island. Straight up, the cliffs of Thera wall off the sky. Here at the inlet, a galley full of king's-men, sweaty and sullen, stopping the few loyal fishermen and merchant boats still allowed inside. No-one enters this sea without a royal pa.s.s stamped in clay and an escort on board. While Akrotiri has been raked by the bulls, Kamenai has remained at peace. Through this the court convince themselves they will keep it so.

Here, Alcestis, proud as a figurehead in the bow of the supply boat. Beside her the Doctor still pale and untouched despite his time in the sun, eyes narrowed as he studies the palace crouched against the mountainside.

Sweep back across the salt-water moat: just above, the docks, a fine trickle of smoke rises from the temple wing, mirroring the volcano above. Every hour of every day, sacrifices are made to Rhea Therasia, long-tressed G.o.ddess, for her help in ending the terror. The priestesses queue at the doors of the shrines, clasping honey, flowers, jewellery. Twice each week, another flesh-and-blood bull is offered up, so that the temple wing of the palace has a constant, mouth-watering smell. Even the servants are receiving morsels from the hecatomb. An act of desperation smoothed into routine, a machine for converting hopes and fears into meat and ash.

Children play, acolytes train, goats bleat, kitchen hands haul baskets of barley. Cats and snakes share an uneasy truce. Councillors whisper for position. Guards check pa.s.ses, check faces, search rooms and storage jars. Round and round itself the palace revolves, its fundamental rhythms resurgent and unchallenged. In the face of horror it is anch.o.r.ed firm as the mountain itself in the ocean floor: majestic.

-Cor, says Deucalion.

Glaucus sticks his elbow in his older brother's side. -Shurrup, we'll get thrown out.

From their seats beside Father's throne, Glaucus looks down at the strange lady in her impossibly sharp multicolours. She has the strong limbs of a peasant girl, but the poise of a priestess; her face is veiled with gauzy linen. One braid of her hair falls over her shoulder, its tip singed white by the bulls. Is she a barbarian queen? Glaucus hopes so.

-Cor, says Deucalion again. Glaucus stifles a giggle. She's certainly worth it and with his thirteenth birthday ceremony fast approaching, he might be expected by Father to start staring in earnest but not when Nauplius the Chief Councillor is making a speech.

The foreign man with her is pale as a fish's belly. Some hermit who lives in a sunless cave? Or perhaps a scholar, who never steps outside his library? His face is a bit like Deucalion's, but grown up playful, but not soft, full of unexpected angles of cheek and chin.

Nauplius has stopped speaking. Now, a page is bringing the man and woman forward, where Father can see them. The bull-killer and her mate. The stories of their exploits reached the court at the same time they did; the court has been full of hopeful chatter. Glaucus leans forward.

The man is saying: -May it please your majesty for my name to be Perdix, and my profession inventor and craftsman.

Father strokes his well-trimmed beard. His face is marked with lines from frowns and laughter; it's the laugh-lines that are in play now. -Awandering genius, then? Struck from the mould of Daedalus?

Perdix smiles. -I'm aware of his work. I believe he designed the sewer system at your brother's palace at Knossos? And did some fascinating things with sails ...

He looks as though he could ramble on like this for a while, but Father smoothly diverts him. -It's your skills with bulls that fascinate me.

Glaucus still can't quite figure out how Father does it interrupting people without it sounding like a kingly command. It's the sort of thing he and Deucalion are expected to learn at these audiences. How Father keeps his reputation as King Rhadamanthys the judge, the settler of disputes: letting everyone feel they are listened to, even as he controls the conversation.

-Well, your majesty, says Perdix, -I'm afraid I'm only a sort of executive management consultant in that area. The woman at my side is the one who's been fighting them I'm sure you've heard all about it and I'm here to offer our services. I can help discover why they're attacking, and how to stop them.Rhadamanthys is serious now. -And this woman is?Beneath her veil, the barbarian queen seems about to address him, but before she can speak, the High Priestess Britomartis steps forward. - That, if it please your majesty, is Alcestis, whom I had removed from the priesthood.There's a moment where no-one moves or speaks, and then the barbarian queen tears away her veil, to reveal the face of a Minoan n.o.blewoman. Glaucus would be disappointed, but fire is flashing in the woman's eyes as she turns to Britomartis: they could be in for a catfight.

Before it happens, Perdix the inventor darts in between the two ladies. -High Priestess! It's an honour to meet you. Alcestis has told me so much. Apparently there's nothing you like better than a good posture.

Glaucus and Deucalion are both staring now at the former acolyte. Glaucus thinks he remembers her from ceremonies at the palace temple. When did he stop seeing her? One day she just wasn't there any more. It often happens that way.

-Why did you expel her? the King wants to know. -What was her crime?

Britomartis admits: -There was no crime. She could not maintain the necessary standards. I convinced her that it was not her vocation.

-She seems to have found her vocation now, says Rhadamanthys mildly. -Tell me, Perdix: can you teach others what you've taught Alcestis? Can you make me more fliers?

Perdix says carefully: -It might not be possible; the talent is rare. But since you wish it, your majesty, I'll certainly try.

The King nods. -Nauplius will arrange it. Now, Britomartis: I put the girl into your hands. See that she's given good quarters. Perdix, you will come with me. My sons also.

Everyone rises; when the King leaves, the audience is at an end. For a moment, the woman takes Perdix's hand, as if afraid to go by herself. But he nods at her, and she follows Britomartis out of the council chamber, her back straight and her head held high.

Glaucus realises that Perdix has caught him staring. Before he can look away in embarra.s.sment, the pale inventor gives him a wink.

In one of the King's many private chambers, jars of cold water and plates of fruit are waiting for them. Rhadamanthys waves a hand at them without looking, inviting his visitor to refresh himself. Glaucus and Deucalion wait for a few polite seconds before s.n.a.t.c.hing up a couple of quinces.

The King sits down and looks hard at the man for a few long moments. There's little sign of the laugh lines now. -Daedalus was a murderer. An exile from his native Athens, for his crimes, who sold his services to my brother's court. Daedalus was a murderer, and Perdix the man he murdered.

-You don't say.

-You have an odd taste for an alias, if you expect me to know this and still trust you.

-Not at all. I chose the name of an innocent victim.

-But an Athenian. That alone would raise suspicion.

Perdix says: -I never claimed to be from Athens.

-Daedalus never claimed any kinship with his countrymen either. But given the chance, he sided with them against the empire. Thanks to him, the Athenians broke from their place, denied us the tribute that was rightfully ours. And now, Daedalus has lost everything, and my brother will pursue him to the ends of the earth.

-I'll let that be a lesson to me.

Father smiles. -As it has been a lesson to me.

Glaucus munches his fruit, wondering when they'll stop talking in riddles. His father says: -I am more than willing to make use of your services. I'll keep my mind open about where your allegiance ultimately lies.

-I'm on the side of civilisation, sire. Which here means the side of the empire.

-Then given that I am t am the empire, I can take that as a sign of your personal loyalty?

-With all due respect, your majesty, if anyone bears the name of the empire, it is your brother.

Father laughs, a rich sound that turns scalding. -You must be foreign indeed. While Minos is the king amongst kings, he's far too busy with his love affairs and his vendetta against Daedalus to rule. It's my law that the people respond to. He claps his hands. -One more duty. I want you to teach my sons.

Glaucus and Deucalion sit bolt upright. Perdix smiles, genuinely this time. Rhadamanthys says: -They should have a lot to learn from an inventor and a traveller to boot.-I'd be delighted, your majesty.The King adds: -Also, you will sit in on certain council sessions. I'll want your advice on the matter of the bulls. We need a quick resolution to the situation, before any more damage is done. Help me stop the demons, and I'll hand you your own weight in electrum.

Glaucus knows his father is testing the fellow. He and his brother are already well schooled; will they catch this genius, out in ignorance? What will his advice to the King reveal about his motives and connections?

Perdix seems to understand this too. -Your majesty, I can see that serving you will be a challenge. Which I will most gratefully take on. Britomartis, of course, is untouched by the years that have pa.s.sed. Not an inch of her is less than perfect. From her new sandals, her spotless and unwrinkled tunic, to her make-up, her hair in its precise bun. Alcestis wonders if her own age makes it time to wear her hair the same way.

This woman guided her out of her girlhood, source of all wisdom and comfort, leading her by the hand towards the warmth of the t.i.tans' glow. Later, when things soured, she found Britomartis and her perfection crushingly intimidating, as though the High Priestess had hold of the floor and could whip it out from under Alcestis at any moment. And yet, here she is, walking back into the priestess's quarters: escorted by Britomartis as an honoured guest of the King instead of an acolyte fallen just short of her standards. The priestesses whisper and stare as they pa.s.s: here is the bull-killer, a woman like themselves.

Britomartis indicates a small but well-appointed room, the lodgings of a fully fledged priestess. There is even a serpent in residence, coiled lazily around a water jug in the corner. Alcestis expected subtle insults, but where the King is concerned, Britomartis doesn't play games. She has even sent acolytes ahead to place fresh flowers and fruit on the low table by the bed. She can't have arranged the snake, though: they travel through the temple precincts at their own choosing.Nor does Britomartis seem embarra.s.sed by Alcestis's triumphant return. But just what status does her returned acolyte have now? And how close will she let Alcestis get to the G.o.ds?-Since I'm here, perhaps I could a.s.sist with the blessing ceremony.Britomartis shows no surprise, no mocking amus.e.m.e.nt. She smoothes the front of her tunic and, as though dealing with any over-enthusiastic n.o.blewoman, she says: -The priestesses have been training for months for the blessing. You and I both know how different it is from the rest of the ritual calendar.-You and I both know how different I am from your acolytes.Politely, Britomartis replies: -We must find some place for you, killer of demons.

Alcestis has never experienced the High Priestess's diplomacy. With startling formality, Britomartis continues. -May I ask you a question?-What is it, High Priestess?

-How is it done? Which of the G.o.ds has lifted you up?Alcestis slowly shakes her head. -Everything I've learned, I've learned from Perdix ... He teaches me as though there's nothing holy in it, as though it's only a craft, like the potter's wheel. And yet, when I dance in the sky, it's rapture. Not the rapture of communion with the G.o.ddess, she says hungrily. -But that's all I can compare it to.

-It can be difficult to distinguish our personal rapture from divine ecstasy. (Alcestis has heard this speech before.) -One leads us into our own dance. The other turns us towards unity with Rhea Therasia. That is the true rapture: when we become a perfect expression of Her spirit.-What if our own dance is an expression of Her spirit?-We are all a part of Her. But we do what She asks, not what we fancy.

Alcestis didn't intend to get into a theological debate. -High Priestess, what do you think about the bulls? Where are they coming from? Who's sending them?

Britomartis admits: -At first, I thought it was you. Not Alcestis the scatter-brained pupil. Alcestis the bull-killer who rides the winds like a seagull, who appeared out of nowhere.Alcestis understands at once. -Just as the bulls appeared from nowhere. You expected me to demand a ransom from the King to get rid of a catastrophe I'd created myself.

-I was wrong. I don't believe you or Perdix know anything more about the bulls than I do. Save how to fight them, how to stave them off.

Britomartis rises, about to leave. Alcestis quickly says: -About the blessing ceremony.

-Let us wait. You have learned a great deal from another teacher. We'll see if your conduct and deportment are enough that you're able to speak for the G.o.ddess.

Britomartis takes her leave. Alcestis sits on the bed, staring at the flowers, unsure if the door has just been opened a crack, or whether the High Priestess just wants to keep her quiet with hazy promises. It was how she kept them all in line, the hope of promotion, the chance of getting a little closer to Rhea Therasia.***

Later, in his palace room, she tells the Doctor -She may let me take part in some of the ceremonies at least, with the acolytes. I've talked to some of them. They want to feature me in the bull-dancing.

He's flopped onto his belly on the bed, facing away from her, feet swinging idly in the air. His fingers are tracing the spiral wave pattern around the water-jug beside the bed, stroking across the contours of seash.e.l.ls impressed into the clay. -This is out of period. Middle Minoan II at a guess. It seems Rhadamanthys is something of a collector.