Doctor Who_ Fallen Gods Part 5

-The empire stands, for him. He's capable of many things, but not of making himself or the empire look weak and defenceless. No gain could be worth that.

He nods, thoughtfully. She feels a twinge of surprise that he has something to, learn from her.

She shifts her balance, goes on the attack: twists past to, get behind him, pulling his hand behind his back, reaching around for the chokehold and pressure point. He wriggles free, his hair brushing across her face, and gives her a nod and a wink as reward for the move. When she catches his eyes, suddenly with a shiver she knows exactly why she feels so off-centre.

-Something wrong,?

She doesn't answer. Then, slowly, she settles to, the ground.

-The demons will be here tomorrow.

So that night, the Doctor starts, throwing stones into the water. Every sc.r.a.p of palace gossip he's been gathering goes into play: he makes the rounds of all his courtier suspects, in some cases through their servants, and plants with each one a t.i.tbit about something that one of the other other courtiers might be about to do. A fact specially tailored to this courtier's agenda, such that, to seize the advantage, one will feel the need to watch the other incessantly. Spies and counterspies. No matter which among them takes time from his routine today to summon the bulls, someone will see it, someone will know. And the Doctor will notice the knowing. He may not be able to watch all of them at once, but he has his eye on the ripples of reaction spreading from any unseen encounter. courtiers might be about to do. A fact specially tailored to this courtier's agenda, such that, to seize the advantage, one will feel the need to watch the other incessantly. Spies and counterspies. No matter which among them takes time from his routine today to summon the bulls, someone will see it, someone will know. And the Doctor will notice the knowing. He may not be able to watch all of them at once, but he has his eye on the ripples of reaction spreading from any unseen encounter.

They've agreed not to tell anyone: there's no defence the Minoans can offer to the bulls, nowhere to, hide. All Alcestis can do is prepare herself for tomorrow's battle. All the Doctor can do is watch and wait. He shadows Peneleos, who galumphs after Nauplius, who in turn is keeping an eye on an ambitious, officious record-keeper named Amythaon. They form a strangely nonchalant line, each meandering purposefully along the palace portico. The Doctor grins; from above, on her patrol, Alcestis must be able to follow the intricate pattern of the palace waltz.

He's cobbled the entirety of court politics into a single ramshackle machine, and wound it up, to, see where it will go. But after the first runner comes charging into the palace with news of the latest attack on Akrotiri, he's startled to see Peneleos abandon stealth and approach Nauplius directly. Their conversation is full of implication and indirection a mating dance for poisonous snakes but the aim is clear: neither would suggest the other had any control over the bulls, or that they had any themselves, but they both recognise that if either were to find any such information, it would be quite possible to work out a mutually beneficial arrangement for the use of such power, for the benefit of the empire of course.

The Doctor slumps against a pillar and blinks repeatedly, his mind full of gears grinding and drive shafts popping loose. This could turn out to be more complicated than he thought.

Glaucus fidgets. Father had warned that his name would come up, during this council meeting. He's the only 'observer' this time Deucalion is off throwing javelins or some such. To Glaucus, it's a surprise that it's possible to be bored and and excited at the same time. excited at the same time.

His mind wanders during the opening discussions: financial reports (wealth), agricultural reports (plenty), pet.i.tions from courtiers (trivial). Then two eyewitnesses are brought in to describe the latest battle between Alcestis and not one but two of the monstrous fire bulls. Everyone sits up to take notice as the merchants cringe before Rhadamanthys and tell how the woman danced in the sky. How she danced over the buildings, how the bulls' hooves turned rooftops to dust where they touched, but how they never quite reached the ground, furious, captivated. Following her at last, out to sea, sending up great walls and hills of steam, until all three figures were lost to sight.

Perdix listens to, their story with his eyes closed, a faint proud smile, as though seeing it all behind his eyelids. He opens them only when Nauplius, introduces the next subject for discussion: retaliation against Athens. Again. But this time Peneleos has an idea.

-We don't have to go to all that effort, for the rivers of blood and all that. It's very simple. We unleash the Fallen upon Athens.

His words are met with murmurs of surprise, cautious nods, and one low laugh that drips acid.-Oh of course. Let G.o.d sort 'em out.Glaucus gulps. For a subject to, laugh at the King's plan of war would be treason what would it be for a foreigner? But Father hasn't yet expressed his own view. In fact, he's smiling toothily at soft Peneleos'swrath.

-Didn't you want the t.i.tans unleashed just to combat the bulls, before Alcestis came? I'm not quite proud enough to feel I can treat unchaining the G.o.ds lightly.

-But the sheer cost of a war ...

(-Finally, mutters Perdix, loudly.) -... the loss of trade, the workers drawn away ...

-Then go and account for it. Do your sums. You may yet make a case; I just said I wouldn't treat it lightly. In the meantime, Nauplius, start pricing out a fleet.

A ripple of cross-conversation spreads through the councillors, with Perdix's voice trying to, cut through. His call for attention getting more insistent. -What's the matter the traders in Athens driving too hard a bargain?

-You're quick to speak up for Athens, o schoolmaster, says Nauplius, lightly.

-They haven't attacked you, they'd have to be mad to, no-one's even tried to invade your empire for centuries. You can't even see that this is no less mad than it was before?

But when Glaucus glances round to see the councillors' reactions, they are not outraged, or stony, but glancing at each other with hints of smiles. One even pretends to sneeze, hiding a laugh. And Father? He is smiling politely, tolerantly, as though indulging the twin sisters in one of their little performances of poetry. They have listened to Perdix's words only in order to make their own opinions seem wiser than the bl.u.s.tering of an ill-spoken foreign eccentric. If they already know what he's going to say, they don't have to think about it.

Perdix can tell what is happening. He ought to have sunk back into his seat in shame, but instead he's holding his ground. -I see, he says. - One good atrocity deserves another.Rhadamanthys claps his hands the signal for a new topic of discussion and now Perdix takes his seat again.

-Of the matter of my son's coming of age, says the King, and oddly, no one glances at Glaucus.

-Tomorrow my son Glaucus turns thirteen, and becomes an adult. As Glaucus is second in line to the throne, his training shall be as a warrior. In these difficult times, we will have need of his wisdom and judgement in the field. As is the custom, he must know no privilege of rank or t.i.tle in the years of his apprenticeship at war. Tomorrow, his name will be taken from him. After his blessing ceremony, he must see no-one. He will then travel to Heraklion to serve in our army, where I know, he will distinguish himself without need for royal name or royal t.i.tle.

Glaucus realises he has sagged lower and lower into his chair. He snaps himself upright, not deigning to, show emotion. But his glance catches that of Perdix, who looks stricken with sorrow.

For the rest of the day, it's like the ground keeps moving under him. All the other n.o.ble children and their parents keep crowding and congratulating him, but he can't escape the strangeness when they refer to his future as warrior or s or soldier instead of minister or j or judge. He has no idea why Father seems to, have changed his mind. has no idea why Father seems to, have changed his mind.

Even Deucalion seems dazed when he hugs him. Grateful and sad and strangely distant, as if he has to feel like Glaucus has already left before he can bring himself to say goodbye. His own brother was little more than a rumour to him until four or five years ago, when Father finally let them spend time together; before then Deucalion, as the heir, had been kept firmly out of sight of the other young children, just as the young ones were kept apart from the older ones. But in the years since then, as Deucalion has gone from towering over him to just about the same size, they've become inseparable. Now, Deucalion looks like he's going to be lonely again, but he looks away and says he'll be fine.

Finally he escapes the well-wishers and finds Perdix, nestled between the tapering columns of the palace portico, staring at nothing. He sits, grateful to have the chance not to talk.

-I knew it wouldn't be easy, he finally says, trying to, sound sensible and wise. -They say making a prince is like making a sword.

-They do?

-Yes. A lot of fire and pounding.

They can't help smiling at his unhappy joke. -It won't be that bad, says Glaucus.

-Oh, it'll be terrible, says Perdix, eyes wide and serious. They'll try to bully every last, bit of doubt out of you. To make it so your first reflex is to think in terms of fighting. And they'll keep telling you that only you are responsible for yourself, because that way you won't think that maybe they've got responsibilities to y got responsibilities to you too.

Glaucus is quiet at that. -Will I be all right?

Perdix stares into s.p.a.ce, pensively, as if trying to, make up, something wise to, say. Finally he shrugs, and looks Glaucus in the eye. -I don't know which way the wind will blow you. But you can be. And you will be, so long as you keep an eye on how they're trying to shape you.Glaucus shrugs. -I've known people who've come back from Heraklion. Procris's father. He came out all right. (His voice gets quieter.) -Catreus didn't come back.-Catreus?-Half-brother. They told us he was killed fighting pirates. And we haven't heard from Sarpedon my other one for a year and a half, since he went ...

-At least that means he's probably still alive.

-I suppose so ...

Glaucus plucks up, a weed from the neglected stone. -I don't mind the fighting. I'm not bad at it. But they still want me to be more than a fighter, don't they? All those council sessions. Learning from you ... (Unless, Glaucus thinks with a twinge, perhaps Father's change of heart is because he wants the generals to undo what Perdix has been doing.) And Perdix seems to have picked up on his thoughts. -Well, of course they want you to be able to think for them, use logic to get from A to B ... but if you question their choice of A, who knows what mischief you might get up to?Glaucus manages a smile. -I suppose I can try.And Perdix's grin is a rich reward. He stands, stretches, leaning against the pillar.

Then he mimes pushing the pillar over. Stands back: his finger tracing in the air the path of each pillar as it ticks into the next, down the length of the portico, all around the palace. He turns to, Glaucus, and with a rain of fingers and a burst of noise he conjures up, the sight of everything above, them falling down around their ears. He's smiling, but it's a strange look playful or frustrated or even wistful, Glaucus can't tell.-Come on, says Perdix. -There's something you might like to, see.

Perdix leads him from the palace, into the low scrubland outside the walls. He doesn't know, how Perdix managed to, keep the guards from noticing their departure; his usual bodyguards have been left behind. It's an exhilarating feeling, and one he should get used to, after tomorrow.

-The peace you knew, before the bulls, that wasn't an accident or an illusion it was because people found ways to defuse aggression. Other solutions. Not just go for the obvious and the ugly. Not always, not perfectly, but they chose to be better than their worst.-Not often enough, says Glaucus.-So that's an excuse for you not to,? snaps Perdix. Then more gently: -If it was easy, it wouldn't be a choice.

He raises his hand, and a shape from above, descends towards them. Glaucus's eyes adjust to the sun: it's Alcestis, circling down to land on her toes before them. She's poised and queenly, as always. She's also embarra.s.sed. She hasn't talked to him much before now, but he'd never thought that she might be as awkward around him as he was around her.Perdix beams. -Ah. Alcestis here has a birthday present for you.-I don't usually do this, highness, she says, trying not to study the ground. -But since you're leaving ... and you've never seen the palace from the air, I thought ...

He says yes at speed. Before he can think again, she's crouching down, and Perdix is boosting him up onto her back. His arms clasp across her collarbone; her own hands are reaching back to hold onto his waist, and he's trying not to let her know how much he's enjoying this already.

She wobbles, and he can hear her smiling. -Don't tell your friends, or they'll all want a ride. My back isn't that strong.

And she stands, and keeps standing, and suddenly Perdix is shrinking away below him, watching him go with a tiny wave and a wry smile. She holds still in the sky, supporting him, as he looks down at his teacher.-He's very proud of you, she murmurs.

-Is this one more lesson? Before I go?-Maybe. She turns her head, and there's a sudden smile in front of him. -But as for me, I just like the view.

And she takes him higher, swaying in the breeze, and his breath catches as his home stands, revealed beneath him as he's never seen it before.

Glaucus's heart beats hard as he walks. He feels that he could float up, off the path. His father walks beside him. At this moment, they are like equals; the son is one with the King, the King is one with his son. All his brothers walk behind them. When Glaucus lifts his eyes to his father, Rhadamanthys looks back with stern pride, and Glaucus's heart empties of its fear of the volcano and swells to fill his chest.

The three-walled shrine is before them. Glaucus strips off his sandals and his loincloth; he will meet the G.o.ds in the same state in which they created him. It makes little difference, here in the baking heat of the caldera's edge. The others turn back at the threshold and descend the mountain as the four of them step inside: Britomartis and Deucalion, and Glaucus and the King, side by side.

The shrine is unlit except for the red breath of the volcano, and the brilliant crystals in the walls, throwing back the hot light, split into thousands of sparkles and rainbows.

The ritual is brief. Britomartis intones the pedigree of the G.o.ds, reciting verses of praise after each of their names. Glaucus barely hears her soaring voice. He's captivated by the brilliance of the crystals, his eyes strengthening a little at a time, able to take in more of the light. The crystals' net of facets and edges seems like hundreds of doors to him, like a mighty palace folded up into a puzzle. He rubs his fingertips together in the dry heat. He wants to throw those doors open, explore the places kept for the priesthood, grasp every last, mystery of Thera and the whole world.Behind him, Rhadamanthys intones the name of Cronus, Rhea's husband, Gaia's saviour, father-slayer, child-eater, Lord of the Golden Age. The chant thickens in the King's throat, becomes a groan.The heat in the three-walled shrine blossoms. Sweat bursts out of Glaucus, running in rivers behind his ears and down his thighs. He flicks droplets from the tips of his fingers. He holds his ground; it wouldn't do for the King's son to scare at a mere breath from the volcano.

A moment later the heat begins to sting his skin. Glaucus squints, pushing his sweat-heavy hair out of his face, resisting the urge to cup his genitals to protect the tender flesh from Tartarus's wrath. He looks around for a rea.s.suring glance from his father.

The fire crystals in the walls flicker like rainbows gripped by a seizure. They throw their dancing light over Britomartis, over his father's stony face.

Their eyes meet. Glaucus can no longer make out the individual sounds of the chant. He feels a deep, hot pressure, somewhere beneath his heart.

His father's face melts, for an instant, into a look of deep pride, and something else. Grat.i.tude. -Thank you, he mouths. Glaucus does his best to smile through blistering lips.-In Cronus' name, says his father's mouth.Glaucus flinches. His hands are hurting unbearably. He raises them to his face. They are the hands of an old, old man, spotted and hooked, skin hanging thin from aching bones.

Glaucus touches his young face with his ancient hands. His hair tugs at his scalp, growing, flowing down to the small of his back. His feet are burning on the paved floor of the shrine, making him shuffle. Smoke rises up, where he lifts his feet away from the stone. One foot matches his withered hands, the nails grown into helices, the leg becoming slack and bent.

He tumbles onto the floor. Tumours blossom through his entire body, swelling in seconds to press cruelly into tender organs. His brittle bones break like chalk as he rolls this way and that. He sees a pair of feet stumble back, out of his reach, and realises they belong to Deucalion. His brother gazes up, at the ceiling, jaw clenched.

Glaucus curls at his father's feet. Rhadamanthys is untouched by the catastrophe. He looks down at the white-haired wreckage of his son with love.

He steps back as Glaucus's broken frame smokes and shatters into ashes and is gone, swallowed alive.Britomartis places a hand on the King's arm.-He never made a sound, says Rhadamanthys. -Not one sound. I was so proud of him.

Three: Burn

The next morning, Deucalion wakes up with his teacher's hands round his throat.

He starts, to cry out, then realises the hands are on his shoulders, shaking him awake. His eyes find Perdix leaning over him, but there's no comfort there just a mask-like set to his face, and eyes looking him over like something cold and dead.

-How many brothers have you had?

Deucalion whimpers.

-No use prevaricating, we know what happened. She's very sensitive, you know.

The fingers are tight against his shoulder-blades. Perdix's voice is flat as a stone. He leans back, and Deucalion can see Alcestis above, him, a spider on the ceiling, black-and-white in the moonlight. She's staring down from the light-well in the roof, the open sky behind her.

-Call for the guard and we'll be gone before he can get in here. Utterly gone. You'll never see us again, we'll leave every one of you to rot in your own juices. So this is your only chance to tell the truth.

He tries to shrink away into the bedding, to twist himself up, into a little ball. But the hands on his shoulders pin him flat and, no matter how much he bends his head or screws his eyes shut, the voice goes on. The murmur getting louder, harsher, having to fight to keep itself low. The nightmare that Perdix, his teacher, the cleverest man in the world, is angry enough to kill him.-What was it like? Did they throw him into the volcano, while you stood by and watched? Or did they make you do it? Did you hide your eyes, or could you not take them off him? Was there blood? Was there bone? Did they put the knife in your hands, pat you on the back for being brave? Or did you just not think about it? Did he cry? Did you cry? Did anybody cry? anybody cry?

He hadn't cried. Not since the first time, when they told him he had to be a king. But now Perdix is shouting at him, his own voice breaking, and he can't say anything without it coming out as a howl. He can't say it. He can't not say it.

-I didn't do it! They did it to me ...

-What did they do?

-The Fallen, they summoned them ...

-But why did they come? What were, they doing?

No answer. Perdix's voice is quieter now, almost hopeless. -What was it for?-They gave me the rest of his life.Silence. Slowly the hands gripping his shoulders go slack. Deucalion pulls his eyes open, blinks his way through the tears, sees Perdix blinking as well. He looks crumpled. Alcestis above him, her mouth an appalled O, clutching the sides of the light-well to keep from falling. Perdix looks down at him, shaking his head slowly the rage transformed, redirected.-Oh, the thing they've tried to make you into.-They want the kingdom to live forever. The King, takes his share too. He's going to live for hundreds of years already. We both are.

Alcestis gives up her battle, settles in a heap at the foot of the bed. She whispers: -So that means that poor little boy wasn't the first ...

-Kings have all the children they want. He farms them, on the servant-girls. And they're all raised to thirteen to make sure they don't die young, that they'll have a long life ahead ... and then they feed that life to me. All their lives.

-Thus avoiding nasty little succession battles. All that's left is his hand-picked heir. Oh, how elegant.

Perdix turns on his heel and stalks to the wall clawing at it, trying to pull himself off the ground with his fingernails. Every muscle in his back is knotted. When he turns back, flakes of the plaster come with him, revealing the timber and packed rubble behind. He's calmer now, tightly coiled.

-Deucalion? How old are you? Really?

-Twenty. I think.

-So it slows the ageing ...

Alcestis speaks now, from the far side of her hardened face. -So this has been going on for years.

Deucalion nods.

-And you, little prince, have never done anything to stop it.

-Alcestis ... interjects Perdix.

They still don't know. She wants to burn him, he wants to excuse him, but neither of them is even thinking why he's silent.

-I'm not the first, he whispers.

Perdix kneels beside the bed again. -Not the first?

-I was the fourth son. Sthenelus was first. When I was thirteen, we were taken up on the mountain. But Sthenelus ... My father wasn't happy with him. And when the Fallen came, he had them feed Sthenelus to me instead.

Now, he's crying. The tears don't burst out, it's just that every bit of him between the tears and the outside has been levelled.

-And so he keeps you on a nice short leash. So you know just what will happen if you challenge the status quo.Very neat. neat.He rolls over and grabs for Perdix, who hugs him back just as fiercely. It's startling how hard and lumpy he is. He looks so smooth. But he's holding on to him, and he can even feel a soft awkward hand from Alcestis on his shoulder. As the whole world quakes they're steady around him.

-It's all right, it's all right ... well no, it's not all right. But you'll be spared. You'll be spared.

Alcestis sweeps alongside him, wing-sleeves trailing, too busy churning to realise she's not walking. He holds the lantern as he paces slowly up, the winding track, the palace spread out below them.

She offers: -I could carry you. We'd get there in thirty seconds.

-What makes you think I want to get there before I'm ready?