Chapter 73:: The City of Dreaming Spires

A man walks by the Thames, though they call it the Isis, in this town that seems young to him—a young man, who should meld in with those around him, who are of much the same age, but does not. Perhaps because, for all his white skin and molten-gold curls, there is something in his face—in the set of the jaw, in the full lips, in the distant eyes that have looked out at devotees since images were carved, at Delphi and at Delos—that is warmer and richer than anything in the faces of the natives of that northern land, something that speaks of southern climes and sunny skies. Perhaps it is simply because he is better dressed, and carries himself with more grace and confidence than the students around him.

Surely that is the only reason, because the girl beside him—pale where he is ruddy, silver where he is gold—fits in just as little. And the everyday people, going on their everyday lives, leave a space around the two, though, if asked, they would be unable to explain why—they do not see the faint glow around the man’s hair, the shimmer wrapped around the girl’s shoulders, nor how their feet refuse to touch the ground. And nobody looks up—who has the time, to stop and stare, when papers are due, and classes must be attended and every last leisurely hour spent in the company of friends and lovers?—and nobody sees how the west sky is aflame with the setting sun, and the moon is painting the eastern in pale pastels.

The one who looks up—Sally Archer, rushing back to campus from halfway home—stares at the man, stunned, for a second before the girl’s scowl drives her face down and the recollected urgency of her errand drives her feet onward. But that is astonishment at beauty, no more, and the twins walk on, effortlessly parting an oblivious crowd.

***

In the Oxford City Centre, anyone who cared enough to look would see four people huddled close behind Marks & Spencer—two arguing, the third leaning easily against the wall, watching them, and a fourth a barely-there shadow. But nobody looks, because people are blind, and what, after all, is interesting in four people standing behind a building? Happens all the time.

“You failed to get her?”

“Yes.”

“How,” says the other girl, “could you fail to fetch her? She’s your daughter.”

“Did you not hear what I said? Eris…”

“You left her in charge,” says the man who has been watching both, shooting the grey-eyed girl a look which holds equal parts commiseration and disbelief, “despite all any of us said.”

“She was your companion.”

“And so you should have trusted his distrust of her. And you should have remembered that she is Eris, and all that that implies.”

“And could you have done better, Grey-Eyed Athene?”

“Do I not always? Yet yours is the rule over women, and this girl your own child, and yet you failed?”

“Not my child alone,” she says, “and I rule love and this girl is war as well.”

“So shall you fetch her, Ares Enyalios, and drag her by the hair from that house? And stand against Eris, and battle and batter your own child?”

The man smiles. It is not a pleasant smile. “And shall you, Athena Promachos, don your helmet and our Father’s aegis and come and stand by me?”

The smile he gets in return is sword-sharp and sword-bright. But before the girl can speak, a voice interrupts. “Neither of you, my children, have my leave to go, and, therefore, you shall not go.” The woman who comes to stand between them appears older than either, and her gaze is stern.

“Hera Teleia…”

“Aphrodite Hetaira,” she bites out, “for you have renounced your title Genetyllis, being unable to fetch even your own daughter, you shall not question me, nor disobey me. The girl will stay where she is. She is an immortal and no lasting harm will befall her. And my daughter shall learn, soon, that her mother must not be thus defied.”

“Mother…”

“Dare you question me, War-Monger?” He glares but subsides. “Pallas.”

“Hera of the Golden Throne, I obey you.”

“I would request your presence at my side, when I speak to my brother and my sister, Goddess of Wisdom.”

***

In Jericho, outside the Oxford walls, a man and a woman walk past St. Barnabas Church. The man has thick black curls and an equally curling beard, the woman’s head is covered in a scarf. To casual onlookers, they look, perhaps, like an old-fashioned, stereotypical Jewish couple, just come out of the synagogue nearby, perhaps. It is not Sabbath. If their faces glow with prayer, it is but echo and effect and reflection.

“And why has not he come himself?”

“She wishes to win it herself, she says.”

“For him?”

“Sister, does she do anything that is not for herself? But for him as well, you might say.”

“A quarrel?”

“The newest truce, perhaps.”

The woman is quiet, for a while, before she lifts her head again. It is a calm face, content and at peace with whatever is inside. “And do you think it will be easy, my brother, this thing our brother wants us to do?”

“He is not alone in wanting it; do not you, yes, even you, my gentlest sister, want again, the first and last offering? And the fire that never goes out?” He looks at her, eyes twinkling, till she looks down, smiling. “You do, as I do, and all of us do. It has been millennia, my sister, how much longer would you have us wait?”

“I would not have you wait, Posiedon Hippios, nor any of the others.” She looks around, thoughtful, at the houses they are walking amongst. “They never have lit their hearth-fires here, nor prayed to Hestia. I would not have you wait, brother, nor would I wait myself.”

***

Two young men stand in the Walled Garden of the Oxford Botanical Garden, looking at the oldest tree in the Garden. One of them—the men, not the trees—has a slight limp, the other, who could, perhaps, still be called a boy, has something about him that conveys swiftness and agility, for all he is standing still.

“These things they’ve invented,” the older of the two says, “ stunning, absolutely stunning.”

The younger, who might, after a fashion, be called his brother—their parents are married, though they share no blood—smiles at him. “And the efficiency of their messengers. Oh, but the ease with which those who worshipped have forgotten, and the way those who never have remember our names, here in this place.”

“And all their prayers and all their thanks unto their own inventions,” the other agrees, “and those few who know us think us dead and forgotten and relegated to stories. Such a tremendous pity.”

“But such great fun. Come, Hephaestus Aetnaeus, you cannot deny that you would enjoy it.” His smile, this time, coaxes an answering smile.

Truly are you Hermes Logios, my brother, and Hermes Dolius, too, I don’t doubt.” The lame god lays an arm over his brother’s shoulders. “I cannot, indeed, deny it.”