die?”
“Quite sure.”
“But he was in the same chariot as me, you know?”
“Yes.”
“And the chariot did go over the edge of a cliff.”
“Yes.”
“Then how did he survive?” he’d ask, pointing to the mangled wreckage of the chariot and his own dismembered body.
“Luck?” I’d venture, and the eyes of the dead soul would narrow suspiciously as the Darkness consumed him.
Furthermore, the gods were always competing with one another. They would often wait for me next to the souls of dead warriors whom they had drowned in a storm or had stabbed in battle and insist that they be given the credit for the kill.
“Mark it down for me, Death,” I recall Aphrodite telling me as I hurried through a village decimated by an earthquake. “That’ll show that tart Hera. What’s the score at present?”
“Well, ma’am,” I said, for I always thought it wise to stay on the good side of any divine presence, “that places you at eighty-four thousand and ninety-six.”
“And Hera?”
“Still ahead of you, ma’am. One hundred and sixty-four thousand.”
“Damn. Any big disasters planned for the future?”
I dipped into the Book.
“Well, there is a volcanic eruption at Vesuvius scheduled for next month.”
“How many?”
“Over two thousand.”
“Any chance I can help out? You know, divinely freeze them to the spot, or turn them all into statues or something?”
“Why would you do that?”
“For failing to sacrifice to me?”
“Have they forgotten to sacrifice to you?” I asked.
“Oh no. No, not at all. They’re very good with their sacrifices at Pompeii. Always on time, always very plump cattle.”
“So why do you want to help kill them?”
“Two thousand could really put me back in the game, Death. Don’t you understand?”
That’s the problem of having a pantheon of all-powerful beings; everyone wants to show that they’re more all-powerful than the other.
“I think the lava and fumes will do just fine, thanks,” I said.
“How about if my wrath just causes the volcano to erupt?”
“I’m afraid you used your wrath last week on that landslide in Thebes.”
“Oh, but that wasn’t really my wrath, more my irritation. And, besides, it only killed twenty or thirty.”
“Twenty or thirty members of the Theban royal family, who were, you may recall, beloved of Poseidon.”
“Oh yes. He’ll be sinking my ships again, I’m sure. Still, is there no way I can be worked into the Vesuvius eruption?”
When a goddess bats her eyelashes at you, it is an unsettling experience. I buried my head in the Book.
“Well, I suppose I could write off a few as having suffered just vengeance after having cursed your name, but I must inform you that the majority of the deaths are already allocated to Apollo.”
“What!” squawked Aphrodite. “How so?”
“Well, some of their young defaced his temple the other day. They said they didn’t believe in him.”
“Good for them!” said Aphrodite. “Sometimes I don’t believe him either.”
“In him,” I corrected. “They said they didn’t believe in him.”
“Oh,” said Aphrodite. “Well, okay then.”
Not believing in a god was a very serious affair, especially with faith now being spread so thinly across the massive pantheon. Without faith in their existence, gods slowly shrank and disappeared.
The same was true for God Himself, but He had circumvented this problem by inhabiting everything in Creation. If you believed in the rock in front of you, a percentage of that belief went to God. This usually ranged from 15 percent to 50 percent depending on the size of the object, with the rest of the belief going toward substantiating the object’s own existence. (Even this fail-safe plan had its problems. When the eighteenth-century philosopher Bishop Berkeley suggested that there were no “real” objects at all but only ideas, faith in the world of the senses wavered. The very God Berkeley had devoted his life to
“Quite sure.”
“But he was in the same chariot as me, you know?”
“Yes.”
“And the chariot did go over the edge of a cliff.”
“Yes.”
“Then how did he survive?” he’d ask, pointing to the mangled wreckage of the chariot and his own dismembered body.
“Luck?” I’d venture, and the eyes of the dead soul would narrow suspiciously as the Darkness consumed him.
Furthermore, the gods were always competing with one another. They would often wait for me next to the souls of dead warriors whom they had drowned in a storm or had stabbed in battle and insist that they be given the credit for the kill.
“Mark it down for me, Death,” I recall Aphrodite telling me as I hurried through a village decimated by an earthquake. “That’ll show that tart Hera. What’s the score at present?”
“Well, ma’am,” I said, for I always thought it wise to stay on the good side of any divine presence, “that places you at eighty-four thousand and ninety-six.”
“And Hera?”
“Still ahead of you, ma’am. One hundred and sixty-four thousand.”
“Damn. Any big disasters planned for the future?”
I dipped into the Book.
“Well, there is a volcanic eruption at Vesuvius scheduled for next month.”
“How many?”
“Over two thousand.”
“Any chance I can help out? You know, divinely freeze them to the spot, or turn them all into statues or something?”
“Why would you do that?”
“For failing to sacrifice to me?”
“Have they forgotten to sacrifice to you?” I asked.
“Oh no. No, not at all. They’re very good with their sacrifices at Pompeii. Always on time, always very plump cattle.”
“So why do you want to help kill them?”
“Two thousand could really put me back in the game, Death. Don’t you understand?”
That’s the problem of having a pantheon of all-powerful beings; everyone wants to show that they’re more all-powerful than the other.
“I think the lava and fumes will do just fine, thanks,” I said.
“How about if my wrath just causes the volcano to erupt?”
“I’m afraid you used your wrath last week on that landslide in Thebes.”
“Oh, but that wasn’t really my wrath, more my irritation. And, besides, it only killed twenty or thirty.”
“Twenty or thirty members of the Theban royal family, who were, you may recall, beloved of Poseidon.”
“Oh yes. He’ll be sinking my ships again, I’m sure. Still, is there no way I can be worked into the Vesuvius eruption?”
When a goddess bats her eyelashes at you, it is an unsettling experience. I buried my head in the Book.
“Well, I suppose I could write off a few as having suffered just vengeance after having cursed your name, but I must inform you that the majority of the deaths are already allocated to Apollo.”
“What!” squawked Aphrodite. “How so?”
“Well, some of their young defaced his temple the other day. They said they didn’t believe in him.”
“Good for them!” said Aphrodite. “Sometimes I don’t believe him either.”
“In him,” I corrected. “They said they didn’t believe in him.”
“Oh,” said Aphrodite. “Well, okay then.”
Not believing in a god was a very serious affair, especially with faith now being spread so thinly across the massive pantheon. Without faith in their existence, gods slowly shrank and disappeared.
The same was true for God Himself, but He had circumvented this problem by inhabiting everything in Creation. If you believed in the rock in front of you, a percentage of that belief went to God. This usually ranged from 15 percent to 50 percent depending on the size of the object, with the rest of the belief going toward substantiating the object’s own existence. (Even this fail-safe plan had its problems. When the eighteenth-century philosopher Bishop Berkeley suggested that there were no “real” objects at all but only ideas, faith in the world of the senses wavered. The very God Berkeley had devoted his life to
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