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Nam Sibyllam quidem Cumis ego ipse oculis meis
vidi in ampulla pendere, et cum illi pueri dicerent:
Sibulla ti theleis ; respondebat illa : apothanein thelo.
- Petronius
They are children, and they are sitting on the boundary wall enclosing one of the mortals' cave-tombs. Artemis kicks her legs, which do not touch the ground, even though the wall is low. They watch the mortals go about the ritual in their clumsy, honey-slow way. Three men drag a goat into the centre of the space; Artemis is about to ask Apollo why the stupids think they need so many to handle a single goat, when the goat sees the approaching knife and starts to kick and shriek. One man draws the knife across its throat, and the hot blood fountains into the bowl. It steams a little; it is a cool spring morning, here in the mountains. The men roast the goat, and lay out the burnt offerings. Apollo nibbles on one, and gets his fingers greasy. The men drink wine out of little clay cups, and when they are finished, they smash them on the ground. There is a child with them, a boy. Artemis watched its mother give birth to it, her face shiny with tears as she squeezed the bloody, squawling thing out of her body. The boy screams with excitement or terror as the pottery shatters, crash crash crash, and its parents and aunts and uncles and cousins stamp it into the ground, grinding the crude, black-painted hunters and dancers into dust. Artemis watches the child curiously, and for a second the child falls still in its mother's arms and meets their eyes, sucking on its finger quietly, watching them. Artemis dips her finger knuckle-deep in the cooling basin of blood, then draws it out, stained berry-red and slick.
"Will we ever die?" she says.
"I won't," Apollo says, and grabs her wrist so tightly that Artemis shrieks and struggles, but Apollo is stronger, because he's a boy and older by a half-hour. Apollo purses his lips and sucks the blood off her finger. Then he lets go and Artemis smacks him, wiping her wet finger on her tunic. It leaves a pinkish smear. The moon shouldn't be pink. She tuts, spits on her hand and tries to wipe it off, but there is still blood in the crevices of her nail, and she makes it worse. Cross, she licks her finger thoroughly, sucking until the coppery tang is gone.
"I'll say it was my fault," Apollo says generously. "Mother won't punish me."
She knows he'll have forgotten by the time they leave, but she stops being cross. He tangles his fingers in hers, and they swing their joined hands over the wall, and kick their heels against it.
"You won't die either," Apollo promises.
*
There are nearly eight thousand people in the amphitheatre, and yet the air is nearly silent, filled with only the naturally amplified voices of the two performers, and the hum of tension in the crowd. The sun beats down pitilessly; it is July, and hot, but Artemis is cool and fragrant as always, invisible. Apollo is less languid than usual, bright-eyed with excitement as he slouches back on his cushions. The playwright who is being performed in the competition today is a favourite of his, an artist at the height of its powers. Today his plays will, in all likelihood, win for the fourteenth time, here in Athens, the centre of the civilized world.
Before them, on the stage, a man is about to discover, for the first time, that he has fathered children on his own mother. The chorus' song is close-harmonied, and despite herself, Artemis shivers. The amphitheatre holds its breath. They sing, "O generations of mortal men, I count your life as hardly living - what man is there who attains happiness of no illusion, a joy which does not fade to nothing?" The lead actor staggers into view, red berry juice pouring from the eye-holes in his mask, shaded into black pits by the sun. "It was Apollo, friends, it was Apollo, he brought this on me," the man shrieks, and beside her, Apollo leans forward excitedly, and laughs.
Up on the hill, the huge new temple to Athena stands, built on gold bled from the empire, its marble gods garishly painted, colours almost violent in the midday sun. The immortals cannot know the future, but she wonders what the sweating men around them see when they look at all this magnificence, if any of them sees what Artemis sees: glorified hut of twigs with a bare sweep of plain beneath, where she ran with her dogs, once, to tear down a stag. O you generations of mortal men. This city is at war with Sparta, where she runs on the race track with the women, outruns them all. They do not let their women run here. She wishes herself away - but Apollo catches her arm, stays her. "A wise poet, my love," he says, smiling at her sidelong. She shakes him off.
"I do not know how you can care for them."
"Oh, they are all the same to me," Apollo says, leaning back. "But some of them can be helped to make things which last."
"None of this will last," she snaps, and this time, he does not stop her as she leaves.
*
She has a different name, here, but she is still the same. She runs through the woods, bow in hand, her body glowing marble in the moonlight, and those mortals who see her naked limbs lose their sight and their minds. Her cities have fallen, but her statues shimmer in the dark of new temples, and women still cry out her name.
There is a rustle in the trees, and she swings around, arrow tensed at the string, but it is Apollo. He steps out, slim and nonchalant, palms raised.
"You were watching," she says coldly.
He smiles. "Do you mind, sister?"
A boy staggers to his feet from the bushes, mouth red and bruised. He looks like he does not know where he is.
"Marcus," Apollo says, and pats him on the head. "Don't worry, he was too occupied to watch."
"I want to go home," the boy says. His voice is hoarse. Artemis' mouth twists in disgust.
"Can't you find any willing partners? I'm sure there are plenty of orgies going on in the city."
"It's not the same," Apollo says wistfully, and flicks the boy's shoulder; he disappears. They are alone in the glade.
"You should try it some time," he says, weaving towards Artemis. She steps back warily, arrow still notched on her bow. She can smell the Falernian grape on his breath from here.
"I am happy as I am," she says.
"Constantine crossed the Milvian Bridge," he says. "He's a convert to the new religion, a Christianos. He's going to force his new god on the senate."
"You don't know that, brother. None of us do."
"I'm the god of prophecy," Apollo says, his teeth white in the moonlight. "If anyone knows aside from the Fates, it's me, little sister. But don't worry, they like virgins. They think the world is going to end, they don't bother with fucking."
"Then they won't last," Artemis says briskly, whistling for her dogs. They are snuffling around her ankles, they can smell the roe buck she has been hearing coming closer. "Nothing does, brother."
"Only pleasure!" he yells behind her. "Get it while it's fresh!"
"Fresh meat is enough for me," she calls over her shoulder, as her dogs bay and the buck is sprung. It is a cool autumn night under a full moon, and the maenads and dryads come out to run with her through the dark, until they collapse in a glade and don't rise again until the sun's setting. They run from the woods of Apulia all the way up the spine of Italy and through the Alpine mountains, around into Dacia and down, baying through the olive groves and waking all the dogs for miles around, down into Macedonia, and Greece. In the night, she passes the ghost of her beloved Sparta; moving so fast, under the waning moon, it is easy to pretend it is not a ruin. She does not stop until she reaches the sea, and she stays there for a while, visiting the sea nymphs. By the time she sees her brother again, the new emperor is building a basilica to his God in Constantinople, and Rome is no longer the capital of the empire. He is right: they do like virgins.
*
Artemis wrinkles her nose at the stench in the air, and picks her way around the pile of five dead bodies on the street corner, awaiting collection. This is one of the worst streets she has seen today; most of the doors have the sign painted on. The neighbourhood around the Univêrsité is the quietest she has ever heard it; there are no dogs barking, no old women chattering, no street-sellers shouting. It is quite peaceful.
"There you are!" Apollo says, appearing behind her.
She gives him a baleful look. "What could possibly be so amusing here?"
"Trust me, sister, you will enjoy this," Apollo says, and directs her graciously to a nearby doorway, placing his hand on the small of her back as he guides her in. He takes her through a low, dark passageway, through a kitchen with washing piled high, then down into a cellar, through a network of tunnels.
"What is this place?" she whispers, and an echo hisses back at her. It reminds her of the Sibyl's cave.
"Wait," Apollo says, and she hears the suppressed laughter in his voice.
She hears the chanting before they turn a corner and see the thirteen white figures, turning slowly in a circle. In the middle of the circle is a girl of about ten, dirty blonde hair streaked around her shoulders, kneeling silently on the floor.
"Miserere nobis, Apollo domine!" one of the men cries out, fat, pale and sweating, and they all prostrate themselves and echo his name. "Apollo!"
The fat man shuffles on his knees to the centre of the circle, and draws a knife from his belt. He holds it in the air so the firelight glints off it. Artemis stares in disbelief.
"May this sacrifice appease you, Lord Apollo!" he cries. "Let her blood release us from your deadly arrows!"
Apollo sniggers sharply, and claps his hand over his mouth.
The man cuts the girl's throat, and they catch her blood in a silver bowl. Then the fat man pours it over his own head, drenching himself in it. Apollo is nearly doubled over, he's laughing so much.
"Do you find being made a mockery of so funny?" Artemis says, frowning with distaste.
"No - no, they're deadly serious," Apollo chokes out. "They think - they think - they think it's one of mine."
The blood-drenched man in the centre of the circle raises his arms, and the men around him roar, "APOLLO!"
Despite herself, Artemis starts to giggle. Apollo collapses against her and she squeaks with surprise as they topple to the ground, his body shaking against hers with laughter. "Can you imagine -" Apollo manages, "The number of arrows - the time it would take -"
He presses his face against her shoulder, hiccupping, then digs his fingers into her ribs and tickles her as if she is a child again. She shrieks and scrabbles at him, laughing and trying to push him off, but he rolls on top of her and pins her free hand to the ground. His grasping becomes insistent, even as he shudders with what sounds more like tears, now, and his grip is tight enough to hurt. Panic begins to rise in her throat like bile. She manages to break her hand free, grabs his hair and tugs his head back. His eyes are wild, and his cheeks are wet.
"Apollo!" she snaps. "Stop!"
He struggles for another second, then goes limp. He rolls off her, onto his back, and they both stare at the ceiling, breathing hard. Artemis picks herself up.
"Well," she says, "Have I seen what you wanted me to see?"
"I think so," Apollo says dully. He does not look at her as she leaves, stepping over the body of the dead girl.
*
Apollo has affected a top hat; it looks ridiculous on him. They step down from the carriage onto the cobbled street, which is illuminated by the lampposts Artemis still finds unnerving. For a second, caught by the wink of light on glasses, she thinks she sees someone she knows; it is Athene, wrapped in furs, on the arm of a large, hungry-looking man in a suit. He is a prominent industrialist. Athene bends to whisper something in his ear, and smiles graciously at Artemis across the street. Her gaze flickers over Apollo, and her smile twists into something crueller. Apollo's usual grace is slowed to a syrupy trickle; his pupils are dilated with opium, and he smells of its bitter smoke. Artemis takes his arm, and keeps a firm grip on him until they are safely sitting down inside the theatre.
They saw this play before, she realizes, in a different language; the stage is lined with elaborate columns made to look like marble, and the lead actor is wearing a ludicrous tunic which shows his hairy knees. She is struck with a wave of nostalgia, suddenly, so powerful she cannot breathe - although the gods do not need to breathe - and she is reminded of a day in Athens, seeing this same play in the July heat. Her fingers tighten on Apollo's wrist. He looks at her oddly, but she has the feeling he does not see her. He pats her knee, and his hand lingers, but she ignores it. She scans the audience for Athene, but she does not see her. She is a little disappointed; it has been a long time since she's seen her older sister. Last she heard, she's been working in Germany.
"It's all right, sister," Apollo whispers, and his arm is warm around her shoulder. She forgets, he is her twin, he is her other half; he knows her almost as well as she knows herself. "We're still the same."
O you generations of mortal men.
She wishes, for a fleeting second, that she had allowed herself to feel the heat of that sun.
*
one -tcchhh- small step for man - tschhhhhhh - one -tchh - giant leap for mankind
Man steps from a spaceship named for her brother and touches what he was never meant to touch, and five little brown moles appear above her hip, curling around her back like footprints on her skin. She curls on the floor, shrieks, scratches at her no-longer-virginal skin until it's oozing ichor, but the damage is done. On the television screen, the violated surface of her moon glows scratchy white as nine million people see her shame, too many to blind. Then Apollo is there, gently taking her hands in his. She is naked. He sits down on the floor beside her, and leans his back against the shower cubicle door. His brightness makes her eyes ache.
"You, my love, need to get drunk," he says finally.
Later, head swimming and veins ringing with tequila shots and the noise of the music in this bar, Apollo laughingly tips her head back and kisses the sweet taste from her mouth. She grunts and tugs at his hair, slips her tongue against his and climbs onto his lap, her knees pressing against the red leather couch. He laughs more and sucks on her neck, leaving a mark; he reaches around and presses his fingers against the raw scratches left by her nails, and the sting makes the world feel sharp. The sound of the bassline becomes the sound of the hunt, throbbing through her. His hand is between her legs, then he is inside her, with a sharp pain that becomes heat. She rides him, the leather becoming slick under her calves, and she climaxes around him, invisible to the room.
He takes her again on her bed, as she moans into the pillows like a palace whore. This time he withdraws before his own orgasm, and spills his seed onto her back, just above her hip, where man has been before him. She wakes alone, sullied. Her muted television is still on; or perhaps Apollo left it on for her to see. She watches the silent news. They are talking about the war. Then, suddenly, a perfectly round, blue and white ball appears on the screen, on a backdrop of night. She stares. The Earth, made into a toy by distance and a human-operated camera. She has never seen it before.
Gods do not get hangovers, but she is sick, anyway, her eyes blurred with tears.
*
Aphrodite calls her one day, out of the blue. She's using an English accent, now. Artemis is wary at first, but after a few minutes of pleasantries and family gossip, she's lulled into a false sense of security. She's smoking a cigarette and dangling a bare foot from the balcony of her New York apartment. On the radio, one of Bach's monotonous piano sonatas is playing, and Apollo is lying on the floor, listening to it with his eyes closed, cheeks shining with tears in the October afternoon light. That pianist died today - the one who mumbled as he played, Artemis didn't like him - and Apollo is tediously inconsolable, so Artemis has abandoned him to smoke on the balcony.
"Dionysus is in Ibiza, these days, darling - next big thing, I'm told. I do miss the Mediterranean, don't you? Of course, California is so lovely, I have this darling little mansion on the sea near San Francisco. Have you seen daddy lately? My friends tell me he's stepping out with a Bond girl, now, and Hera's on some sort of retreat in Tibet. But listen to me, chattering on. How have you been?"
"The same," Artemis says.
"So I hear," says Aphrodite, and Artemis tenses at the honey dripping from her voice. "Is Apollo terribly sad about that nasty old pianist? Do give him my love. Oh, that reminds me - I never did congratulate you, dear. The sixties were a wild time, weren't they? I do worry about you, though, spending all your time with Apollo. Now, don't play innocent, dear, we all know you're not the virgin goddess anymore."
"What other man could be worthy of me?" Artemis says, voice cold as the tiles of the balcony. "What other god? Not that it's any of your fucking business, you nosy bitch."
"Oh, no-one, naturally," says Aphrodite. "I'm just saying, dear, that when one's brother is one's lover, it might be safest not to have children. Look at Ares. And it would be such a shame for you to never experience motherhood. Why not find a nice mortal, have a quick roll in the hay?"
"Thank you so much for your concern," Aphrodite bites out. "And how are you, Aphrodite dear? I hear the club scene has died down a little. What is that nasty disease that's doing the rounds, the one that begins with A? Epidemics are a bit of a departure for you, aren't they?"
"Oh, yes, we're both breaking new ground," Aphrodite says, sweet and cool as ice cream. "Do give my love to Apollo. But not too much love."
Artemis hangs up, cheeks burning with fury. She shudders. The last time she saw Ares was in 1952; she saw his face for a second, standing behind the president. He's been more careful, since then, she assumes. They don't talk about him anymore.
It's the last time she hears from Aphrodite for a while; several years later she bumps into Aoide at one of Apollo's parties, who tells her that Aphrodite has abandoned the nightclub business and has gone back to political sex scandals. Desire, Artemis supposes, is always very much the same.
*
Everyone knows the twins, back from their father's ranch in Colorado. They glide into town in Artemis' silver Ferrari, Artemis' ebony hair barely ruffled by the California breeze, marble skin lightly honeyed by the sun. You know the names of the exclusive clubs they are not photographed entering, the restaurants they patronize. Impossibly beautiful in a world of impossible beauty, her white hand lingers on his shoulder at award ceremonies, state dinners, caught for a second in the corner of millions of TV screens. The private liberal arts college they are attending has a wait-list of nearly ten years; the children of the richest men and women in the world have their names submitted while they are still in pre-school.
In the hall of the Kappa Alpha house, all wine-coloured carpet and dark wood, a man is waiting for them. He is wearing an expensive suit, and he is tapping the screen of his Blackberry impatiently.
"Hermes," Apollo says, sounding surprised and pleased. Hermes looks up, and his wide smile does not quite reach his eyes. He shakes their hands.
"It's Harry now, actually. Great to see you both! How have you been?"
"Very well, thank you, Hermes," Artemis says, laying her coat on the dresser. "Do you have a message for me?"
His smile is just a beat too slow. "Come on, Artie, I went digital twenty years ago. The fuel crash is hitting travel, but telecommunications aren't going down anytime soon."
"And I suppose thieves are never out of business," Artemis says. This time, Hermes' smile is all teeth.
"How's the music business, Paulie?" he says. "Downloads hurting your sales?"
"I manage," Apollo says, and starts to mix himself a drink.
"Actually, I do have a message for you," Hermes says casually, reaching up to finger one of the little figurines on the top shelf of the cabinet. His hand passes through the glass, and he runs his finger along the silver bow of the little woman archer, and then her thigh. "The conscience rule will go through tomorrow. It's in the bag."
Hermes throws her a sly smile. He takes his hand back through the unbroken glass panel, still holding the figurine, and rolls it in his hands.
"Ironic, isn't it, that it's their God's followers who do you the most favours? No abortions for all those teenage mommies. Just like the old days. Don't expect it to last long, though, it'll get overturned by the new administration. Along with the new hunting rights."
Artemis forces her rigid spine to unbend, leans against the cabinet, lets Hermes see her perfect profile, the creamy shadows between her breasts. She flings out, "Their new strategos, the Aithiopian, he's one of your people, isn't he? Wasn't his father a goatherd?"
"It's not called Aithiopia anymore, sister," Hermes says, teeth white. "Read an atlas sometime. You might find a lot has changed. Ares could tell you. I think he's out in the Congo right now; lots of work for you out there soon, if you don't mind muddying your pretty feet in the jungle."
"Get out," Artemis hisses. "Now."
She follows him to the door, to make sure he really leaves and doesn't take anything with him. He turns a sheepish smile on her that's almost sincere.
"It's not too late, you know, Art. We all have to change. You could get out there, have some kids, do something else."
"I can do anything I want," she snaps, too shrill, but she's speaking to a closed door.
After he's gone, the hall is quiet. The Bloody Mary Apollo mixes for her has too much Tabasco, it burns her mouth. Apollo slides his hand up her thigh, under her skirt, and slides one finger into her, rubs his thumb over her clit. His eyes are a challenge; she leans back against the cabinet, spreads her legs a little, rolls an ice cube on her tongue.
"Dude," someone croaks, and it is one of Apollo's fraternity brothers, woken from a drunken sleep behind the couch. "Isn't that your sister?"
Artemis can no longer blind at will, but the bow on the silver figurine is sharp enough to get the job done.
*
The human cities creep and sprawl like cancers; there are so few wild places left. Artemis takes her private jet from LA to Reno, from Reno to Vancouver, from Vancouver to Grande Prairie, Grande Prairie to Yellowknife. She runs north of the shores of the Great Slave Lake with her white dogs, wearing only caribou skins, her feet bare on the ice, but she does not feel the cold. She leaves no footprints on the virgin snow.
*
In their crystal mansion, fortified by solar panels and glinting aluminium windmills, the news tells her of epidemics, floods, tornadoes. The sun burns too bright, too hot, all the planet's defences stripped away. She wakes in the middle of the night, although she does not sleep, and gasps, although she does not breathe. She goes into the studio, barefoot and naked. It is so hot in their mansion.
"Brother," she says. "Brother, I am afraid."
He leers at her, but his mind is somewhere else. He is listening to music; the implants in his ears are always active.
"What did the Sibyl say, sister?" he chants in a whisper, to some heavy, tripping rhythm. "Come in under the shadow of this red rock, and I will show you fear in a handful of dust." He hiccups a laugh. "The Sibyl had a wicked pack of cards. What did she say?"
She stands up abruptly, and he keels over to the side, head still nodding slightly as he slumps onto the concrete. "Apothanein thelo," he whispers.
"You can't," Artemis says. She sits, curls her knees up to her chin, and wishes for the walls to disappear.
*
For I saw the Sibyll of Cumis with my own eyes
hanging in a jar, and when the boys said to her:
Sibyll, what do you desire? she said: I want to die.
But they will never die.
End