Pagan Passions, Page 2

  CHAPTER TWO

  It was hard to believe that, only an hour or so before, he had beenpeaceful and calm, entirely occupied with his duties in the great Templeof Pallas Athena. His mind gave a sudden, panic-stricken leap and he wasback there again, standing at the rear of the vast room and focusing allof his strained attention on it.

  The glowing embers in the golden incense tripods were dying now, but theheavy clouds of frankincense, still tingled with the sweet aroma ofbalsam and clove, hung heavily in the quiet air over the main altar. Inthe flickering illumination of the gas sconces around the walls, thefigures on the great tapestries seemed to move with a subtle life oftheir own.

  Even though the great brazen gong had sounded for the last time twentyminutes before, marking the end of the service, there were still a fewworshippers in the pews, seated with heads bowed in prayer to theGoddess. Forrester considered them carefully: average-looking people, asprinkling of youngsters, and in the far corner a girl who looked just alittle like ...

  Forrester peered more closely. It wasn't just a slight resemblance; thegirl really seemed to be Gerda Symes. Her long blonde hair shone in thedimness. Forrester couldn't see her very clearly, but his imaginationwas working overtime. Her magnificently curved figure, her wonderfulface, her fiery personality were as much a part of his dreams as the bedhe slept on.

  If not for her brother ...

  Forrester sighed and forced himself to return his attention to hisduties. His hands remained clasped reverently at his breast. Whateverbattle went on in his mind, the remaining few people in the great roomwould see nothing but what was fitting. At any rate, he told himself, hemade rather an imposing sight in his robes, and, with a stirring ofvanity which he prayed Athena to chasten, he was rather proud of it.

  He was a fairly tall man, just a shade under six feet, but his slightpaunch made him seem shorter than he was. His face was round and smoothand pleasant, and that made him look younger than he was: twenty-oneinstead of twenty-seven. As befitted an acolyte of the Goddess ofWisdom, his dark, curly hair was cut rather long. When he bowed to adeparting worshipper, lowering his head in graceful acknowledgment oftheir deferential nods, he felt that he made a striking and commandingpicture.

  Though, of course, the worshippers weren't doing him any honor. That bowwas not for him, but directed toward the Owl, the symbol of the Goddessembroidered on the breast of the white tunic. As an acolyte, after all,he rated just barely above a layman; he had no powers whatever.

  Athena knew that, naturally. But somehow it was a little difficult toget it through his own doubtless too-thick skull. He'd often dreamed ofpower. Being a priest or a priestess, for instance--now that meantsomething. At least people paid attention to you if you were a member ofthe hierarchy, favored of the Gods. But, Forrester knew, there was nochance of that any more. Either you were picked before you weretwenty-one, or you weren't picked at all, and that was all there was toit. In spite of his looks, Forrester was six years past the limit.

  And so he'd become an acolyte. Sometimes he wondered how much of thathad been an honest desire to serve Athena, and how much a sop to hisworldly vanity. Certainly a college history instructor had enough to do,without adding the unpaid religious services of an acolyte to his work.

  But these were thoughts unworthy of his position. They reminded him ofhis own childhood, when he had dreamed of becoming one of the LesserGods, or even Zeus himself! Zeus had provided the best answer to thosedreams, Forrester knew. "Now I am a man," Zeus had said, "and I put awaychildish things."

  Well, Forrester considered, it behooved him to put away childish things,too. A mere vanity, a mere love of spectacle, was unworthy of theGoddess he served. And his costume and bearing certainly hadn't got himvery far with Gerda.

  He tore his eyes away from her again, and sighed.

  Before he could bring his mind back to Athena, there was aninterruption.

  Another white-clad acolyte moved out of the shadows to his right andcame softly toward him. "Forrester?" he whispered.

  Forrester turned, recognizing young Bates, a chinless boy of perhapstwenty-two, with the wide, innocent eyes of the born fanatic. But itdidn't become a servant of Athena to think ill of her other servants,Forrester reminded himself. Brushing the possibility of a rude replyfrom his mind, Forrester said simply: "Yes? What is it?"

  "There's a couple of Temple Myrmidons to see you outside," Bateswhispered. "I'll take over your post."

  Forrester responded with no more than a simple nod, as if the occurrencewere one that happened every day. But it was not only the thought ofleaving Gerda that moved him. As he turned and strode to the small doorthat led to the side room off the main auditorium, he was thinkingfuriously under his calm exterior.

  Temple Myrmidons! What could they want with him? As an acolyte, he wasat least immune to arrest by the civil police, and even the TempleMyrmidons had no right to take him into custody without a warrant fromthe Pontifex himself.

  But such a warrant was a serious affair. What had he done wrong?

  He tried to think of some cause for an arrest. Blasphemy? Sacrilege? Buthe found nothing except his interior thoughts. And those, he toldhimself with a blaze of anger fierce enough to surprise him, werenobody's business but his own and Athena's. Authorities either lesspersonal or more temporal had no business dealing with thoughts.

  Beyond those, there wasn't a thing. No irreverence toward any of theGods, in his private life, his religious functions or his teachingposition, at least as far as he could recall. The Gods knew thatunorthodoxy in an Introductory History course, for instance, was notonly unwise but damned difficult.

  Of course, he was aware of the real position of the Gods. They weren'tomnipotent. Their place in the scheme of things was high, but they werecertainly not equal with the One who had created the Universe and theGods themselves in the first place. Possibly, Forrester had alwaysthought, they could be equated with the indefinite "angels" of thereligions that had been popular during his grandfather's time, sixtyyears ago, before the return of the Gods. But that was an uncertaintheological notion, and Forrester was quite ready to abandon it in theface of good argument to the contrary.

  Whatever they were, the Gods were certainly the Gods of Earth now.

  The Omnipotent Creator had evidently left it for them to run, while hewent about his own mysterious business, far from the understanding orthe lives of men. The Gods, omnipotent or not, ran the world andeverything in it.

  And if, like Forrester, you knew that omnipotence wasn't their strongpoint, you just didn't mention it. It would have been impolite to havedone so--like talking about sight to a blind man. And "impolite" was notthe only word that covered the case. The Gods had enough power, aseveryone knew, to avenge any blasphemies against them. And carelessmention of limitations on their power would surely be construed asblasphemy, true or not.

  Forrester had never even thought of doing such a thing.

  So what, he thought, did the Temple Myrmidons want with him?

  He came to the anteroom and went in, seeing the two of them at once.They were big, burly chaps with hard faces, and the pistols that wereholstered at their sides looked completely unnecessary. Forrester took adeep breath and went a step forward. There he stopped, staring.

  The Myrmidons were strangers to him--and now he understood why. Neitherwas wearing the shoulder-patch Owl of Minerva/Athena. Both proudlysported the Thunderbolt of Zeus/Jupiter, the All-Father himself.

  _Whatever it is_, Forrester told himself with a sinking sensation, _it'sserious_.

  One of the Myrmidons looked him up and down in a casual,half-contemptuous way. "You're William Forrester?"

  "That's right," Forrester said, knowing that he looked quite calm, andwondering, at the same time, whether or not he would live out the nextfew minutes. The Myrmidons of Zeus/Jupiter didn't come around to othertemples on unimportant errands. "May I help you?" he went on, feelingfoolish.

  "Let's see your ID card, please," the Myrmidon said in the same ton
e asbefore. That puzzled Forrester. He doubted whether examination ofcredentials was a part of the routine preceding arrest--or execution,for that matter. The usual procedure was, and probably always had been,to act first and apologize later, if at all.

  Maybe whatever he'd done had been so important they couldn't afford tomake mistakes.

  But did the Myrmidon really think that an imposter could parade aroundin an acolyte's tunic in the very Temple of Pallas Athena without beingcaught by one of the Athenan Myrmidons, or some other acolyte or priest?

  Maybe a thing like that could happen in one of the other Temples,Forrester thought. But here at Pallas Athena people took the Goddess'sattribute of wisdom seriously. What the Dionysians might do, hereflected, was impossible to say. Or, for that matter, the Venerans.

  But he produced his identity card and handed it to the Myrmidon. It wascompared with a card the Myrmidon dug out of his pouch, and thethumbprints on both cards were examined side by side.

  After a while, Forrester got his card back.

  The Myrmidon said: "We--" and began to cough.

  His companion came over to slap him on the back with bone-crushingblows. Forrester watched without changing expression.

  Some seconds passed.

  Then the Myrmidon choked, swallowed, straightened and said, his facepurple: "All this incense. Not like what we've got over at theAll-Father's Temple. Enough to choke a man to death."

  Forrester murmured politely.

  "Back to business--right?" He favored Forrester with a rathersavage-looking smile, and Forrester allowed his own lips to curve gentlyand respectfully upward.

  It didn't look as if he _were_ going to be killed, after all.

  "Important instructions for you," the Myrmidon said. "From the PontifexMaximus. And not to be repeated to any mortal--understand?"

  Forrester nodded.

  "And that means _any_ mortal," the Myrmidon said. "Girl friend, wife--ordon't you Athenans go in for that sort of thing? Now, up at theAll-Father's Temple, we--"

  His companion gave him a sharp dig in the ribs.

  "Oh," the Myrmidon said. "Sure. Well. Instructions not to be repeated.Right?"

  "Right," Forrester said.

  Instructions? From the Pontifex Maximus? _Secret_ instructions?

  Forrester's mind spun dizzily. This was no arrest. This was somethingvery special and unique. He tried once more to imagine what it was goingto be, and gave it up in wonder.

  The Myrmidon produced another card from his pouch. There was nothing onit but the golden Thunderbolt of the All-Father--but that was quiteenough.

  Forrester accepted the card dumbly.

  "You will report to the Tower of Zeus at eighteen hundred hoursexactly," the Myrmidon said. "Got that?"

  "You mean today?" Forrester said, and cursed himself for soundingstupid. But the Myrmidon appeared not to have noticed.

  "Today, sure," he said. "Eighteen hundred. Just present this card."

  He stepped back, obviously getting ready to leave. Forrester watched himfor one long second, and then burst out: "What do I do after that?"

  "Just be a good boy. Do what you're told. Ask no questions. It's betterthat way."

  Forrester thought of six separate replies and settled on a seventh. "Allright," he said.

  "And remember," the Myrmidon said, at the outside door, "don't mentionthis to anyone. _Not anyone!_"

  The door banged shut.

  Forrester found himself staring at the card he held. He put it away inhis case, alongside the ID card. Then, dazed, he went on back to theacolyte's sacristy, took off his white tunic and put on his streetclothes.

  What did they want with him at the Tower of Zeus? It didn't really soundlike an arrest. If it had been that, the Myrmidons themselves would havetaken him.

  So what did the Pontifex Maximus want with William Forrester?

  He spent some time considering it, and then, taking a deep breath, heforced it out of his mind. He would know at eighteen hundred, and suchwere the ways of the Gods that he would not know one second before.

  So there was no point in worrying about it, he told himself. He almostmade himself believe it.

  But wiping speculation out of his mind left an unwelcome and uneasyvacancy. Forrester replaced it with thought of the morning's service inthe Temple. Such devotion was probably valuable, anyhow, in a spiritualsense. It brought him closer to the Gods....

  The Gods he wanted desperately to be like.

  That, he told himself sharply, was foolishness of the most senselesskind.

  He blinked it away.

  The Goddess Athena had appeared herself at the service--sufficientreason for thinking of it now. The statuesquely beautiful Goddess withher severely swept-back blonde hair and her deep gray eyes was theembodiment of the wisdom and strength for which her worshippersespecially prayed. Her beauty was almost unworldly, impossible ofexistence in a world which contained mortals.

  She reminded Forrester, ever so slightly (and, of course, in a reverentway), of Gerda Symes.

  There seemed to be a great many forbidden thoughts floating around thisday. Resolutely, Forrester went back to thinking about the morning'sservice.

  The Goddess had appeared only long enough to impart her blessing, buther calm, beautifully controlled contralto voice had brought a sense ofpeace to everyone in the auditorium. To be doggedly practical, there wasno way of knowing whether the Goddess's presence was an appearance--inperson, or an "appearance" by Divine Vision. But that really didn'tmatter. The effect was always just the same.

  Forrester went on out the front portals of the Temple of Wisdom and downthe long, wide steps onto Fifth Avenue. He paid homage with a passingglance to the great Owls flanking the entrance. Symbolic of Athena, theyhad replaced the stone lions which had formerly stood there.

  The street was busy with hurrying crowds, enlivened here and there byTemple Myrmidons--from the All-Father, from Bacchus, from Venus--evenone from Pallas Athena herself, a broad-beamed swaggerer whom Forresterknew and disliked. The man came striding up the steps, greeted Forresterwith a bare nod, and disappeared at top speed into the Temple.

  Forrester sighed and glanced south, down toward 34th Street, where thehuge Tower of Zeus, a hundred and four stories high, loomed over all theother buildings in the city.

  At eighteen hundred he would be in that tower--for what purpose, he hadno idea.

  Well, that was in the future, and he ...

  A voice said: "Well! Hello, Bill!"

  Forrester turned, knowing exactly what to expect, and disliking it inadvance. The bluff over-heartiness of the voice was matched by the grossand hairy figure that confronted him. In some disarray, and managing tolook as if he needed simultaneously a bath, a shave, a disinfecting anda purgative, the figure approached Forrester with a rolling walk thatwas too flat-footed for anything except an elephant.

  "How's the Owl-boy today?" said the voice, and the body stuck out aflabby, hairy white hand.

  Forrester winced. "I'm fine," he said evenly. "And how's thewinebibber?"

  "Good for you," the figure said. "A little wine for your Stomach's sake,as good old Bacchus always says. Only we make it a lot, eh?" He winkedand nudged Forrester in the ribs.

  "Sure, sure," Forrester said. He wished desperately that he could takethe gross fool and tear him into tastefully arranged pieces. But therewas always Gerda. And since this particular idiot happened to be heryounger brother, Ed Symes, anything in the nature of violence wasunthinkable.

  Gerda's opinion of her brother was touching, reverent, and--Forresterthought savagely--not in the least borne out by any discoverable facts.

  And a worshipper of Bacchus! Not that Forrester had anything against theorgiastic rites indulged in by the Dionysians, the Panites, theApollones or even the worst and wildest of them all, the Venerans. Ifthat was how the Gods wanted to be worshipped, then that was how theyshould be worshipped.

  And, as a matter of fact, it sounded like fun--if, Forrester considered,entirely too publ
ic for his taste.

  If he preferred the quieter rites of Athena, or of Juno, Diana orCeres--and even Ceresians became a little wild during the springfertility rites, especially in the country, where the farmers dependedon her for successful crops--well, that was no more than a personalpreference.

  But the idea of Ed Symes involved in a Bacchic orgy was just a littletoo much for the normal mind, or the normal stomach.

  "Hey," Ed said suddenly. "Where's Gerda? Still in the Temple?"

  "I didn't see her," Forrester said. There _had_ been a woman who'dlooked like her. But that hadn't been Gerda. _She'd_ have waited for himhere.

  And--

  "Funny," Ed said.

  "Why?" Forrester said. "I didn't see her. I don't think she attended theservice this morning, that's all."

  He wanted very badly to hit Symes. Just once. But he knew he couldn't.

  First of all, there was Gerda. And then, as an acolyte, he wasproscribed by law from brawling. No one would hit an acolyte; and if theacolyte were built like Forrester, striking another man might be theequivalent of murder. One good blow from Forrester's fist might breakthe average man's jaw.

  That was, he discovered, a surprisingly pleasant thought. But he madehimself keep still as the fat fool went on.

  "Funny she didn't attend," Symes said. "But maybe she's gotten wise toherself. There was a celebration up at the Temple of Pan in CentralPark, starting at midnight, and going on through the morning. SpringRites. Maybe she went there."

  "I doubt it," Forrester said instantly. "That's hardly her type ofworship."

  "Isn't it?" Symes said.

  "It doesn't fit her. That kind of--"

  "I know. Gerda's like you. A little stuffy."

  "It's not being stuffy," Forrester started to explain. "It's--"

  "Sure," Symes said. "Only she's not as much of a prude as you are. Icouldn't stand her if she were."

  "On the other hand, she's not a--"

  "Not an Owl-boy of Owl-boys like you."

  "Not a drunken blockhead," Forrester finished triumphantly. "At leastshe's got a decent respect for wisdom and learning."

  Symes stepped back, a movement for which Forrester felt grateful. Nomatter how far away Ed Symes was, he was still too close.

  "Who you calling a blockhead, buster?" Symes said. His eyes narrowed topiggish little slits.

  Forrester took a deep breath and reminded himself not to hit the otherman. "You," he said, almost mildly. "If brains were radium, you couldn'tmake a flicker on a scintillation counter."

  It was just a little doubtful that Symes understood the insult. But heobviously knew it had been one. His face changed color to a kind ofgrayish purple, and his hands clenched slowly at his sides. Forresterstood watching him quietly.

  Symes made a sound like _Rrr_ and took a breath. "If you weren't anacolyte, I'd take a poke at you just to see you bounce."

  "Sure you would," Forrester agreed politely.

  Symes went _Rrr_ again and there was a longer silence. Then he said:"Not that I'd hit you anyhow, buster. It'd go against my grain. Not theacolyte business--if you didn't look so much like Bacchus, I'd take thechance."

  Forrester's jaw ached. In a second he realized why; he was clenching histeeth tightly. Perhaps it was true that he did look a little likeBacchus, but not enough for Ed Symes to kid about it.

  Symes grinned at him. Symes undoubtedly thought the grin gave him apleasant and carefree expression. It didn't. "Suppose I go have a lookfor Gerda myself," he said casually, heading up the stairs toward thetemple entrance. "After all, you're so busy looking at books, you mighthave missed her."

  And what, Forrester asked himself, was the answer to that--except apunch in the mouth?

  It really didn't matter, anyhow. Symes was on his way into the temple,and Forrester could just ignore him.

  But, damn it, why did he let the young idiot get his goat that way?Didn't he have enough self-control just to ignore Symes and his oafishinsults?

  Forrester supposed sadly that he didn't. Oh, well, it just made anotherquality he had to pray to Athena for.

  Then he glanced at his wristwatch and stopped thinking about Symesentirely.

  It was twelve-forty-five. He had to be at work at thirteen hundred.

  Still angry, underneath the sudden need for speed, he turned andsprinted toward the subway.

  * * * * *

  "And thus," Forrester said tiredly, "having attempted to make himselfthe equal of the Gods, Man was given a punishment befitting sucharrogance." He paused and took a breath, surveying the twenty-oddstudents in the classroom (and some, he told himself wryly, _very_ odd)with a sort of benign boredom.

  History I, Introductory Survey of World History, was a simple enoughcourse to teach, but its very simplicity was its undoing, Forresterthought. The deadly dullness of the day-after-day routine was enough towear out the strongest soul.

  Freshmen, too, seemed to get stupider every year. Certainly, when _he'd_been seventeen, he'd been different altogether. Studious, earnest,questioning ...

  Then he stopped himself and grinned. He'd probably seemed even worse tohis own instructors.

  Where had he been? Slowly, he picked up the thread. There was a youngblonde girl watching him eagerly from a front seat. What was her name?Forrester tried to recall it and couldn't. Well, this was only the firstday of term. He'd get to know them all soon enough--well enough,anyhow, to dislike most of them.

  But the eager expression on the girl's face unnerved him a little. Therest of the class wasn't paying anything like such strict attention. Asa matter of fact, Forrester suspected two young boys in the back ofbeing in a trance.

  Well, he could stop that. But ...

  She was really quite attractive, Forrester told himself. Of course, shewas nothing but a fresh, pretty, eager seventeen-year-old, with a figurethat ...

  She was, Forrester reminded himself sternly, a student.

  And he was supposed to be an instructor.

  He cleared his throat. "Man went hog-wild with his new-found freedomfrom divine guidance," he said. "Woman did, too, as a matter of fact."

  Now what unholy devil had made him say that? It wasn't a part of thenormal lecture for first day of the new term. It was--well, it wasjust a little risque for students. Some of their parents might complain,and ...

  But the girl in the front row was smiling appreciatively. _I wonder whatshe's doing in an Introductory course_, Forrester thought, leaping withno evidence at all to the conclusion that the girl's mind was much toofine and educated to be subjected to the general run of classes._Private tutoring_ ... he began, and then cut himself off sharply, foundhis place in the lecture again and went on:

  "When the Gods decided to sit back and observe for a few thousand years,they allowed Man to go his merry way, just to teach him a lesson."

  The boys in the back of the room were definitely in a trance.

  Forrester sighed. "And the inevitable happened," he said. "From theeighth century B.C., Old Style, until the year 1971 A.D., Old Style,Man's lot went from bad to worse. Without the Gods to guide him he bredbigger and bigger wars and greater and greater empires--beginning withthe conquests of the mad Alexander of Macedonia and culminating in theopposing Soviet and American Spheres of Influence during the lastcentury."

  Spheres of Influence....

  Forrester's gaze fell on the blonde girl again. She certainly had awell-developed figure. And she did seem so eager and attentive. Hesmiled at her tentatively. She smiled back.

  "Urg ..." he said aloud.

  The class didn't seem to notice. That, Forrester told himself sourly,was probably because they weren't listening.

  He swallowed, wrenched his gaze from the girl, and said: "TheSoviet-American standoff--for that is what it was--would most probablyhave resulted in the destruction of the human race." It had no effect onthe class. The destruction of the human race interested nobody."However," Forrester said gamely, "this form of insanity was too muchfor
the Gods to allow. They therefore--"

  The bell rang, signifying the end of the period. Forrester didn't knowwhether to feel relieved or annoyed.

  "All right," he said. "That's all for today. Your first assignment willbe to read and carefully study Chapters One and Two of the textbook."

  Silence gave way to a clatter of noise as the students began to fileout. Forrester saw the front-row blonde rise slowly and gracefully. Anydoubts he might have entertained (that is, he told himself wryly, any_entertaining_ doubts) about her figure were resolved magnificently. Hefelt a little sweat on the palm of his hands, told himself that he wasbeing silly, and then answered himself that the hell he was.

  The blonde gave him a slow, sweet smile. The smile promised a good dealmore than Forrester thought likely of fulfillment.

  He smiled back.

  It would have been impolite, he assured himself, not to have done so.

  The girl left the room, and a remaining crowd of students hurried outafter her. The crowd included two blinking boys, awakened by the bellfrom what had certainly been a trance. Forrester made a mental note toinquire after their records and to speak with the boys himself when hegot the chance.

  No sense in disturbing a whole class to discipline them.

  He stacked his papers carefully, taking a good long time about it inorder to relax himself and let his palms dry. His mind drifted back tothe blonde, and he reined it in with an effort and let it go exploringagain on safer ground. The class itself ... actually, he thought, herather liked teaching. In spite of the petty irritations that came fromdriving necessary knowledge into the heads of stubbornly unwillingstudents, it was a satisfying and important job. And, of course, it wasan honor to hold the position he did. Ever since it had been revealedthat the goddess Columbia was another manifestation of Pallas Athenaherself, the University had grown tremendously in stature.

  And after all ...

  Whistling faintly behind his teeth, Forrester zipped up his filledbriefcase and went out into the hall. He ignored the masses of studentsswirling back and forth in the corridors, and, finding a stairway, wentup to his second-floor office.

  He fumbled for his key, found it, and opened the ground-glass door.

  Then, stepping in, he came to a full stop.

  The girl had been waiting for him--Maya Wilson.

  * * * * *

  And now here she was, talking about the Goddess of Love. Forrestergulped.

  "Anyhow," he said at random, "I'm an Athenan." He remembered that he hadalready said that. Did it matter? "But what does all this have to dowith your passing, or not passing, the course?" he went on.

  "Oh," Maya said. "Well, I prayed to Aphrodite for help in passing thecourse. And the Temple Priestess told me I'd have to make a sacrifice tothe Goddess. In a way."

  "A sacrifice?" Forrester gulped. "You mean--"

  "Not the First Sacrifice," she laughed. "That was done with solemnceremonies when I was seventeen."

  "Now, wait a minute--"

  "Please," Maya said. "Won't you listen to me?"

  Forrester looked at her limpid blue eyes and her lovely face. "Sure.Sorry."

  "Well, then, it's like this. If a person loves a subject, it's that mucheasier to understand it. And the Goddess has promised me that if I lovethe instructor, I'll love the subject. It's like sympatheticmagic--see?"

  Her explanation was so brisk and simple that Forrester recoiled. "Holdon," he said. "Just hold your horses. Do you mean you're in love withme?"

  Maya smiled. "I think so," she said, and very suddenly she was onForrester's side of the desk, pressing up against him. Her hand caressedthe back of his neck and her fingers tangled in his hair. "Kiss me andlet's find out."