Hellenic Immortal (27 page)

I took the seat opposite her at the table, because standing there and looking at her was going to end up being unproductive.

Between us was a roasted piglet that smelled amazing. I had to assume a large kitchen of some sort was in one of the surrounding cabins, because otherwise she cooked the pig on the fire pit and I didn’t see a spit anywhere.

I sipped the wine and eyed the pig.
 

“It isn’t kykeon,” she said apologetically, “but it’s good wine.”

“I prefer the wine anyway,” I admitted. “Never much cared for kykeon.”

This was an understatement; kykeon is truly a dreadful concoction. It’s a barley-based drink prepared for the final night of the Greater Mysteries. What one does is put the barley stalks into the kiste and leave them there for months until just before Boedromion. The drink is then brewed in a process similar to beer making, except there isn’t enough fermentation time and burdock root is used instead of hops. The finished product has a powerful hallucinogenic quality, which is why people tolerate the undeniable fact that it tastes awful.

At the high point of the ceremony, the Telesterion was full of celebrants, and the smoke and firelight and shadows would turn the space into a vivid experience for anyone in an altered state. Without the influence of hallucinogens, I never experienced it exactly the same way, but it sure looked like a lot of fun.

“Eat, please,” she insisted, and I wasn’t about to wait for a second offer. I began carving off chunks of meat for myself. “And tell me where you’d like me to begin?”

“Start with who you actually are,” I asked. “Because clearly there’s more to you than ex-government analyst Ariadne Papos.”

“This is true,” she agreed. “My family name is Papodopoulos. My parents shortened it when they moved to the States. I’m the last of an unbroken line of human keepers of the Mysteries. My family has worked side-by-side with the satyros for over two millennia to keep the secrets safe.”

“The last?” I asked.

“My parents died in a fire five years ago, and I’m unable to bear children,” she explained.

“I’m sorry, ” I said. Because that’s what one says when hearing something like that.

She shook off the sentiment. “Don’t be. I understood it to mean I was the one destined to find you and bring you back. The prophet said as much.”

“That must have been one heck of a prophet,” I said, adding, “Aren’t you going to eat?” She was drinking her wine and watching me eat instead of having any herself. If I were anyone else, I’d have been concerned that the food was poisoned or drugged.

“No, it’s not for me. The prophet was my great grandmother, give or take about fifteen generations. Her specific prediction was that a Papodopoulos would see the sojourner home.”

“I didn’t know this prophet, did I?”

“No. The sojourner had abandoned the cult by that time.”

“Sorry. I had other stuff going on.”

She smiled. Lovely smile. After spending all that time trying to catch glimpses of her in Vegas, it was deeply appealing, in a way I can’t fully explain, to have her full attention like this. And she certainly did seem preoccupied with me and my feasting. Something about me also seemed to be making her either very nervous or very excited. I had no idea what that was.

She continued, “The reason I’m an American is that my family moved to the Pacific Northwest before I was born. For most of my life, contact with the Mysteries was through the North American Chapter.”

I nearly choked. “Did you say chapter?”

“There are a few.”

“You people really did take the Mysteries out of Attic.”

She looked bemused. “This upsets you. I wouldn’t have thought modernization was something you’d find objectionable. Besides, the Eleusinian cult had already left Eleusis. It wasn’t a large step.”

She had a point. And I was a few generations too late to express an opinion on it.

“All right, so that’s you,” I said. “What about this schism?”

“The schism is my fault. I had a . . . bad period after my parents died, let’s say. I fell in love with the wrong man. His name is Gordon Alecto.”

I knew the name; he was the eco-terrorist Mike had mentioned. “I’ve heard of him.”

She didn’t look surprised. “Back then he was a young, charismatic botanist who didn’t blow things up. I introduced him to the Mysteries. And he loved everything about it. Soon he was insisting on coming here to experience the real thing. It was a huge mistake on my part; he wasn’t ready.”

Something clicked. “This is the man claiming to be me, isn’t it? You brought him to Greece, and because your connection to me had been prophesized . . .”

“Yes,” she confirmed. “He announced that he was Dionysos himself, the sojourner returned after centuries of wandering, and because he was in my company, the claim was taken at face value. Nobody seemed to mind that he had declared it shortly after his first taste of true kykeon and was in a clearly altered state.”

“I knew a lot of people who thought they were gods after their first taste. As long as they don’t try flying, it’s usually harmless. And it usually goes away.”

“This didn’t. He thought he’d reached a stage of enlightenment, and he kept drinking kykeon to remain in his enlightened state as long as possible. That became much easier after he was granted the title of hierophant, and was given private access to the kiste. And I’m sure you know what constant exposure to kykeon can do to a person.”

I did. Like anything that powerful, overuse caused insanity and death. The active ingredient—the part that triggers the hallucinations—is essentially a poison. Small doses at irregular intervals and the body will recover just fine. Regular ingestion is ultimately lethal.

“So his eco-terrorist activity is a part of his burgeoning insanity?”
 

“It is, but it’s much worse than that. He’s been having what he calls prophetic visions.”

“Oracular?”

“Not that lucid, but similar. The visions are what convinced him to bring the kiste to America.” She stopped to look at the piglet, and my plate. “Are you done?” she asked with a slight grin.

I had finished eating and was concentrating on the wine, which I quite liked. “I am. It was very good, thank you. You should really try some.”

“As I said, it’s for you. I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

It only then occurred to me why she kept saying that. I’d been taking part in a ceremony. Without the kiste, the celebrants, or any of the other trappings of the harvest festival, it hadn’t registered, but the piglet was a part of the traditional feast. If she had followed the preparations correctly, it was cooked in the milk of its mother. That’s a whole lot tastier than it sounds.

Ariadne got up from the table and reached behind her neck to unclasp her chiton. “Then we should proceed.”
 

“What are you doing?” I asked. This did not seem like a logical next step in our relationship, per se. But it was the next step of the ceremony, if this was what I thought it was. And her not eating was a good indication.

“You shouldn’t have to ask, sojourner.” She released the clasp and her chiton fell to the floor. She was naked beneath it, and every bit as spectacular as I’d imagined she would be in that state. Her skin was pale and the firelight licked across her skin and flickered in her eyes.

It had been so long since I’d had anything to do with the Mysteries, I had completely forgotten this part, surprising as that might seem. Not to be too crude about it, but I’d managed to include a rule in the rituals that if I show up for the festival, I get fed and I get laid. It was additional incentive for me to show up, and when you have a hand in devising a ceremony, this is the sort of thing you can get away with.

I’m not proud. Although it is kind of genius when you think about it.

Clad only in sandals, Ariadne knelt at my feet. “You don’t have to do this,” I said. “It’s really okay. This part . . . it’s an artifact of a different age.”

She reached out and took my hand, pressing it against her naked breast. Her nipples were erect, but it was drafty. “I could find dozens of women who would enthusiastically fulfill this obligation. I’m doing it because it’s something
I
want to do.”

“All the same, I’m sure this isn’t necessary.” I did my best to sound convincing. Sex by ceremonial coercion was something I’d gotten old enough to feel guilty about. Hard as that may be to believe.

She leaned forward, still on her knees, now settled between my thighs. She kissed my chest. “If you keep talking like that, I’m going to start to feel insulted.”

I lifted her chin and looked in her eyes. She gave me a wry smile that was utterly impossible to resist. “If you’re sure.”

There was more to talk about, like the schism, or what in the world Gordon Alecto was thinking when he brought the kiste to America, but none of that seemed all that important at that precise moment, especially once she undid my belt and snaked a hand down to free me from my pants. Her hand was cool, soft, and wonderful, and I had no remaining objections to voice. This was
much
better than spending the night in the forest.

I put my hand on the back of her neck and leaned forward, kissing her deeply. I could taste the wine and a trace of figs. Her dark eyes fluttered. I reached my arm and found her ass, and pulled. “Off your knees,” I requested.

“Yes, sojourner,” she said obediently.
 

We stood together, and then I lifted her onto the table. There was the bedroll nearby, but what had begun as a surprising interlude in our conversation a second earlier, had become a very urgent thing that had to be dealt with immediately, and the bed was too far.

With her feet off the ground, she wrapped her legs around me and tilted back, her arms supporting her on the table. She was about to lie down on the remains of the piglet, so I reached past her and shoved the food onto the floor. The plates landed with a resounding crash that was undoubtedly heard outside. She grinned, leaned back further, and pulled me into her.

Taking Ariadne there, in the Telesterion by the light of a brazier, with the smell of roast pig and wood smoke in the air, took me back a lot. I have had sex under many different circumstances, but in some ways the kind offered by the Eleusinian consorts was the most enticing. I’ve often had sex as a reward at the end of a well-executed pursuit. Only rarely has it been offered as a gift, and I’d forgotten how amazing that was.

Also amazing is sex involving a table, especially one that’s just the right height. I pushed forward and we worked into a rhythm, my hand on her tailbone and her heels hooked behind my back. This was not the casual sort of intercourse I could spend a day working through; it was rapid and violent and propulsive.

And for the first time in months, I wasn’t thinking about Clara anymore.

“My . . . god . . .” Ariadne cried between breaths, wrapping one arm around my shoulders and pulling her chest up against mine. She gave in to her orgasm by holding onto me for dear life, every muscle in her body locked up, her head tucked into the crook of my collarbone. And then I joined her.

It was several seconds before either of us relaxed.
 

She then released me and lay back on the tabletop, panting and laughing. “You know, I did bring a bed for us.”

I smiled. “The table looked sturdy enough.”
 

The wine goblet had managed to survive the experience, remaining perched on the edge of the table near her head. I reached across her and rescued it, drinking directly from the mouth as it appeared both of the glasses had been shattered.

She sat up and took the wine from me to have a sip of her own, while I admired her some more.

“How long have you known about the prophecy?” I asked.

“All my life.”

“Was what we just did foretold?”

“Not exactly, no,” she admitted. “But there was room for interpretation. Help me down?”

I stepped out of my pants so that I could walk without falling over, then lifted her off the table and onto her feet.

“When did you decide to interpret it in this particular way?” I asked, as we negotiated our way around the shattered dishes to the bed.

“When I saw you at the casino, I think.” She stepped into the bed and lay down, pulling the blanket partly over herself and holding it open to invite me in. Rather than lie next to her I sat, because between the sex and the wine, the beer from earlier, and the threat of death in-between, I was pretty sure I’d fall asleep immediately. And I had more questions.

She looked disappointed. “Surely you have more than one ceremonial fuck in you, sojourner.”

I smiled. “The schism. The kiste in America. You need to explain these things to me.”

She sighed. “Oh, all right. The schism is simple enough. The majority of our people still believe Gordon, but he has perverted the Mysteries into something militant. I didn’t fully realize how bad it was—how insane he’d gotten—until recently. I tried to re-establish the Mysteries independently, and partly succeeded, which is why I have loyal satyrs here and in the city. But to really stop him, I knew I had to find the man he’s pretending to be.”

“When did he take the kiste?”

“Six months ago. He’s going to hold the ceremonies in America with it for the first time. And he’s introducing a new ceremony. Adam, you have to help us stop him.”

“From corrupting the mysteries? I think it’s too late for that.”

“The new ritual is my concern. And recovering the kiste, of course.”

“This will be soon?”

“Boedromion ends in two days. We have a flight leaving in the morning.”

I stared into her dark eyes, not at all liking the sudden urgency in her request. “What is it you’re not telling me?”

She sighed. “The new ceremony . . . Gordon thinks he is going to awaken a god.”

“
Which
god are we talking about?”

“A nymph.”

“Really.” The nymph, as I understood it, was purely mythological. But I wasn’t going to be taking a chance on being wrong, not with an oracle predicting my death at the hand of a god. “I think I’ll stay in Athens. I like it here.”