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On Ice Pythia Chapter Four |
The months seemed to fly by. Time, which had once seemed to drag interminably, one day as predictable as the next, now began to race away from me, filling my life with wonders, spinning my head with the heart pounding experience of living. I became teacher and conspirator, student, historian, archivist, politician, and friend; I tried to keep my distance, retain my objectivity – and lost it utterly in the need to lift that smile to his eyes, to hear that soft giggle or to trigger another of those outrageous stories which fell so convincingly from his lips. Martyn was even worse than I; he fell into the project with a fervor I’d always thought he reserved for unearthing Etruscan pottery or studying the obscure Martian script. I loved him all the more for it, entranced to watch as Iolaus’ influence woke the warrior and the adventurer within him. I’m not sure what it was that he awoke in me; my motherly instinct maybe, a warmth in my heart, or an awareness of life – perhaps all three. I only know that my life before I knew him was empty – and that without him in it, the Universe would be a very desolate place indeed.
The first thing we did was turn the villa and the land around it into something Iolaus felt more comfortable calling home. We broke up most of the cold marble furniture and used the pieces to build the foundations for a working forge. Then we replaced the fittings with sturdy constructions made of timber, cloth and hand made nails – one of the first tricks he taught us after we’d supplied him with the tools and other items he’d described. That information alone – the skills and secrets of ancient metal working – was worth a lifetime of research, but it was only of the many things he was able to tell us. Much of it came out in casual conversation; diet and other domestic issues danced through our discussions, alongside the flamboyant, the fantastic and the purely fabulous events which he claimed to have had experienced.
We viewed those events with a huge dose of skepticism to begin with; he spoke of his gods as if he’d known them personally and offered up tales of monsters and magic as if they’d been an ordinary, everyday part of his life. I have never been one to believe in magic; dragons, centaurs and man eating ogres belong in outmoded fairy tales, and for me the gods have never been anything but mythological metaphors made obsolete by science and the maturation of human thought. But, as the weeks went by, we became more and more convinced that he was telling the truth as he saw it.
His tales were, for the most part, convincingly consistent. The people in them had unmistakable character and to him, a reality that was hard to challenge. He gave us names from Plutarch, from Herodotus, from Homer, and he spoke of them familiarly, with affection for friends, with admiration for fellow warriors, with anger or sorrow for his enemies - and for those he had loved he expressed a warmth and a feeling that was impossible to deny. Then, it was a strange and unsettling view of the world that he described to us. Had he been spouting the mythology verbatim, trotting out the references in a way that could be checked and cross referenced, we might have begun to suspect that we had been – once again – the victims of some devious and malicious hoax intended to discredit us.
It was because his tales did not exactly match the ones that Martyn could quote with relish that I began to be persuaded that there might be more to them than first impressions would suggest. I began to challenge him with evidence – as good a way to teach him to read standard Terra Lingua as any, and material I could justify taking into the bio-dome without being questioned too closely – and he responded to its contents with puzzlement, with indignation and – most often – with howls of laughter. He was not, he assured us, the son of Iphicles, since the two of them were the same age – and that denied another myth, which suggested that Hercules and his brother had been born as twins on the same night. Hercules, he assured us, was two years younger than he was, although it was apparently something even the son of Zeus tended to forget on regular occasions. He spoke of his partner with a depth of affection that was almost painful to hear. The relationship he described to us went far beyond the simple bounds of friendship; they had a warriors’ bond, a brotherhood stronger than one dependant purely on blood, and – if what told us was true – one which had, one more than one occasion, reached beyond the barriers of death itself.
I argued metaphysics with Martyn, trying to justify what I’d heard in more acceptable terms. I began to believe that Iolaus was describing ritual and ceremony; that he’d been part of some ancient cult for whom the enactment of the myth – in the execution of worship and through participation in the mysteries – took on a reality all of its own. The actions and the events were real, but their interpretation had been layered with the trappings of his religion. His partner was, indeed, the son of Zeus, because that was the role imposed on him by the temple. When he spoke of having descended into the realms of Hades and then been brought back, it had been as part of some intricate ritual – an initiation perhaps, or a rite to enact the sacrifice of the sacred king. His gods were real people because they had been real people – the priests and priestesses of his cult, wearing the masks that endowed them with divinity.
Of course – that still didn’t explain what he’d been doing in Siberia, or how a ritual veil, given to him by a priestess acting as in the role of goddess (and one that didn’t even appear in the normal Greek Pantheon, come to that) could possibly have preserved him well enough for us to work our magic the way we had – but, as explanations went, it was a good one. It was the one I gave the Board at the half year review, justifying the way I’d edited the holo-recordings so that they offered a coherent story. If that also justified the many things I’d taken out in the process, well – who were they to argue with the expert? They were grudgingly pleased with the material I presented, although a few of them expressed strong doubts about releasing all of it for public view. I’d expected that, deliberately including footage that I knew would shock or disturb them, precisely so they would agree to even further editing. The sequences didn’t shock me at all. I had witnessed the real thing and had understood the beauty and the strength of what I was seeing.
What they saw was a half naked man working through a number of violent exercises and unlikely contortions – too ingrained in their determined moralities to appreciate the fluid dance which had been designed to keep a warrior’s body and spirit honed to a level of physical and mental ability that would be hard to match, even on the frontier worlds. Iolaus worked out every morning, challenging himself as well as the world, and for women who had been known to protest the display of ‘unseemly’ work of art – such as Michelangelo’s David, or Carravagio’s Cupid – it must have been a decidedly unsettling experience. Our hero is – in many ways – a genuine work of art, but he is also a living, breathing man whose skin glistens with sweat after exercise and whose physique – for all its compact packaging – radiates a sleek and unmistakable sense of power. I wondered, as I agreed to the cuts they requested, how many of them would come to me and discretely ask for personal copies afterwards. They publicly condemn the threats they perceive in the lawlessness of the frontier, the immorality of the Free Traders, the outrages committed by deep space pirates and slavers – and in private there are those of them who devour the forbidden books, watch the banned films and vid-discs, or keep collections guaranteed to outrage their more moral minded sisters.
Such is the harvest that comes from attempting to dictate an ‘acceptable’ morality. I remember trying to explain to Iolaus the complexities of our society’s dress code; how, on Earth, colour and style convey rank and standing almost as much as fabric and quality, how important it was to obscure all but the basic shapes of the human form, how men had to be appropriately attired in front of women – and in the end he’d asked, in all seriousness, which of our gods had thought up those stupid rules, and how in Gaia’s name did anyone manage to follow them all. That, of course, led to a sidetrack in which we discussed the history of religion and the many, bloody conflicts which had resulted from it. Officially, I told him, we no longer believe in any gods; they, like so many of the other creative forces which have shaped history, have been driven off-world.
I was being metaphorical, of course, but he had an odd look on his face for many days afterwards.
Needless to say, that was one of the sequences I didn’t share with the Board. They had no idea as to what really went on in the habitat in between the glimpses I offered them – and that included those two regular afternoons a week when Iolaus and Martyn would spar for the sheer fun of it, the warrior teaching the archeologist the intricacies of real sword play and – on those few occasions we could smuggle the gear into the dome - the archeologist teaching him the finesse of the tasstick and the art of the arcgun.
We published towards the end of the Summer. Discreetly of course; we are an Institute dedicated to the conservation of history, the furtherance of knowledge and the preservation of civilised thought, not purveyors of sensationalism. Information has become one of the most valuable commodities in the modern market, since it is regularly used as currency between the outer worlds. Even the simple things – such as techniques for working metals without the need for sophisticated equipment – could have the most enormous impact on distant colonies where technology is at a premium. Our work was, therefore, only distributed to registered subscribers, and with suitable copyright attached. Even so, it generated enormous interest, and I found myself fending off endless questions while finding sensible excuses to refuse the many requests we received from people who wanted to meet our miracle.
Fortunately I had the rest of the Board’s support on that. They were still under the impression that our precious ‘guest’ had remained relatively uncontaminated by the world into which he had been awoken. If only they knew! Iolaus was learning more and more every day – and was also beginning to fret within the confines of his prison. He’d explored the exact dimensions of the habitat early on, mapping the territory with a hunter’s eye for detail and a warrior’s instinct for survival. By the time Summer turned to the usual Autumn swelter, he knew every centime of the place inside out and backwards. We were keeping him entertained with almost indigestible amounts of history, literature, science, modern philosophy, astrophysics and spacial geography, politics, technology – anything and everything we could think of, downloaded from the Institute’s vast memory banks and delivered on the latest crystalline data cubes. He devoured every one of them, although I’ve never been sure just how much of all that he’s actually managed to understand. Maybe it doesn’t matter; he was busy absorbing the impact of a two thousand years – enough to function in our time, if not comfortably in our world.
But, for all that, he was fretting, beginning to feel the walls closing in on him, his restless need for adventure and new horizons starting to eat at his seemingly inexhaustible spirit. Martyn was getting worried about him.
So was I. And not just because of his restlessness. Other things began to happen, things that gave me concern for his safety in the Institute. Things I had no control over whatsoever.
Shortly after publication, I received a surprise visit from Councilor Adams. She rarely bestirs herself beyond the confines of her office, preferring to hold court there like some ancient Queen, so arriving back from the habitat to find her waiting for me – her ever present and patient secretary hovering over her as usual – was something of a shock to say the least. Josephine Adams is not a woman that I like very much; she’s ambitious and given to sabotaging those she’d previously favoured simply to further her own standing. I greeted her politely enough, while inside my heart was fluttering with panic. If she’d found out what I’d been up to, I could be facing a number of options, from my complete and utter disgrace and forcible removal from the project, through to the prospect of being blackmailed for favours and privileges for the rest of my life. You never can tell which way she’s going to jump.
As it turned out, she’d come to see me for entirely altruistic reasons – at least as altruistic as Councilor Adams is ever going to get. She had, she said, been studying my ‘cordings and some of the unpublished material. And she wanted to express her concerns for my safety.
"You take such risks every day, Ellen. I know you are only focused on the work, but – surely you must realise the danger you put yourself in?"
"Danger?" I was genuinely puzzled by her concern. If there is one thing I know for certain, it is that, in many ways, I am safest when I am with Iolaus. There were only two men that I knew of in the Institute who’d killed another; one was the black clad Guardian who stood duty outside the habitat. The other was the man he guarded, a warrior by training and by necessity. I know that Martyn would fight to protect me, if the need arose – but even he might hesitate when it came to striking blows that would harm another. Iolaus would not hesitate. He is not governed by the teachings that have chained the lion that lies within; he is the lion, and would do whatever proved necessary to defend those he loves.
"Oh, Ellen." Her laugh was light. The hand she put to my arm was meant to convey comfort and familiarity. I refrained from pulling away. "You can be so naive. Listen. That – man – that you are studying. He’s not like the men of our world. You do realise that, don’t you?"
Realise it? I celebrated it. Every day. "Of course I do, Josephine." Her use of my first name entitled me to return the favour. She frowned, every so slightly, quickly covering the reaction with another light laugh.
"I don’t think you do," she said, throwing a glance in her secretary’s direction. "You may leave us, Goeffret. I will call when I need you."
He looked surprised, but did as he was bid, withdrawing to the outer office where Martyn was busy sorting the notes we had made that morning. The Councilor leaned forward as soon as the man had left, turning our conversation into whispered conspiracy.
"Listen to me, Ellen. I know you were raised in a good family and have never been exposed to the darker sides of life, but you are a historian. You know the evil that men can do. The way they oppressed and – used – women, back before enlightened times. This – savage – that you have brought among us: he’s been here – what? Six months now?"
"Seven and a half."
"Well, exactly. And in all that time, you are the only woman he’s seen – other than the few technicians who helped wake him up, that is. That man will have - " She paused to take a deep breath, glancing around her as if afraid of being overheard. "Appetites."
She was so serious in her concern, in the way she phrased her fear and the look that she used when announcing it; it took everything I had to stop myself from laughing out loud. "I’m – sure he has," I managed instead, forcing the sniggers down with great difficulty. "That – may become a problem. In time," I added hastily. "Josephine," I said carefully, "I appreciate your concern for my welfare, but I assure you I am in no danger of being – used, as you put it. I never go into the habitat alone, and Iolaus understands that Martyn is there to – well, protect me, as well as assist me in the work.
"He is very grateful that we have rescued him and are taking care of him. He hold me in high regard. I – I remind him of his best friend’s mother. That’s how he treats me. With respect."
"He’s a savage, Ellen. He’ll turn on you when you least expect it. Look what he did to the rabbits."
I winced. That had been a rather unfortunate incident. To most people, rabbits are cute and unassuming creatures who make good pets. To Iolaus, they’re ingredients for stew, sources of fur and leather, and pests in the vegetable patch. We’d arrived one morning to find him happily binding the hilt of a newly forged sword with a strip of soft gray white fur – and the rich scent of cooked meat filling the air around the villa. I hadn’t quite known how to react; Iolaus had no idea he’d done anything wrong – and if there was fault, it was mine, rather than his. We’d talked about the sheep and the goat, and had established early on that they were there for milk and wool and nothing else. I’d never given any thought to the welfare of the rabbits.
"That was a - mistake, Josephine. That’s all. It won’t happen again."
"Maybe not." She didn’t sound convinced. "But if he can kill an innocent creature like that – without a moments thought – well, I’m just saying he can’t be trusted, that’s all. A man like that, driven by primitive instincts and desires … he’ll take what he wants, when he wants it. He won’t understand a civilised no. He’ll just laugh and have his way and – and – " She shivered, a little theatrically, while I stared at her, not quite believing what I was hearing. There had never been a time when I’d thought Iolaus might be a danger to me – and certainly not like that; the picture she was painting was a total fantasy …
It was then that I saw the look in her eyes and a cold shiver ran down my spine. It was a fantasy she was describing. Herfantasy, woven out of feelings she could neither express nor comfortably admit too. Had she been stirred, watching our bronzed hero at work – in the forge perhaps, or dancing through his morning routine – her body betraying her with the kind of desire she considered unwholesome and repugnant? She wasn’t afraid for me – or even of him – just afraid of her own reactions, and the threat they represented to her much prized self control.
That should have been her problem, not mine – but Councilor Adams has a reputation for eliminating the things that threaten her the first chance she gets. She thought that all she was doing was giving me supportive and well intentioned advice – when actually she was as good as telling me that she found Iolaus disturbing, that she was busy convincing herself and others that he might turn out to be dangerous, and that suspicion of that danger might be enough for her to lobby for action on it.
I made some reassuring noises at her, and sent her away thinking that she’d opened my eyes to something I hadn’t seen before. She had – but the danger I saw looming had nothing to do with male appetites and everything to do with witch hunts and imagined terrors. I had been so busy celebrating Iolaus as someone with a unique and refreshing approach to life that I had forgotten how many on the Board still believed that he was little more than a primitive savage.
Something to be kept safely locked in a cage …
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