Pantheon – Volume 5

By Gary Devore

Pantheon– a novel of the ancient Greek gods (e-pub version).

The gods came to earth when humans stopped believing in them as divine. Powerless but immortal, they have lived among us, witnessing and shaping history. Now the god that supplanted them has found a way they can reclaim their status and worship. He asks only one thing in return for this knowledge– They must destroy every religion in the world.

The fifth volume of this novel concerns two very different immortals. Ares, the god of war, sits down one night and tells stories of the many human wars and violent conflicts he has experienced since coming to earth. None unnerved him as much as the time he argued with a pacifist. The trickster god Hermes drags a hapless human across North Africa on a swashbuckling, grand adventure to find a hidden treasure before the authorities can catch up.

Pantheon is available as six compact volumes, or one omnibus edition.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Feb 2, 2016
• ISBN: 9781329874961

Book preview

Pantheon – Volume 5

PANTHEON

A Novel of the Greek Gods

Volume V

Ares • Hermes

By Gary Devore

Copyright

Original copyright © 2011 Gary Devore, revision copyright © 2016

This is a work of fiction. Names, character, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead or divine is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Brief chapter head quotes not by long dead Greeks and Romans used through Fair Use attribution.

PANTHEON – Volume V

ISBN-13:  978-1-329-87496-1

garydevore.com/pantheon

Image Credits: Cover- Napoleon I on the Borodino Heights by Vasily Vereshchagin (Public Domain);  A Secret from on High by Hypolite Moulin (background and color changed) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/User:Bloody_Adam (Creative Commons);  Frontispiece- The Course of Empire: Consummation by Thomas Cole (Public Domain); Ares- www.flickr.com/photos/user-colin (Creative Commons);  Hermes- www.flickr.com/photos/40586272@N03 (Creative Commons);  Back Cover- www.flickr.com/photos/jjcbaron (Creative Commons).

Preface

This fifth volume of the novel Pantheon looks at two very different immortals. 

Ares, the bloodthirsty god of war, sits down one night to tell stories about the many human wars and violent conflicts he has experienced since coming to earth.  He fought with Islamic conquest soldiers, the Vikings, Napoleon’s army, and in the trenches of WWI, but nothing unnerved him as much as the time he argued with a pacifist. 

In his story, the trickster god Hermes drags a hapless human across North Africa on a swashbuckling grand adventure to find a hidden treasure buried in the sands of the Sahara.  They must race to a forgotten Roman ruin and avoid nefarious Germans, clandestine antiquities agents, and Libyan armed forces.

For more volumes, and the full, epic story of Pantheon, visit garydevore.com/pantheon.

a r e s

god of war

"Comrades, although we know great Hector

To be a master of the spear and a bold man of battle,

Ares the god walks beside him, hurling violence,

In the guise of a mortal man"

–Homer, The Iliad

First they ignore you, then they laugh at you, then they fight you, then you win.

–Mahatma Gandhi (attributed)

Recorded 15 October

Buenos Aires, Argentina

Side one of cassette tape:

This isn’t a fucking memoir.  I’m not going to justify a thing.  I have no regrets.  And this isn’t an autobiography.  I’m doing this to tell you what I’m thinking.

Sylvia’s gone to the coast.  She’ll be there until tomorrow afternoon.  I plan to sit here tonight and talk.  She’ll never hear this.  It’s for me and you, Mark. 

You asked how I could do what I do.  Well, I’ll tell you how.  And why. 

I bought this tape recorder.  Down in the hotel gift shop.  Can you believe they still make these things?  For fucking hipsters probably.  I didn’t have any of their fucking worthless money so I had to put it on Sylvia’s card. 

I’ll be the veteran tonight.  I’ll tell my war stories to this little silver microphone.  Rehash old battles.  Relive old victories.  And show you myself under all the corpses. 

I never told you any of my stories.  You never asked to hear them.  I have a bunch of them.  My life's endless, but I fucking hate being bored.  Fighting’s the only thing I enjoy.  Really enjoy. 

Men have kept me busy through the centuries.  Fighting over whose sheep was whose.  They crusaded against heathens.  And they always needed soldiers.  Men love to fight each other with weapons.  I love to fight men with weapons. 

Everything you have you have because some man went out to kill another man with a weapon.  Don’t forget that, Mark.  Never forget that.

When you called you wondered if I ever get tired of it.  Tired of fighting?  I guess a human in my place might have by now.  But, no.  I’ve never gotten tired of fighting.  It’s what I do best.

I feel something when I stand on a battlefield.  It’s not danger.  I’m immortal.  No one can fucking hurt me.  And it’s not just the power.  Too much power can be a pain in the ass. 

It’s hard to explain.  That feeling, ...my feeling, when you fight in a battle–  A fucking overwhelming sense of... of purpose.  Of the Now.  Battles are fought by men.  And those men are always scared and brave, confused and directed, murderers and martyrs.  But every action, every thought, is directed towards one thing: destroying the enemy.  Killing him.  Routing him.  Breaking his company or his body apart.  It happens.  You feel it happening.  I feel it happening.  It’s potent.  It’s fucking great. 

I stopped caring who won or who lost a long time ago.  Those are human concerns.  I’m there to live the action.  The violence.  The compulsion.  Just like a man. 

That’s what I do.

It started right after I was made.  Or, at least, made in this form. 

That would take too much goddamn time to explain.  As far as I can remember, it was around fourteen hundred human years ago.  It doesn’t seem that long to me. 

Well, it wouldn’t, would it? 

My first time... my first time wasn’t even a battle.  Just a... a scuffle.  A bunch of nomads angry at Arabs.  I remember joining in as soon as I came across them.  Leaping over stones and hitting humans with my fists.  It was... an uncontrollable urge.  I don’t even think I picked a side.  I just started hitting the closest human to me.  I crushed his ribs with my fist.  I smashed another’s face on my thigh.  They all ran away.  I was left standing in the middle of a pile of bodies. 

That was my first experience with the battle lust.  With the feeling. 

That little fight on the edge of a deserted desert oasis satisfied my craving.  Finally, I knew what I should do.  Or could do.  I found my calling.

And one more thing’s for sure, Mark, it fucking made me want more. 

I went everywhere in those days.  All over the world.  The world was my battleground.  I looked for men.  I made them fight.  I spread lies and laid plans.  Set tribe against tribe.  City against city.  Race against race.  And when they drew their weapons, I was there.  Drinking their rage in every drop of blood they shed.

Eventually, I found I liked being in the background more than being at the head of the army.  A soldier fights more than a five star general. 

I guess it was Muhammad’s jihad that gave me my first real taste of combat.  Mortal combat.  It was the first time I really fought alongside humans in what they thought was a war. 

And this wasn’t just a scuffle.  This was a fucking great Holy War.  There’s a difference when men know they’re fighting for a cause and not just a pile of dirt.  It adds strength.  It adds character.  And most of all, it adds drive.  I suppose it’s easier for a mortal to risk death if he thinks he’s morally right, or whatever.  Or, in the case of Muhammad’s men, if they’re promised an eternal life in exchange for their real one.

I went to Bedouin land first.  The tribes were controlled by mighty warriors.  I remember it.  They were large, tough people living in the desert.  Their clans were based on who was strongest, and who was the son of what famous warrior. 

I wasn’t accepted.  I looked and acted like a foreigner.   Like a fucking Greek I guess.  So for a long time I lived by myself in the desert.  I’d wait until there was a battle... or a raid or whatever.  Then I’d join in, fight, and leave as soon as it was over.  Usually the humans didn’t even notice I was there.  They were too caught up in it all.  I learned how to ride a horse there though.  The Bedouins were great horsemen.  I lost a lot of horses too.  A lot of them dropped dead from exhaustion because I ran them so hard. 

Anyway, Muhammad had raised an army from these tribal warriors.  Off they marched on their stupid Holy War against the unbelievers.  I really didn’t know at the time what they were fighting for.  Living alone, I hadn’t learned their language well enough yet.  A big part of it too was I just didn’t give a shit.  As long as there was a battle I could fight in I was happy.  But when I saw Muhammad’s well-organized army heading off, I knew something fucking big was going down.

I followed them for a while.  They finally stopped at the foot of a hill.  A little ways off across a valley I saw another army waiting for them.  This other army outnumbered them.  I could see that.  Vultures were perched behind each side.  Even they knew a great battle was going to happen.  So I got ready to join in. 

I rode to a little oasis some ways away.  Two soldiers of Muhammad’s army were there watering their horses.  They looked like scouts.  I surprised them and killed them quickly.  I didn’t want to but I needed their clothes.  I needed to look like one of Muhammad’s soldiers. 

I put on one of their dusty brown caftans, tied it at the waist with a sash, and a pair of baggy pants.  I found a saffron dyed scarf at the bottom of one of the scout’s pack and tied it around my head as a turban.  I checked my reflection in my sword.  My features are very European, but with the clothes and my desert-tanned skin, I knew I could pass for a soldier of fucking Islam.  If they’d been scouts for the other side, I would have fought on the other side.  But the Fates put me on Muhammad’s.

Maybe that’s why he won.  How’s that for fucking sacrilegious? 

The armies clashed before I could get back.  They were fighting already.  I rode into the middle of the front line.  My goddamn horse didn’t want to go, but I pulled her so tight towards the army that she began to spit blood over the bit in her mouth. 

I had a sword in my hand, a great, long, heavy mother-fucking sword.  I’d gotten it a while before off the corpse of a huge man I’d killed.  It was as sharp as a razor, and splintered bone when it struck.  The first enemy I found, I swung it at his head.  The blade slid through his neck.  It pinged as the metal hit the spine and severed it.  The enemy’s head hit the guy next to him.  He was so fucking horrified that he didn’t see me.  I got him on the back swing.

I pushed my horse through their line.  One soldier swung his sword at me and missed.  Another could only hit the flank of my horse as I galloped past.  She cried out.  I swung her around and charged them from behind.  The mare knew exactly what I wanted to do.  She was as pissed as I was that he’d hit her.  I dug my heels into her sides and drove her right over him.  He crumpled under her hooves.  I even heard his fucking back break.  I swung my sword and killed another soldier as she sent the corpse sailing with a sharp kick from her hind legs.

I gripped the pommel of my sword tighter and thrust it into another body that threw itself in my path.  They pressed in on me.  The horse pranced as soldiers tried to grab her reins.  I sent another head spinning before I brought the blade down on the arms of the man who was grabbing my horse.  He screamed and fell backwards.  His bloody arm still hung from the reins.  It flopped against the horse and finally fell into the dust as we galloped away.

I did this sort of thing for a long time.  I kept concentrating on the front line.  I’d come at them from the front, break through, wheel around, and attack from behind.  The rest of Muhammad’s army got the idea after a while and did the same thing.  The enemy soldiers found themselves confused and surrounded.  We crushed them.

Of course it was dangerous from a practical point of view.  I was stabbed many times.  Each time, though, I pulled out the point and the wound healed itself.  As long as they didn’t try to something drastic and cut my fucking head off, I had nothing to be scared of.

My horse wasn’t immortal, though.  When the whole thing was winding down, and I sensed the enemy was about to be routed, I took off.  We galloped back into the hills.  My horse was bleeding and exhausted.  She took a wrong step and tripped, throwing me off the saddle.  She went down and couldn’t get up again.  I put the old girl out of her misery and walked the rest of the way back to the oasis.  She was a good horse. 

You know, she hasn’t entered my thoughts for centuries.  Been dust for that long, but I can still remember the way she smelled if I try.

Anyway, I found out later that after the battle, some of the soldiers said that they’d seen angels on the battlefield.  These angels were on horses that breathed flames, and hooves that never touched the ground.  They had swords and chopped off the enemies’ heads before the mortal soldiers could reach them.  They wore bleached white turbans with one piece flapping behind in the wind while they galloped along.  Gabriel, the angel commander, led them.  He wore a yellow turban!

But now that turban was covered in splattered blood.  I stripped off my robes and bathed.  My arms and legs were dusty and bloody too.  War and fucking would both be much more fun if they were less messy.  I had to throw away most of the clothes I’d worn.  But I kept the turban and used it the next time too.

I followed the army through Syria.  Each time they fought, I came out of nowhere and fought with them.  Soon, some of them started to recognize me.  They even looked for me at the start of the battle and called Gabriel... Gabriel.

I played along for a while.  The army pushed further and further west.  After we took Mecca, Muhammad died.  The army kept raiding though.  Into Byzantium and Persia.  Wave after wave of conquest. 

I didn’t have an idea really about what they were fighting for.  I was anonymous to them.  I only ever saw Muhammad from a distance.  He wasn’t very tall.  Actually his head was large and looked out of proportion with the rest of his body.  But he was strong.  He had black hair and beard.  Big broad forehead too.  He was always dressed like a fucking king.

We made a crescent from Syria, through North Africa, into Spain.  When the Europeans pushed them back from France, the Muslims decided to settle down.  Call off the jihad for a while.  So I left them.  I went north.  North into the cold of northern Europe.  From hot deserts to freezing snow.  It took a while, but I did find more men who were more than willing to kill each other.

A lot’s been said about the Vikings.  Most of it complete bullshit.  They’ve been made into both fucking romantic gladiators and dirt-stupid brutes.  They weren’t heroes sailing around founding new lands.  They were pirates, slavers and killers.  Outcasts pushed to the coast by overpopulation.  Clans choosing the easiest way to make a living in the old world.  They pillaged.

These savage warriors burst out of the North without warning.  They’d kill everyone they didn’t sell into slavery.  Young, old, man, woman, priest, monk– it didn’t matter.  The Christians called them evil.  To them, the Vikings were God’s instruments.  He’d use them to cause Judgment Day.  And it almost came.  They brought kingdoms to their knees.  People lost hope. 

Now that was fucking power.

So I went looking for them.  I found a clan standing in the smoky remains of a village on the coast.  Picking through what was left from their destruction the day before.  They were surprised to see me.  After all, even in armor I wasn’t nearly as tall or as big as them.  Maybe they thought I was some crusader from the local church.  A holy paladin.  Someone they could pummel without a problem.

I’d picked up some of their crude language from the Frisians in northern Gaul.  I told them, simply, that I wanted to join their clan.  They laughed.  One chucked his fucking spear at me.  I swerved in time.  It missed my head.  So I challenged the one who threw it to a wrestling match.  They laughed again as I peeled off my armor. 

I stepped up to him when I was ready.  I only had my tunic on.  He was over a head taller than me.  He smelled like alcohol and sweat.  He put his hand on my shoulder, still laughing.  He wanted to sweep me aside.  But I grabbed his arm with both hands and twisted it downwards.  He lost his balance for a second.  I pulled it behind his back before he could retaliate.  He let out a grunt as I tried to force him down.  But his feet were planted.  I could only reach up and curve my arm around his fucking neck from behind.  My feet worked to knock his legs out from under him while he tried to punch me with his other arm. 

He was a strong human.  His fist landed a couple times before he finally pitched forward.  I rode him down.  His face hit the ground.  Blood squirted out as his nose broke.  I didn’t waste time.  I drew the other hand back.  He was too surprised to resist at first.  My grip held when he finally tried to.  I kept him lying flat with my knees.  I dug them into his fucking kidneys.  My hands clutched his arms.  All he could do was breathe in the dirt.

One of the other Vikings in the group had stepped forward.  He was older than all of them, but still muscular.  His robes were bulky and heavy.  I guessed he was their leader.  One of his eyes had been gouged out.  His right one.  He squinted down at us, watching, waiting to see what I’d do next.

I didn’t keep him waiting long.  I grabbed both sides of the back of the large man’s head and snapped his fucking neck in one motion.  The old man’s good eye closed even further.  The rest of the warriors were silent.  I stood up and adjusted my tunic. 

The old man finally spoke in a low grumble.  He asked my name.  I told him it was Modi.  He chuckled and said he was Thorgier, their leader.  I told Thorgier again how I wanted to