Chapter 8

THE LION-HEADED GOD

Artemis watched him.

At least that’s how it felt to Theo every time he walked through the Greek and Roman collection at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. He avoided the far end of the gallery entirely, where an ancient bronze of the young Huntress, her arms flung wide after just releasing her arrow, stared over the tourists’ heads with silvered eyes.

But the goddess was everywhere. Her sharp profile painted on vases, her lithe body sculpted in metal or clay or marble. Each image reminded Theo of the woman he’d loved and lost, yet none of them were his Selene. The short tunic and knee-high sandals were nothing like the baggy clothes and heavy boots she favored. The youthful archer in the bronze statue had none of the cares that had creased his lover’s brow. The simple terra-cotta figurines could not move with her grace. The flat vase paintings forgot her smile—and her more frequent glare.

Apollo watched, too, of course. Artemis’s twin brother with his sculpted lyre and laurel wreath. And Mars. Hades. Prometheus. All those Theo had been unable to save when the Host began to hunt down the city’s immortals. He felt the reproach in their eyes and walked faster. Today, he had a different god to meet.

A long line stretched before the entrance to the special exhibit, nearly blocking the banner: MITHRAS AND MAYHEM.

“The sensationalist alliteration was your idea, I take it,” he said to the man waiting for him beside the crowd.

“You know it.” In a faded Wrath of Khan T-shirt, Steve Atwood looked more like the head of a college sci-fi club than of the Met’s Onassis Library for Hellenic and Roman Art. He’d proudly refused to conform to the museum’s unofficial male dress code: glasses, balding, white. Instead, with the dreadlocks gathered on top of his otherwise shorn head and the perennial gleam in his eye, he looked like a mischievous black samurai—an impression he proudly admitted to cultivating.

Despite the doubts of many an Upper East Side dowager, Steve had managed to pull together the Met’s most popular exhibit ever in the span of only six months. The existence of the Olympians—and Mithras’s direct connection to Jesus—remained a secret. But the final battle atop the Statue of Liberty, when Selene and Theo had defeated the Host, had been impossible to hide completely. The bodies of the dead syndexioi had led to the discovery of the hidden mithraeum beneath Saint Patrick’s Cathedral, full of ancient artifacts and high-tech torture devices. The existence of a secret temple practicing human sacrifice in the middle of Midtown had sent the city into a frenzy of conspiracy-theorizing and ignited a passionate interest in Roman cults.

Theo eyed the crowd skeptically. “All those years I spent trying to make classics cool through compelling lectures and witty essays—I should’ve just killed a few people instead.” He barked an angry laugh. “Works like a charm.”

Steve, oblivious to his misery, flashed his museum ID to cut the line. “If people keep reviving ancient mystery cults, we’re going to have to make this a permanent exhibit. I’m thinking Classical Crazies: Making Sacrifices for All of Us.” He winced before Theo could. “Sorry, man. I keep forgetting about—you know.”

“It’s okay.” But it wasn’t. As Steve well knew, the first cult to terrorize Manhattan had claimed Helen Emerson, Theo’s ex-girlfriend, as its victim. Less than three months later, the Mithraists had killed Selene. He’d trade every minute of renewed interest in classics for one more second with the women he’d loved.

“By the way, thanks for the dinner invite last night,” Steve said, clearly trying to change the subject. He didn’t know Selene was a goddess—but he knew Theo had loved her. Even more than Ruth, Steve tried to avoid the “dead girlfriend” subject whenever possible.

“Wish I could claim credit, but the invitation was the ladies’ idea,” Theo admitted. “I think they wanted to make sure I had a friend to talk to when Minh’s coworkers started rattling on about quasars.”

Steve laughed. “Yeah, even Ruth Willever looked bored when that came up, and I thought she was incapable of expressing any emotion besides polite engagement.”

“No, she definitely has plenty of other emotions.” Theo thought of her hand settling on his thigh.

“Yeah, I’m starting to get that impression.”

On another day, Steve’s admiring tone would’ve invited closer scrutiny. But as they walked past the various artifacts on loan from museums around the world, Theo could think of nothing but his research. Most of the pieces in the gallery were tauroctonies: statues, reliefs, and frescoes of Mithras standing astride a bull with his knife at its throat, surrounded by a scorpion, crow, snake, and dog.

“I’m afraid I never want to see another tauroctony,” he grumbled. “I’ve spent way too much time with them already.”

“Don’t worry,” Steve assured him. “What I’ve got to show you is much cooler than the same old Mithras-kills-the-bull crap.” He led the way through the throng and into a darkened gallery.

A three-foot-tall statue of a creature with a man’s body and a feline face stood in a pool of light.

“Say hello to the Lion-Headed God.”

“Holy Roman Empire,” Theo cursed, taking a step closer.

“Yeah. Except not exactly holy. He looks more like a demon, doesn’t he?” Steve sounded like a kid gleefully shivering over his first horror film. “Or a fallen angel, you know, with the wings.”

“I didn’t even notice the wings, there’s so much else going on.” Four small feathered appendages grew from the lion-headed creature’s body, two from his shoulders and two from his hips, like a grotesque butterfly. A thick snake twined its way up his naked form, leaving just enough space between its coils to display the lion-headed creature’s very human penis. The snake’s head rested atop the lion’s mane like a diadem. In each hand, the creature held a strange, L-shaped implement.

“You recognize him?” Steve prodded.

“I’ve never seen anything like him. With the animal head and his posture, he looks almost Egyptian. Where did you—”

“Archeologists found similar statues in several Mithraic temples around the world, side by side with the tauroctonies. This particular beauty was originally found in the ruins in Ostia, but the Vatican Museum owns it now. You know those Catholics—nothing they love more than collecting pagan art, hypocrites that they are. My bosses got it on loan because it’s so freaking bizarre that it gets more press for the exhibit. They didn’t think our own version was dramatic enough.”

“Your own version? I’ve never noticed anything like this in the Met.”

“Turn around, buddy, and meet our newest acquisition.” He gestured to a small display case on the opposite wall. “We found this little guy down under Saint Patrick’s.”

Theo pulled himself away from the larger statue and peered into the case. A crude terra-cotta figurine, no more than six inches tall. It had the same lion’s head and twisting snake, the same L-shaped tools and four wings. But this creature balanced atop a sphere like a clown at the circus.

“We think the ball he’s standing on could be a celestial sphere,” Steve offered. “Especially since you explained that our local cult members believed Mithras controlled the movement of the heavens.”

“Mm-hm,” Theo murmured. He’d walked a fine line for months, sharing most of his Mithras knowledge first with the police and then with Steve, while withholding the ultimate secret of the cult leader’s identity. Not for the first time, Theo wished he could explain to his friend that Saturn—the ancient Greco-Roman god who just happened to be his dead girlfriend’s grandfather—was the cult’s true focus. Steve would shit himself if he knew. But having Gabriela and Ruth in on the secret of the Olympians’ existence was dangerous enough. Steve would never be able to resist mounting a whole exhibition about it. “Gods-zilla” or “Gods-smacked” or some other nonsense.

“I haven’t even gotten to the good stuff yet,” continued Steve. “You asked me to keep an eye out for anything related to Pythagoras or the tetractys figure, right?”

“Yeah …”

“Well, I got nothing on number theory. But you also said to look out for anything about rebirth or reincarnation.” Steve gestured Theo toward the next gallery and led him to a marble relief of a young man emerging from a broken eggshell. A thick snake wrapped his naked body, and feathered wings hung from his shoulders. The animals of the zodiac surrounded him in a perfect oval border. His face was human rather than leonine, and he carried a torch instead of L-shaped tools, but otherwise the resemblance to the Mithraic lion-god was undeniable.

“You know what that eggshell means.” Steve looked immensely proud of himself.

“Creation, life cycle, and—”

Resurrection. You’re welcome, by the way.”

“But the lion-headed god was on a sphere,” Theo began.

“Yeah, I know, but come on! They’re obviously just different versions of the same god. Like Zeus and Jupiter—or Artemis and Diana.”

Theo tried not to flinch at the reference. “But what god?”

“I didn’t recognize him at first either,” Steve said with only a hint of condescension, “but I did a little digging and found several similar figures depicted on mosaics and frescoes in a few European museums. Young man. Snake. Wings. He’s not an Olympian—not part of the standard classical pantheon at all. But he shows up in a couple different sources as the ‘Protogonos.’”

“Like … a proto-god?”

Ding ding ding! And not just any old proto-god. This one’s specifically worshiped by initiates into the Orphic Mysteries.” He held up a hand. “I know what you’re going to say … there’s never been a connection between followers of Mithras and followers of Orpheus. But check it out.” Steve pointed to the faint Latin words inscribed at the base of the relief. “This beauty was once owned by an ancient initiate into the Mithraic cult. And look at the zodiac border! You’re the one who told me the bull and scorpion on the tauroctony were constellation references. So the symbolism is definitely both Orphic and Mithraic.”

Theo couldn’t even protest. He’d seen how cults combined—and stole—rituals and deities from each other. Saturn had inserted Mithraism into Christianity, after all. But was it really possible that he’d injected Orphism into Mithraism as well?

“I only know the usual Orpheus myth.” He’d found the story of the legendary musician’s journey to the Underworld especially poignant since Selene’s death, although he didn’t need to admit that to Steve. “I don’t know anything about his cult or his followers.”

“Of course not,” Steve said with a grin. “No one does. It’s one of the most mysterious of all mystery cults! They left behind no temples—only a few of the gold leaves they put around the necks of their dead. But we do know the Orphics were big into hymns, and we’ve still got a bunch of the texts, each dedicated to a different god—including one to our friend the Protogonos. They thought he was the first god. A primordial deity who cracked open an egg to create the world. Then the Mithraists popped a lion’s head on him and turned his egg into a celestial sphere.” He finally paused for breath. “Now as to why they did that?” He pointed a finger at Theo. “I was hoping you could tell me. You’re the Mithras expert.”

Because Saturn was trying to regain his omnipotence—and he’d steal power from any number of gods to do it, Theo almost blurted. He settled for, “Because the cult initiates thought they could resurrect Mithras. They couldn’t resist any god associated with rebirth and reincarnation.”

Steve laughed aloud. “I get that the ancients thought that. But the dudes hanging out under Saint Patrick’s? They really believed they could resurrect their god? Totally looney tunes.”

Theo forced an answering smile. Except they weren’t crazy at all. Saturn did get more powerful through his ritual sacrifices. Everything he did had a purpose. Which means if the Mithraists believed the lion-headed creature could help resurrect a god … then he can help me do the same thing. He sucked in a breath. The key to reincarnation lies not in some divine numerical pattern—but in the Protogonos. He can bring back Selene.

He felt as if an abyss had suddenly opened in what he’d thought was solid ground. He teetered there on the edge, arms pinwheeling to remain upright. Was he really about to abandon his research into Pythagoras and start down the path of a far more esoteric cult instead? And would this Orphic-Mithraic deity even hold the answers he sought?

The Protogonos should be the farthest back I can reach—the very first god, he thought desperately. But I know better. If I look beyond his myths, I’ll find someone else. And someone else again. And when there are finally no gods left to study, I’ll fall tumbling into Khaos, the chasm of nothingness from which the world was born. And I may never climb out again.

“You look a little green, my man.” Steve cocked his head.

“No, just putting it all together,” Theo lied.

“I thought you’d be psyched.” Steve rubbed his hands gleefully. “Now that we know about the Mithras connection, I’m going to bust open the whole Orphism mystery like the Protogonos cracking the World Egg. You should go check out the Rodin sculpture on the second floor. I put a little extra Orphic something up there that I think you’ll appreciate.”

Theo nodded distractedly and turned to go.

“Hold up! I didn’t mean right this second. Don’t you want to see the collection of zodiac-symbol branding irons we found in the Saint Patrick’s mithraeum? They’ll blow your mind.”

“No, trust me, I’ve seen them.” He scratched self-consciously at the Mercury symbol hidden beneath his shirt. At Steve’s bewildered stare, he added hurriedly, “I’m fine. I just—this is a lot to take in. I’ll go look at the sculpture. I just …” He wasn’t even sure how to finish the sentence. Just wasted six months of my life on Pythagorean number theory for no reason?

His feet carried him out of the gallery and up a flight of stairs to the Nineteenth-Century European Sculpture wing. He stood before a white marble Rodin. A naked man in polished stone raised a hand to cover his eyes. Behind him stood a woman, her lips parted as if in exhaustion or pain, her half-carved hair emerging from the rough-hewn stone that loomed behind them.

“Who’s that guy?” a voice piped from beside him, interrupting his reverie.

The little boy’s head barely cleared the statue’s base. Theo looked around for a parent and saw a woman in sweatpants sitting cross-legged on a bench, staring at her cell phone.

“Is that your mom?”

“Nanny,” the boy said, not bothering to look. “She doesn’t know anything about statues. Do you?”

Theo cleared his throat. “I know about this one.”

“I like it,” the boy said, pointing a chubby finger at the marble man. “I just want to know why he’s covering his eyes.”

“He’s Orpheus,” Theo began. He remembered the first time he’d read the myth. He’d been only a little older than this boy, but it had stuck with him for the rest of his life. “He had a lyre. That’s like a—”

“Like a harp,” the boy interrupted.

“Yeah,” Theo said, surprised. He liked young children; he just wasn’t sure whether to treat them like puppies or colleagues. “Well, they say Orpheus played music so sweet that the animals would gather at his feet to listen. Even the rocks rolled close to hear his song.”

The boy nodded. “Cool.”

“He fell in love with a girl named Eurydice. But they were only happy for a few short months before a viper rose up and bit her on the foot. She died.” He stopped, wondering suddenly if this story was too scary for a kid. But the boy just stared up at him expectantly. Theo went on. “Orpheus traveled all the way to the Underworld to get her back. Hades, Lord of the Dead, and his wife, Persephone, laughed at him. No one who dies can be resurrected. But then Orpheus began to play a dirge. A song of mourning so bittersweet, so beautiful, that Persephone, cold Queen of the Dead, dissolved into sobs. ‘Make him stop,’ she begged her husband, ‘or I’ll drown in my own tears.’ So Hades relented. He let Orpheus lead his love out from death, on one condition.” Theo paused for effect. The boy was still listening. “On the journey from the Underworld, Orpheus must never look back to check that Eurydice followed him. True love requires trust.

“So, lyre clutched in his hands, Orpheus began the long trek back to the world of the living.” Perhaps, if Steve is right, Theo thought, Orpheus wasn’t alone. A snake-twined, four-winged, lion-headed god might have flown before him, leading the way. But for now, Theo stuck to the myth he knew.

“Orpheus couldn’t hear Eurydice’s footsteps behind him, but he trusted that she followed—at least at first. Then a cold dread gripped him, and he grew convinced that she’d turned back or fallen behind or had never chosen to come in the first place. Just steps from freedom, from life, from happiness … Orpheus looked back.”

The boy’s mouth gaped open.

“He caught one glimpse of his love’s horror-stricken face before the hand of death swirled forward and snatched her away once more.”

Sudden tears sprang to the boy’s eyes. He gave a tiny, hiccupping sob.

“Oh shit,” Theo began. “I mean, darn, I didn’t mean—”

The nanny jumped up from the bench, finally attentive, and grabbed the boy by the arm. “Come on, Ben.” Theo was convinced he was about to be arrested, but the woman seemed angrier with the boy. “Stop bothering the gentleman.” She dragged the kid off to the next gallery, leaving Theo alone with Orpheus.

I know how you must have felt, he thought, staring at the marble man with his covered eyes. To have love ripped away just as you thought it’d be yours forever. There was only one difference.

I trusted, he reminded himself. I wouldn’t have looked back, I didn’t look back. I trusted her with my heart and she broke it in half. His last memory of Selene returned: her silver eyes full of tears as she pried herself free of his arms and plummeted through the night. Snatched away by the hand of death.

Orpheus himself, if he’d ever existed, was no Athanatos. He was long dead. Yet Theo couldn’t resist offering a prayer to his shade. You found a way. You almost brought back your love.

“Please,” he whispered aloud. “Teach me the secret of resurrection. Tell me if it’s you or your religion or your lion-headed god. And I swear, upon the dark waters of the Styx, that I will succeed where you failed.”

Beside the statue hung a set of headphones. The nearby placard explained that scholars had recently uncovered the musical notation for the Orphic Hymn to Protogonos.

Listen to a musician play the melody on a re-created ancient lyre, it invited, and imagine Orpheus himself playing it to escape the Underworld.

A bit fanciful for the Met, Theo thought, but the patrons will love it. Typical Steve.

He put on the headphones. The lyre twanged percussively, more like an Indian sitar than a modern harp, each new note reverberating into a chord that resonated somewhere deep in his mind. He thought of his paltry Pythagorean instrument with its single string. He’d wanted to simplify his impossible quest to its purest essence—mathematical ratios, numbers on a page. Comprehensible, rational, straightforward. But the mysteries of death and life were not so clear—and neither, for all its grounding in math, was music. The ancient Orphic hymn that pulsed through the headphones was heart and soul and memory.

I remember this tune, he realized suddenly. He looked again at the placard. Archeologists had only recently discovered the musical notation carved into a marble grave marker, so why did he feel he could sing along with the melody? Why did it conjure such a vivid image of a naked man standing in front of an open fridge, humming the song as he twirled his copious chest hair with one hand and pawed through moldy leftovers with the other?

Theo ripped off the headphones with a groan. I knew that if I looked beyond the Orphic Protogonos, I’d find another god. I just really hoped it wouldn’t be this one.

A decade earlier, this particular Athanatos had spent four years as Theo’s grad school roommate, luring him into drunken revelries that usually ended with him feeling both physically ill and morally compromised—when he could remember them at all.

This time, Theo resolved, when Dennis Boivin offers me a cup of wine, I’m going to refuse. But he’d sworn the same thing many times when facing the God of the Grape. It had never worked. Then again, a little immoral hedonism would be a small price to pay for his ultimate goal.

To resurrect Selene, I’ll go wherever I have to, he knew. And unlike Orpheus, I’ll never look back.