The Temple of the Muses(57)

Near the thing’s putrid-looking lips and paralleling them were ridges of stone, also in the shape of those lips but not so prominently carved, as if the sculptor had begun one set, then changed his mind and carved another without destroying the first effort. Then I ran my fingertips over the lion’s teeth and found there were two sets. The easily visible teeth were much longer. In front of them were shorter teeth, offset in serried order like legionaries standing in open formation. I felt the interior of the mouth. The tongue was oddly rippled and I noticed that the roof of the mouth had been painted black. Why black? So as not to reflect light?

I looked to the pool of light where Ataxas had knelt, his hands clasped to his belly. And what had he been doing? Holding a silver bowl. A silver bowl much like the ones I had seen in Iphicrates’s study.

I searched the sanctum and found a table that held boxes of incense and the silver bowl. I took the bowl and walked back to the pool of light. Another quick scan for watchers, and I held the bowl low and directed its reflected light to the face of Baal-Ahriman. Carefully, I shifted the bowl, making the spot of light move along the god’s mouth and jaws. The ridges and false lips and serried teeth had been exquisitely placed to reflect light alternately, so that only one set at a time showed. The effect was that the jaw seemed to move as the light played across it. But what of the flashes of light that had seemed to shoot from the mouth? Even as the thought occurred to me, a wisp of incense smoke drifted past the statue’s face, and the light reflected startlingly from the white smoke. The silver bowl had contained frankincense, and Ataxas had dumped it into the brazier before going down on his knees. Every aspect of the effect had been carefully planned.

“What are you doing here?”

I almost dropped the bowl as I whirled around. It was Ataxas, flanked by a pair of brawny acolytes. It is never a good idea to get too absorbed in your work, however fascinating it may be.

“Why, I was just admiring your handiwork. First-rate design; you have my congratulations.”

“I have no idea what you are talking about, but you profane our holy of holies. And, Roman, why are you dressed as a desert nomad?” It seemed to me that his heavy Eastern accent was slipping a little.

“The streets aren’t safe for Romans these days.” I looked for a fast-exit route. “Something about your god’s predictions.”

His eyebrows went up in exaggerated puzzlement. “But my Lord said nothing about Romans.”

“No need to. Your message came across well enough.”

“You talk in riddles. You are not wanted here, Roman. Go while you still have your life.”

“Do you threaten me, you Oriental fraud?” I demanded.

He smiled, placed spread fingertips against his breast and bowed. “But how could a humble priest out of Asia Minor constitute a threat to an envoy of the mighty Roman Empire?”

“Sarcasm should be left to those with the wit to deliver it well.”

He turned to his flankers. “My sons, expel this man.” The two unfolded their arms and came for me.

I would never have accounted myself as any sort of professional swordsman, but I always took a certain pride in my capacity as a brawler. As the one on the right closed. I floored him with a left hook to which my caestus gave added authority. The man went down with a splintered jawbone.

The other fancied himself a wrestler and went for the classic cross-buttock throw, which I foiled by sticking the point of my dagger into his left armpit. He jumped back howling. I did not wish to complicate an already deteriorating situation with homicide, which I thought displayed admirable restraint on my part. I could have gone for my sword and killed both of them easily.

Now Ataxas was yelling, calling for guards and acolytes and priestesses and the legions of the faithful to come and slaughter this impudent Roman for him. I took the hint and deemed myself unwelcome. On winged heels I flew from the Temple of Baal-Ahriman, stashing my weapons beneath my clothes as I did so. Ataxas pursued me, but his long, heavy robes hampered him. I was down the steps and heading for a side street before he even got out of the sanctum. The people I passed were too far from him to hear his words and only blinked in puzzlement as I ran past them. But I could hear sounds of pursuit beginning behind me.

Alexandria, I found, was not an easy place in which to shake pursuit. It was all those straight, wide streets. My beloved Rome was different. A veritable rabbit warren of a city, Rome featured so many twisting streets and narrow alleys that a few paces would carry you out of sight of those who thirsted for your blood. I ran from many a rampaging mob in my day, and no few assassins, and even a jealous husband or two, and I knew that the best way to lose pursuers was to get lost yourself. After all, if you didn’t know where you were, how could they be expected to find you?