Jupiter Myth

XXXII

A sunlit street. Not much of a street by Roman standards, but feebly shaping up. It is morning, though not early. Whatever is happening has had to be approved, planned out, and put in hand.

A back-alley bar has a portrait of a short-legged, punk-faced Ganymede offering his lopsided ambrosia cup to some invisible sex-mad Jupiter. Waiters from the Ganymede stand halfway down the street, in conversation with a waiter from another place, the Swan. Its painted sign shows a huge randy duck pinning down a naked girl. All the waiters are talking about a dead baker. Everyone in the streets today is talking about him. By tomorrow he will be old news, but today on this fine morning, his grim fate is the main talking point.

Even so, the morning glows. There is little feeling of menace, just a faint lowing from a stable somewhere, the scent of eggs frying, a smooth-haired dog with a long snout, scratching herself. Between the pantiled roofs of the ramshackle properties is a narrow glimpse of clear blue sky, subtly more mellow than blue skies in Italy.

On the opposite side of the street from the two bars, a locksmith comes to his doorway to speak to a neighbor. They too are probably discussing the dead baker. They glance across at the group of gossiping waiters, but do not join them. After subdued words, the locksmith shakes his head. His neighbor does not linger.

The locksmith returns to his booth, and a man walks toward the Ganymede. He is confident and worldly, his pace jaunty. As he approaches the bar, a small group of soldiers appear out of nowhere. Swiftly they back the man against a wall, hands up. He submits to a search, laughing. He has done this before. He knows they cannot touch him. Even when they march him away, he is jaunty. The waiters, having watched what happened, return at once to their individual bars.

At the Ganymede, soldiers step out and arrest them. A man-tall, broad-shouldered, calm, brown-haired-goes in to search the joint. Another- sturdy, efficient, curly dark hair, handsome-identifies himself to the soldiers and follows the first inside the bar. Later they emerge, with nothing. Disappointed, they hold a short discussion, apparently about tactics. The bar is sealed. A soldier stays on guard.

The street is peaceful.

Elsewhere, at a barber's, a customer is in the chair half shaved. Two men in plain clothes, though with military bearing, come up quietly and speak to him. He listens courteously. He removes the napkin from under his chin, apologizing to the barber, who steps back, looking anxious. The customer shrugs. He places coins in his barber's hand, waving away objections, then he goes with the two officers who have sought him out. He has the air of an influential person who has found himself the victim of a serious mistake. His pained demeanor shows that he is too sophisticated, and perhaps too important, to create a public fuss about this error. It will be sorted. Once his explanation has been accepted by people in authority, there will be trouble. There is a faint implication that some high-handed fool will pay dearly.

The disconcerted barber returns to his business. The next customer stands up quietly but does not take the shaving seat. He says a few words. The barber looks surprised, then scared; he goes away with the man, who has dark curly hair and a firm step. That shop too is closed up and sealed.

Another street lies peaceful now. The operation has gone well so far: Pyro and Splice, and some of their associates, have been lifted on the orders of the governor.