The Glory That Was

Chapter Twelve

The street door opened. In came a man as tall as Bulnes, with bushy eyebrows, a patriarchal nose, and a graying beard down to his solar plexus. Behind him a younger man with a mass of papyrus-rolls under his arm looked askance at Bulnes, though the older one seemed to find nothing amiss.

"Bouleus of Tartessos? Bouleus of Tartessos? Do I know you, my dear fellow? Thank you, Melite, but you had better go back into the gynaikonitis like a good girl. What said you your name was, my dear sir?"

Bulnes told him again.

"Ah, yes, I remember. Why you scoundrel, you are the barbarian who caused such an unseemly disturbance this mor — But no, that cannot be, because you are tall and thin like me, whereas this man was short and thick like Kephisophon. Was he not from Tartessos too? Do you know him?"

Bulnes told his prepared story.

"Ah, yes, that is the way of it. It shows the inscrutable workings of Fate, for if Melite had not had a cold last week, she would have seen the Aias at the local theater, and I should not have had to convey her all the way to Athens. How did you hear of this regrettable incident?"

"Our friend Sokrates sent his slave to inform me.

"Do you mean Sokrates Sophroniskou the philosopher?"

"Yes."

"Why said you not so at once? Sokrates is an old and valued friend of mine, and any friend of his is welcome. What did you think of the play?"

"I have not see it," said Bulnes.

"Oh ... you are not the man who attended it and accosted my wife. What say you his name is? Philon of Tartessos. Ah, yes. A wonderful tragedian, the Sophokles, think you not? We are friendly rivals, you know. He was good enough to say that without my competition this year it is like no contest at all."

"Why are you not competing?"

"I did not finish my tetralogy in time. I am so wretchedly absent-minded, I forgot that the date comes early this year."

"Really?" said Bulnes, glad to remember some of the lectures on Greek drama Wiyem Flin had inflicted upon him. "Is one of the plays about the witch Medeia?"

"Why, yes. How could you know?"

"It seemed likely. I know the general plot of that myth. It has penetrated even to Tartessos, as has your own poetic reputation."

"Yes, you are quite a literate and civilized people, are you not? I hope to work in a good word in the Medeia for regarding barbarians as fellow human beings. Could I read you some of the passages we worked out today?"

"I should be honored."

"Very well, Kephisophon, find that section where Iason offers Medeia to provide for her after their divorce ... Ah, here we are."

And the dramatist began tramping back and forth in the court, orating, waving his manuscript, and flapping his himation:

His incredible beard lashed the spring air. Every few minutes he would turn on Bulnes with, "How do you like that?"

Bulnes made comments as intelligent as his limited knowledge permitted, and even suggested a trifling change or two. Then a slave came out of the gynaeceum and whispered into the ear of Euripides.

"Ah, I forgot again! Hippodamos is coming for dinner!" said the poet. "My dear fellow, I hate to rush you off this way, but you know how it is.

Here, take a piece of manuscript with you to read. I should like your criticism, since you seem well-informed in such matters. Kephisophon, find the rough draft of the opening scene and give it to Bouleus. You understand, though, Bouleus, that the final version is considerably improved."

"Thank you," said Bulnes. "But excuse me ...

"Oh, yes, there was something else you wished to see me about. Now what was it?"

"About my friend in the jail. Will you withdraw the complaint?"

"Certainly, now that you have explained it. What was your explanation? No matter. Let me see — I shall not go to Athens soon again, but I will write a letter tomorrow and send it to the Polemarchos by a slave. Remind me of that, Kephisophon. And now rejoice, my foreign friend, and fail not to let me know your opinion of the play."

Bulnes stepped out into the broad street and started back toward Athens. His rest had much strengthened him, and now if he could only get a bite to eat ... He stopped as he passed the Hippodamian Agora and bought a small loaf and a sausage (to hell with trichinosis, he thought) and a scoop of mustard. With these he made a fair approximation of an American hot dog, a snack he had grown very fond of in that country.

He resumed his hike, holding his loaf with one hand and munching, and the roll of manuscript with the other. The sausage seemed to be made mainly of blood and tripe, not bad but not very tasty either. He shook out the scroll and held it up to read by the pink light of the setting sun. Hell, he thought, all the words run together. As if Greek weren't hard enough to read with the words separated! Still he'd no doubt have to make a stab at it to keep on good terms with Euripides ...

He rolled the manuscript up, tucked it under his arm, and set off again, when a man stepped out from behind a building, snatched the scroll out from under Bulnes's arm, and ran.

"Hey!" roared Bulnes. "Come back here!"

He realized that in his excitement he had spoken English, which from many years of use had become more natural to him even than Spanish. Furthermore, he had no idea of the Greek for Stop thief!"

He looked around. Not a Scythian in sight.

Policemen were the same in all places and ages. He ran after the thief, who doubled around a couple of corners and almost lost his pursuer.

The man's chiton bobbed ahead in the twilight, heading for one of the gates. He flew through, and Bulnes pounded after him, sandals slapping. Bulnes's first thought had been of Phaleas the gangster and his band, but it did not seem likely that a member of a Peiraic gang would flee toward Athens with his loot.

Although Bulnes was hardly in shape for a five-mile run, his fury at the farstard's impertinence kept him going. Moreover, he would have an embarrassing time explaining the disappearance of the manuscript.

The thief was evidently a younger man, for he pulled steadily ahead of Bulnes on the road for Athens. He splashed through the ford across the Kephisos, half-fell, recovered, and limped when he came out of the water on the far side. Evidently he had sprained an ankle. Bulnes regretted it wasn't his neck.

The chase continued, both walking. When Bulnes's greater length of leg brought him closer to the thief, the latter broke into a limping run and widened the distance again. Thus they hobbled, jogged, and panted toward Athens. Little by little, despite the other man's sprints, Bulnes pulled up on him. The fellow's ankle must be half killing him, Bulnes gloated.

The stars came out, and jackals yapped across the Attic plain, and still the chase continued.

The thief reached the Peiraic Gate of Athens about fifty meters ahead of Bulnes, whose hope that the guards would stop the man were again disappointed.

But they did stop Bulnes. "What you doing?" said a couple in pidgin Greek. "Gate closed for night."

"I am chasing that thief! Come along with me!"

"No thief. Who you? Maybe you thief, huh?"

Either they were determined to be stupid, or were in league with the thief. Bulnes noted that one of them had left his unstrung bow leaning against the wall.

Bulnes snatched up the bowstave. Whonk! Whonk! went the wood against the pointed Scythian caps. One archer sat down, the other fell forward to hands and knees.

Bulnes raced out the other end of the enclosure, his tired feet speeded by the uproar behind him. Soon Scythian boots sounded on the dirt.

As he did not think he could outrun the entire Athenian police force, Bulnes slipped around the first corner, threw away the bowstave, rearranged his himation, and started back the way he had come, toward the Peiraic Gate, like any other stroller out for a turn in the evening. A group of Scythians went past, asking each other loudly which way the scoundrel had gone. Bulnes let them bump him up against the side of the house, made a vague gesture in response to their questions, and watched them scatter around corners and disappear.

Meantime he had lost track of his quarry. Small though the town might be, it was quite big enough to hide one man in its crooked stinking alleys beyond the possibility of digging him out — especially at night.

Bulnes wrote off the manuscript as lost and set out wearily for the Agora. He would have to get another meal for Flin before turning in for the night.

He had gone but a few blocks when he spied a man sitting by the side of the street in the dirt, ahead of him, with his back against the stucco house wall and exhaustion writ in every line of his posture. As Bulnes came in sight, however, the man heaved himself to his feet, pushed the hair out of his eyes, and started walking ahead of Bulnes, also toward the Agora. He limped and carried a roll of papyrus.

Although it was now too dark to recognize faces at that distance, Bulnes felt sure this was his thief. This time, however, instead of rushing upon the man, he thought it wiser to tail him. There must be some peculiar reason for the man's snatching the roll; it was not the booty the average thief would go for.

The man continued steadily southeast, skirting the Agora, where the wicker kiosks had all been folded up for the night. As the man reached the south end of the Agora he bore left, toward the east end of the Akropolis, which towered against the stars in front of Bulnes.

Presently the man came to a small enclosure, a kind of one-block park. Bulnes remembered the day Flin had dragged him all over the Akropolis. The little teacher had pointed out this enclosure as the Theseion, or shrine of Theseus, the leading legendary hero of the city of Athens. He would have dragged Bulnes through it, too, if the latter had not pleaded weariness.

The Theseion had a thick hedge around it. The thief hobbled along this for a way, then ducked through a hole in the shrubbery. Bulnes followed in time to see him disappearing into a small building among the trees and statues. This edifice was the shrine of Theseus: a squarish structure open at one side, a row of columns across the entrance. Bulnes ran on tiptoe to the entrance and peered around the building wall into the interior.

Inside he could dimly make out murals on the walls, an altar, and a primitive-looking cult statue on a pedestal. The thief was standing with his back to him, watching the ground behind the altar.

With a whirr of machinery the altar began to tilt forward. A line of light appeared along its base. The altar seemed to be fastened to the top of a trap door that was now opening. It nodded forward until it almost touched the ground, and the trap door was vertical.

The thief stepped into the opening and started down a flight of steps. One — two — three — only his upper half was in sight; then only his head; then nothing. The altar began to rise toward its former vertical position.

Bulnes rushed over to the trap door. He caught a glimpse of movement and a snatch of speech. He was sure the place below was electrically lighted, but by lamps so shaded that he could see but little. The altar rose, the lighted area contracting to a wedge.

Bulnes thought desperately of sticking his foot in the trap door; but if the door were power-operated, the result might be hard on the foot. Then, just before the light disappeared, he snatched out his sheath knife and thrust the hilt between the closing trap door and its frame. The movement stopped with a jar, leaving the altar of Theseus leaning at a slight angle.

Bulnes reflected that there was probably some code of raps or words by which the thief — a pretty well-connected sort of thief, too — announced his presence.

He put his ear to the crack. Voices still came from below. He thought the language was English spoken in a variety of accents.

Bulnes put his shoulder against the altar and pushed. To his surprise it gave. Not readily, but a centimeter at a time. Meanwhile small mechanical sounds came from beneath his feet and the machinery was forced to run in reverse. But the minute he let go, the altar started to tip back upright again.

He put his full strength into it. Down went the altar, slowly, with a creak and a whirr. Up from the depths came the voices of two men: "... 'ow the bloody 'ell was I to know?"

"Can you not the instructions remember?"

"They didn't cover this case."

"The sector super vill hell raise."

"But 'e was the blighter bo told me to get that bleeding manuscript at all costs. It seems they want to compare ..."

Bulnes took a quick look. One of the men was standing at the base of the steps with his back to Bulnes. The gods were really too kind this time; the shouting of the disputants had drowned out the sound of the opening of the trap door.

In a swift movement Bulnes threw off his himation, picked up his knife from the ground beside the hatch frame, and leaped for the back of the nearer man.