Sideways In Crime Read online

  “Could you be a little more explicit about the enterprise?”

  “A time-honored dodge known in the trade as running the snake,” said Scorilo. “Introducing to an unenlightened populace the profitable worship of the great god Glycon.”

  “And who would Glycon be?” inquired Will.

  Alazon smiled. From under his cloak he drew a small basket with a lid, and opening it he drew forth a tiny snake. He set it on the table. “Say hello, Glycon.”

  “Hello,” said Glycon.

  Will gaped at it, until he remembered Enoch the Ventriloquist, who used to ply Temple Street with his talking dog. He grinned. “Tell me more,” he said.

  There were a few former residences of Roman gods down at the eastern end of Temple Street. Of late years, with the increasing turmoil on the continent, the Roman immigrant population had increased; but they tended to worship at a pantheon over in Knightsbridge nowadays. Therefore the owner of the old shrine to Apollo was happy to sell it at any price, given that the roof leaked and the foundation had cracked. He pocketed the money Will paid him and went his way chuckling. Will and his associates moved in and made their preparations.

  The busy hour of the morning had just come to Watling Street when, seemingly from midair, a naked youth appeared in the middle of the street. He frothed at the mouth, he pranced and tossed his wild hair, he cried out in an unknown language. Ordinarily no Londoner would have looked twice at him--there were plenty of naked madmen in Brithan--but this madman was so extraordinarily well endowed, and his wild hair so abundant, that not a few matrons forgot about shopping and stared, rapt. Tradesmen and idlers followed suit, and soon there was a crowd.

  As crowds will, they followed him down Watling to Temple Street, where he mounted the steps of the old shrine to Apollo and stood straight. Raising his arms above his head, he began to speak coherently. Will, who had discreetly joined the crowd, prepared to translate for him; but a Greek oil merchant beat him to it.

  “He’s telling us a new god is born!” he said. “He says, uh, we’re three-times-blessed. He says the great god... Glycon, son of Asklepios, grandson of Apollo, has come to live among us. In this very temple. And . . he himself is the god’s priest.”

  “He does look like Apollo,” said an elderly wine merchant.

  Alazon, for it was he, sprang down from the steps and scrabbled in the mud at the base of the temple’s foundation. With a triumphant cry, he held aloft a goose egg. Running back up the steps with it, he broke it open and stared a moment into the shell; then held up the little snake that had been hidden inside, coiling and twisting on his fingers as the morning sunlight warmed it.

  The crowd murmured. Will shouted, “It’s a miracle!”

  “Yes!” cried Scorilo, from the other side of the crowd. “A miracle!”

  The crowd took up the cry and repeated it. Scorilo began to froth at the mouth and shriek, babbling; Will slipped a piece of soapwort root into his mouth and, chewing briskly, produced a fine lather; then he ran to the steps, where he proceeded to fall as in a frenzy and deliver the same message in eight languages, one after another:

  “The god speaks! He bids you return here tomorrow at the same hour! He will have an important message for you then, but now he is weary from his journey into this world and would rest!”

  This impressed the crowd no end, for Will was clearly a native-born Brithon. Alazon turned and, with a graceful flash of his buttocks, bore the snake godling into the depths of the old shrine.

  It was a much bigger crowd the next day, and accordingly a much bigger snake was produced for them--a python purchased from a Bharati sailor, so docile and well-trained it would submit to wearing a false head made of painted canvas, with a human face and flowing wig. Alazon, whose body had been colored gold with a liberal application of turmeric rubbed into his skin, sat on the high dais in the shadowed rear of the temple, with the snake twined about his body.

  Will and Scorilo, divinely chosen acolytes, admitted the curious throng. When the temple was full they closed the street doors, which threw the place into Stygian gloom; one dim oil lamp flickered above the dais, so it was almost impossible to see the snake clearly. Yet it was plain he was a living creature, as the flamelight winked now and then on a slowly moving coil.

  “Good people!” Will raised his hands. “Behold how great Glycon has grown, in one day! Soon he will be able to speak to you directly. Until that time he has appointed us to make his intentions known. True son of Asklepios, he comes to heal and to advise you with gifts of prophecy. Pleasing to him are votive offerings of gold and silver. Great Glycon accepts all currencies in any denomination.”

  “And I, his prophet, carry messages!” Scorilo sprang up beside the dais. He had circled his eyes with soot, so as to make their stare even more startling, and he swept the crowd with his wide gaze. His voice echoed like rolling thunder. “Hear me! Great Glycon says there is a man here who has committed infidelities! If he is to avoid detection he must purify himself in the sacred waters of Glycon’s pool and make an offering of gold! Yes! You! Great Glycon knows your name!

  “Great Glycon says further that there is a woman here who wishes to conceive a child! If she will come in private to the sanctuary at nightfall, with an offering of silver, great Glycon will ease her sorrows. Yes! You, dear lady! And the man who has received a troublesome letter recently... and the man whose son is not sufficiently respectful... and you, the woman whose daughter loves an unsuitable young man!

  “Great Glycon has counsel for each of you. Do not wait, but come soon to make offerings!”

  The golden stream began to flow that very night, and in a matter of six months Will was richer than he’d ever been in his life.

  Scorilo had improvised suitably general prophecies to keep people coming in until they had enough cash to remodel the temple. The back wall had been knocked out and a sanctum sanctorum built beyond, even more dimly lit. There great Glycon was installed, or rather the articulated puppet-head Will built for him, wonderfully realistic if seen in the dim light of the temple and from a respectful distance. There were besides yards and yards of snake body, painted canvas stuffed out with bombast, which could be made to move by various means.

  Several steam-operated devices were installed, old stage tricks to miraculously open the inner sanctum’s doors or provide a battery of awe-inspiring sound effects. The scummed-over reflecting pool at the rear of the temple precinct was cleaned out and stocked with water lilies and Cathay carp.

  “And we ought to build a dormitory back there,” said Will, one night as they sat around a table, opening sealed prayers to Glycon.

  “Dormitory? What for?” Alazon held the blade of his knife in the lamp flame, then slid it under the wax seal and popped it off intact. Will looked at him in surprise.

  “So that supplicants can sleep back there and have their dreams interpreted next morning,” he said. “That’s how it was done in the temples of Asklepios. You’re a Greek! Surely you knew that.”

  Alazon shrugged. “He was obliged to leave his native land at an early age, to escape the tyranny of the One True Faith,” Scorilo explained. “So his knowledge of the old Olympians is necessarily imperfect. It’s not a bad idea, though, my learned colleague. ‘Dream interpretation available with a slightly higher donation! Enjoy a spiritually refreshing night as Glycon’s guest!’“

  Alazon, reading the prayer he had opened, snickered. “Listen to this one. ‘Oh Great Glycon, I am subjected to ridicule by my wife and business associates because of my baldness. Please grant that my hair grows again and I will offer you a golden ring set with a perfect amethyst.’“

  “Poor bastard,” said Will ruefully. He took the scroll without reading it--indeed he could not read, but had memorized its request--and re-affixed the seal. “What’s the name on this one?”

  “Geoffrix Thorkettle.”

  “We’re getting a lot of Brithons as converts now,” said Scorilo. “Your druids aren’t going to be happy about that,
eh? Do we need to offer them a bribe?”

  Will shrugged. “We might. They’ll hate us anyway, but there’s nothing they can do. Not as long as Andraste’s on the throne.”

  “Gods save the queen!” said Scorilo.

  Will, standing before Glycon’s sanctuary, swayed slightly and put his hand to his forehead.

  “The god speaks to me... he has a message for... for Geoffrix Thorkettle!”

  “Oi!” A man wearing a hood raised his head and pushed his way to the front of the crowd. Will put out his hand and Scorilo gave him the appropriate scroll.

  “Here is your still-sealed petition, its contents known only to yourself and Divine Glycon,” Will intoned. He gave the scroll to Master Thorkettle. “Divine Glycon says: ‘Mortal, bear patiently what the gods have seen fit to inflict. Caesar himself suffered your state without complaint, and him the gods favored to father pharaohs.’ Praise Glycon!”

  “Thanks be to great Glycon,” said the man, looking dejected.

  “And now...” Will summoned the next name from his memory. “The Divine One informs me--” He broke off, hearing the shouts and seeing the crowd surge to avoid the oncoming chariot. Four milk-white mares drew it, led by a man in the royal livery who shouted:

  “Way there! Way for the most puissant Princess Arnemetia Dudasmede! Her consort, Anextiomarus, earl of Gloucester! Her son, Vellocatus!”

  “What the hell?” said Scorilo out of the side of his mouth, and in Greek.

  “It’s the Queen’s second daughter,” replied Will in the same wise. “Quick! Go tell Alazon. She’ll want to talk to the god himself.”

  The chariot pulled up before the temple steps. Glycon’s supplicants cleared a path for the princess, falling to their knees as she ascended; Will himself dropped to his knees, fists clenched until he heard the faint thump that meant that Alazon had scrambled into the compartment under Glycon’s sanctuary and thrust his arm up the god’s neck.

  “Welcome, gracious princess! Welcome, noble princes to the sanctuary of Divine Glycon!” Will prostrated himself.

  “You may rise,” said Princess Arnemetia, with a wave of her hand. Being only a princess, she was not obliged to go naked nor paint herself blue, nor had she her mother’s flaming hair; she was a sallow brunette. Her son, a sullen-looking teenager, had inherited her looks and a clubfoot besides. The prince consort was a florid man in early middle age, puffing slightly from climbing the stairs. Heart disease, Will thought, studying him with a druidic eye. Aloud he said:

  “How may we priests of Glycon serve, madam?”

  “We would consult the god on the matter of our husband’s health,” said the princess. “And some few matters concerning our own interest.”

  “Please step within,” said Will, bowing them into the temple. He shut the doors behind them and presented them to Scorilo. “This humble servant of the god will lead you in prayers first. Complimentary holy water, Brother Scorilo, of course.”

  “Of course,” said Scorilo, rummaging in his purse for coins to feed the vending machines. Will backed out of the royal presences and then ran like a hare behind the drapes concealing the inner sanctum. He paused long enough to make certain Alazon had lit the boilers under the mechanisms, and then scrambled under Glycon’s lair. Spotting Alazon’s feet, he crawled close enough to whisper:

  “It’s Princess Arnemetia. The husband’s the Earl of Gloucester. He’s got progressive heart failure, or I miss my guess. Tell him to drink willow-bark tea for breakfast, hawthorn-leaf tea before bed. Got it? And the son’s with them, and he’s got a clubfoot and is known to have seizures, so--”

  “Tell them it’s a gift of the gods because Caesar and Alexander had them,” said Alazon, ducking his head to wink at Will. “Got it. Do I tell her she’s going to inherit the throne?”

  “No! We could hang for that. Stay away from anything to do with the succession. Just, you know, imply great things will happen and her name will live forever and so on.”

  “And she’s...”

  “Arnemetia!”

  “Right.”

  Will backed out of the crawlspace, got to his feet and ran back just as the unearthly note sounded that signified the show was about to start. He stepped from behind the curtain into the outer sanctum, where Scorilo was praying with his hands raised and the royal family lip-syncing in an attempt to follow. The sanctuary curtains parted, as if drawn by unseen hands.

  “Our prayers have been heard!” yelled Scorilo, falling to his knees.

  The great doors swung open of themselves, and there, within a sort of booth, rose great Glycon. He blinked his startlingly lifelike eyes. He opened his mouth.

  “WELCOME, ROYAL ARNEMETIA, BELOVED OF THE GODS!”

  “We are made,” said Alazon smugly, counting out the day’s take. “A royal patron. It’s all nectar from here.”

  “I wouldn’t say that,” said Will. “It all depends on whether or not the princess outlives her sister. Berecyntia, the older one.”

  “Which one’s going to get the throne when the old lady dies, eh?” said Scorilo.

  “The older one, of course,” said Alazon, but Will shook his head.

  “We don’t always follow primogeniture here. The princesses may engage in single combat to decide who gets the throne. More likely they’ll make their consorts fight.”

  “But the throne will pass to the nasty boy in any case, eh?” said Scorilo.

  “No,” said Will. “There’s Damara, the third sister. She’s still at school. And anyway the boy’s damaged goods; he can’t sit on the throne. It’s our law.”

  “Groups of threes!” Scorilo drew his shawl over his head. “That’s bad, women in threes. Three Fates. Three Hecates. I feel a foreboding in the cosmic ether.”

  “That’s the fish you had for lunch,” said Alazon, and bit a gold piece.

  With royal favor, Glycon had become more than just another new god; he became fashionable. Courtiers, at least those of Princess Arnemetia’s party, had flocked to the temple in droves. Alazon had found himself with a dozen or so very young admirers of both genders, who were eager to jump into bed with Glycon’s high priest. His attention to their needs spiritual and temporal had left Will and Scorilo to see to running the temple, and unfortunately Scorilo had developed a taste for Brithish cider.

  So it was primarily Will who had overseen the miracle cures, sitting up at night as supplicants slept in the rear of the temple around the new statue of the god. It was Will who had bowed in the Earl of Gloucester, arriving for a private slumber session with the god; it was Will who had made up a sumptuous pallet for Anextiomarus, and dimmed the sanctuary lights, and bid him pleasant dreams. It was Will who sat in the rear chamber, going over the earl’s symptoms (indigestion, toothache, generalized joint pain) in his mind, composing a prescription that could be plausibly worked into the interpretation of whatever dreams the earl would have reported in the morning.

  Though of course he hadn’t reported any, because when Will had crept out into the sanctuary at first light, the earl had been lying there stone dead, grinning, with a stonily erect penis and two immense fang marks in his arm.

  “Were you aware,” said Volsinghome, “that when we autopsied him, we found the distance between the wounds was exactly the distance between the canine teeth of a man? And has not your god a man’s head?”

  “But great Glycon is a nice god,” said Will desperately. “Why would he kill one of his worshippers? Especially a royal one?”

  “Fool! How can you pretend to know what foreign gods will do? They cannot be trusted! They have overrun this island with their filthy foreign ways--”

  Volsinghome’s spittle began to fly. The Living Boudicca looked sidelong at him, and sighed.

  “Volsinghome, you may retire. We would speak with this man alone.”

  Glaring, the high druid stalked from the room. The queen turned back to Will. “Listen carefully, priest. We know well our son-in-law was murdered, and by no gods. But you must prove it. You say
you were awake in the anteroom by the sanctuary the night long. Did you hear nothing suspicious? Did you leave the antechamber at any time?”

  Will drew on every memory trick the druids had beaten into him on Mona. The night replayed itself for him, at high speed and in perfect detail. “Only once, Ma’am. And that was only to see that all was well with the earl.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I heard...” Will’s eyes widened. “Because he cried out. And there was a splash; I thought he might have gone sleepwalking and stepped in the fish pool.”

  “Had he?”

  “No. He was sitting up in his bed, rubbing his arm. He lay down again without speaking to me. Then he began to laugh. I thought he’d had a funny dream. I went back into the antechamber. A little later I heard him coughing. I would have gone out again, but it stopped.”

  “Which arm was he rubbing?”

  “The right one,” said Will.

  “Which was the arm that was wounded, my druids tell me.”

  “Yes, Ma’am.” Will hung his head, imagining the noose already around his neck. “That must have been when he was bitten. But I saw nothing when I looked out, I swear.”

  “He laughed, you say.” The queen looked opaque, unsmiling. Her hand clenched a moment on her spear. “And you use the word bitten. Do you truly think something bit him?”

  “Well--no, Ma’am.” Will dared to look up. “At least, not Glycon, because--”

  “Because Glycon is a clever puppet,” said the Living Boudicca. “Tush, man, did you think we hadn’t already found out as much?”

  Will fell to his knees. “Oh, great queen, be merciful. We never meant to mock the gods! Only to make money.”

  She waved him to rise, impatiently. “Which is an honest desire, compared to what some men lust after. Little man, you have our protection, as far as we may give it. Volsinghome and his party will make political capital of this death, if they can; they will incite the people to fear foreign gods. They cannot see that it is in our interest to shelter fellow polytheists.”