AHMM, October 2009

by Dell Magazine Authors

  Another groan arose as if Hades were rising from the underworld.

  I dropped down and lay flat, pressing my ear to the ground.

  "Zeus and all the gods,” Agis said, kneeling down by me. “Have you been stricken dead, Kleides?"

  I didn't answer.

  "Are you alive, Kleides?” Agis said, a bit more shrillly.

  I was tempted to say no, but Agis didn't need any more surprises. “Of course I'm alive. I understand now. We must get down to the cave."

  I leapt up and began down the path. I didn't have to urge Agis. I suspected that he was more than glad to leave the sacred spot.

  A shadow, a tall dark shape just darker than the gathering gloom, disappeared into some trees. I fought the urge to follow the familiar looking shadow. We had to get to the cave.

  We pressed on, my sandals occasionally skidding on loose rocks and snapping twigs from olive trees. I thanked Selkine for keeping me clad in solid sandals instead of the shabby ones I'd worn before our marriage. My feet would have protested in fury by now.

  At the bottom of the cliffs, I glanced up to where we had watched from above. I dropped my eyes directly below and headed to that spot.

  A figure flew from the dark mouth of a cave. It was Pylar. He ran across the grove, his robe flying out behind him, as if the furies of hell were pursuing him.

  "Go into that cave,” I yelled at Agis, pointing to the yawning mouth ahead. “Find Almeus."

  I scrambled over some olive tree branches in pursuit of Pylar.

  It took me only a minute to realize that I had made a mistake. I could not catch Pylar. I should have gone into the cave and sent Agis, with his younger legs and lungs, after Pylar.

  I turned and headed back and into the cave. It was quite dark. Only a very dim light, the last rays of a setting sun penetrated a little way inside. I stopped, blinked, and strained my eyes.

  I made out a hunched shape about three feet high.

  "Agis?” I said.

  The hunch moved. “Yes, Kleides. I've found him. I think he's dead."

  I moved to Agis.

  Almeus lay on the cave floor. I knelt and touched his head. I drew my hand away and knew the slippery liquid was blood.

  "Pylar,” Agis said. “He must have killed Almeus and taken the statue."

  I looked up to the ceiling of the cave. Just at the top, I could see an oval, less black than the rest of the top of the cave. I took the chance.

  "Pylar does not have the treasure,” I said, lifting my head up. “Syracusa has many treasures and many caves. The gods know that. The muses know that. And Dameus knew that. From the fountain of Syracusa have flown many treasures and near the fountain, tomorrow, we will find the treasure Dameus hid."

  Agis looked at me as if I had gone mad. “You mean the statue was not here?"

  "I think not. We must get to the authorities to have Almeus’ body removed."

  We left the cave.

  We reported the murder to the Syracusan authorities and had the body removed and prepared for burial early the next morning, then retired to our room at the tavern.

  There, Agis dropped down to one of the mats and put his head in his hands. “I do not understand,” he said. “I do not understand. My uncle and now my cousin. He was my cousin, no matter how unworthy. And he is dead too.” He looked up at me. “Was it not Pylar who killed him? Or was it the gods, punishing him for his stealing of a statue, just as Athena once punished the Greeks for stealing her statue from Troy? I fear it was the gods. The cave is their sacred place where they listen to the secrets and plots of humans."

  "It was not the gods who listened, Agis,” I said. “We heard sounds from the cave and others could hear them too."

  Agis looked at me. “You do not believe the cave is a sacred place?"

  "Perhaps men think so. I think the cave's shape carries sounds upwards to some small opening. We listened and heard Almeus’ last sounds. If anyone was listening to what I said inside the cave, we shall know tomorrow. Sleep, Agis, sleep now."

  Agis fell back on his mat in utter exhaustion.

  I lay down and thought of Selkine. I thought of Sappho's poems of love, how she felt the sight of a loved one to be more beautiful than all the hoplites, all the soldiers of a country in gleaming armor. I understood her poem now. I missed Selkine, her beauty, her touch, her intelligence, her understanding of my needs. I missed her more than Athens itself. And I remembered the message Dameus had sent to Agis: “Keep my words safe.” The real treasures of Athens and of Syracusa were the words of our poets: of Aeschylus, of Sophocles, of Sappho. I remembered the poem Mynos had quoted: “From the earth flows Erato's beauty.” It was another message from Dameus on where he had hidden the real treasure.

  I waited until Agis was deep in sleep, then rose and left the tavern. I made my way slowly in the dark to the caves near the theater. I entered one, found the treasure I sought, and returned to the tavern. Later I left the tavern again and deposited the treasure in what I hoped was a safe place.

  * * * *

  The next morning we woke early and headed to the necropolis. Almeus’ funeral was simple. Few regretted his death, but Agis and I did. We'd seen far too many people in Athens die a horrible death by the plague to ever take anyone's death lightly again. The funeral over, we headed to the theater. I explained to Agis what I had found the night before.

  We walked purposefully, slipping between buildings, cutting through groves, as if anxious that no one see us or perceive our route. I was quite sure, of course, that we were being followed.

  As we reached the top of the plain, I sent Agis off toward the theater, gesturing toward some of the theater guards. I gave him instructions as to where I wanted him to return with the guards and when. I hoped I had the timing right.

  I walked along the gray limestone road that led from the theater to a series of caves used as tombs by the Syracusans.

  I stopped at the largest of the caves, a grotto in the middle of which flowed a cascade of water, fed by an aqueduct from the river.

  The grotto contained statues dedicated to the nine muses, among them the muse of lyric poetry, Erato. In the poem Mynos had recited, Agis’ uncle had told us where to find his treasure. I had at first been so occupied with my own loneliness, away from Selkine, that I had missed his meaning, even when I had realized at his small house how important poetry and manuscripts had been to him.

  I entered the cave. Water cascaded from a small cavern seven or so footlengths above the floor of the cave, splashing over stones and into a basin, creating a moist coolness of refuge from the merciless Syracusan sun. A home of divine muses, indeed.

  But my back tensed with the expectation of an attack. I had to be ready, or rather, I hoped that Agis would be ready.

  I moved into the cool center of the cave, regretting that my sense of hearing was of no use in the presence of the cascade.

  I knelt and reached into a crevice as if searching for something.

  "I know that you removed the manuscript, Kleides,” Aptimus said behind me.

  I stood up and swung round ready for an assault. But Aptimus was far too intelligent and fastidious for that.

  He stood watching me, his handsome face stern, undisturbed, his dark brown eyes lit with assurance. “You are clever, Kleides, of course. My men reported that you took the manuscript back to the tavern with you. They are not clever and left, assuming you would keep it with you for the night. I assume you haven't. I want the manuscript."

  Two men, rough and rather stupid looking, entered the cave.

  "These men,” Aptimus said, “will persuade you to tell me where the manuscript is. And do not expect help from Agis anytime soon. He is being delayed by two of my servants."

  I had been too clever for my own good. Realizing the murderer of Almeus was Aptimus, whose shadowy figure I had seen leaving the cave, I had uttered my words about treasures and the fountains to trap Aptimus in the cave. But he had trapped me.

  I stepped back. The roug
h-hewn limestone wall scraped against my back. I thought of Selkine. And my son. And the child Selkine was carrying, a child I might never see. I had spent most of my life alone, pursuing my studies, debating with Socrates, voyaging with Pericles. I had been enamored of Aspasia, Pericles’ wife, then I married my mistress Selkine, appreciating her beauty and intelligence. I had had a rich life, but only now did I know that Selkine had completed me, challenged me, loved me, understood me. Here, in this cave in Syracusa, I knew how vital she was to me.

  The two men came toward me.

  Desperate, I moved to my left, sliding along the wall, pressing into it, as if it might mercifully take me into itself and save me.

  I gasped when I felt the water hit my shoulder, then my head, sliding down my face in a sheet of cold crystal. It shocked me out of my helpless fear.

  I turned and plunged into the cascade, reaching for the crevices and steps the water had been carving into the limestone.

  I scrambled like a crab pursued by a predatory bird, ignoring the cold and the stone that cut into my hands. I managed to pull myself up to the top of the cascade and turn round.

  It was only a matter of a very short time before Aptimus’ men would pull me out of my shelter, but at least I could kick at them, a crab swinging a claw at a predator.

  I kicked out, striking one of the men in the face.

  He cursed.

  The other reached for my leg. My hand found a loose rock at the side of the cascade and I hurled it into my attacker's face.

  I kicked my legs wildly, hoping to land as many blows as I could.

  Aptimus cursed. “Swine,” he yelled. “Pull him down."

  One of the men managed to grab my leg. He yanked and I flew down from the cascade. We both fell onto the floor of the cave, flailing about in the water.

  I felt myself yanked up by the hair. The second man had me. He held me round my chest, squeezing the breath from me.

  I was about to pass out when I heard Agis’ voice. “Kleides,” he yelled.

  The brute let me go and I fell back into the water like some fish too old and scrawny to be worth the eating.

  * * * *

  Back at Dameus’ humble house, Agis dabbed the scratches on my arms and legs with myrrh and olive oil. I would have preferred Selkine's touch, but the attention felt very good anyway. Pylar stood behind Agis.

  Aptimus, Agis explained, had seen the five men, including Pylar, approaching, so he fled, abandoning his two henchmen. No doubt, Aptimus was already on board one of his ships and on his way to Corinth or some other city.

  Pylar was mumbling contrite words, hoping that Agis would forgive his attempt to get Dameus’ statue. Shaken by Almeus’ murder at Aptimus’ hands, Pylar had retrieved the statue which Aptimus had hidden in the cave of sounds and sought out Agis to return it to him.

  "Pylar saved us both,” Agis told me. “Had he not followed us and seen Aptimus’ men bullying me and sought help, we would both be dead. I've no doubt."

  "I am sorry that Almeus has been killed. It is entirely my fault. I tried, Kleides, to divert your attention from Almeus’ theft. And I saw Aptimus enter the cave where I was to meet Almeus. I heard Almeus’ cries, but I fled, coward that I am.” He wrung his hands. “It is always wrong to steal a statue of a god. The gods have punished Almeus, myself, and even Aptimus for our greed for this beautiful statue."

  We all looked at the statue that Pylar had set on a stool, a beautifully carved obsidian statue of Apollo playing his lyre.

  "Aptimus followed you to the cave and killed Almeus. But it wasn't the statue Aptimus wanted,” I said. “He was after a manuscript, a manuscript he thought Almeus had, once he realized my interest in that poor soul. I should have known what the real treasure was that first day we entered Dameus’ house, Agis. You yourself told me that your uncle gave his statues away for little or nothing. He did not think of them as treasures. Then, Aptimus, you recall, Agis, came in. He had no real reason to do so. I could see that he was a man of wealth and intelligence who knew our histories and literature. He mentioned both Herodotus and Pindar, both of whose works I had just seen in Dameus’ collection of scrolls. I should have suspected then that he'd come in to see if we would find what he had killed Dameus for: a manuscript of Sappho's poetry."

  I rose, went to Dameus’ chest of manuscripts, and drew one out, the one I had retrieved from the cave and replaced in the chest. The manuscript was of goatskin.

  "The Ionians used goatskin when papyrus was not available,” I explained. “Sappho was, of course, Ionian and was exiled to Syracusa over political matters involving her family. I suspect that Dameus found the manuscript hidden somewhere as he roamed the island in search of obsidian and that someone, perhaps the men who helped him, talked of the find without knowing its value. Aptimus would have guessed. When we were first at your uncle's home, Agis, Aptimus seemed rather unduly interested in the manuscripts I was examining. But it wasn't until Pylar quoted a Sappho poem I didn't know at all that it occurred to me that your uncle would see as a real treasure not the statues he gave away freely but the manuscripts he treasured. He had hidden the one Aptimus was after in the cave of the muses. Appropriately enough."

  "But why didn't he just give it to the Syracusan library?"

  "With Aptimus so prominent a person here and, as I began to suspect, a collector of manuscripts? Dameus knew better. He must have known that Aptimus, as any collector, would covet a manuscript of the great Sappho."

  I unrolled the right side of the manuscript. The manuscript writing itself was exquisite: there were some word divisions, rare in the sixth century, and all capitals, and even, here and there, some indication of line beginnings. A rare and wonderful manuscript.

  I read the first poem:

  I asked the gods

  make the night

  twice as long for us.

  Then I read another:

  I would not trade

  all of Croesus’ kingdom

  for Cleis, my beautiful daughter.

  How much Sappho knew of love and longing. Perhaps, I thought, I had a daughter now. Suddenly, I wanted nothing more than to sail away to Athens, to Selkine and to my children.

  Copyright © Marianne Wilski Strong

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Department: THE MYSTERIOUS CIPHER by Willie Rose

  Each letter consistently represents another. The quotation is from a short mystery story. Arranging the answer letters in alphabetical order gives a clue to the title of the story.

  PCA WKQJD UYSPNAOO UYO BYOPSJD YUKNNSAH GKKF KTAN CSO OCKQGHAN. SJ PCA ISNNKN ZACSJH CAN CA OYU PCA OCANSRR LKSJPSJD Y DQJ YP CSI.

  —NKZANP GKLNAOPS

  cipher: A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Fiction: A CLOSER WALK WITH THEE by Tim Chapman

  * * * *

  Tim Chapman

  * * * *

  James Talcott had learned long ago not to use the clip that fastened his Maglite to the barrel of his shotgun. The idea was to illuminate the enemy, not give them something to shoot at. He held the little flashlight at arm's length, out to one side, as he crept through the brush. He carried the shotgun in his other hand. The Franchi SPAS-12 wasn't meant to be held solely by its pistol grip, even with the stock folded over. Fortunately he had strong wrists. Crouching in the mud he glanced up at the near-full moon. If he could keep it between himself and the enemy they wouldn't be able to make his silhouette and he wouldn't need the flashlight. He doused the light, slipped it into the little pocket on his thigh, and stood up, staying low, careful to keep his knees bent. His black-clad form glided quietly around the perimeter of the clearing, keeping close to the trees.

  He could see the enemy ahead, lit by the moon, and he swung the military shotgun up to waist level. There were three of them, two in a group and the third off to the right, about eight feet from the others. He'd take the outsider first, but he'd have to be fast, and accurate. He stepped out i
nto the open and fired at the man on the right, the Franchi bucking in his hand. Sure of his aim, he turned rapidly and fired at the remaining two. He saw one man's face disintegrate; then something pounded him in the chest, knocking him off his feet. He looked for his gun but couldn't find it in the tall grass. He was afraid to look at his chest. He didn't want to know how badly he was wounded; he just wanted to get away. He remembered the body armor he had left at the command post. Damn, damn, damn. He started to crawl.

  * * * *

  "Hendrix! Get back here!” Sean McKinney tried to make his voice sound stern, but the big poodle was too smart. He turned and barked once, telling them to hurry, then ran down the path. McKinney didn't want to lose sight of the dog, but the little girl at his side was busy studying a black and yellow striped beetle she was balancing on a leaf. He wasn't really worried. There wasn't likely to be anyone else in this part of the forest preserve on a weekday morning; cyclists usually took the wide path by the river. Still, he felt a little uncomfortable when he saw the shaggy black tail disappear around a bend. The little girl held her leaf up. “Look, Dad. Isn't this a Leptino ... Leptino..."

  "A Leptinotarsa decemlineata," McKinney said. “Yep, a Colorado beetle, pretty, but very dangerous to crops, especially potatoes. Why you want to learn the Latin names of these insects is beyond me. They're a mouthful of gobbledygook."

  She rotated her hand to keep the beetle upright as it crawled along the leaf's edge. “I just think it's interesting."

  The dog's urgent barking drifted back to them through the cool, spring air.

  "Come on, Bella,” McKinney said. “Let's go see what Hendrix is up to."

  Instead of McKinney's sandy hair and blue eyes, Angelina had inherited her mother's dark hair and olive skin. McKinney called her Bella because on the day she was born he knew that she was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen or would ever see again. Looking at her now, ten years later, he still felt like he was viewing a miracle.