Macroscope

by Pierce Anthony

  He placed his back against the yellow pillar, mind racing to formulate a workable plan of escape. Audacity he had never suspected in himself had taken him this far, but there had to be a limit to his luck. The priest did not move, and the crowd below did not advance.

  He prodded the priest. “Into the temple,” he whispered. “Make no turn or sudden motion without advising me. If I doubt your intention one moment, it will be your last.” Was it he, meek Ivo Archer, reading the lines of this melodrama? Why not complete the scene by informing the man that he had an itchy sword-finger?

  Not funny. Sweat made the handle of the weapon treacherously slippery, and already he felt the sting of a developing blister.

  The priest uncurled a talonlike finger and pointed. “Oho!” Ivo said. “There’s a private door?” The priest led him around the column to the side of the building. Sure enough, there was a small entrance there opening into a dark corridor running parallel to the outer wall. There was hardly room for his head to clear, though the smaller man had no trouble.

  They entered. This did seem better than the main hall, since only one person at a time could follow, and the gloom would make pursuit harder. Light came in only from high narrow vents, embrasures in the outer wall.

  Twenty feet along the priest tapped a stone of the inner wall. Then he put his fragile shoulder against it and pushed. Ivo watched this suspiciously, at the same time glancing back to make sure no one was following yet.

  The stone swung back, leaving a blank opening from which a cool draft came. Cool, but corrupt; there was stagnant water somewhere. “Secret exit?”

  The man nodded. Ivo could barely see him here, and kept one hand on the bony arm. The stone must have been very lightly balanced, to move at the urging of such a skeleton. And why did the hostage never speak?

  “In case of rebellion, foreign conquest…?” Ivo inquired, poking his sword-hand into it dubiously. No response.

  Ivo prodded him. “You first.” The priest drew back, alarmed. “Uh-huh. We meet our fate together. Hurry!” There was a commotion behind, and he knew the troops were clustered around their entrance, and probably had the temple proper surrounded for good measure. “I know you aren’t dumb,” Ivo said fiercely. “I heard you calling to the guards, before. So either get in there or tell me why not, or I’ll run you through right now!”

  He was bluffing, but hoped it didn’t show.

  “There is a better exit ahead,” the priest said quickly. His voice, after all that suspense, was ordinary.

  Ivo smiled grimly. Victory — and another trap avoided. The violent approach did have its recommendations. “That one we shall both use — for better or worse.”

  But there was no time. The sounds outside verified his recent conjecture: the guards surrounded the temple, and this time a higher priest was evidently in command. His human shield was almost useless. Now there were noises from the far end of the passage as well.

  The priest suddenly tore free of Ivo’s loose grasp. Ivo lunged, grabbing with his left hand and sweeping with the sword. The blade crashed into the man’s side, but not hard enough to cut through the cloth. Trying to avoid it, the priest scuttled sidewise, his back against the tilted stone.

  Ivo grabbed again — and only succeeded in shoving the little man into the hole. The stone yielded smoothly, closing on a descending scream and a faint splash — some fifty feet down, by the timing. Some escape!

  Now Ivo was alone, pinned between armed bands without his hostage. Was there another exit, or had that been merely the rascally priest’s stall for time? There had to be one!

  He moved along the wall, pushing at each great block, but none gave way. Minutes passed. His eyes adapted to the dim light, but all he saw was a veneer of dirt on wall and floor. His own scuff-marks were all that disturbed it.

  Why weren’t they attacking? They must have overheard his struggle with the priest, and realized the man was dead. Or had they assumed that Ivo had fallen, so that the priest would emerge in a moment? Or was the delay part of some more subtle ploy — something less risky to them than a frontal attack in a confined space?

  He rolled his eyes up, shrugging… and spied a dark hole in the ceiling, a few feet in front of him. The second exit!

  He tossed his sword into it, and the metal clattered on stone and came to rest without falling out. He followed it immediately, reaching up to catch the edges with his fingers. He chinned himself on it — and could not get any higher, as his feet kicked without support. He had to drop down.

  He studied the situation, then chinned himself into the hole again. An athlete, or perhaps some birdlike priest, might have entered it easily, since it was hardly above head-height — but Ivo was neither. Yet an effective escape hatch should have some convenient handhold…

  Ivo braced his chin uncomfortably against the rim and got one elbow up. His questing hand struck the sword. He grunted, feeling the sting of the pitted blade grating against his palm, but did not drop back. Then he had it: a firm wooden bar.

  There was caked dust upon it, but dryer and fluffier than that below. No one had been here for a long time, evidently. A good sign, or a bad omen?

  Well, Ivo had little choice now. He got his shoulders up, his chest, one foot, and finally the rest of him without losing too much skin. He licked the grime off his bleeding palm and picked up the sword. Infection was the least of his worries at the moment.

  A belated thought: the soldiers could trace his trail in the dust. He had to cover up.

  Probably the tunnel was riddled with exits. If he could conceal the one he had actually employed, they would be hours tracing him down.

  As a planner, he was a misfit. Again he had thought of the obvious just too late for convenience.

  Regretfully, he eased himself down into the tunnel again, his cut hand smarting as the dust ground in. Then he ran scuffling down the passage and back, slapping his hand against each inner panel. Let them analyze that trail! Then up again, into the hole. He swept up handfuls of the dust and sprinkled then near the entrance and on the bar, hoping that this would conceal the evidence of his passage. He couldn’t see the effect at all, perhaps fortunately.

  And, at last, on.

  He was in a cramped passage running skew to the one below, as nearly as he could tell by the aim of the walls, and absolutely dark. His sandals, never meant for such exertions, tended to catch on the rough-hewn flooring.

  Finally there was light. He emerged on a dusty balcony overlooking an interior court at what he took to be the rear of the temple. In the center was a huge, grotesque metal statue shaped roughly like a man. Smoke spiraled up from a vent in its head, and a ramp led into a gate set in its bulging belly: Melqart, the carnivorous Baal of Tyre.

  Ivo turned aside, not particularly curious. It seemed to him that he could smell the lingering aroma of roasted flesh. No wonder the Israelites had fought against this faith! And had the Nazi machine, so many centuries later, been a monstrous reincarnation of the spirit of Baal?

  He spied crude stairs leading down, also layered with dust. He hesitated. There were still hours of daylight remaining, and once he left the temple he would be vulnerable again. Perhaps they were waiting beyond this exit, too. It would be better to wait until nightfall, when he might escape unnoticed. They would not expect him to linger within sight of the metal god. And perhaps the priests, who must surely know of this passage, would not reveal it to the soldiers. Better that one lamb go free for a while, than that the secrets of the temple be betrayed. Yes — his unexpected, and therefore sensible, course was to remain right here… sword ready.

  He located a concealing niche and lay down. He tried to hold on to the sword, but his right hand had a blister and his left a cut, so he laid it beside him. Once more, oddly, he had no difficulty sleeping. Perhaps it was because he was sure any approach would alert him. He hoped.

  It was dark when he woke. His hand still smarted and he was hungry. He had not enjoyed the rough staples of the galley slaves, and had
not had any of Mattan’s delicacies. Even Melqart was beginning to smell appetizing.

  Ivo decided it was time to get out of this region. He descended the steps cautiously, trying not to disturb the dust any more than necessary. He also heeded the sounds of temple activity. He wondered whether the troops were still patiently waiting in ambush for him, at the two ends of the original passage. A soldier might have peeked and found him gone, the fake escape hatch still open. No, it was closed now. Would they think he had taken that plunge? In that case they would not be alert for him.

  A heavy door closed off the foot of the stair. It was barred, but the bar was inside. No doubt about it: this was the priesthood’s official emergency outlet. He lifted the plank, set it aside, and pushed. Nothing happened.

  Was it barred outside too? That did not seem reasonable, for then it would have to be opened from both sides simultaneously: a dubious emergency exit. He kneeled down and put his eye to the crack. Lights from the city came through. He traced the crack up and down and found no blockage. The door was merely tight.

  He put his shoulder against it and shoved hard. It held. Finally he braced both feet against the bottom stair, set his back against the door, and straightened his knees hard.

  The portal crashed open. Ivo fell on his back, the sword clattering beside him. The noise was horrendous. There were immediate shouts, and torchbearing figures came running toward him from both sides of the building.

  He was in trouble again. Naturally.

  Ivo picked himself up, brandished the sword (finding the blister less painful), and ran. The torches swerved to intercept him. He slowed to navigate the stone terraces beside the temple, and the first group of men was upon him. He could see the glint of broad blades in the torchlight, the spark of staring eyes.

  He swung his sword. It caught the leading man on the shield. Ivo swung again, this time striking flesh; the man screamed and fell back. Two more attacked at once, striking from either side. Ivo felt the searing contact of a blade meeting his left arm and fell back himself. Again his grip was slippery, whether from sweat or blood he could not determine. The light was too bad, and his own sensations too confused. He lunged desperately at the figure who had wounded him, aiming for the glint of the helmet — and in the dark he scored.

  The fellow had been carrying the torch instead of his shield, and had tried instinctively to block — with the torch. Ivo’s blade, coming into the sphere of light, struck both hand and face, sickeningly. The torch flew out and rolled on the ground, providing him a passing glimpse of what he had wrought; then the spreading blood extinguished the fire messily.

  The shallow steps were as nothing. He was down them and away, running into the city, without being aware of the motions. Behind him the torches milled and followed, like angry bees searching for their mission.

  The streets were dark. He charged down the nearest, panting already, heedless of the direction or possible obstacles. He made a right-angle turn at the first intersection, angled again — and found himself as lost as the torches.

  He was surrounded by three-story houses closely set, boxlike and gloomy. He could not see whether any had windows or doors without approaching closely, but was sure entry would gain him nothing but further outcry. Where could he go? He had no money — was not even certain they used it here — and no home. The night was not cold — yet — but he did not want to wander about indefinitely.

  Suddenly the torches confronted him again. The temple troops had not given up the search; indeed, they were combing the city for him. He ran dismally before them, ashamed of the blood already on his sword. He had not meant to kill the man, only to drive him back, perhaps to wound him superficially. He had to believe that.

  His own wound was sodden under the dragging loops of his tunic, still squeezing out plasma with every motion he made, he was sure. That was another reason he had to find sanctuary.

  Where, where? He could not even flee to the countryside, for Tyre was an island — a walled island.

  Torches were coming down two alleys of the next intersection. He could see by their massed brilliance that the houses were richer than he had thought. Though the ground-level exterior walls of most were of blank stucco, the upper stories were of wood with small square window openings, and some even had balustrades supported by miniature palm columns. Not slum housing, certainly.

  The next intersection was torched on three sides, including the street behind him. Ivo ran in the one direction permitted him, thankful that they had not quite sealed him off entirely. Yet even if he eluded them, he saw no long-range salvation. He could not run much longer.

  “Fugitive!”

  It was a woman’s voice, pitched low but with excellent carrying quality. Ivo rotated to face it, hauling up the tainted blade defensively.

  “Fugitive — here!” the voice repeated urgently. “Come quickly, before they see you.”

  He had to trust her. He ran toward the caped figure standing upon a tiny terrace.

  “The blood!” she exclaimed disapprovingly. “You have left a trail of blood!”

  So that was how they had boxed him in so readily! He could not see it himself, but they obviously could, with the torches. Had he any chance at all?

  “Perhaps I can still help you,” she said. “Come inside.”

  He stumbled in the door she stood beside — in this case, a hole in the wall covered by a length of hide or canvas — and found himself within a small and dirty vestibule. The walls were covered by crumbling brown plaster. Not a domicile of wealth, obviously — yet he could hardly be choosy!

  The woman closed the entrance and led him to a small interior court. She was young and tall — very tall for this locale — and quite fair of feature, and the cloak hardly concealed her voluptuousness of form. He wondered dully whether she could be a prostitute. If so, she would turn him out quickly enough when she discovered that he had no money or barter.

  “We must stop the blood,” she said. “I know an empty house where they will not find us tonight. But we can’t let the blood betray us.” She peeled back the cloth that had become a soggy bandage and began sponging off the wound.

  “Who are you?” he demanded. “Why do you help me?”

  “I am Aia. I do not worship Melqart, nor do I like human sacrifice.”

  She bound his arm with a rough cloth. Ivo hesitated to inspect the compress closely, certain that it was not very clean. Something nagged him about her statement, but he could not, in his present fuddled state, pin it down. Perhaps it was that opposition to a particular policy or religion should not necessarily lead one to risk one’s own well-being in that connection? There ought to be a stronger, more primitive motive.

  Still, there was the adage about gift-horses — if they had horses here.

  “And,” she said, “I need help myself, to escape from this foul city. Alone, I would soon be pressed into slavery.”

  Oh. Nothing like a male fugitive for such assistance! Someone whose imperative for rapid escape was guaranteed.

  If that were her case — and there now seemed to be no reason to question it — their needs could very well coincide.

  “Do you trust yourself to a stranger?” he asked her anyway. “A criminal, for all you know, a rapist, even a murderer?”

  “Do you desire to murder me?”

  “No.”

  “Then there is no harm you can do me.”

  Oh.

  “Now we must hurry. The temple guards will find this house very soon.” She showed him to the back exit and peered at the street. Torches were passing.

  “And who are you?” she inquired as they waited.

  “Ivarch of Merica. I was taken in by a ship and brought before Mattan for interrogation.”

  “Mattan,” she said darkly. “He is notorious. Soft spoken but never to be trusted. A dabbler in past events.”

  An apt assessment. “What I don’t understand is why he sent me to be sacrificed. How could he get information that way?”

 
She shrugged. “Mattan is Mattan. Come — they are past.”

  So they were, for the moment. Soon they would discover the termination of the bloodstain trail on the other side of the house and backtrack. Aia led him into the dark street, guiding him past irregularities and obstructions while he sheltered the sword under his tunic. She seemed to have an inherent sensitivity to danger, knowing where the temple patrols were likely to be and how to avoid them. In half an hour they were comfortably ensconced in the house she had spoken of: empty, yes, but very well stocked.

  Ivo ripped off the remaining shreds of his tunic and cleaned up in the well-appointed bath. He had not expected any drainage facilities, but this had a wooden pipe leading down and out, and the floor was of pink cement set with little marble cubes. As elegant as anything of the twentieth century, except for the lack of heated or running water.

  Then he had to beg Aia’s help to don a new tunic, hoping she would not be outraged by the request. She obliged without comment, fortunately.

  The remainder of the house was simply executed: several rectangular rooms without architectural pretensions. The foundation was stone cleverly fitted together with a minimum of cement, giving way to bricks with occasional upright slabs of stone for strength, and finally to straight wood. The cedar paneling of the upper rooms was handsome but not ornate and there were no objects of art. The owner, apparently conforming to Phoenician taste, had no personal interest in elegance, with the exception of clothing. The house was stocked with an array of material fully as splendid as that of Mattan’s residence: multicolored cloaks, tunics and skirts, heavily embroidered. Some were of wool, others of fine linen. Purple was predominant, and he seemed to remember that Tyre had been famous for its purple dye. Even the pointed caps were richly hued.

  Aia served him a tremendous and welcome meal: smoked goatmeat, olives, figs, date wine, honey and pastries made from unidentified grains, finishing off with whole pomegranates. It was almost too rich for him, after his day of hunger, but he disciplined his appetite and filled his stomach without reaction. “How did you know of this place?” he asked her as he pried out the juicy pomegranate morsels. “Won’t the owner object?”