Read Online Search the Seven Hills by Barbara Hambly - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Barbara Hambly
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goes on at the Flavian Amphitheater—Have you heard of Atargatis?”
“Well—of course, I mean—everyone has. There are rumors...” He glanced up, to meet a blue gaze turned suddenly hard as chipped ice.
“The practices of the cult of Atargatis,” said Sixtus, “are hardly rumor. They were pursued in Rome until the beginning of the present reign; every emperor from Augustus down winked at them.” He got to his feet and limped to the mazework of boxes in the back of the room, to remove a small brass image from a shelf. “Pretty, isn’t she?”
Marcus averted his eyes. The idol was obscene, fishy, and crudely done; even in that small size the Syrian goddess was depicted with her arms outstretched over a wide and slightly hollowed lap. “Did they really sacrifice children?” he asked queasily.
Bitter memory edged the deep voice. “Yes.” He set the baal back in its place.
“Did you see them?”
Sixtus didn’t answer. Though he looked still at the shadowed figure of that many-breasted mother, it was clear he did not see her.
“Here in Rome?” he whispered.
Sixtus turned away. “In Antioch,” he replied unwillingly.
Churaldin, who had remained seated in silence all this while, looking out into the dark dappled tangles of the vines, asked, “And what were you doing in the Temple of Atargatis in Antioch while services were being held?”
“Looking for a child.” He turned back to them, an ancient anger deepening the lines of his face. “Meddling in what wasn’t my business. I saw their faces then, you see. And they were men and women I dealt with daily, in the market, or the law courts; some of them were relatives of the child who had been kidnapped. People I thought I knew. I had thought up until that time that—that such a thing would be written upon the human countenance, so that it could not be hid. Maybe they didn’t even consider it wrong to roast a three-year-old girl alive, maybe they were so sunk in their trance that they weren’t aware of what they did.” He limped back to his worktable, his movements restless and halting; the baals watched his back. “But it taught me that you cannot understand human motivation, or human need. Every rock has two sides, and only one of them is exposed to sun and washed by air. I have never been sure,” he continued, his voice low, as though he spoke half to himself, “whether that was the starting point of my philosophy, or whether it crippled me in its study forever.”
Marcus was silent, feeling suddenly very young and unfledged. Darkness had deepened in the gardens; the cavelike workroom had slipped imperceptibly from cool shadows to a thicker gloom. Churaldin said quietly, “I hadn’t known that.”
The old warrior relaxed, as though wakening from a half-trance, or an ugly dream. His voice in the semi-dark was amused and kind, “There’s a great deal about my evil past that I’m at pains to keep from everyone—including my well-meaning meddler of a body servant.” He limped to the corner, where a six-foot staff of iron-shod hardwood leaned against the wall. “Have the lamps lit, if you will, Churaldin,” he continued. “I shall show this young man out.”
Leaning on his staff he conducted Marcus through the murmuring twilight of the dark garden, through the hall and into the dusty atrium, where the last gleams of evening quivered like quicksilver in the waters of the pool.
“The question, Marcus, is not entirely one of guilt or innocence,” his deep voice said out of the faceless gloom that surrounded them. “To undertake a general persecution of the Christians is one matter, and one that is entirely within Arrius’ sphere. But it will hardly serve to restore this girl to her family. To follow a single trail—to affix specific, rather than general, guilt requires judgment on your part, and at least a temporary tolerance of things that you might consider quite abominable. Don’t confuse the two.”
They paused in the
“Well—of course, I mean—everyone has. There are rumors...” He glanced up, to meet a blue gaze turned suddenly hard as chipped ice.
“The practices of the cult of Atargatis,” said Sixtus, “are hardly rumor. They were pursued in Rome until the beginning of the present reign; every emperor from Augustus down winked at them.” He got to his feet and limped to the mazework of boxes in the back of the room, to remove a small brass image from a shelf. “Pretty, isn’t she?”
Marcus averted his eyes. The idol was obscene, fishy, and crudely done; even in that small size the Syrian goddess was depicted with her arms outstretched over a wide and slightly hollowed lap. “Did they really sacrifice children?” he asked queasily.
Bitter memory edged the deep voice. “Yes.” He set the baal back in its place.
“Did you see them?”
Sixtus didn’t answer. Though he looked still at the shadowed figure of that many-breasted mother, it was clear he did not see her.
“Here in Rome?” he whispered.
Sixtus turned away. “In Antioch,” he replied unwillingly.
Churaldin, who had remained seated in silence all this while, looking out into the dark dappled tangles of the vines, asked, “And what were you doing in the Temple of Atargatis in Antioch while services were being held?”
“Looking for a child.” He turned back to them, an ancient anger deepening the lines of his face. “Meddling in what wasn’t my business. I saw their faces then, you see. And they were men and women I dealt with daily, in the market, or the law courts; some of them were relatives of the child who had been kidnapped. People I thought I knew. I had thought up until that time that—that such a thing would be written upon the human countenance, so that it could not be hid. Maybe they didn’t even consider it wrong to roast a three-year-old girl alive, maybe they were so sunk in their trance that they weren’t aware of what they did.” He limped back to his worktable, his movements restless and halting; the baals watched his back. “But it taught me that you cannot understand human motivation, or human need. Every rock has two sides, and only one of them is exposed to sun and washed by air. I have never been sure,” he continued, his voice low, as though he spoke half to himself, “whether that was the starting point of my philosophy, or whether it crippled me in its study forever.”
Marcus was silent, feeling suddenly very young and unfledged. Darkness had deepened in the gardens; the cavelike workroom had slipped imperceptibly from cool shadows to a thicker gloom. Churaldin said quietly, “I hadn’t known that.”
The old warrior relaxed, as though wakening from a half-trance, or an ugly dream. His voice in the semi-dark was amused and kind, “There’s a great deal about my evil past that I’m at pains to keep from everyone—including my well-meaning meddler of a body servant.” He limped to the corner, where a six-foot staff of iron-shod hardwood leaned against the wall. “Have the lamps lit, if you will, Churaldin,” he continued. “I shall show this young man out.”
Leaning on his staff he conducted Marcus through the murmuring twilight of the dark garden, through the hall and into the dusty atrium, where the last gleams of evening quivered like quicksilver in the waters of the pool.
“The question, Marcus, is not entirely one of guilt or innocence,” his deep voice said out of the faceless gloom that surrounded them. “To undertake a general persecution of the Christians is one matter, and one that is entirely within Arrius’ sphere. But it will hardly serve to restore this girl to her family. To follow a single trail—to affix specific, rather than general, guilt requires judgment on your part, and at least a temporary tolerance of things that you might consider quite abominable. Don’t confuse the two.”
They paused in the
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