Read Online Wrath of the Furies by Steven Saylor - Free Book Online

winding and narrow, and stank of cat urine. We arrived at a squat, mud-brick building with a black door upon which was carved the Egyptian symbol called an ankh. Here, according to Bethesda’s information, we would find a fortune-teller called Ameretat. The name sounded neither Greek nor Egyptian; perhaps it was Persian. I knocked on the door. In the predawn stillness, the noise sounded very loud.
    The door seemed to open by itself, for I saw no one on the other side. Then I lowered my eyes and perceived a small, shadowy figure no taller than my waist. The child—though I could not see him clearly, I presumed it was a little boy—took a good look at both of us, then without a word let us in.
    â€œFollow,” he said, in a high-pitched but peculiarly husky voice. He carried a small lamp, which provided the only illumination as he led us down a hallway so narrow I banged my elbows against the walls. The place had a peculiar smell, a mixture of incense and stewed onions. We came to a room at the back of the building where the shutters of a high window had been opened to admit the first feeble light of morning. The boy told us to sit, which we did on the rug beneath us, since the room had no furniture. Because she sat on the floor below the window, with the light in her visitors’ eyes, the woman before us appeared as little more than a patch of gray against a field of black. At least I presumed the patch of gray to be a woman, though thus far she had not said a word.
    The boy disappeared for a moment, then brought us each a cup of something to drink. The brew was slightly tepid and smelled like the fermented beverage the Egyptians make from grain, a beer with aromatic spices added. It was an old charlatan’s trick, to intoxicate a customer with drugged food or wine—so my father had taught me—and this act of suspect hospitality immediately put me on my guard. When I lowered my cup to the floor without drinking from it, and gestured for Bethesda to do the same, I expected the woman to encourage us to drink, but instead she remained silent. The vague outline amid the shadows seemed less certain than ever. I thought I could make out the shape of a dark cloak and a cowl, but peer as I might, I could see no face within the shadowy folds of cloth. I couldn’t tell if she looked at us or not, or even if she was awake.
    Bethesda had arranged ahead of time, with an agent who worked for the fortune-teller, that we should visit Ameretat on this day and at this hour, so of course she knew who we were. Still, it was startling to hear a strange voice from the shadows suddenly speak my name, loudly and with a peculiar accent.
    â€œGordianus of Rome!” she said. “And you, the slave girl called Bethesda. You come to Ameretat seeking knowledge of what lies ahead, yes?”
    Before I could answer, Bethesda whispered, “Yes, Ameretat, we do.” I was about to chide her for speaking out of turn, when Ameretat interrupted me with a laugh.
    â€œYou might as well get used to it, Gordianus of Rome,” she said. “Soon enough the slave girl will be doing all the talking, and you will be mute!”
    I wrinkled my brow. Just how much had Bethesda told this woman’s agent about my plans and the purpose for my journey? The more a fortune-teller knows about you, the more easily she can spin a tale so as to make herself appear more prescient than she is. So my father had told me.
    â€œFirst, the payment,” she said. That seemed straightforward enough. I produced a small bag that contained the agreed-upon amount. The boy appeared from the shadows and snatched it from my hand. He emptied the bag onto his cupped palm, counted the coins out loud, and gave the woman a nod.
    â€œSomething else I must have, some article of clothing or other item close to you. Your shoes, I think. Yes, each of you, give me a shoe, since it is on a journey of many steps that you are about to embark.”
    I