MacRoscope (38 page)

The other guard had finally caught on that something was wrong. He drew out his sword and raised his own shield, advancing cumbersomely on Ivo. It was hard to believe that these were veterans; they were like oxen. Behind the attacking guard the priest cried out, and the temple personnel charged down the steps, crowding each other dangerously.

Ivo hefted his weapon. The sword was about two feet long, not counting the hilt, and tapered so that the widest part of the blade was six or eight inches from the tip. Both edges were sharp, though hardly knifelike; muscular power had to be applied to hack through opposing armor and the blade could not maintain a really good edge.

The weapon was clumsy and the handle was too small for a comfortable grip. He could hardly fight effectively with this, or, for that matter, protect himself with the shield. Not that he wanted to fight at all: violence of this sort was not in his nature. There had to be some reasonable means to—

The guard struck with his sword, and Ivo automatically blocked with the wooden disk.

It worked.

The blade collided with the notched rim and clung for an instant, held by the spongy wood. Ivo swept his own sword around in a clumsy quarter-circle, and the guard jerked back.

He had missed — but the swing had been oddly refreshing. The sword, so clumsy just to hold, became a nicely balanced instrument in motion. He saw now that its delicate taper contributed to its effectiveness, placing the greatest width and weight behind the intended point of contact.

He had already wasted too much time. During the few seconds of this action, the temple guards had continued advancing, and were now almost upon him. He could not hope to overcome them all. He would have to run, and risk the spears.

He turned — and discovered more troops coming up from the street. He was already surrounded.

Do the unexpected!
he thought, remembering the advice from somewhere. The unexpected could prevail in almost any situation. They obviously expected him either to fight or to run, and neither course could save him long.

They had stopped within twenty feet, forming a closing ring of swords, the two original guards among them. The priest stood in the center of the line upon the wide steps, gesticulating. His feet, Ivo noticed, were bare.

Ivo charged at him, bounding up the low steps three at a time. At ten feet he hurled the shield at the priest’s head. It skimmed through the air like a sail, rotating.

The man jumped aside, agile enough, banging into the guard adjacent. Ivo threw his sword at the line of men on the other side. It whirled like a boomerang, flashing sunlight in all directions.

The three nearest shields came up reflexively to block it, as he had known they would, but the men were taken aback. Before they recovered, Ivo dived at the stumbling priest, catching him around the waist and shoving him back against the standing guards again. They all went down in a tangle.

A sword clattered almost by his ear, thrown up by one of the scrambling warriors. Ivo snatched at it, then caught the priest around the waist once more as he tried to stand up. The man, fortunately, was of birdlike physique, easy to manhandle. Ivo pinned the priest against him, in lieu of a shield, and backed up the steps. The guards started after them, but Ivo raised the great blade to his captive’s neck, and they hung back.

But he had to do something else soon, for the heavy sword was already weighing down his arm in this awkward pose. The threat would lose effect if the blade sagged wearily to the hostage’s chest…

“Listen, treacherous one!” Ivo hissed into the man’s ear as the two retreated. “Either we visit Melqart’s furnace together, or we escape together. It is for you to decide whether we part company in life or in death. Do you understand me?”

The man said nothing, but Ivo was sure he had the message. At the top of the stair between the columns Ivo released him, but held the sword at his back. The massed soldiers were following, ever more numerous, not closely; they were making a resounding clatter, but not risking the hostage. Ivo congratulated himself on an excellent choice.

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.