Queen of Kings - Maria Dahvana Headley [125]
A marble statue of the warrior Philoctetes, grimacing in pain, the bow of Hercules in his hands, stretched over the entrance to the temple. The statue’s leg was wrapped in bandages, and his wounded foot was raised off the ground. There was an inscription, which stoked Agrippa’s heart into a secret, joyful fire.
Here lies Philoctetes, Hero of Troy,
and inheritor of the poisoned arrows of Hercules, envenomed with the poison of the conquered Hydra.
Warrior, fall down and weep for the death of Chiron, the immortal, killed by these same arrows.
Fall down and weep for Hercules, killed by this venom.
Sing hymns to the bravery of Philoctetes, who suffered ten years, wounded by Hercules’ gift.
Let these arrows never again be released from their bow,
but guard them with your own mortal lives.
Another statue was placed just inside the doorway, this one depicting the tremendous centaur Chiron, pierced in the leg with an arrow, his agonized face lifelike enough to startle the men as they passed by it in the near darkness. The centaur’s blue glass eyes dripped marble tears as he tried to pull the arrow from his body. Agrippa shuddered as he passed beside it, feeling the unpleasant cool of the statue brushing against his bare arm.
The priests led the soldiers down a tight passageway and out into an inner courtyard where a table was already laid.
Agrippa smiled. His adversaries were charming. They seated themselves and beckoned for the small group of soldiers to join them. They took the first bites of the food, knowing that the soldiers would suspect poison.
Agrippa ate heartily. It was rare to be away from his commander. He found that he preferred it. Augustus had altered tremendously in the past months, and Agrippa mistrusted his friend’s instincts. The food here was simple but good, and it reminded him of better days. He sat back from the table when he had taken his fill.
“You will give us what we came for,” he said, and moved his hand to signal his soldiers. He heard the sound of arrows being fitted, of bowstrings being drawn.
He then heard the rushing noise of an arrow flying. It embedded itself in the table, directly before his plate. It had not been shot to kill but to warn.
“Why should we surrender our holding to you?” the elder priest asked. His eyes were no longer clouded but bright.
“And why should I not kill you?” Agrippa asked the priest, pulling a concealed dagger from its sheathe against his thigh and swiftly drawing it beneath the old man’s chin, not to cut his throat but to warn the other priests. Why did Agrippa’s men not move? What delayed their hands?
A thin trickle of blood made its way down from the blade. A scratch.
It was then that Agrippa felt his own throat begin to constrict.
Outside the temple walls, three men in homespun cloaks watched the gate. The smallest of the three fit his gloved fingers into the spaces in the stone. He hauled himself carefully up the wall, his muscles wobbling with exertion.
His companions, a younger man with ink-stained fingers and saddleweary thighs after three days’ hard riding from Rome, and a tall man, his dark skin nearly invisible in the shadows, hesitated for a moment and then, breathing deeply, followed the emperor into the temple.
12
Chrysate crouched on her haunches, nursing a flame and pinching a lump of beeswax in her fingers. Now that Augustus was finally gone, she was at liberty to cast the final portions of her love spell. Selene would relent. She’d already cast the rudiments, with the birds and flowers who sang for the child a nonstop melody, a trance-inducing chant, but Selene had managed to resist most of them. She would not resist this, and now that Chrysate had renewed herself, she was strong enough to perform it. She shuddered. It was exceedingly unpleasant that