I rushed toward the monster. To my amazement, it took a step back.
The horn was my chief worry, and grabbing hold of it was my goal. A bite or a scratch I might survive, at least for a while; even the sting of its tail might be mild enough to allow me to keep fighting. But if the monster managed to gore my belly with that horn, all would be over for me.
Above me I heard a sudden uproar from the men. In the blink of an eye, cheering replaced laughter. I had never heard such cheering except in the gladiator games at Rome, when a fight reached its climax and the audience erupted with excitement.
Before the monster could react, I grabbed hold of its tusk with my right hand. At the same instant, because I realized it was just within reach, with my left hand I grabbed hold of its tail, near the stinger. If I had the strength to hold fast to these two deadly weapons, and the dexterity to avoid its claws, perhaps I could somehow swing myself atop the creature and ride or wrestle it to the ground.
That, in retrospect at least, was what I may have intended. Or perhaps I acted purely from instinct and impulse, with no plan whatsoever.
Whatever I may have hoped to accomplish, nothing of the sort transpired, for in the next moment I found myself tumbling head over heels past the monster and onto the palm-strewn ground, clutching in one hand the monster’s horn and in the other its segmented tail. Both had come loose from the creature with hardly any resistance.
Above me, the roar of cheering changed back to a roar of laughter.
One voice carried above the others. It was Menkhep: “This is our best initiation yet!”
He was shouting across the pit to Artemon, who was now directly above me, peering down with a serene smile and a sage nod of his head. Next to him stood Ismene, whose countenance at last betrayed the faintest trace of emotion, a look at once smug and satisfied and ever so slightly sympathetic to the confusion that overwhelmed me. When she stepped back from the precipice and vanished, somehow I knew that she was leaving the gathering, as if the drama-or comedy-had come to its conclusion.
I turned to look at the monster, which in the blink of an eye seemed to have transformed itself into a simple lion.
The unnatural colors-orange limbs, purple trunk, red mane-were exactly that, unnatural. Someone had dyed the creature’s fur, and had also trimmed and arranged its mane, stiffening it somehow so that it held its radiant shape. The segmented tail was nothing more than a prop fashioned from hollow gourds and attached to the lion’s real tail. The horn seemed real enough, but it had been hollowed out so that it weighed very little; what manner of beast it came from I didn’t know, but the lion certainly never grew it.
I was trapped in the pit not with some hideous creature of magic, but with a lion. That fact should have been terrifying in itself-but what sort of lion was this, that allowed itself to be dyed and coiffed and fitted with a false tail and horn?
As the laughter died down, Artemon addressed me from the edge of the pit. “I see you’ve made the acquaintance of Cheelba.”
The painted lion sat back on his haunches and gazed back at me with an air of offended dignity. I kept my eyes on the beast, not yet ready to let down my guard. I threw the false tail aside but kept hold of the horn, which might yet serve as a weapon.
“The lion has a name?” I said.
“Most certainly. Cheelba has been with us for well over a year now. He was among the booty we took from the caravan of a Nubian merchant. The merchant intended to give the beast as a present to King Ptolemy. A lion as tame as Cheelba is rare indeed-a worthy gift for a king.”
“But-the stench from its mouth!” I pinched my nose, for at that moment the lion gave a great yawn that sent a noxious breath in my direction.
Artemon sighed. “Cheelba seems to be suffering from a rotten tooth. It puts him in a cranky mood-thus that plaintive roar he utters from time to time, not at all like his usual roar. Tame Cheelba may be, but so far no man among us has displayed sufficient bravery-or foolishness-to reach into the lion’s mouth to pull that rotten tooth.”
The lion settled, retracting all four limbs. It continued to gaze at me with a quizzical expression.
“Those colors … that absurd mane … the false tail and the horn-”
Artemon laughed. “You’re wondering about Cheelba’s disguise? That idea came from one of our confederates, a man with considerable skill at creating such artifice, who works to a very high standard. Even under daylight, the illusion was quite convincing, wasn’t it? The artificer is no longer among us-he’s off in Alexandria-so be careful how you handle that horn. I fear you may already have damaged the scorpion tail, throwing it aside so carelessly.” He saw my peeved reaction. “Don’t feel foolish, Pecunius! Every man here who met Cheelba under the same circumstances was fooled by the lion’s … costume, if I may call it that. And most of those initiates made bigger fools of themselves than you did, I daresay.”
Looking up at the crowd, I noticed a few cracked smiles and red faces amid the general merriment.
The lion blinked. It gave another yawn, filling the air with stench, then rolled onto its side, rested its head on one paw, and shut its eyes. Only its tail moved, stirring the air and rustling the palm leaves.
I drew a breath, and realized it was the first full breath I had taken since the ordeal began. My shoulders slumped. I suddenly felt exhausted and as weak as a child. Even the hollow horn felt heavy in my hand. At last I turned my back on the lion so that I could look up at Artemon, craning my neck to do so.
“What about the other side of the pit? What if I had chosen to walk across the crocodile’s enclosure?”
He cocked an eyebrow. “Others have done so before you.”
“Is that tightrope also rigged to break?”
Artemon shook his head. “No, the rope above the crocodile is intact. If a man can manage to cross it, he’s passed the initiation. But very few men have managed to do so.”
“They fell into the crocodile pit?”
“Yes.”
“Did any of those men survive?”
“How inquisitive you are, Pecunius! But since you ask, I can remember only one such candidate. He survived, yes, but he wasn’t allowed to join us. We patched him up as best we could and sent him on his way. Ismene said he would bring bad luck. Of what use is a bandit who’s lost his hands?”
I shuddered. “The crocodile isn’t a pet, then?”
Artemon laughed. “Mangobbler is no one’s pet, even though he’s been with us longer than Cheelba. Mangobbler seems always to be in a bad mood.”
As if to demonstrate the point, there was a sudden banging noise from the other enclosure as the crocodile furiously lashed its tail against the wall.
The racket set my teeth on edge, but had no effect on the lion, which seemed to be fast asleep. Even its tail had ceased to move.
One end of a slender rope abruptly fell at my feet. I looked up to see that Menkhep held the other end, which was coiled several times around his fist. “Time for you to climb out,” he said.
I looked at the rope, then at the lion. The beast began to snore. It whimpered and twitched its paws, as if dreaming.
Bethesda loved cats. Not huge cats such as this one, but the much smaller variety that one encountered everywhere in Alexandria and in all the other cities of Egypt I had visited. To the people of the Nile, cats were sacred animals, protected by law and custom against all harm. They were allowed to come and go as they liked, living in temples and public arcades and even in people’s houses, where families venerated them like little gods and goddesses. As a boy growing up in Rome, I had seen lions at a distance in gladiator shows but had never encountered an Egyptian housecat. I had never imagined that people could coexist and even cohabit with such creatures, but Bethesda had taught me that one could not only approach them safely, but could even handle them in such a way as to bring pleasure to human and feline alike.