When the man did not reappear, Bulnes stole forward toward the cave entrance to where he could see the proceedings. The other cave contained an altar before which stood a priest. Something burned on the altar. On a ledge that ran along the cliff, level with the cave floor, stood a row of men — evidently the suppliants or worshipers.
The priest had his arms up in a gesture of blessing, intoning a prayer. When he had finished, he said, "You may ask, O man!"
The first man in line stretched his arms out, palms up, and called loudly: "Otototoi, Theoi, Ge! Apollon! Apollon!"
When he had repeated the exclamation three times, a hollow, inhuman voice resounded from the back of the cave, "I am here, O man. Speak!"
Bulnes nearly jumped out of his skin when the voice first sounded, though a second's reflection showed him what the true cause of it must be. The suppliant continued, "O Averter of Evil, tell me what I should do to make my wife conceive?"
"Let her eat three mustard-seeds while facing east on the night of the next full moon, at moon-rise, and do thou pay ten drachma! to the priest of this shrine of Apollo. Next!"
The next man wanted to know if the trading voyage in which he had invested eight mnai would be successful, and so on. Bulnes grinned, realizing whither the other priest had been bound when he disappeared into the hole in the back of the cave.
This method of milking the Athenian public also gave Bulnes the germ of an idea. More than one man could play Apollo.
He waited until the last inquirer had received his reply, paid his scot, and departed; until the two priests had tidied up their caves, counted their money, put out their lamps, and departed. Then Bulnes came out of hiding and prowled along the ledge until he came to the north wing of the Propylaia, stole down the steps, and thence homeward. Poor Wiyem would have to go supper-less; it would be impossible to buy food this late.
Bulnes staggered into the inn of Podokles, pacified the growling watchdog, and fell asleep almost before his head struck his pallet.
Chapter Fifteen
The sun was high when the flies and the noise of Athens at work finally awoke Knut Bulnes. He opened an eye. Then, at the realization that he was late for his lecture, he leaped to his feet, feeling light-headed from lack of food. He would not even have time to feed poor Wiyem Flin if he did not want to jeopardize the chances of his getting the bail money from Kritias.
One thing about the Athenian way of life, there was no tedious routine of washing and shaving and hunting for a clean pair of socks in the morning. He already had on his chiton, and looked around for his himation. Then he remembered discarding it in the Theseion last night when invading the tunnels.
Bulnes had picked up enough Athenian cultural attitudes to know that he could not pass for a philosopher without a cloak, and would therefore have to procure one even if he went without breakfast. He got the address of a weaver from Podokles (there was no such thing as a tailor in Athens) and half an hour later was hurrying toward the house of Kallaischros with another two-by-four-meter rectangle of cloth swathing his lanky figure.
Kritias said, "Where have you been? We have waited half the morning. What sort of teacher are you?"
Bulnes made his apologies, adding the lie that he had had to feed his poor friend Philon, rotting away in the Oikema.
"Speaking of which, my dear sirs," he continued, "I believe it was agreed yesterday that the noble Kritias should put up the money to bail out my colleague?"
Kritias looked blank. "I remember nought of the sort. True, you mentioned some such matter, but we explained that neither of us was in a position to help you. Is that not so, Demokritos?"
"It is not! Indeed, Kritias, you definitely promised Bouleus the money. No, do not wink. As this man has dealt justly with me, I intend to see him dealt justly with by others."
Bulnes could have hugged Demokritos, except that in Classical Greece such a gesture would be misconstrued. Kritias, grumbling, went out and presently came back with a bag that clinked.
"Hold out your hands," he said, and began counting out silver coins, most of them massy dekadrachma as big around as an Imperial silver kraun and a good deal heavier.
"Four hundred seventy, four hundred eighty, four hundred eighty-four, four hundred eighty-eight, four hundred eighty-nine, four hundred ninety, five hundred drachma," he said. "By the Dog, have you not brought a bag?"
Bulnes stood with fingers spread, a great pile of coins filling his cupped hands and a lot more scattered on the ground at his feet. He had not before thought of the disadvantages of the lack of paper money and checks for large sums.
"I shall manage," he said. He laid the money down and did as he had seen Athenians do: pulled his belt tighter and stowed the silver inside the breast of his chiton, the belt retaining it from falling through. The total mass, weighing nearly five pounds, was cold against his midriff.
Three hours later, Bulnes and the Polemarchos came to the Oikema and found the jailer. The Polemarchos said, "Release the prisoner Philon. This man has gone bail for him."
The jailer led them around to the side of the building where Flin was confined. The prisoner glared silently at them as the jailer unlocked the fetter on his leg, then stood up, flicked an insect from his clothes, and followed them out of the cell.
The Polemarchos said, "I was going to schedule your trial for the seventeenth, but since your friend here says Euripides has promised to withdraw his complaint, I will put it off to the twenty-fifth. By then we should have heard him."
"Thanks you, dear sir," said Bulnes, and turned to Flin. "I suppose you're hungry enough to ..."
"Hungry!" howled Flin. "Have you been trying to starve me to death? Here I've missed three meals, and the bugs ate me alive, and not a word from you! I see you've got a new himation. Been having a gay time chasing the women, I suppose?"
"Shut up," said Bulnes.
"What? What's that?"
"I said shut up! Calle su! Must I make it plainer?" Bulnes cocked a fist. "If you'll come along to the Agora like an adult, we'll buy some food for Podokles to cook, because I haven't had a bite in the last twenty-four hours either."
Flin subsided, muttering. As they walked through the marketplace, Bulnes told of his adventures. When he came to the place where Thalia, alias Melite, admitted him to the house of Euripides, Flin burst out, "How did she look? What did she say? Did she show any signs of knowing me?"
Bulnes went on with his story, censoring the part where the woman had made an obvious pass at him.
Flin said, "When can I see her again?"
"You can't, my dear comrade."
"What d'you mean, I can't? We can use that manuscript as an excuse for calling on Euripides, can't we?"
"I mean several things. For one, you've already got yourself in bad with them by your outburst at the play. For another, it was just luck that I happened to see her. These Athenians normally keep their women shut up like a lot of medieval hidalgos, as you well know. Sometimes I think it's a good idea, too. And for another, it's a fifteen-kilometer hike down to Peiraieus and back, which I don't care to face again soon."
"But — but — dash it all ..."
"Take it easy. It would only upset you without accomplishing anything, as she wouldn't know you. We'd best leave the Euripideses alone while we figure out our next move."
Bulnes went on to tell of his nocturnal experiences in the tunnels and on the Akropolis.
"... so I went home," he concluded, "and I should have got up earlier this morning except — what's the matter, my dear Wiyem?"
Flin's mouth was puckered up and tears ran down his plump cheeks. "I — I can't help it. You've destroyed my last hope that this could be the real thing," he blubbered. "Now I know it's a stage show. Never mind me — I'm just a useless old pedant. Sorry I flared up just now, old thing."