'Senator,' Dionysus puffed, 'what has happened here?'
'I think we're about to find out,' I said, nodding toward a priest whose slaves cleared him a way through the crowd. One slave carried a box that doubtless contained religious paraphernalia. Another shouldered a litter of poles and woven leather straps.
While the priest and his staff went within, I pointed to the dark-brown, congealed puddle. Someone had taken the dog away but the flies still swarmed merrily.
'That's been here several hours, at least. I've investigated enough murders and gathered up enough Roman dead from battlefields to know.'
'I believe you are correct,' said the president, 'but this seems a strange place to commit murder. A person of importance, you say?'
'Well-dressed, at any rate.' The crowd roundabout seemed to be turning ugly. I had seen the phenomenon before. All it takes is a rumor, an omen, some unexpected happening like an eclipse of the sun, and a happy crowd can become a murderous mob in minutes. But these people had no target upon whom to vent their unease. Or did they?
After a brief purification, far less complex than the Roman variety, the slaves loaded the body onto the litter and carried it into the daylight. There came a gasp from the watchers, including Dionysus and the other officials.
'It's Telemachus, the high priest of Helios!' Dionysus said. Now the women of the crowd set up a lamentation worthy of a chorus from Euripides.
'Was he such a popular man?' I asked, astonished at the display.
'Not just popular,' said Dionysus, 'but a Popular.' This made a very neat word play in Greek, but I could tell that he wasn't just coining a witticism for our mutual amusement.
'Your high priest was a Popular?' I said, amazed. 'I might expect that in Rome. Most of our high priesthoods are held as a part of Public office. I thought yours were hereditary.'
'They are. But even priests are not immune from the degrading attractions of politics.' I had heard that sort of talk before. All my life, in fact. Any place where power has through long tradition been wielded by a handful of families, anyone else who tries to enter the charmed circle is doing something improper if not downright depraved.
'Here's the murder weapon,' said Hermes, emerging from inside the giant's head. He had been my servant long enough to fancy himself an expert investigator. He held up his trophy with pride. It was a bronze statuette about as long as a man's forearm, its base covered with a ghastly mess of blood, brains and hair. I took it from him and examined it. It depicted a nude, standing man wearing a solar crown and had a decidedly familiar look.
'Is this a miniature of the Colossus?' I asked Dionysus.
'Why, yes, it is. The local artisans make them by the hundreds. Visitors buy them as keepsakes. People here send them as gifts to friends, as pledge-tokens and so forth.'
I looked the thing over. 'It's an odd choice of weapon. If I were planning to kill someone, I think I'd choose something better designed for the task.'
'Perhaps in Rome you are more conversant with these activities,' he sniffed.
'It goes without saying. Is there any way to determine who made this?'
'I've no idea. Why do you ask?'
'It could be significant.'
'Significant in what sense? Our respect for Rome is very great, Senator, but you are not an official here,' he reminded me.
'Just curious,' I said, not wishing to tell him that I was already bored half out of my mind and eager for something to engage my faculties.
'Please, Senator,' he said, 'leave this to us. And now, if I may take my leave, I must see to the arrangements for Telemachus' funeral.' He and some other dignitaries bowed politely and followed the train of wailing mourners toward the temple of Helios where, presumably, Telemachus would be cremated.
I detained the priest for a moment. 'Does murder in this spot constitute a sacrilege?' I asked him.
'No. This is not a temenos; a place set aside as sacred to a deity or to the shades of the dead. There are no priests, and sacrifices were never performed here. The Colossus was an image of the god, but even when it was whole it was just a statue.' With a bow he rejoined the procession.
I handed the statuette back to Hermes. 'Wash this off.' He ambled off toward one of the city's many fine public fountains and returned a few minutes later, our trophy now free of the sticky evidence of its misuse.
'Why brain him with a statue?' I mused, examining the base.
'It certainly got the job done,' Hermes pointed out.
'But, if I was planning to kill someone, looking about my lodgings for the proper tool, I can hardly imagine thinking, "My sword? No, too cumbersome. My dagger? No, too common. Aha! The miniature copy of the Colossus of Rhodes! Just the thing!"'
'We've seen people murdered by roof-tiles,' Hermes said. 'I knew a slave once, was killed with a kitchen pestle. Bricks, candlesticks, anything handy will do.'
'Yes,' I said, waxing philosophical. Philosophical for me, anyway. 'Yes, when passions flare abruptly, anything that comes readily to hand may serve. Had Telemachus been found murdered in a house, with this lying close by, I would think no more of it. But he was killed in a lonely spot late at night.'
'Someone might have debrained him at home, then lugged him over there to hide the body.'
'I think not. That sort of head wound bleeds very freely. There should have been a huge trail of blood leading to the hiding place. And why carry along the murder weapon? No, it looks to me as if he was killed on the spot. Moreover, I think it unlikely that the killer had homicide in mind.'
He shrugged. 'What's one more dead Greek, anyway?'
'Relief, Hermes. Relief. Come along.'
As he walked, I examined the extempore weapon more closely. It was finely cast, the figure of the god being made in one piece with the pedestal. I could find no name, initial, or other maker's mark. The bottom of the pedestal was sealed with a nicely cut and polished piece of green marble, also unmarked.
Asking directions as we went, we soon came to the Sculptor's Market, a spacious forum where the musical chime of chisel against stone went on nonstop. The sculptors worked outdoors, with no more than an awning to protect them from the sun, inclement weather being a rarity on idyllic Rhodes.
'Now,' I said, 'all we need to do is locate the artist who made this statue.'
'It could be a sizable job,' Hermes said, looking round.
Everywhere in the market we could see copies of the Colossus. There were images done in fine marble, in cheap terracotta, in fired ceramic, in wood, in bronze like the murder weapon and in mixed media. Some were miniatures six inches high, others more substantial, and a few were man-sized. Some were painted, others left in the natural color of the medium.
I walked over to a life-sized specimen. He was of bronze, standing upon a base of Parian marble, and he had been given the full Greek treatment. Most of the flesh part was left in the mellow sheen of polished bronze. The hair and crown were brilliantly gilded. The lips and nipples were sheathed in slightly darker copper and the teeth, barely visible behind the lips, were silver-gilt. The eyes were inlaid with white shell and lapis lazuli. The thing had to cost as much as a good estate in Campania.
'May I help you, ah, Senator?' The dealer knew how to spot the insignia. I knew he wasn't the sculptor, with his fine tunic and his soft hands. 'I can make you a very favorable price for this sculpture. It was made by the sculptor Archelaus more than two hundred years ago, while the Colossus still stood, a very faithful copy.'
'Actually, I was interested in something more recent.'
'Oh?' he said, disappointed, 'what might that be?'
I held up my statuette. 'I need to find out who made this.' Just my luck if it was two hundred years old, too.
He pursed his lips. 'A common piece. I can think of more than two or three dozen artisans who might have made it. The founder might know.'
'The founder?'
'Yes. The bronze sculptors make their images in wax, then all of them take the wax images to the bronze foundry to be cast. There is only one on the island.'