The Implacable Hunter Read Online Free Page B

what a physician will be lost!’
    ‘Or soldier,’ I said.
    And Lucius was now rubbing his wrist against his thigh, while Soxias, delighted with the atmosphere of consternation which Paulus contrived to spread – and being, I fancied, somehow namelessly afraid himself – laughed hoarsely; and sent over his cup, a great goblet of gold set with emeralds, crying: ‘Keep it for Solomon’s sake! … Serve you right, Lucius – every man for his own gods and devils! … Eh, Diomed?’
    ‘It is the policy of Rome –’ I began.
    ‘– Look out, gentlemen!’ cried Soxias. ‘Here comes Diomed the Manhunter! –’ he was amusing himself with me, now ‘– The names they call him in Tarsus! All cold-blooded, too: a turtle to snap, a crab to grip, a squid with eight arms to catch you and a bellyful of black ink to hide behind, an eel to slither away, a limpet to cling, an unopenable oyster –’
    As he paused for an instant to think, Paulus said: ‘– Garlic?’
    ‘What garlic?’ asked Soxias.
    ‘Garlic, saffron, spices and salt. Stew Diomed with these, and he would be a fish dish, fit for a king’s table.’
    ‘First catch me,’ said I.
    ‘I don’t feel well,’ said Lucius, suddenly. ‘My fingers tingle.’
    ‘I have eaten man,’ said Soxias, watching the company from under his eyebrows. ‘The chest and the haunch are the best cuts. But having paunched your man, you must let him hang three days; and then seethe him for twenty minutes in water before roasting … Oh, but that brings us to the subject of gods again.’
    Lucius staggered to his feet. Beckoning two slaves, Soxias said: ‘Take my lord Lucius to the vomitorium.’
    ‘What is the connection between roast man and gods?’ asked Tibullus, a shy little plump gentleman who had spent the past thirty years in scholarly retirement, writing a History of Asia.
    Afranius said: ‘Don’t you know? Everything is god that comes to Soxias’s pantheon. He worships them all, and believes in none.’
    ‘No, no,’ said Soxias, with a certain gravity. ‘I believe in all of ’em, my boy, all of ’em. Don’t you mock. Everything is a god that is believed in. What connection between roast man and gods, asks Tibullus. Well, I dined once with some man-eating black men who worshipped quite a potent little god made of ebony. It was when I was young and poor and carefree. I got hold of a ship and went to Africa.’
    ‘Young and poor and carefree – you simply got hold of a ship?’ I said.
    ‘That’s right. And a cargo of wine and stuff. I cruised down the coast of Africa, where the forest grows down to the sea and the sea runs into the rivers. Nobody has ever scratched Africa yet, to this day. The people came out to meet us with clubs and spears, but after a few drinks of wine and a length or two of coloured cloth I had their king eatingout of my hand – he loved me like a brother – big strong fellow, a Hercules.’
    ‘He showed me this wooden god of his: a badly carved image of a hermaphrodite, with a backside like a pumpkin and breasts like cucumbers, black as coal. As nearly as I can pronounce it, they called it ’Ngo ;and to this thing they sacrificed boys and girls whom they afterwards cooked and ate. Our priests do likewise, only ours eat beef and mutton.
    ‘Well, the king of this rancid mob told me that whoever touched this ’Ngo would be struck dead. To prove it, he got a prisoner out of the fattening-pen and had him pushed forward at spear-point to touch the idol. Man was grey with fright, but what had he to lose? He touched the god, turned a back-somersault, and fell dead. King asked me, now did I believe in the power of his god –?’
    ‘Did you?’ I asked.
    ‘No,’ said Soxias, wiping his mouth.
    ‘So you touched it?’ asked Afranius.
    ‘A business-man takes no unnecessary chances, my friend – oh no. I sent to the ship for a man who hadn’t seen what had been going on, and I said to him: “Go and get me that image, will you?” He