“Teacher, surely suspicion should fall first on Zenas,” he said. “Why is the slave not here? Why did he abandon his post?”
“If Zenas played some part in this, it was only because someone put him up to it,” said Posidonius, continuing to stare at Cleobulus. “But I can’t believe Zenas would betray my trust, especially in a matter as serious as this. The fact that he isn’t here, and that his writing instruments were left behind, suggests to me that some harm was done to the poor fellow.”
Cleobulus swallowed hard. “Then where is he?”
Posidonius at last took his eyes off his pupil. He turned and looked over the ship’s side.
“Teacher, if the slave were thrown overboard, his body would have washed against the piers by now,” said Cleobulus. “Someone would have seen it—”
“Not if his body was tied to the iron stave that was used to smash the statue’s head,” said Posidonius, gazing intently at the water below, as if by sheer will he could make the waves give up their secret.
“But this is terrible!” said Antipater. “Is there not some other explanation for what’s happened, short of accusing someone of murder and wanton destruction? Perhaps Zenas will turn up yet. Have you never had a slave go missing, Posidonius, and then reappear shamefaced a day later, stinking of wine and the brothel?”
“Not Zenas,” Posidonius said. “And what possible motive could he have had to destroy the statue’s head? What motive could anyone have to do such a thing?”
To this, no one gave an answer. Cleobulus, still pale but with a glint of defiance in his eyes, stared back at his teacher for a long moment, then brusquely took his leave and hurried off.
After arranging with the captain to have the damaged statue transported to his house, Posidonius told us he wished to be alone, and headed off by himself. The Gauls went off on their own, with Gatamandix gripping Vindovix’s shoulder, as if to comfort him. I saw them duck into a seedy-looking tavern on the waterfront. I was left with Antipater, who expressed his desire to head directly back to the house of Posidonius.
As we walked away from the harbor, I looked over my shoulder, past the ship to the distant ruins of the Colossus at the end of the long mole. The huge fragments of bronze gleamed dully beneath the iron-gray sky. Beyond the Colossus, dark clouds were gathering over the open sea.
* * *
It was a gloomy day in the house of Posidonius.
The Gauls remained absent, as did Cleobulus. Our host at last returned, but shut himself up in his study. Eventually the carters arrived with the crate. Without enthusiasm, Posidonius emerged from his seclusion to oversee the unpacking.
Soon the plaster statue stood in a room off the garden. Even without its head, the remains presented a fascinating image, showing how the Colossus must have appeared when it stood intact beside the harbor. If the living model had been a Greek, this statue surely would have been larger than life, but its oversized proportions were correct for a hulking Gaul, and the muscular physique could easily be taken for a reproduction of Vindovix, or of an ancestor whom he resembled.
“Perhaps the head could be reconstructed,” said Antipater hopefully, but when we sifted through the bits and pieces, the only recognizable fragments were some broken sunbeams from Helios’s crown.
Without a word, Posidonius returned to his library, but emerged a moment later.
“Have either of you entered my library today?” he asked.
Antipater shook his head, as did I.
“Very odd,” said Posidonius. “I’m certain, before we headed for the ship this morning, that Gatamandix’s knife was on the small table where I left it. But it isn’t there now.”
“Perhaps Gatamandix took it with him before we left this morning,” suggested Antipater.
“Why would he do that, without telling me?”
A vague apprehension ran through me. “Why do you suppose the Gauls haven’t returned yet?” I looked at the dark, churning clouds above. “There’s a storm coming.”
“They probably drank themselves into oblivion at that waterfront tavern,” said Antipater. “Best to leave them to it and let them come home in their own time.”
I nodded. “And where do you think Cleobulus went?”
“Back to his father’s house, I’m sure,” said Posidonius, with a bitter edge to his voice. He returned to his study.
“What a day!” said Antipater. “I’m going to my room to take a nap. And you, Gordianus?”
“I’ll look at the statue a while longer,” I said, squatting down so as to view it from a low angle, as if I were on a ship sailing into harbor and the model were the full-size Colossus, towering above me. I tried to imagine the head intact, and looking very much like Vindovix, and felt that uncanny shiver of cognition one experiences when a statue suddenly seems no longer inanimate but a living, breathing entity. Was this the ancestor of Vindovix who stood before me, captured by the divinely inspired hand of Chares?
Clearly, as a proud Rhodian scholar, Cleobulus did not like the idea that a Gaul might have served as the model for Helios. But would he have done violence to Zenas, and deliberately deface a statue fashioned by the hand of Chares? Posidonius seemed to think so, but without proof, it was hard to see how he could punish Cleobulus, except by shunning him.
I remembered that the ritual knife was missing, and an unpleasant thought struck me: What if Gatamandix had decided to punish the Rhodian himself? Had he taken the knife for just that purpose? Then I realized this made no sense, for Posidonius had seen the knife in his study that morning, and Gatamandix had not returned to the house all day, so if the Druid took the knife, it was before we all set out for the ship. He could not have known then that he would want the knife later to punish the defacer of the statue.
Then another thought struck me, more chilling than the first: perhaps Gatamandix
