Part 11 (1/2)

It entered even the dull brain of the watchman that the man looked strangely different, now, from the way he had when he rode along the Palian Way in his gilded chariot, arrogant and domineering, with his dark eyes glinting with magnetic vitality. Men who had hated Kallian Publico would scarcely have recognized him now as he lay like a disintegrated tun of fat, his rich robe half torn from him and his purple tunic awry. His face was blackened, his eyes started from his head, and his tongue lolled from his gaping mouth. His fat hands were thrown out as in a gesture of curious futility. On the thick fingers, gems glittered.

”Why did they not take his rings?” muttered the watchman uneasily. Then he started and stared, the short hairs p.r.i.c.kling at the nape of his neck. Through the dark silken hangings that masked one of the many doorways, opening into the hall, came a figure.

Arus saw a tall, powerfully-built youth, naked but for a loincloth and sandals strapped high about his ankles. His skin was burned brown as by the suns of the wastelands, and Arus glanced nervously at his broad shoulders, ma.s.sive chest, and heavy arms. A single look at the moody, broad-browed features told the watchman that the man was no Nemedian.

From under a mop of unruly black hair smoldered a pair of dangerous blue eyes. A long sword hung in a leather scabbard from his girdle.

Arus felt his skin crawl. He fingered his crossbow tensely, of half a mind to drive a bolt through the stranger's body without parley, yet fearful of what might happen if he failed to inflict death at the first shot.

The stranger looked at the body on the floor more in curiosity than surprise.

”Why did you kill him?” asked Arus nervously.

The other shook his touseled head. ”I did not kill him,” he answered, speaking Nemedian with a barbaric accent ”Who is he?”

”Kallian Publico,” replied Arus, edging back.

A flicker of interest showed in the moody blue eyes. ”The owner of the house?”

”Aye.” Arus had edged his way to the wall. Now he took hold of a thick velvet rope, which hung there, and jerked it violently. From the street outside sounded the strident clang of the bell that hung before all shops and establishments to summon the watch.

The stranger started. ”Why did you do that?” he asked. ”It will fetch the watchman!”

”I am the watchman, knave!” answered Arus, bracing his courage. ”Stand where you are. Do not move or I'll loose a bolt through you!”

His finger touched the trigger of his arbalest; the wicked square head of the quarrel pointed straight at the other's broad breast. The stranger scowled, his dark face lowering. He showed no fear but seemed to hesitate, whether to obey the command or to chance a sudden break.

Arus licked his lips and his blood turned cold as he plainly saw caution struggle with murderous intent in the foreigner's cloudy eyes.

Then he heard a door crash open and a medley of voices, and he drew a deep breath of grateful amazement. The stranger tensed and glared with the worried look of a startled beast of prey as half a dozen men entered the hall. All but one wore the scarlet tunic of the Numalian police. They were girt with short stabbing swords and carried bills-long-shafted weapons, half pike, half ax.

”What devil's work is this?” exclaimed the foremost man, whose cold gray eyes and lean, keen features, no less than his civilian garments, set him apart from his burly companions.

”By Mitra, Demetrio!” exclaimed Arus. ”Fortune is a.s.suredly with me tonight. I had no hope that the watch would answer the summons so swiftly-or that you would be among them!”

”I was making the rounds with Dionus,” answered Demetrio. ”We were just pa.s.sing the Temple when the watch-bell clanged. But who is this?

Ishtar! The master of the Temple himself!”

”None other,” replied Arus, ”and foully murdered. It is my duty to walk about the building steadily all night, because, as you know, there is an immense amount of wealth stored here. Kallian Publico had rich patrons-scholars, princes, and wealthy collectors of rarities. Well, only a few minutes ago I tried the door that opens on the portico and found it only bolted, not locked. The door is provided with a bolt, which works from either side, and also a great lock, which can be worked only from without. Only Kallian Publico had a key to that, the very key that now hangs at his girdle.

”I knew something was amiss, for Kallian always locked the door with the great lock when he closed the Temple, and I had not seen him since he left at close of day for his villa in the suburbs. I have a key that works the bolt; I entered and found the body lying as you see it. I have not touched it.”

”So.” Demetrio's keen eyes swept the somber stranger. ”And who is this?”

”The murderer, without doubt!” cried Arus. ”He came from that door yonder. He is a northern barbarian of some sort-perhaps a Hyperborean or a Bossonian.”

”Who are you?” asked Demetrio.

”I am Conan, a Cimmerian,” answered the barbarian.

”Did you kill this man?”