The Far Arena by Richard Ben Sapir

Author:Richard Ben Sapir
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi, pdf
ISBN: 9781504021623
Publisher: Open Road Media Mystery & Thriller

CHAPTER XVII

Sister Olav was euphoric, Dr. Petrovitch confused and depressed, and Lew McCardle was surreptitiously gathering all the Latin textbooks and history books he could without attracting attention. He had gotten one public relations man fired for giving him lip when he wanted to know what a geologist would want with Jaeger’s Paedeia—“We digging in ancient Greece or something?”

The subject had sat up in bed, very sudddenly, showing good use of stomach muscles, had focused briefly, and said what sounded like spitting, which, explained later, was a soft J—a breakthrough in sure understanding of the pronunciation in Latin, unless of course the subject should have a speech defect, which would have to be checked against other pronunciations.

“He said ‘Jesus forgive me,’” said Sister Olav. “We may have an early Christian on our hands.”

“I didn’t hear Jesus,” said McCardle.

“Because it sounded like Hesu. But that is Jesus.”

“We’re not sure what he’s thinking. As you know, he is apparently repeating things said to him also.”

“I know. But this is a great day. I am tempted to ask a non-Christian to assist me, just so there will be no doubt.”

“I’ll assist. We don’t need more people.”

“I mean more non-Christian than a nonparticipating one, and someone who knows Latin.”

“I had a bit of Latin. Rusty, but I can revive it.”

“Perhaps you’re right. I just didn’t think of Americans, especially Americans from your part of the country, with a background in Latin. But isn’t this a wonderful day, nevertheless?”

It was 8 P.M., outside it was especially black, darkness even shrouding the stars.

“It’s night,” said Lew.

“No, only here, only briefly, but somewhere it is as bright as yesterday on the sun porch when you could not focus it was so bright. The darker the night, the brighter the sun shines on the other side of the world.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Lew McCardle, for the first time in his life actively putting Texas in his voice. “You sure do say some mighty pretty things.”

“Prettier because they are true,” said Sister Olav.

“Dern tootin’,” said Lew and gave a big old wink.

Petrovitch was too deeply depressed for a drink. Besides, he had hidden the little boy who pissed Ballantine scotch because he didn’t want Sister Olav to see it in his office.

“What’s the matter now, Semyon?”

“The lab report came back about what our patient vomited up.”

“What? What’s so bad about what’s in him? Did you find out it was Coca-Cola?”

“Worse.”

“What could be worse?”

“Poison. Someone poisoned him. He vomited up an extremely effective poison.”

I deserve to die. I deserve to be eaten. Let the barbarians feast. Why do they wait? Has a life in the wilderness taught them to tame their hunger? Have they dined on Tribune Macer yet?

Demosthenes and Plutarch are safe. But the manner they died was their punishment for loyalty to a fool. A barbarian in black, like some Eastern magician or some sneak thief in the night, assures me not to worry. She hovers over me, huge head and ugly grin and grunting the language as though she heard it in some cage in Rome.

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