He came to Earth and changed into one of his standard disguises: a kindly, portly man, balding, and with a twinkling eye. His toga, which came with the disguise, looked out of place, so he purchased a cloak of homespun at a booth and looked more or less like everyone else.
He strolled along, looking around, still slightly disoriented. There were several permanent structures and a field scattered with tents. All sorts of things were sold here-weapons, clothing, foodstuffs, livestock, tools, spices.
“Hi there! You, sir!”
Azzie turned. Yes, the old crone was beckoning to him. She sat in front of a small black tent, cabalistic figures painted on its sides in gold. She was dark-skinned, and appeared to be an Arab or a Gypsy.
“You called me?”
“I did, sir,” she said, in a villainous North African accent. “Come inside.”
A human might have been more cautious, because you can never tell what might happen inside a black tent with cabalistic figures. But for Azzie that tent was the first familiar thing he had seen in a long time. There are whole tribes of demons who live in black tents and wander up and down the waste places of Limbo, and Azzie, although Canaanite on his father’s side, was related to some of the wandering Bedouin demons.
Inside, the tent was lined with richly figured rugs. There were oil lamps of finely wrought pewter on the wall, and embroidered cushions lay all over. At the far end was a low altar with a table for offerings. Behind it, looming high, was a heroic statue in the Grecian manner, of a handsome young man with a wreath of laurel in his hair. Azzie recognized the features.
“So Hermes is here,” Azzie said.
“I am his priestess,” said the crone.
“I was under the impression,” Azzie said, “that we were in a Christian country and that worship of the old gods is strictly forbidden.”
“What you say is true,” the crone said. “The old gods are dead, but not really dead because they have returned to life in new forms. Hermes, for example, has changed into Hermes Trismegistus, patron saint of alchemists. His worship is not approved, but neither is it forbidden.”
“I’m happy to see that,” Azzie said. “But why have you called me here?”
“You are a demon, sir?” the crone inquired.
“Yes. How did you know?”
“There is something lordly and sinister in your mien,” the crone said, “an air of brooding, implacable evil that would set you apart from others no matter how large the crowd.”
Azzie knew that Gypsies were capable of subtle perceptions which they then phrased to flatter their clients. Nevertheless, he reached into his pouch, found a gold denier, and gave it to her.
“Take that for your cunning tongue. Now, what do you want of me?”
“My master wants to have a word with you.”
“Well, good,” Azzie said. It had been a long time since he had had a chat with one of the old gods. “Where is he?”
The crone knelt down at the altar and began mumbling. In a moment the white marble was suffused with a rosy glow. The statue came to life, stretched, stepped down from its pedestal, and sat beside Azzie. To the old woman Hermes said, “Go find us something to drink.”
When she had left, he said, “So, Azzie, it’s been a long time.”
“Quite long,” Azzie said. “It’s good to see you again, Hermes. I wasn’t on Earth when Christianity defeated paganism- other commitments, you know-but I do want to offer my condolences.”
“Thank you,” Hermes said, “but actually we lost nothing. We’re all at work, all the gods. We move with the times, and we sometimes hold honored positions in both camps – saint or demon. Does wonders for one’s perspective. There’s much to be said for a kind of intermediate status.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” Azzie said. “There’s something sad about the thought of an out-of-work god.”
“Never worry about us. I had my servant Aissa call you, Azzie, because she said you looked lost. I thought I could help.”
“That is good of you,” Azzie said. “Perhaps you could just fill me in on what’s been going on since Caligula.”