The tribune, Lacerta, caught sight of them over the ruined wagon—probably recognizing the tall Egyptian first, but choosing to call out: “You! Merchant! Beastcatcher! Come here at once!”
Lycon heard but ignored the tribune. He continued to barge forward with the others behind him. Vonones threw a backward glance, then followed Lycon’s example.
The fountain itself consisted of a square basin six feet to a side and approximately eighteen inches from its upper lip to the pavement. The basin was of tufa, a porous volcanic stone whose light weight and abundance made it the city’s single most common building material. The corner blocks were decorated beneath the slime of algae with neat rosettes, freehand reminders by some stonemason, almost certainly a slave, that craftsmanship does not depend upon the craftsman’s status.
There was a column in the center of the fountain. Water entered the basin through the cup from which a nymph, carved in low relief upon that column, poured continuously. The overflow dribbled through cuts in the basin rim and along grooves in the pavement, then off into the nearest sewer. Even in the hot, rainless days of the summer, overflow from fountains fed by the aqueducts went some way toward flushing the sewers and limiting the occurrence of fevers and agues. There was no effort just yet to organize a bucket brigade from here, but many of those whom the fire had routed out were bathing their heads and arms directly—and illegally—in the fountain.
“Are you ready, N’Sumu?” Lycon asked. If the Egyptian’s magic would not serve them now, they were all dead men. Lycon had made the decision that looked best in terms of survival—and if those terms still weren’t very good, then there was all the more reason to act promptly before fear made impossible that which was necessary. The hunter’s eyes were bright with a mixture of joy and madness. It was unfortunate that the conflagration had scattered his men, burned their nets—but Lycon would have been dead years ago if he had had to rely upon anyone but himself in times of danger.
“You’re going to draw it here?” Vonones demanded. Even as he spoke, he turned his body away from Lycon to scan the roofs and facades in the vicinity—none of them farther than twenty feet of horizontal distance. His words were barely audible above the din.
“Yes,” said N’Sumu. He seemed to have regained his composure. “It’s just that I’ve lost the element of surprise. I’m certain that the phile—the sauropithecus—caught my scent . . . We are old enemies, my people and these lizard-apes. It knows I am here—and it will certainly single me out when it attacks.”
“You people! Better move away!” Lycon warned the nearest refugees. His tone was so emotionless that he would have been ignored even had he spoken loudly enough to be understood in the uproar. The hunter grinned at N’Sumu. “The lizard-ape won’t ignore me,” he said. “Watch.”
Lycon braced his right foot on the coping of the basin. It was slick with algae, but he had forded streams where a slip meant half a mile of battering along granite boulders. He would not slip now. The nails in his boots gouged into the tufa, as the hunter jumped to the top of the pillar. From this position he now stood two feet above the surface of the basin. Lycon’s arms hunched back to balance himself. Vonones thought he looked rather like a bird of prey balancing on its perch. The net, closely bunched, swung in one hand; in the other, the ivory wand shone a smooth orange in the glow of the flames.
The column was rectangular and only a foot across at the top, but that was adequate for Lycon’s purposes. He held up the burden in his left hand at just enough of an angle so that the netted chick, squirming angrily, could not tear his forearm.
“Come get it!” he shouted to the rooftops. “Do you want it? Here it is!” The ivory baton flexed no more than a hair’s breadth as Lycon slapped it against the net with all his strength. There was a crack of impact, and something too shrill to be a sound raised hairs on the necks of all those clustered about the fountain.