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 had taken the knife that morning, intending to use it—but not against Cleobulus.

The idea in my head was mad—or was it? I could have told Posidonius what I was thinking, but his study door was closed, and what if he refuted me? I thought of telling Antipater, but he was likely already asleep, and the old poet would only slow me down—for I suddenly realized that if I wished to act, I must do so at once. I might be too late already.

Without even fetching my cloak, I rushed to the vestibule and into the street, walking quickly at first, then running all the way to the harbor with the cold wind in my face.

After I pressed a few coins in his hand, the tavernkeeper had no trouble remembering the Gauls who had been getting drunk in his establishment all afternoon. “In fact, they left only a short while ago. The young giant was so drunk he could hardly stand. The older one practically had to carry him out.”

“Did you see which way they went?”

The tavernkeeper made a face. “I can’t see through walls, young fellow.”

“Never mind, I think I know,” I whispered.

The little hut beside the roped-off entrance to the mole was empty. On such a day, with the sky threatening to open at any moment and black waves lashing the boulder-strewn shoreline of the mole, no tourists were hiking out to have a look at the Colossus. I jumped the rope and ran toward the ruins.

On the way, I saw a thing I never anticipated—the body of Zenas. Whipped by the wind, the roiling water in the harbor must have separated his corpse from whatever had been used to weigh it down, and the waves had thrown it upon the shore. I stopped for just a moment to stare down at his lifeless, bulging eyes and the rope tied around his neck, which had surely been used to strangle him.

Gasping for breath, I ran on.

Why did I think Gatamandix had chosen this place to complete his purpose? It was close, for one thing; and here was the cause of all his grief, the Colossus itself. It was only a hunch on my part, but it proved correct. Deep within the ruins I rounded a corner, and in an open spot amid the huge fragments of bronze, hidden from the waterfront and the harbor but open to the stormy sky, I came upon the two Gauls.

Surrounding us, like the standing stones of the Druids, were strange, gigantic pieces of anatomy—a finger pointing skyward, a bit of a shoulder, the crook of an elbow, and a long, hollow section of thigh to complete the magic circle. In the center, lying across one of Helios’s broken sunbeams as if it were a sacrificial altar, was Vindovix, his glassy eyes barely open, insensible from consuming great quantities of wine. Over him stood Gatamandix, holding his ritual knife with both hands raised high above his head, muttering an incantation in his barbarous tongue.

A sudden flash of lightning lit the scene, making it seem garish and unreal. An instant later, a thunderclap shook the ground beneath my feet.

I gave a cry. The Druid saw me and froze. I rushed toward him. He brought down the knife.

I hurtled through the air. The descending blade caught against my tunic and ripped the cloth. It must have grazed my side, for I felt a sudden, searing pain across my ribs. I collided with Gatamandix, and together we tumbled across the uneven ground. I braced myself for a tremendous struggle—but then I heard a loud clanging sound, together with a sickening crack.

Gatamandix went limp. With some difficulty, I extricated myself from the dead weight of his arms, and stood over him. He stared up at me with lifeless eyes. He had struck his head on the giant finger of the Colossus and broken his neck. With his features distorted by a fierce grimace, the Druid’s enormous moustache looked more ridiculous than ever.

Spots swam before my eyes. I struggled to fill my lungs, and realized I had not caught a proper breath since I left Posidonius’s house. In my dizzy state, surrounded by flashes of lightning, the anatomical ruins around me looked weirder than ever. It seemed to me that I surely must be in a dream.