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the back, out of the way. It did not feel right. I knew something terrible would occur as surely as if chiseled into the plaster wall. At that moment, the sun went behind a cloud. I loosened my knife in its sheath and contemplated, with ten-year old instincts, the gathering darkness.

Chapter Six
     
    The evening star had been shining for nearly three hours before Leonides reappeared. He reeled into the room, smelling of cheap wine and carrying a small brass bowl in which he’d placed glowing charcoal. He lighted some lamps, extinguished others, and sprinkled incense on the charcoal. The room turned a pale gold. The smoke from the incense drifted to the ceiling and layered slowly across the length of it. The transformation was remarkable. A moment later his patron arrived, accompanied by another man. The patron lumbered heavily into the room, squinting in the smoke and dim light. His face had the pasty look of someone who had not seen the sun for a long time, his skin like dough, and I thought if I poked him with my finger, the dent in his flesh would still be there in the morning. His toga hung loosely from him but did not hide the gross body beneath it. His companion, on the other hand, slipped into the room, shadow-like, lean, and dark. He wore dress armor and a short toga. He had golden eyes and the high aquiline nose common to Roman patricians. His look and manner were reptilian, like a snake.
    There was no doubt what the first one did. Officialdom and bureaucrat were written all over him. The other man, however, could have been anybody or anything, a jailer or his prisoner, a general or a foot soldier. The patron addressed him as Tribune and that settled it. My instincts told me to be careful, he reeked of danger. I checked my knife again.
    They settled down to eat and drink. Mother sang. Dinah sat behind her, only daring to peek out at the men from time to time. The statue sat on one side of the room cloaked in white sheeting.
    “Well, sculptor, let’s see it. You desire your money, I wish to see my statue,” the patron said. His words wheezed out like the air from an empty wine skin.
    The sculptor began to speak. He had a hard time keeping his feet under him. He laughed a lot and almost fell as he reached for the corner of the covering, missed twice, and finally, cloth in hand, yanked. The sheet snagged and nearly toppled the statue. When the cloth released, Leonides fell backwards to the floor. He staggered back to his feet and, without missing a beat, continued his speech, a very flowery speech filled with words of praise for himself and his art. The patron drummed his fingers and fidgeted. More wine was poured. His patron nodded and tossed him a purse that clinked heavily as it bounced on the floor.
    “Enough of this,” he barked. “Let’s see the rest.”
    “Ah,” Leonides said and bowed. “Now you will see the genius of Leonides.”
    Earlier, we’d strung a curtain across the other corner of the room. While the men’s attention turned to the statue and Leonides’ babbling, Mother and Dinah slipped behind it, undressed, oiled, and then powdered their hair and bodies with stone dust. The sculptor tugged at the curtain with almost the identical results he experienced with the statue. The curtain fell away and he sat down. Mother and Dinah held the exact pose as the statue. They were naked and I remember feeling proud and at the same time ashamed. They were beautiful. Leonides had taken great care in arranging the lamps and the effect brought a gasp from the patron. Mother and Dinah stood perfectly still. In the dim light, with their pale skins dusted white and eyes closed, they were the mirror image of the statue in the other corner. It was nearly impossible to tell living from stone. Leonides put his hand on Dinah—where she differed from the boy.
    “You see,” he giggled, “a genius.”
    The patron looked at Mother and then at Dinah. He licked his lips. “Get this fool out of here,” he said.