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to
stay indoors and avoid the heat. We’d only passed two travelers,
both going in the opposite direction, until we reached the Temple
of Eshmoun, the Phoenician God of Healing, a kilometer north of the
city. Alongside its entrance, blocking our path, stood a wizened
old man with long gray hair and a salt-and-pepper beard. Oops. So
much for staying under the radar.
    “Hail, journeymen,” the elderly man greeted
us, eyeing us from head to toe. “I am the Keeper of the Temple of
Eshmoun. What brings you to our gates?”
    Despite the high quality of our disguises, I
was still uncomfortable under the man’s intense gaze. I let Spud do
the talking. His Phoenician was more passable and in a lower
register than mine.
    “Hail, neighbor,” Spud responded. (I’m giving
you the English translation, of course, guessing that most of you
are even worse at Canaan dialects than me. Oh, and sorry about the
stilted medieval dialogue. Phoenician is kinda short on slang.)
    “I am Akbar from Berytus, and I walk with my
brother Danel.” My partner continued, “We are seeking our cousin,
Sakarbaal, in East Sidon.”
    I know Spud chose Sakarbaal as a common
Phoenician name, but, I was still annoyed. It was so hard to keep
from giggling at the pun.
    The aged gentleman nodded. “From which clan
is he?”
    “Manchester United,” vii I mumbled sotto
voce , biting my lip to stay silent as Spud’s heel met my shin.
Yow! Okay, that worked.
    “Cousin of Milkpilles,” continued Spud,
picking another common and funny-sounding name. This time, the pain
in my leg made it much easier to maintain a straight face.
    “Ah.” The old man smiled and, still watching
us intently with his bright hazel eyes, stepped aside. “Then you
are nearing the end of your journey, Akbar and Danel. Go forward in
good health.” Acknowledging his blessing, we both bowed our heads
and proceeded briskly down the path. I felt the Keeper’s eyes
boring into my back until the road curved and we were beyond his
sight.
    The path became much wider and well-trodden
as we inched—or should I say cubited viii —closer to our goal.
    As soon as we were out of earshot, Spud gave
me an English earful about my lack of self-control. “You might have
blown our cover! And, besides, it’s football in Britain, not
soccerball.”
    As if I didn’t know. I looked at him through
narrowed lids. “But Milk pills?”
    “Milk-pill-es is an esteemed name in this
era,” Spud returned my glare, “just as Kal-el and Pilot Inspektor,
names given to their children by our fellow thespians, are in
ours.”
    Good point, Spud.
    “The rather pedestrian moniker which you have
bestowed upon me,” he added, obviously referring to ‘Spud’, is no
less risible. But I do prefer it to the even more pedestrian
‘Bill’. Or my middle names of ‘Sherlock’ and ‘Scott’.”
    “Can’t argue with that, either,” I conceded,
and we both trudged silently along the path for another quarter
hour. The sparse vegetation soon gave way to irrigated land, with
fruits and vegetables in neat rows surrounding small cottages made
of stone and fired brick. In the town, oblivious pedestrians passed
us by from all directions, many carrying sacks or baskets of what
seemed to be produce or other foodstuffs, and carefully balanced
containers of water. I pressed the touch screen of my Ergal, now
anamorphed into a hunting knife and hidden in my clothing, and
M-fanned a similar jug, drawing it out from beneath the folds of my
tunic to drench my parched lips.
    “Careful,” whispered Spud, who grabbed the
canteen from me and gulped the fresh water greedily. “Blistering
desert.”
    I was about to grumble, “Ergal your own,”
when I spied a ramshackle structure a couple of hundred yards down
the road.
    “I believe that tumbledown edifice ahead
should be our inn,” Spud said without enthusiasm.
    “Don’t be a pessimist,” I chided. “I bet
it’ll be a two star hotel.”
    Spud looked at me, incredulous.