In Pursuit of Ursus

In “The Dagger,” a story in The Deadliest Deceptions, Achilles spots Ursus:

Once in a while, I’d eye the sharp edge of sunlight as it advanced along the cookshop’s mudbrick floor and glazed the grizzled hairs curling off the back of Ursus’s bull neck. There the slob sat, right behind the charcoal-burning furnace recessed into the street-front, marble-topped counter. Sure enough, his burly back toward me, his colossal thighs spilling over his stool, his eyes were riveted on the backwall frescoes of men manning the seats in a latrine. Of course, I could read the captions, but believe me, the images and the graffiti left nothing to the imagination.

Anyways, cramming that last slab of tiropita into his mouth, Ursus chewed the pastry open-mouthed as was his habit with his teeth clacking together—I should say what was left of them. You know, I could’ve predicted what my old mate would do next. He sucked the crumbs off his fingers and threw back the rest of his drink like a desert nomad.

Then, smacking his lips before lurching to his feet, he exploded with a fart that sounded like a groan from deep inside the earth. After tugging his tunic over his sagging front porch, he snatched a few apricot tarts from a passing tray and stuffed them into his mouth.

We don’t need a picture to imagine what Ursus is like. Achilles’s description is enough for us to dislike if not fear him—perhaps even to worry about his wife—because already you know that the chat isn't going to go smoothly for these two dagger-wielding men. For the entire story, click here.