And, yeah, the Roman artists had put some gods in togas, their version of a business suit, especially Jupiter Best and Greatest—their name for Zeus. They’d liked dressing him up because he was a symbol of the state, so if he looked good, they looked good. But they were pretty far removed from anyone who’d ever seen the real thing.

The Greeks were closer, and indeed their early history overlapped the godly era somewhat, so they should be more reliable. And as far as I could recall, their gods usually weren’t wearing much of anything. The Greek artists had loved showing off the divine form, and had lovingly depicted Aphrodite headed to the bath or Hercules lounging around the gym and letting it all hang out, because I guessed athletic cups weren’t yet a thing.

But when they did put them in clothes…

It was often homespun and sandals.

Because they were comfy, and when you’re a god, do you give a damn what anyone thinks?

Clearly Aeslinn didn’t. There were no embroidered birds here, or brilliant jewels, or ornamentation of any kind, unless you counted the mud splattering the hem of his cloak. More mud freckled the high, gray leather boots he wore, although not nearly as thickly as it did those of his guards, which looked like they’d been wading through a bog.

And they probably had. Because the captive slumped between them was also covered in mud, about an acre of it. It dripped off the medium length hair that was hanging in his face, clung to his clothes in sludgy clumps, and slicked his entire body. He looked less like a man and more like something an artist had made by jamming a bunch of wet clay together, without bothering to give it too much of a form. Like a half-finished statue…

I stopped dead.

“I didn’t know how to explain this,” the telepath said, coming up behind me. “I thought you should see—and hear—it for yourself—”

“Wait a minute,” I said.

“Are you not yet adjusted?” She seemed a little impatient.

“It’s not that.”

“Then what—”

“Like a demon once told me, I’m wrestling with a concept.”

The woman didn’t seem to know what to do with that, but she didn’t say anything else as I slowly circled the little grouping. The bowed head of the prisoner didn’t make identification easy, and since this was only a memory, I couldn’t pull his head up and wipe off the mud. But without that, the features were almost completely obscured, except for the nose, poking out from the dripping, clay covered strands.

But sometimes, a nose is enough.

Son of a bitch.

“Can you start things up again—slowly?” I asked the telepath.

“Yes, of course,” she said, but nothing happened.