in part, and its jagged edge shone white in the pale moonshine.
Beyond that must lie the rooms of the Permanent Legate. Seen from the square outside, the front of the Legation was symmetrical about the dome. Seen by day from my window, the right enclosing arm of the Legation looked in much better order than the left. I couldn’t gain access to it but I supposed here was where the Legation did its work.
An elongated square of light played on this right arm. I couldn’t see its source because of the dome. But there was a lit room on the other side of the dome from where I was standing.
The idea was one of those things that pops fully formed into the consciousness. Without realising it, I must have been going over it as I stood there. But all I can say is that one moment I was thinking nothing whatever, and the next moment I had the plan complete in my mind.
If the Permanent Legate wouldn’t call for me, I’d go calling in my own way.
About eight feet above me, the balcony was part shaded by a ledge that jutted out from the base of the parapet wall. It was covered in lead sheeting, so far as I could tell, and ran along that whole line of windows. I could see that it sloped very gently down away from the wall, so rainwater could be collected in a gutter along the edge and carried off to downpipes.
There was an abrupt narrowing and increased sloping as the original parapet was broken by the dome. But a ledge seemed to extend all round the dome. Though I couldn’t see what lay on the far side, I could see it continuing along the right arm of the Legation.
When I had finished the jug of wine, I stripped off and laid my clothes carefully on the little couch against my office wall. Then I went back on to the balcony and looked up.
Making sure nothing was likely to give way under me, I climbed on to the balcony rail. This got me up about chest height to the ledge. The slope was noticeable and I’d need to take care not to fall off. But bare, slightly moist feet on eighteen inches of heavily weathered lead give a reasonable grip.
I hauled myself up and, facing towards the dome, lay on the lead sheeting. Though the sun was long down, it still gave off a faint warmth. I could now see that the sheeting was covered in places with raised layers of shit where birds had gathered. For the most part, however, the lead shone white and smooth in the moonlight.
It didn’t matter how hard I pressed the right side of my body against the parapet wall, still my left shoulder and my left arm hung over the edge. I kept myself stable by resting my left arm very lightly on the lead guttering.
Lying flat on the ledge, I twisted my upper body out over the balcony. I gripped the outer wall of the gutter with both hands, and carefully lowered my head and shoulders. So long as I kept enough body area in contact, the sloping was no cause for instability. The lead of the guttering was thickly folded, and held my weight without buckling. Without any risk of sliding forward, I was able to look through the top part of the window and into my office. Bathed in the pool of light thrown out by a single lamp, my desk and the papers on it were clearly in view.
I got up and, keeping the front of my body close against the wall, edged sideways along the ledge all the way to the dome. I had a slightly queasy feeling as I left the safety of my balcony. There was nothing now beyond that eighteen inches of lead but a thirty-foot drop to the gardens. But those eighteen inches seemed fully sufficient to keep me safe.
Passing along the ledge around the dome was harder. It narrowed to about nine inches here and sloped rather more. Far worse, the moonlight showed me that the lead was rippled in places, the underlying material having crumbled.
As I stepped up on to the ledge I told myself not to look down into the darkness where the moonlight didn’t reach. Arms spread wide, my body pressed forward against the lower convexity of the dome, I slowly and very carefully continued edging to my left.
Once or twice, I stretched my left foot down into nothingness. The ledge had crumbled, and the lead had sagged downwards. This explained the damp patches on the inside of the dome. It probably also explained the musty smell in some of my unused rooms.
The moon was now rising higher and I could see by twisting my head that the breakage in any one place was no more than a foot or so. I could step over it and be on a firm surface again. The lead was raised here and there, and my weight pressing down flattened it with a gentle creaking. Again, the lower walls of the dome were thick enough to prevent the noise from carrying inward.
The arc of the dome must have been only two or three times the straight length from my balcony, but the distance must have taken five or six times longer to cover.
At last I was through. Panting from the careful effort, and slightly shaky from all the risk, I stood still for a while on the firm and wide ledge that, as I’d expected, ran along the other side of the Legation.
I’d never have got this far from my suite inside the building.
Taking care not to make any additional noise, I got down on my hands and knees and inched along the ledge. Seeing a dim light within the first window beneath me I lay flat and took hold of the lead guttering. Making sure not to bend what was here fairly soft metal, I pulled myself over and down and looked briefly in through the lit window.
15
It was a smallish room – about half the size of my office – and fitted up as a chapel. There was a silver crucifix on the altar and icons of Saint Peter and of the Virgin covered the plain walls. At first I thought the man praying by the altar was Demetrius. He was about the same age and had the same bald patch.
It was hard to tell in that light whether the man was naked or partly clothed. The wide circle of darkness on his back might have been a piece of cloth, or it might have been some peculiarity of the skin. His outer clothes lay beside him in a crumpled heap. He knelt on the plain wooden boards, his arms raised in a prayer of intense devotion.
The man held himself so still that he might have been a statue. I watched him awhile, then grew bored. I hadn’t risked my life to see someone saying his prayers. And the withered flesh of his back and buttocks was about as diverting as an empty wineskin.
Just as I was about to pull myself back on the ledge, the man groaned. ‘O sweet and merciful Mother of God,’ he cried softly, ‘take this cup of bitterness away from Thy servant.’
He repeated the prayer, and again. Then, still on his knees, he twisted round to his left. It was now that I saw his huge erection. Throbbing, foreskin retracted from the swollen glans, it jutted upwards from the dark tangle of his crotch.
It was Antony, the legal official. But for the fact that he would tell us bugger all about the set-up in the rest of the Legation, he’d been about the friendliest of the officials. Now, I could see a wild gleam in his eyes.
I resisted the urge to pull myself out of sight. Unless he was looking, it was doubtful if he’d see me. He’d more likely notice the sudden movement. For the moment, I held still.
Antony stretched over to his clothes and took out a pouch of polished but very soft leather. It was about the size of a small correspondence bag. He kissed it reverently and turned back to the altar. He held it up before the crucifix and prayed again.
‘Lead me not, O Lord, into temptation,’ he said over and over, an edgy, fanatical note coming into his voice.
At last, he untied the bag. From it he produced a small corded whip. He held this up for Divine Inspection. It was one of those nasty things with sharpened iron triangles that you use as a last resort on your slaves. He kissed the handle and, with a melodramatic flourish, pulled himself upright on his bended knees.
‘Sweet Virgin, give me strength to resist and endure,’ he snarled through clenched teeth. With a sudden hiss of leather, and the staggered smack! of iron on flesh, he took the whip to himself. With wild force, bearing in mind his awkward position, and obviously much practice, he struck again and again. His prayers rose to a loud babble as he tore lumps out of himself and the blood ran freely down his back.
It was now that I realised the dark patch on his back was the scabbed-over effect of previous devotions. Those vicious bits of iron had the scabs off in an instant, and were ripping into already raw flesh.
