‘These are in the pre-modern alphabet of the Egyptians,’ I said, indicating one line of papyrus, each sheet half overlapping the other. ‘These are in a script that bears some resemblance to the picture writing of the statues and temple walls, but seems to have been a simplified form used for less ceremonial purposes.
‘These two sheets, of course, are in the full picture script. Their somewhat weakened state indicates great age – greater even than the oldest documents in Greek you can see in the archives. These words written here and there in the modern alphabet under some of the picture signs appear to correspond with the fragmentary Greek translation. They do appear also to be in the same hand.’
Martin took up the two sheets of picture writing. They did look old, he agreed, though the freshness of the colouring suggested they had been stored safely for much of the time they had existed. Had they been recovered from a tomb? If so, what about the other sheets in the less ceremonial old script? We moved to a discussion of what Lucas and then Anastasius had said about Leontius. Add that to the items in his house, and it was fair to say that he’d been a skilled excavator of antiquities. Martin pulled out two more of the sheets, one in the old and one in the new script.
‘I was thinking that,’ I said, comparing the diagrams on each, ‘the amount of material may be smaller than it seemed at first. If these diagrams are the same – and the possible copy is just a freehand sketch – everything in the old script may have been transliterated into the new.’ I looked at the original diagram. It was something between an astrological chart and a plan of some elaborate machinery.
‘From what you now tell me about Leontius,’ Martin said firmly, ‘these are probably all magical texts. I say we should burn them.’
‘Not so fast,’ I said. ‘ Some of the newer documents might be translations of the older. Some of them, though, might be evidence of treason. The document in Persian almost certainly is such evidence.’
‘The danger is too great,’ he said. He put down the sheet he’d been holding and wiped its dust off his hands. ‘I still say-’
There was a knock on the door. As I called on the Head Clerk to enter, Martin and I moved back to my desk and stared at a survey map of the Upper Delta.
‘Put them down here, if you please,’ I said to the slaves who entered behind the Head Clerk with yet more baskets of documents for sealing. There were hundreds of them: replies to petitions and reports, letters of instruction, general correspondence. The clerks were working double shifts to keep up with me as I cleared all that had accumulated in my absence. A single ‘yes’, or ‘no’, spoken yesterday by the swimming pool could generate a sheet of tightly written papyrus. A marginal scrawl might come back as an entire book roll. Now, it was all coming back. It poured into my office like nothing so much as leaves in a northern autumn through an open door.
I bent down and fished at random through one of the baskets, and then through another. From each, I pulled out three of the still unrolled sheets and put them on top of the map. The first was a conditional remission of taxes to the owner of an estate damaged for the third time in two years by locusts. I checked the wording carefully, making sure it corresponded with the instruction I’d given. I looked at the Head Clerk. He stared impassively back. No one who was on the take ever stood up long to this sort of checking. I turned to the second document, and then the third. I read all the others. All were in order.
I looked into a different basket and pulled out one of the smaller sheets. I knew this would be the grant of something both valuable and highly complex. If ever there was an opportunity for a bribed alteration, this would be it. The Head Clerk was sweating slightly in the heat and slightly from stress – but no more than anyone would with someone of my unbounded power going through work done or checked by him. I dropped it back in uninspected and nodded approval.
There was an aromatic smell as a junior clerk brought in the pot of bubbling wax. I took a key from my belt and opened the cupboard in the wall beside my desk. I lifted out the bag containing the Lesser Seal that let me act as Nicetas in all matters except those that just happened to be vital to my own work. I handed this to Martin, who took out the Seal and heated it.
‘In the Name of the Emperor, let it be so!’ he cried softly each time I pressed the Seal into the molten wax. Once only we paused. We’d come to the Leontius matter. I looked again at the wording. I held all the evidence. No one could ever dispute the form of what I was doing. I felt the Head Clerk’s stare. I looked back at him. Again, he seemed more curious than concerned. I pushed the document across to Martin, who was waiting with his spoon of wax.
‘In the Name of the Emperor, let it be so,’ he said emphatically. The Head Clerk took the now sealed roll of papyrus and put it carefully with the others for the wax to harden. I still had until the following morning to call it back. But it was now done, and I knew I’d let it go out.
It was all an unwelcome break from what I wanted to be doing. But it wasn’t that long before the baskets were filled again.
‘Do make sure to leave that one with me,’ I said, pointing at the smallest basket. The sheets there were written in purple. ‘They must be sealed by the Viceroy in person.’ When, of course, Nicetas would set the Great Seal to them was an open question. And I’d not be pushing them at him while my own warrants were still outstanding.
‘If you please,’ I said of a sudden to the Head Clerk as he was following the slave and baskets from the room. I shut the door after the slave and turned back to face him. He dropped his eyes as I looked again into his face. ‘Do please remain with us,’ I said. ‘I have a matter in which you might be able to assist. Your name is Barnabas, I think.’
He nodded.
‘You are also, I think, a native.’
He looked up in surprise.
I checked the protest I could see forming. ‘The reason I ask,’ I said, ‘is that I am in need of someone who can read Egyptian and whom I can trust. If you would come over here.’ I led him to the table and waved at the still neatly arranged sheets. On the far side of the room, Martin was mouthing negatives and shaking his head. I ignored him. He’d probably have made the same fuss if it had been Macarius I was getting in on the job.
‘What I want you to do,’ I said smoothly, ‘is to look at this row of newer documents. I don’t need you at this stage to do more than explain their contents. It may be that a translation will be needed of some. That being so, I-’
‘Don’t do this, Aelric,’ Martin said in Celtic. He crossed the room and took my arm. ‘I beg you to consider the danger of letting those documents be read by this man.’
I looked into Martin’s sweaty, troubled face. For the first time, the Head Clerk was showing concern. He couldn’t follow the sibilant, aspirated words, but must have understood their sense.
‘Have you taken leave of your senses?’ I asked, keeping my voice still smooth, though now in Martin’s Celtic. You don’t show off disagreements in front of underlings. ‘Are you going to suggest I have the man hitch his robe up to see if there’s a tattoo above his arse?’
‘And how do you know if there isn’t?’ said Martin. ‘But these documents may be of immense and uncontrollable power. Just reading them without the right precautions might summon a demon into this room. If you want to know what’s in them, you should go back to the Heretical Patriarch. He’ll know what to do. But I really think you should let me put them into a fire.’
Demons – yes, demons! And appearing out of a puff of smoke in my office. You know, I dearly loved Martin. Even when we were first brought together in Rome, and I was trying to show who was the master and who the borrowed slave, there had been something about his learned and competent helplessness that appealed to me. He was now the closest thing I had in the world to a friend. And there were still times when I had to resist the urge to give him a good hard punch in the stomach. But I kept my temper and continued looking calmly into his face. As I thought to turn back to Barnabas, the door opened and Priscus walked in.
‘Hard at work, are we, on this day of rest?’ he said with a nod at the basket of stuff for Nicetas.
Barnabas threw himself down for a grovel. Martin bowed and stood away from me.
‘Maximin’s birthday was yesterday,’ I said, with an impatient glance at the heavy blue silk he was wearing. I let my mind’s eye return to those documents, so neatly and so invitingly arranged on the table behind me. All I had to do was get rid of Martin and of Priscus, and then sit down with Barnabas. ‘You’ve missed the celebration,’ I said, still looking at Priscus. I’d make sure not to be the only person in that room who was annoyed. ‘But let me give his thanks for the little whip and branding irons you sent him. He can have them when he’s older.’
Together with all other movements, scowling is something to avoid when your face is a mask of white lead
