The Ghosts of Athens

and then only for details that had nothing to do with town fortifications. It must be that Sergius had finally got the Emperor interested in our scheme of religious settlement. If so, it was to get Rome on side that this council had been called.

The missing out of titles and epithets of regard still might indicate a certain lack of confidence. Simeon’s gloating mention of Ludinus couldn’t be set aside. But the vagueness of the commission now made sense. You don’t put this in writing and send it on a trip through the Aegean. Nicephorus might be piss-poor even in his lowish place in the order of things. At least he’d told me what I was supposed to be about. I now realised what Simeon and all the others were doing here, and why I’d had my own course diverted here. Though Priscus might still be in the shit — and, let’s face it, he deserved to be there — I was in the clear. Sergius had managed to see to it that I was still a trusted servant of the Emperor — or could be again. All I had to do was get Rome to say the one word perhaps, and my less than triumphant performance in Alexandria would be seen by everyone in its proper context.

I had a sudden thought. Where were the Latin delegates? I’d seen Greeks and Syrians in Piraeus. But, if this council was what I felt increasingly sure it was, we’d need a few bishops from the West. Why hadn’t they been waiting on the docks?

But I’d not ask more of Nicephorus. All would be made plain once we were in Athens. It was enough that I felt actually happy. For the first time in months and months, I could see my way through. It was only as it began to slide away that I realised how crushing that weight of apprehension had been: worries about the Egyptian land law, worries about being murdered, worries about that sulky but inexorable voice in the Imperial Palace.

I pulled my curtains fully aside and jumped from the chair. I took a few steps forward. After long disrepair, the paving stones were crooked from settlement into the ground. As in Piraeus, it was a little strange to be on land that didn’t keep moving under my feet. Unlike in Piraeus, I was able to rejoice that I was once again on firm ground — and in more than one sense.

‘My Lords will forgive me if I hurry ahead on foot,’ I said to Priscus and Nicephorus. ‘I’m sure that you both have much to discuss after so long apart.’

Before either could reply, I’d grabbed Martin by the arm and was hurrying him past the forward luggage bearers. If I fancied some exercise, he needed it.

‘Sveta and the children are in an ox cart right at the back of the procession,’ Martin explained once he’d caught his breath. ‘I did try once more to impress on her the need to look cheerful. Even so, it’s probably for the best that she doesn’t get an excuse for complaining in public. It might embarrass you.’

I grunted. So long as she didn’t utter treason in front of everyone else, she could set about Martin to her heart’s delight once they were alone. Until then, she could fuss about the children with blankets and warmed milk. With her in charge, they’d not catch colds.

‘There is the tomb of Menander, the playwright, somewhere along this road,’ he said after another wheeze. He pointed at a low structure a dozen yards ahead.

I quickened my pace and heard him stumbling along behind me. It was a tomb, though not of Menander or of anyone else famous. It wasn’t even that old, I saw from the pompous epitaph. This recorded the uneventful life of Hierocles, chief pastry cook to some Emperor whose name was obscured by a scrubby bush. Bearing in mind the tactful absence of anything religious about its decoration, the tomb probably dated from the age that lay between the establishment of the Christian Faith and its being made compulsory. I kicked a stone and watched it bounce along the road. In the bleak silence all about us, it clattered like a rock fall. I turned round to look back along the road. Martin was now beside me again. Everyone else was far back behind the curtain of mist.

‘There is also a cenotaph of Euripides,’ he said with an attempt at the cheerful. ‘Though he died in Macedon, the Athenians thought it only proper he should have some memorial in the city of his birth.’ It was very quiet all about. Not a bird twittered in the shedding olive trees of autumn. Martin’s face took on the strained look he normally reserved for an attack of the haemorrhoids — or of the nerves. ‘Do you suppose there might be any stray barbarians about?’ he asked, confirming an attack of the latter.

I ignored him and bent down to pull at the bush. It moved a few inches and revealed the name of the Great Constantine. I stood upright with a satisfied grunt. I’d been right about the date of Hierocles.

‘Corinth is only forty miles across the bay,’ Martin added with a nervous twitch. ‘But the Count’s letter implies that the Governor has never visited Athens. Could it be that only the provincial capital is safe?’

‘Though doubtless past its best,’ I replied in a soothing voice that only set off another twitching fit, ‘I do believe Athens remains a place of some importance. You’d hardly expect all those priests to gather in a town without protection. As for present danger, we really should have faith in Nicephorus. He’d not risk this kind of journey if there were any chance of an attack.’

I tried for a real change of subject. ‘I always thought I’d see Athens in better weather,’ I said brightly. ‘What I had in mind was an approach along a dusty road, the sun overhead, cicadas chirping from brown foliage all around.’ I kicked another stone. It skipped along the road before us, coming to rest in a puddle that, judging from the lush grass beside it, might have been there all month. ‘I suppose it’s all rather homely,’ I added. ‘Kent is like this in the autumn. I imagine Ireland is like it all year.’ I laughed and got a grudging smile out of Martin. Even he had to admit that it was a change from the burning deadness of Egypt. And it was Athens. Yes, it was Athens. It wasn’t quite as I’d imagined the place — and I hadn’t yet seen what time and the decline of taste and riches had done to the city itself. But I was in a good mood, and was determined to keep it going for when we’d finished creeping through the mist and Athens would finally show which of its holy charms had survived.

Yes, what had survived of Athens? Its ancient glories had been a thousand years before. At their beginning, Egypt was still under its native kings. Even at their close, Rome had been an obscure town beyond the pale of Greek settlement in Italy. Since then, Athens had fallen to Philip of Macedon, and then to the Romans. It had eventually been revived by the Greek-loving Emperor Hadrian. Though sacked a century after that by barbarians, it had then remade itself as the first university town of the whole Empire. But all the schools had, within living memory, been closed in the final suppression of the Old Faith. Since then, there had been another big raid. I’d been a year in Rome, and had seen little enough to remind me of Cicero and Caesar. Why should I expect more of Athens? Ever since I’d given up worrying about immediate arrest, I’d been telling myself over and over again that the Athens I was approaching wasn’t the Athens of my dreams. Why, it wasn’t even a provincial capital any more — Corinth had long since been given that doubtful honour. But you try telling yourself that when you are, for the first time, just a couple of miles outside the place.

I bent down again and pulled at another bush. It might be interesting to see if Hierocles had died before or after his Imperial master. It did strike me as more interesting than the story Martin had struck up of the spot, somewhere ahead, where Saint Eunapius had failed to convert nine dozen philosophers by turning stones into bread. The panel here was broken, though, and the relevant section had fallen inward. Was it worth getting my hands dirty by pulling the section out? Probably not. On the other hand, Martin’s sudden fervour was getting on my tits. I could put up with the absurdity of stones turned into bread. That the wretched Eunapius was supposed to have done this after the philosophers had torn his head off was more than common sense could bear. I pushed my hand inside the tomb. I pulled it straight out again and, shaking, stood up. I looked at my hand. Unable to stop myself, I wiped it on my robe.

‘What is it?’ Martin hissed with a relapse into terror.

I ignored him and looked at the small area of blackness where the panel had fallen in. I nerved myself and bent down again. This time, I reached carefully in and felt about. It was a hand I’d touched — the cold, stiff hand of one recently dead. It was attached to a bare arm. That was as far as I could reach. I swallowed and took hold of the hand. I pulled it through the gap and stood up. I paid no attention to Martin’s little scream and looked down at the bluish hand of what may once have been a woman or an adolescent boy.

Chapter 12