uncovered, as if everyone had been called out suddenly and then prevented from going back. I could see a sheet of papyrus on one of the desks. Curled up and cracked from however many years of damp, it may have been half covered in writing. There was no ceiling window. Even so, a puddle had gathered somehow on the floor. It reflected the dull gleam of my lamp. There was a side window that I supposed looked out into the courtyard. Against this the rain drummed loud and rhythmically, and I could hear the distant moaning of wind.
I took a step into the room. ‘Fuck!’ I snarled as I nearly dropped the lamp. I’d stubbed a toe on some piece of clutter. ‘Fucking dump!’ I added as I sat down on the cold mosaic floor and nursed my toe. If it wasn’t broken, that was no thanks to that silly bastard Heraclius and his scheme of sending me to this awful place. ‘Fucking, fucking shitty dump!’ As the pain faded and I began to see the funny side of things, there was a flash of lightning through the side window. This was followed by an endless peal of thunder that I thought for a moment would bring the ceiling down on me. I sighed and got up. Where puddles hadn’t been able to gather, the floor was covered in dust and little bits of ceiling plaster. I brushed what I could from my bottom. From what I could see on my hand, I was probably as white behind as the lead that Priscus used to smooth out his pockmarks.
The lightning had shown me there was no dust sheet or any other covering in the room. Since I had no plans to sleep here, there was no point in staying. I went out and carried on walking along one of those endless corridors. In the last unlocked office before another turning, there was still no dust sheet. But I did find a rolled-up carpet. If I could shake the worst of the dust out of this, I might play at Cleopatra till I could get up with the dawn and kick some notion of service into the few slaves who served the civil and military ruler of Athens.
The rendered brick wall that had been made to partition a larger room cut the window in half. If you squeezed your face against it and looked right, you might be able to see into the next room. No need for that — but there was a handy ledge that was unlikely to tip over or give way. I was putting my lamp there, so I could try shaking dust out of the carpet, when I looked through one of the little panes and, far off, saw the glow of another lamp.
Chapter 16
I did think at first it was just the reflection of my own lamp. The little panes were both opaque and uneven. No surprise, then, if they were, by night, to play funny tricks. But I picked at the crumbling lead framework with a fingernail, and managed to poke out one of the smaller panes. I felt the damp and chilly blast as I pushed my face close to the gap and looked out. Yes, there was definitely someone else sitting up late in the residency. This window looked out into the main courtyard. From the other side of this, there was a gentle gleam in one of the upper windows. Like Priscus and me, Martin and his family had their rooms on the ground floor of the main block. So, I believed, had Nicephorus. The slave quarters were also on the ground floor, and took up one of the side wings of the palace. I thought back to the hasty tour of the building that was all I’d been able to manage with Martin before hunger had sent us off in search of that awful dinner with Priscus. We’d found an unlocked door that revealed a staircase leading to the upper floor. By common agreement, we’d left all further exploration till the next day.
There was another flash of lightning, and more thunder. I waited for my eyes to adjust from the dazzling flash. Yes, it was a lamp in one of the upper windows. I could keep looking for somewhere dry to sleep, and see who else was in the palace come the morning. But who could have slept now? I reached for my folded sheet and took up my lamp. The carpet could stay where I’d found it. In all those corridors, I’d gone all the way round the main block of the palace. I was now only about half a dozen rooms away from my own quarters. If I remembered correctly, the staircase I wanted was through one of the undivided rooms that lay the other side of a second cluster of deserted offices. I thought of going back for a pair of sandals and some clothes. Even wet clothes might be an improvement on nudity in this chill. But I wasn’t sure how long the lamp would hold up. Shivering in a draught that at least took away the horrid smell of damp, I set out along yet another corridor. In one of the partitions of what had been a very large room — an art gallery, perhaps? — I found myself looking at the cupboard where we’d earlier found the locked door — the locked door, that is, of my dream.
‘I’ll not be going through that!’ I said firmly. My complacent laugh was drowned out by more thunder. The preceding flash of lightning, though, had shown another door that I’d somehow overlooked in our daylight tour. It hung wide open, and led up a staircase of what might once have been fine marble. I paused and looked back at the cupboard. I laughed again and pulled the door open and walked in. The door at its far end was still locked solidly shut. I’d have that open soon enough, I thought. We’d see then what was behind it. I gave the wood a hard tap. No answering echo: it must have been inches thick. I laughed, now gently. With dreams like this, I asked, who needed opium? I turned and walked from the cupboard. I took care to close the door behind me.
I felt a trickle of cold water down my back. I thought for a moment someone had touched me, and fought for much longer than that with a fit of the shivers. I tried to ignore how cold it was all about. I stared into the lamp flame, and tried to forget how, beyond a few yards in all directions, I was in pitch dark.
I told myself I’d made a mistake when I found one of the doors I had to go through to get to that staircase had been locked shut. All the doors in question had been unlocked earlier. I didn’t see why the few residency slaves should have bothered with locking any of them. More likely, I’d taken a wrong turning. But I hadn’t. Everything looks different at night. But I was in the right place. I had to go through this door, and then through another, before I got to the staircase. I was hurrying down another of the corridors — I thought this one might lead into the left side block of the residency — when I saw the faint glimmer from beneath a closed door. I stopped and tried the latch. This door was only shut, not locked. Better still, it opened on to a flight of stairs that led up to a room that seemed moderately well-lit. This wouldn’t be the light I’d seen from the office window. But, since I was investigating one, I might as well investigate another.
I dithered a moment at the foot of the stairs. I thought of calling up. Instead, I listened hard. No sound. I pinched the wick of my own lamp and waited for it to stop smoking. I set a foot on the first of the marble steps — and pulled straight back. Since I was now relying on the dim light from above, I couldn’t see if it was seed corn or little ceramic beads that had been scattered over the stairs. But it was one of those devices I’d used back home when I needed to plot in some language a spy might reasonably be expected to understand. I held my breath and listened for any sound at all from upstairs. It was pointless with that continual drumbeat of the rain. I bent forward and let my fingers play lightly over the coating on the first and second and on every other step I could reach. It was the sort of cheap beads you put on a string and give to children — or that people wear prominently on their fine church-going clothes to show off their humility. Bare feet wouldn’t crunch on this as boots or even sandals would, but would still make some noise. And little beads would most certainly hurt those ever so civilised and well-pumiced feet. I bent forward again and swept a little space where I could step. Keeping as quiet as I could, I went slowly upstairs, taking the steps two at a time.
Still alone, I stood amid the wreckage of what had once been a very fine library. One side of its hundred-foot length was taken up with a series of glazed windows. I’d looked up at these from the courtyard and guessed that they meant a library. The unrendered bricks of the big central dome had the sort of reflected gleam on them that said they were of glass. By day, the whole room must have been as light as the open air. The dome was supported by four columns of many-coloured marble. These had once been sheathed over their middle third in bronze. There was still bronze to cover the capitals where they supported the dome. There were even a few traces of gold leaf on the elegant scrolling of the capitals. The middle sheathing, though, was long since gone. Only a paler colour for the marble, and the dark peg holes, showed what had been there. Much of the panelled ceiling that surrounded the dome had come down. Where the plaster still adhered, there were elaborate painting of stars and of gods of the Old Faith, each head within a bright nimbus.
Back in the days of Herodes — perhaps till quite recently — the library may have contained one of the finest collections in the Empire. Judging from the bookracks that remained, and from where others must once have been, it didn’t seem unreasonable to guess twenty, perhaps thirty, thousand individual rolls.
But I’ve said I was standing amid wreckage. The four-inch by four partitions in the racks were mostly empty. Many of the smaller racks had been overturned. Chairs lay broken on the floor. Tables had collapsed under various weights. As ever, pieces of glass had come loose from their lead framework, and rain had made its own contribution to the damage. The lighting I’d seen was towards the far end of the room. It was enough to be noticed from quite a distance, though not to give a detailed view of anything. But, even in the dimness, I could see the sad desolation of
