The Ghosts of Athens

understand that we were the only other residents here apart from himself.’ I paused and chose my words. ‘If you will allow me to speak with the Count, I will ask for you and the boy to join us for meals. I’m sure no scandal would be caused. I have no doubt you had the freedom of the residency before we arrived. It would sadden me to think that you were both confined now to these rooms.’

The woman looked back from attending to the lamp and smiled more brightly. ‘The Lord Count is my only kinsman,’ she said. ‘That does not make him my keeper. I am a widow, and am free to come and go as I please. I have stayed up here only because my presence might have been thought an inconvenience to yourself. And it would please me to be able to eat in comfort.’ She came and stood again beside the bed. ‘I do believe I heard young children crying after you had entered the residency. If so, Theodore would surely delight in their company. He sees no children of his own age. Even much younger children would be a joy for him.’

I took a few steps backwards in the direction of the door. You can always be sure when you think you fancy someone rotten. You can usually be sure when you think someone fancies you rotten. I was pretty sure on both counts. For the moment, it wouldn’t do to outstay my welcome. Besides, there was something faintly unpleasant about that aromatic smell. There was a hint of beeswax about it, and of something much dryer and sweeter that I couldn’t place. The woman seemed unaware of it. But if it was intended as medicine for young Theodore, she’d long since have grown too used to it to notice the smell.

I turned various stratagems over in my mind. ‘I regret that I didn’t catch your name,’ I finally said. There was a very white flash of lightning.

She laughed, now happily. ‘Then you must forgive my want of manners,’ she said once the thunder had done its work. ‘I am Euphemia, born and married in Tarsus, widowed in Hierapolis, now transplanted to Athens.’

‘Then, My Lady Euphemia,’ I said with a bow, ‘I am delighted to make your acquaintance.’ Without bothering to die away, the storm seemed now to have stopped. I could hear the rain, no longer driven by wind, pattering gently on the window panes. A perfectly irrelevant thought crossed my mind. That disembodied voice in my dream had addressed me not in Greek, nor even in Latin, but in English. How very peculiar!

Chapter 18

The storm really had ended, and ended as abruptly as a water jet is turned off. Now, as I went back through those desolate rooms, the clouds vanished and the still and silvery light of a fullish moon streamed through every window. Now in what would, but for the continued splashing of water from a dozen entry points overhead, have been complete silence, I padded over floors of various covering. The relative silence and the new patterns of light and shadow made it seem I was in a different place entirely. The family mural shone with a brightness that bleached all colour from the faces. Except for the outstretched right arm, Demosthenes stood in darkness. Every statue that remained and every moulding on the ceilings and walls threw still and impenetrable shadows.

I felt comfortable only when back in the library. I’d left the lamps burning away, and these, plus the light of the moon, showed the room to better effect — and to worse. I’d been right about the glass bricks of the dome. They gave the ceiling a greenish translucency. Though still not enough for easy reading, the combined light allowed me to see still more books. They lay in abandoned jumbles beside the racks that had once housed them, and in untidy piles against the far wall.

It was now that I saw the remains of a small bonfire in the middle of the room. It wasn’t worth asking how I’d missed it before. As said, the light was completely different. I picked up a chair leg and poked the embers. They were long since cooled, and all covered in dust. In better light, I could have tried looking at the charred scraps of writing surface to see what had given such offence. But I really couldn’t be bothered. It was enough to wonder if there’d once been a riot in the building. That would explain the chaos in the library.

I went back to the table and sat down again. The pages of Gregory of Nyassa shone an unearthly pale in the moonlight, the ink showing a kind of red that it would never possess in normal light. I pushed the heavy volume to the other side of the table and waited for the cloud of dust I’d thrown up to settle. Theology was the last thing on my mind at that moment. I was thinking hard of Euphemia. Watching her bob up and down in that tight robe, all loving concern for the sick child, had set off any number of pleasing reflections. I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to think of something else. I only saw Euphemia more clearly. No effort of will could shut off the slow removal of clothing and the look of cool desire on her face. I opened my eyes and tried to focus on the bust of Polybius. He sneered back at me to no effect. I leaned forward and tried to look at Gregory. The tiny writing danced and wavered and blurred to bars of blood redness.

‘No,’ I croaked, ‘no, not here!’ But I was already lost. As if I were watching someone else, I wriggled myself into a comfortable position within the cushions that padded the chair. I raised my legs and reached about until my feet made contact with the inner legs of the table. I pushed hard. The table was too heavy to move from its spot, but the chair moved back a couple of feet until it made contact with the window seat. Now trembling, I squeezed one of my very firm nipples. From far off beyond the pounding in both ears, I heard a groan of lust. What remained of my willpower gave way entirely, and I could see that wanton and now fully unclothed body as clearly as if it had stood before me. Even as it merged into the naked girl of my dream, horror only added to the arousal.

Since my intention here is to write a kind of history, I see no value in giving close description to the act of self-pleasuring that followed. Writing about sex of any kind is rather like writing about eating. No matter how skilfully it’s done, it doesn’t make a hungry man full. You do it. You enjoy it. You put it aside. I’ll not deny that I enjoyed myself about as well as anyone could with no assistance but his own hands and a fevered imagination. What little sense of time I’d managed to possess now vanished. In total self-absorption, I sprawled for what may have been an age in that chair. At last, in full exhaustion, my body chill with sweat, white flashes of ecstasy still going off behind my eyes more intense than any lightning, I slowly untensed and came back into the normal stream of time.

I opened my eyes. The light was good enough for me to take everything in at once. I doubt if the slight contracting of muscles, to reach for the broken chair leg was even noticed. I relaxed fully and squirmed against the rough cushions. I smiled and reached up to brush a lock of hair from my eyes.

‘Hello, Martin,’ I said lazily. ‘Have you shat the bed?’

Martin swallowed and looked about for words. ‘What are you doing?’ he eventually gasped.

I laughed softly and lay fully back. ‘Haven’t you ever seen a man having a wank?’ I asked. It was an odd sort of question to ask of a man who’d once, in his days as a slave, been put to work in a brothel. I laughed again and reached for the sheet to wipe away the mess that covered my belly and chest. I did think of making some comment on his early life. But it would have been cruel. I sat up and looked past him. There was a shaft of moonlight coming through the windows. It seemed for a moment that a whole cloud of dust was dancing about within it. But I blinked and looked again. Whatever I thought I’d seen was already fading when I looked. Now, it was gone. I put forefinger and thumb together and noticed how sticky they were. I could almost have done some absent person a favour and glued those papyrus sheets in a loose order. But Martin’s face was now relaxing, and he was looking more his normal self. He’d put on a dressing gown that was far too small for his bulk, and I could see the tangle of what I knew were ginger hairs that covered his lower gut. It required some effort of imagination to see what had once possessed whoever had finally sold him to the Church to set him to work as an object of pleasure. It was an effort of imagination I didn’t currently feel inclined to make.

‘But why are you here?’ I asked. There was a dull and pleasurable ache in every muscle. If Martin hadn’t been scowling at me from across the table, I might have set about myself again to settle things entirely. Already, though, I was beginning to feel stupid. Giving way like that in an unknown place — even if I had believed I was alone — hadn’t been an entirely sensible act. But it was only Martin. There was no harm done. I looked at the pattern of veins that stood out on my left forearm. The lamps showed the covering of tiny golden hairs, and I was aware again of how uncouth I was beginning to look. Had Euphemia noticed my spot? I wondered. I hoped the light hadn’t been good enough for that.

‘I saw the light from downstairs,’ he said. ‘I thought you might be up here to look for something to read.’

I smiled happily and touched my left nipple. Sure enough, it set off more flashes in my mind. But I sighed and pulled myself fully together. I supposed Sveta really had kicked him out of bed — that, or he’d run away from more of her private nagging about the cobwebs and general absence of comfort. I thought of dinner and saw the pained