features into a semblance of the charming as he read out the greeting and, after a pause for everyone to shout the praises of the Emperor’s worthless cousin, went into the main body of the letter:
The Divine Plato it may justly be observed stands to be corrected inasfar into the mouth of Socrates he betook himself to present the notion that the art of impressing marks upon the skin of a beast or upon the woven mat of Nilotic reed, hasn’t nay in any sense diminished the memoriative powers of mankind . . .
I tried for a look of reverential joy and thought about the work piling up in my office. At last, raising his voice in the customary manner, the messenger got to the letter’s climax. This involved a line of Theophrastus falsely given to Hesiod, and a series of grammatical blunders gross enough to raise the thought that I was being insulted. But there was no insult. Like the Emperor, Nicetas had been raised in Carthage. They were both happier in Latin. And I’d had worse from natives. Indeed, this probably had been ghosted by a native. For all its faults, it did the usual job of a letter between persons of quality: You are absent. But no separation can sunder those who are united in spirit.
The messenger came forward and embraced my slippered feet. ‘What’s the message?’ I whispered.
‘No offence meant,’ came the reply, ‘but the Master’s legs is taking a turn for the worse. Tomorrow evening’s off.’
Mindful of how the egg underlay on my face was coming loose, I wiggled my toes to show the required desolation. ‘Give my sympathies to the Lord Nicetas,’ I replied without moving my lips. The man nodded. This was my first good news of the day. Nicetas might, this time, be festering to death. At the least, I’d been spared an evening of the poet he’d brought back with him from Egypt and was crying up as a second Callimachus. ‘Tell him that I pray for angels to attend upon his bed of sickness,’ I added. The messenger bowed, and walked backwards down the steps from my chair. I suppressed a cough and got up. There was a sound of shuffled feet and much brushing of sweaty hands on robes.
‘Let the whole universe bear witness,’ I began, ‘to the learned eloquence of My Lord Nicetas. Truly, has such a letter been received since the glorious days of old?’ There was an attempted murmur of admiration, though somewhat more coughing. I heard someone quote one of the more illiterate phrases. Someone else repeated it and threw in a loud groan of ecstasy. ‘Let it be known,’ I cried when all was silent again, ‘that this most astonishing of letters shall be displayed in my hall of audience beneath the icon of the Emperor. Let it be shown there for all eternity.’ There was a sound of clapping that began in the centre of the crowd and moved outward. It was followed by a variant on the standard acclamation, and then by another handful of incense, and then by helpless coughing. Still on my feet, I let out a sigh of relief. I’d just had an explanation of the cup and of its Latin message. Like his Imperial cousin, Nicetas had no visible sense of humour. But I could suppose he’d set Leander to work on an epigram to be recited at me the next time I had to attend one of his horrid soirées .
As I sat down, the Master of the Timings went into a sort of waddling dance with the messenger. It was all as should be expected – save that the eunuch kept missing his steps, and the messenger didn’t give the customary embrace, but kept his hands clamped behind his back. Everyone else continued shouting himself hoarse in Latin and bells rang out repeatedly from overhead. I glanced at the back of the crowd. One of the older petitioners looked as if he’d died and was being propped up from behind. I moved a hand to get the Listings Clerk’s attention. For some reason, I glanced down at the litter of documents that hadn’t yet been cleared away. Among various parchment scrolls was a half sheet of papyrus,
The Divine Plato it may justly be observed stands to be corrected inasfar into the mouth of Socrates he betook himself to present the notion that the art of impressing marks upon the skin of a beast or upon the woven mat of Nilotic reed, hasn’t nay in any sense diminished the memoriative powers of mankind . . .
I tried for a look of reverential joy and thought about the work piling up in my office. At last, raising his voice in the customary manner, the messenger got to the letter’s climax. This involved a line of Theophrastus falsely given to Hesiod, and a series of grammatical blunders gross enough to raise the thought that I was being insulted. But there was no insult. Like the Emperor, Nicetas had been raised in Carthage. They were both happier in Latin. And I’d had worse from natives. Indeed, this probably had been ghosted by a native. For all its faults, it did the usual job of a letter between persons of quality: You are absent. But no separation can sunder those who are united in spirit.
The messenger came forward and embraced my slippered feet. ‘What’s the message?’ I whispered.
‘No offence meant,’ came the reply, ‘but the Master’s legs is taking a turn for the worse. Tomorrow evening’s off.’
Mindful of how the egg underlay on my face was coming loose, I wiggled my toes to show the required desolation. ‘Give my sympathies to the Lord Nicetas,’ I replied without moving my lips. The man nodded. This was my first good news of the day. Nicetas might, this time, be festering to death. At the least, I’d been spared an evening of the poet he’d brought back with him from Egypt and was crying up as a second Callimachus. ‘Tell him that I pray for angels to attend upon his bed of sickness,’ I added. The messenger bowed, and walked backwards down the steps from my chair. I suppressed a cough and got up. There was a sound of shuffled feet and much brushing of sweaty hands on robes.
‘Let the whole universe bear witness,’ I began, ‘to the learned eloquence of My Lord Nicetas. Truly, has such a letter been received since the glorious days of old?’ There was an attempted murmur of admiration, though somewhat more coughing. I heard someone quote one of the more illiterate phrases. Someone else repeated it and threw in a loud groan of ecstasy. ‘Let it be known,’ I cried when all was silent again, ‘that this most astonishing of letters shall be displayed in my hall of audience beneath the icon of the Emperor. Let it be shown there for all eternity.’ There was a sound of clapping that began in the centre of the crowd and moved outward. It was followed by a variant on the standard acclamation, and then by another handful of incense, and then by helpless coughing. Still on my feet, I let out a sigh of relief. I’d just had an explanation of the cup and of its Latin message. Like his Imperial cousin, Nicetas had no visible sense of humour. But I could suppose he’d set Leander to work on an epigram to be recited at me the next time I had to attend one of his horrid soirées .
As I sat down, the Master of the Timings went into a sort of waddling dance with the messenger. It was all as should be expected – save that the eunuch kept missing his steps, and the messenger didn’t give the customary embrace, but kept his hands clamped behind his back. Everyone else continued shouting himself hoarse in Latin and bells rang out repeatedly from overhead. I glanced at the back of the crowd. One of the older petitioners looked as if he’d died and was being propped up from behind. I moved a hand to get the Listings Clerk’s attention. For some reason, I glanced down at the litter of documents that hadn’t yet been cleared away. Among various parchment scrolls was a half sheet of papyrus,
Similar Books
