paid him no further attention.
That was yesterday. You will not believe, dear reader, how angry I’ve been on and off since then. If I’d but crawled down and slit that tax-gathering bastard’s throat, I’d have got my pin back, and none of this would have been required. But I didn’t, and it’s all my fault if I’m now stuck here like some fly in a web spun by Sophronius.
Or is it really that bad? ‘Since I have none of the materials I’d normally use for checking external facts,’ I said earlier today when Sophronius visited me in this room, ‘you will forgive me if I only describe what I personally witnessed, or can reasonably infer. Other things may not be clearly explained. Indeed, I may not give you exactly what you want.’ His answer was a nod and the beginnings of another gloat. He then fussed about with a crate of papyrus and enough French red to keep a man drunk till Christmas.
He and Theodore will get their account of what is called the Little Council of Athens. And why not? How long have I been promising some account of what I did in Athens? I’ll write it all down, and on the principles I stated to Sophronius. If he ever gets to read it, he’ll surely have kittens.
And that if , I do assure you, is a big one. Sophronius may already be ordering new robes for the preferment he thinks he’ll get from using me. But, if I’ll need to let more time pass since that error of judgement on London Bridge, we’ll see who’s the spider and who the fly. Until then, here it goes: what Old Aelric – also known as Alaric – did in Athens, such a very long time ago . . .
Chapter 7
If you think of it at all, my dear reader, I suppose you imagine Athens as a place bathed in the intense light of the Mediterranean. You may also think of the sovereign people, assembled in the market place, and of the matchless eloquence by which, for good or ill, they were swayed. Or you may think of the groves and colonnades where every art and every philosophy was carried to perfection. Or, if you suppose the ancients more sinful than illuminating, you may think of that scene on the Areopagus, where Saint Paul preached to a sceptical gathering about the Unknown God.
Well, that was all in ancient times. I first saw the place on Thursday, 19 October 612. By then, it was rather different . . .
Oh, but I’m already running ahead of myself. Let me pull myself to order and begin at the beginning. This was early in the morning of that day. The Imperial galley on which – for what little I suspected it was worth – I was the most important passenger had been riding at anchor off Piraeus since we’d crept in the previous evening. Now, in the first light of dawn that dribbled through the window, I sat alone in my cabin, looking at myself in a little mirror. I was long since used to the continual grinding of timbers. If I listened, I could hear it. Otherwise, it no longer registered. Far above – possibly halfway up one of the masts – a sailor was into the third or fourth stanza of some sea shanty. He sang in one of the Eastern languages, and I hadn’t yet made any study of these. But it had a mournful quality that was feeding my own present mood.
It wasn’t vanity, you see, that had me looking so hard into that mirror. I’ll grant that, at twenty-two, I was at the very summit of health and beauty. I was well worth looking at. Since the weather had turned so horribly against us, I’d almost cheered myself in this cabin by trying on every possible combination of my fine clothes, and I’d been at least satisfied by my appearance in all of them. But my attention was focused now on a spot that covered the whole tip of my nose. If I’d done as the slave suggested, a dab of paint would have covered the thing. Instead, I’d tried popping it before it was ripe, and was now paying the price of acting in haste.
I sighed and put the mirror down. I tried not to listen to that awful and probably endless dirge overhead. So far
That was yesterday. You will not believe, dear reader, how angry I’ve been on and off since then. If I’d but crawled down and slit that tax-gathering bastard’s throat, I’d have got my pin back, and none of this would have been required. But I didn’t, and it’s all my fault if I’m now stuck here like some fly in a web spun by Sophronius.
Or is it really that bad? ‘Since I have none of the materials I’d normally use for checking external facts,’ I said earlier today when Sophronius visited me in this room, ‘you will forgive me if I only describe what I personally witnessed, or can reasonably infer. Other things may not be clearly explained. Indeed, I may not give you exactly what you want.’ His answer was a nod and the beginnings of another gloat. He then fussed about with a crate of papyrus and enough French red to keep a man drunk till Christmas.
He and Theodore will get their account of what is called the Little Council of Athens. And why not? How long have I been promising some account of what I did in Athens? I’ll write it all down, and on the principles I stated to Sophronius. If he ever gets to read it, he’ll surely have kittens.
And that if , I do assure you, is a big one. Sophronius may already be ordering new robes for the preferment he thinks he’ll get from using me. But, if I’ll need to let more time pass since that error of judgement on London Bridge, we’ll see who’s the spider and who the fly. Until then, here it goes: what Old Aelric – also known as Alaric – did in Athens, such a very long time ago . . .
Chapter 7
If you think of it at all, my dear reader, I suppose you imagine Athens as a place bathed in the intense light of the Mediterranean. You may also think of the sovereign people, assembled in the market place, and of the matchless eloquence by which, for good or ill, they were swayed. Or you may think of the groves and colonnades where every art and every philosophy was carried to perfection. Or, if you suppose the ancients more sinful than illuminating, you may think of that scene on the Areopagus, where Saint Paul preached to a sceptical gathering about the Unknown God.
Well, that was all in ancient times. I first saw the place on Thursday, 19 October 612. By then, it was rather different . . .
Oh, but I’m already running ahead of myself. Let me pull myself to order and begin at the beginning. This was early in the morning of that day. The Imperial galley on which – for what little I suspected it was worth – I was the most important passenger had been riding at anchor off Piraeus since we’d crept in the previous evening. Now, in the first light of dawn that dribbled through the window, I sat alone in my cabin, looking at myself in a little mirror. I was long since used to the continual grinding of timbers. If I listened, I could hear it. Otherwise, it no longer registered. Far above – possibly halfway up one of the masts – a sailor was into the third or fourth stanza of some sea shanty. He sang in one of the Eastern languages, and I hadn’t yet made any study of these. But it had a mournful quality that was feeding my own present mood.
It wasn’t vanity, you see, that had me looking so hard into that mirror. I’ll grant that, at twenty-two, I was at the very summit of health and beauty. I was well worth looking at. Since the weather had turned so horribly against us, I’d almost cheered myself in this cabin by trying on every possible combination of my fine clothes, and I’d been at least satisfied by my appearance in all of them. But my attention was focused now on a spot that covered the whole tip of my nose. If I’d done as the slave suggested, a dab of paint would have covered the thing. Instead, I’d tried popping it before it was ripe, and was now paying the price of acting in haste.
I sighed and put the mirror down. I tried not to listen to that awful and probably endless dirge overhead. So far
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