Terror of Constantinople (15 page)

    My apology and reassurance fell oddly flat. We looked awhile in silence out to the boundless freedom of the waters. If there had been a sensible falling off in numbers, the wind still brought ships from every trading port of the world.

    ‘So what if His Excellency has locked himself into his rooms?’ Martin asked with a return to the original subject. ‘There’s not a door in this city the Emperor can’t kick open.’

    ‘Oh yes there is.’ I smiled. ‘The Permanent Legate represents the Pope in the fullest possible sense. An attack on him is an attack on His Holiness. If he refuses to see anyone, he must be cajoled. If he won’t continue negotiations, they come to a halt.’

    ‘So why are we still alive?’ Martin asked again. ‘If we disappeared, the Dispensator might not even bother with a letter of formal complaint. And if it were an accident  ...’

    ‘Good question,’ I said, trying to sound less queasy than I felt. ‘It may be what Epicurus called a “rescue hypothesis”’ – I ignored the look on Martin’s face – ‘but let us suppose that the Imperial Government is not a monolithic structure. Let us suppose it is a group of more or less ordinary people, riven by faction. One faction might want us dead. That would explain Rome and what happened here today. It might also explain what nearly happened under the Ministry.

    ‘Another faction seems to want us alive. That would be led by the old eunuch. He certainly wants us gone – but his preferred means of getting his way seems to involve playing the Dispensator’s game. This means keeping us hard at work and ransacking every library in the loyal parts of the Empire to give me whatever I ask for.’

    ‘And you find that convincing?’ Martin asked, his voice incredu lous.

    ‘Every hypothesis stands or falls according to the facts it is supposed to explain,’ I said with a shrug. This one didn’t explain everything, but sounded likely otherwise.

    ‘Can you conceive how it feels to be forsaken by God?’ Martin asked suddenly.

    ‘Er, not really,’ I said without thinking. I’d been watching some sea birds as they flew out from the walls to dive for rubbish tossed from the ships. It was a good moment before I realised Martin was going into one of his funny turns.

    I thought about some heart-warming sermon culled from the Book of Job. But it was too late for that. In any event, Martin was now calm again. We’d come up level with the corpses and could see they were still fresh enough for the birds not to have had the eyes. Martin stood awhile in silence, looking into the dead faces. ‘In the midst of life, we are in death,’ he said mournfully.

    ‘No, Martin,’ I said, trying to pull him back to the present. ‘In the midst of death, we try to keep our wits about us and stay alive.’

    ‘How long do you suppose this will continue?’ Martin asked. ‘How long must we linger at these Gates of Death?’

    ‘Search me,’ I answered. ‘It could be right to the time when Heraclius is sitting in the Imperial Box in the Circus – or being looked at from there.’

    ‘Until then, we stay?’ Martin asked. He was staring again into the dead faces, a look of horrified fascination on his own. ‘We stay and do whatever duty may be required of us?’

    ‘I’m afraid so, Martin,’ I said, putting my arm in his as we continued our stroll along the walls.

    ‘And is waiting to be murdered among those duties?’ he asked.

    ‘I wish I had a more comforting answer than I have,’ I said. ‘So far as possible, we don’t go out of the Legation. When we do go to the libraries, we stick to the main routes where we shall be watched and reasonably protected.’

    ‘Why did the eunuch tell you all this in public?’ he asked with a change of tone, turning back on the conversation. ‘It will be all over the place by now.’

    That was the one fact my hypothesis didn’t explain. I’d been chewing it over ever since Theophanes had left me. Was he trying to persuade some other faction to leave me to him? That didn’t sound likely.

    ‘I can’t answer that one,’ I said, abandoning all attempt at reassurance. ‘The man has a reason for everything he does. Sadly, it’s hardly ever apparent to people like us.’

    ‘God have mercy! God have mercy!’ Martin cried softly, crossing himself.

14

It was late evening of the same day. I was back in the Legation. His afternoon terrors settled by a light dinner and extended prayers, Martin had gone out for another of his walks. Authari had then come back from the brothel empty-handed – some problem of licensing had closed it without warning.

    I was alone in my office. My eyes were beginning to hurt from reading by lamplight. I could swallow some opium. I could drink myself silly. I could have a slow wank. Any of those, and I’d fall asleep. But I fancied none of them tonight. The light aside, I didn’t even fancy a book.

    I was thinking again about the roof tiles. I nearly had been got this time. Martin was right – an ‘accident’ wouldn’t have raised an official eyebrow back in Rome. It was down to luck alone that I was still alive. Who could tell if there would be a next time? Or, if there were, how that would turn out?

    I got up from my desk and went out to the balcony and stood in the evening air. Distant, I could hear the sounds of Constantin ople. There was a murmur of crowded streets. A dog barked. Below me, in the dark gardens, the night insects chirruped and a light breeze stirred the bushes. There was the ever-present smell of aromatic shrubs. A moon was rising.

    From the slave quarters directly below, I could hear a drinking party in subdued but determined swing. Snatches of song and the occasional burst of laughter drifted upwards. I thought of the Permanent Legate and what news I’d just picked up. There could be no doubt he was sticking to his own rooms on the other side of the main hall. All access was blocked by Demetrius. Our slaves could find out nothing from the household beyond what Martin had discovered on our second day. The messages I sent him were never answered.

    I looked at the sky about the risen moon. It was black. Looking down, I could see neither the little garden at the foot of the steps down from my balcony nor the larger, central gardens. I turned and looked along the blank shuttered windows beyond my own suite. No movement. No sign of life.

    The Legation, I must remind you, was built around a central square divided into a jumble of enclosed gardens. Its four sides were on two storeys of very high rooms. Seen from the square outside – not that anything could be seen through those blank, marbled walls – my suite was on the top floor to the left of the main entrance hall. It took up half of the front elevation. All its windows, remember, were at the back, facing on to the gardens.

    I looked left along the upper storey of windows in the Legation. Next door was my bedroom, with its own door to the balcony. Beyond that were a few guest and reception rooms. From the far end of my suite, the Legation continued at a right angle, reaching down in a long enclosing arm to join the other buildings opposite my balcony. The far side was mostly hidden by trees but I was sure I could have seen lights over there, had there been any lit.

    With Martin, I had found a way into that enclosing arm from the garden. Its rooms hadn’t been used in years and were falling into ruin. The only signs of maintenance had been on the street side of the building, to preserve the symmetry of the Legation and to protect it against intruders.

    I looked to my right. The line of windows continued until it reached the back end of the main hall and its dome. All of these were mine. Martin’s bedroom was the fifth window along. Next to that was his office. After that were another four windows of rooms that were mostly unused.

    Though he’d made some attempt at the front of the building, the architect employed to add the dome to the main structure had done nothing at the back to hide its incongruity. The brickwork of the dome broke all the harmony of the rear elevation. The parapet wall that hid the roof tiles from an observer below had been demolished in part, and its jagged edge shone white in the pale moonshine.

    Beyond that must lie the rooms of the Permanent Legate. Seen from the square outside, the front of the Legation was symmetrical about the dome. Seen by day from my window, the right enclosing arm of the Legation looked in much better order than the left. I couldn’t gain access to it but I supposed here was where the Legation did its work.

    An elongated square of light played on this right arm. I couldn’t see its source because of the dome. But there was a lit room on the other side of the dome from where I was standing.

    The idea was one of those things that pops fully formed into the consciousness. Without realising it, I must have been going over it as I stood there. But all I can say is that one moment I was thinking nothing whatever, and the next moment I had the plan complete in my mind.

    If the Permanent Legate wouldn’t call for me, I’d go calling in my own way.

    About eight feet above me, the balcony was part shaded by a ledge that jutted out from the base of the parapet wall. It was covered in lead sheeting, so far as I could tell, and ran along that whole line of windows. I could see that it sloped very gently down away from the wall, so rainwater could be collected in a gutter along the edge and carried off to downpipes.

    There was an abrupt narrowing and increased sloping as the original parapet was broken by the dome. But a ledge seemed to extend all round the dome. Though I couldn’t see what lay on the far side, I could see it continuing along the right arm of the Legation.

    When I had finished the jug of wine, I stripped off and laid my clothes carefully on the little couch against my office wall. Then I went back on to the balcony and looked up.

    Making sure nothing was likely to give way under me, I climbed on to the balcony rail. This got me up about chest height to the ledge. The slope was noticeable and I’d need to take care not to fall off. But bare, slightly moist feet on eighteen inches of heavily weathered lead give a reasonable grip.

    I hauled myself up and, facing towards the dome, lay on the lead sheeting. Though the sun was long down, it still gave off a faint warmth. I could now see that the sheeting was covered in places with raised layers of shit where birds had gathered. For the most part, however, the lead shone white and smooth in the moonlight.

    It didn’t matter how hard I pressed the right side of my body against the parapet wall, still my left shoulder and my left arm hung over the edge. I kept myself stable by resting my left arm very lightly on the lead guttering.

    Lying flat on the ledge, I twisted my upper body out over the balcony. I gripped the outer wall of the gutter with both hands, and carefully lowered my head and shoulders. So long as I kept enough body area in contact, the sloping was no cause for instability. The lead of the guttering was thickly folded, and held my weight without buckling. Without any risk of sliding forward, I was able to look through the top part of the window and into my office. Bathed in the pool of light thrown out by a single lamp, my desk and the papers on it were clearly in view.

    I got up and, keeping the front of my body close against the wall, edged sideways along the ledge all the way to the dome. I had a slightly queasy feeling as I left the safety of my balcony. There was nothing now beyond that eighteen inches of lead but a thirty-foot drop to the gardens. But those eighteen inches seemed fully sufficient to keep me safe.

    Passing along the ledge around the dome was harder. It narrowed to about nine inches here and sloped rather more. Far worse, the moonlight showed me that the lead was rippled in places, the underlying material having crumbled.

    As I stepped up on to the ledge I told myself not to look down into the darkness where the moonlight didn’t reach. Arms spread wide, my body pressed forward against the lower convexity of the dome, I slowly and very carefully continued edging to my left.

    Once or twice, I stretched my left foot down into nothingness. The ledge had crumbled, and the lead had sagged downwards. This explained the damp patches on the inside of the dome. It probably also explained the musty smell in some of my unused rooms.

    The moon was now rising higher and I could see by twisting my head that the breakage in any one place was no more than a foot or so. I could step over it and be on a firm surface again. The lead was raised here and there, and my weight pressing down flattened it with a gentle creaking. Again, the lower walls of the dome were thick enough to prevent the noise from carrying inward.

    The arc of the dome must have been only two or three times the straight length from my balcony, but the distance must have taken five or six times longer to cover.

    At last I was through. Panting from the careful effort, and slightly shaky from all the risk, I stood still for a while on the firm and wide ledge that, as I’d expected, ran along the other side of the Legation.