Our accommodations were generous: a small room in the south wing with two sumptuously padded couches and a thick rug on the floor. A door, facing east, opened onto a small terrace with a view of the dome above the baths. Eco complained that we couldn't see the bay. I told him we were lucky that Gelina hadn't put us in the stables.
He stripped down to his undertunic and tested his bed, bouncing up and down on it until I slapped him on the forehead. 'So what do you think, Eco? How do we stand?'
He stared for a moment at the ceiling above, then swung his open palm flat against his nose.
'Yes, I'm inclined to agree. We're up against a brick wall this time. I suppose I'll be paid no matter what, but how much can the woman expect me to do in three days? Only two days, really, tomorrow and the funeral day; then comes the game day and, if Crassus has his way, the execution of the slaves. Only one day, if you think about it, because how much can we hope to accomplish on the funeral day? So, Eco, did you see any murderers at the meal?'
Eco indicated the long tresses of Olympias. 'The painter's protegee? You can't be serious.' He smiled and made his fingers into an arrow piercing his heart.
I laughed softly and pulled the dark tunic over my shoulders. 'At least one of us will have pleasant dreams tonight.'
I put out the lamps and sat for a long time on my bed with my bare feet on the rug. I looked out of the window at the cold stars and the waxing moon. Beside the window there was a small trunk, in which I had hidden the bloodstained tunic and had stored our things, including the daggers we had brought from Rome. Above the trunk a polished mirror was hung on the wall. I rose and stepped toward the starkly moonlit reflection of my race.
I saw a man of thirty-eight years, surprisingly healthy considering his many journeys and his dangerous occupation, with broad shoulders and a wide middle and streaks of grey amid his black curls – not a young man, but not an old man either. Not a particularly handsome face, but not an ugly one, with a flat, slightly hooked nose, a broad jaw, and staid brown eyes. A very lucky man, I thought, not fawned over by Fortune but not despised by her either. A man with a house in Rome, steady work, a beautiful woman to share his bed and run his household, and a son to carry his name. No matter that the house was a ramshackle affair handed down from his father, or that his work was often disreputable and frequently dangerous, or that the woman was a slave, not a wife, or that the son was not of his blood and stricken with muteness – still, a very lucky man, all in all.
I thought of the slaves on the Fury – the vile stench of their bodies, the haunted misery in their eyes, the utter hopelessness of their desperation – property of a man who would never see their faces or know their names, who would not even know if they lived or died until a secretary handed him a requisition asking for more slaves to replace them. I thought of the boy who had reminded me of Eco, the one the whipmaster had singled out for punishment and humiliation, and the way he had looked at me with his pathetic smile, as if I somehow had the power to help him, as if, merely by being a free man, I was somehow like a god.
I was weary, but sleep seemed far away. I pulled up a chair from the corner and sat staring at my own face. I thought of the young slave Apollonius. The strains of his song echoed through my head. I remembered the philosopher's tale of the wizard-slave Eunus, who belched fire and roused his companions into a mad revolt. At some point I must have begun to dream, for I thought I could see Eunus in the mirror beside me, hissing, wearing a crown of fire with little wisps of flame leaking from his nostrils and between his teeth. Over my other shoulder the face of Lucius Licinius loomed up, one eye half-shut and matted with blood, a corpse and yet able to speak in a vague murmur too low for me to understand. He rapped on the floor, as if in a code. I shook my head, perplexed, and told him to speak up, but instead he began to dribble blood from his Lips. Some of it fell over my shoulder, onto my lap. I looked down to see a bloody cloak. It writhed and hissed. The thing was crawling with thousands of worms, the same worms that had eaten a dictator and a slave-king. I tried to cast the cloak aside, but I could not move.
Then there was a strong, heavy hand on my shoulder – not a dream, but real. I opened my eyes with a start. In the mirror I saw the face of a man abruptly roused from a deep dream, his jaw slack and his eyes heavy with sleep. I blinked at the reflected glare of a lamp held aloft behind me. In the mirror I saw a looming giant dressed like a soldier. His face was smudged with dirt, ugly and stupid looking, like a mask in a comedy. A bodyguard – a trained killer, I thought, instandy recognizing the type. It seemed cruelly unfair that someone in the household had already sent an assassin to murder me before I had even begun to make trouble.
'Did I wake you?' His voice was hoarse but surprisingly gentle. 'I knocked and could have sworn I heard you answer, so I came in. With you sitting up in the chair like that, I thought you must be awake.'
He cocked an eyebrow at me. I stared back at him dumbly, no longer quite sure I was awake and wondering how he had stumbled into my dream. 'What are you doing here?' I finally said.
The soldier's ugly face opened in an ingratiating smile. 'Marcus Crassus requests your presence in the library downstairs. If you're not too busy, that is.'
It took only a moment to slip into my sandals. I began searching in the lamplight for a suitable tunic, but the bodyguard told me to come as I was. Eco softly snored through the whole exchange. The day had worn him out, and his sleep was uncommonly deep.
A long straight hallway took us to the central atrium; winding stairs led down to the open garden, where the light of tiny lamps on the floor cast strange shadows across the corpse of Lucius Licinius. The library was a short walk up a hallway into the north wing. The guard indicated a door to our right as we passed and put a finger to his lips. 'The lady Gelina is asleep,' he explained. A few steps farther on he pushed open a door on our left and ushered me inside.
'Gordianus of Rome,' he announced.
A cloaked figure sat at a square table across the room, his back to us. Another bodyguard stood nearby. The figure turned a bit in his backless chair, just enough to give me a glimpse of one eye, then turned back to his business and gestured for both guards to leave the room.
After a long moment he stood, tossed aside the simple cloak he wore – a Greek chlamys, such as Romans often adopt when they visit the Cup – and turned to greet me. He wore a plain tunic of durable fabric and simple cut. He looked slightly dishevelled, as if he had been riding. His smile was weary but not insincere.
'So you are Gordianus,' he said, leaning back against the table, which was strewn with documents. 'I suppose you know who I am.'
'Yes, Marcus Crassus.' He was only slighd
tly older than myself, but considerably greyer – not surprising, considering the hardships and tragedies of his early life, including his flight to Spain after the suicide of his father and the assassination of his brother by anti-Sullan forces. I had seen him often in the Forum delivering speeches or overseeing his interests at the markets, always attended by a large coterie of secretaries and sycophants. It was a little unnerving to see him on so intimate a scale – his hair untidy, his eyes tired, his hands unwashed and stained from handling a rein. He was quite human, after all, despite his fabulous wealth. 'Crassus, Crassus, rich as Croesus,' went the ditty, and the popular imagination at Rome pictured him as a man of excessive habits. But those powerful enough to move in his circle painted a different image, which was borne out by his unpretentious appearance;
Crassus's craving for wealth was not for the luxuries that gold could buy, but for the power it could harness.
'It's a wonder we've never met before,' he said in his smooth orator's voice. 'I know of you, certainly. There was that affair of the Vestal Virgins last year; you played some part in saving Catalina's hide, I understand. I've also heard Cicero praise your work, if in a somewhat backhanded way. Hortensius, too. I do recognize your face, from the Forum I suspect.. Generally I don't hire free agents such as yourself. I prefer to use men I own.'
'Or to own the men you use?'
'You understand me exactly. If I want, say, to build a new villa, it's much more efficient to purchase an educated slave, or to educate a bright slave I already own, rather than to hire whatever architect happens to be fashionable, at some exorbitant rate. I buy an architect rather than an architect's services; that way I can use him again and again at no extra cost.'
'Some of the skills I offer are beyond the capacities of a slave,' I said.
'Yes, I suppose they are. For instance, a slave could hardly have been invited to join Gelina's dinner guests and to question them at will. Have you learned anything of value since you arrived?'
'As a matter of fact, I have.'
'Yes? Speak up. After all, I'm the man who's hired you.'
'I thought it was Gelina who sent for me.'
'But it was my ship that brought you, and it's my purse that will pay your fee. That makes me your employer.'
'Still, if you would permit, I should prefer to keep my discoveries to myself for a time. Sometimes information is like the pressed juice of the grape; it needs to ferment in a dark and quiet place away from probing eyes.'
'I see. Well, I shall not press you. Frankly, I think your presence here is a waste of my money and your time. But Gelina insisted, and as it was her husband who was murdered, I decided to indulge her.'
'You're not curious yourself about the murder of Lucius Licinius? I understand he was your cousin, and a steward of your property for many years.'
Crassus shrugged. 'Is there really any question at all about who killed him? Surely Gelina has told you about the missing slaves, and the letters scrawled at Lucius's feet? That such a thing should happen to one of my kinsmen, in one of my own villas, is outrageous. It cannot be overlooked.'
'And yet there may be reasons to believe that the slaves are innocent of the crime.'
'What reasons? Ah, I forgot, your head is some sort of dark casket where the truth slowly ferments.' He smiled grimly. 'Metrobius could no doubt come up with more puns on the same theme, but I'm too tired to make them. Ah, these accounting ledgers are a scandal.' He turned away from me to study the scrolls laid out on the table, apparently no longer interested in my reason for being there. 'I had no idea Lucius had become so careless. With the slave Zeno gone there's no making sense of these documents at all…'
'Are you done with me, Marcus Crassus?'
He was absorbed in the ledgers and seemed not to hear me. I looked about the room. The floor was covered with a thick carpet with a geometric design in red and black. The walls on the left and right were covered with shelves full of scrolls, some of them stacked together and others neady stored in pigeonholes. The wall opposite the door was pierced by two narrow windows that faced the courtyard in front of the house, shuttered against the cold and covered by dark red draperies.
Between the windows, above the table where Crassus laboured, was a painting of Gelina. It was a portrait of rare distinction, touched with life, as the Greeks say. In the background loomed Vesuvius, with blue sky above and green sea below; in the foreground the image of Gelina seemed to radiate a sense of profound equanimity and grace. The portraitist was evidendy quite proud of her work, for in the lower right-hand corner was printed IAIA CYZICENA. She made the letter 'A' with an eccentric flourish, tilting the crossbar sharply downward towards the right.
On either side of the table stood squat pedestals supporting small bronze statues, each about the height of a man's forearm. The statue on the left I could not see, for it was covered by Crassus's carelessly discarded chlamys. The one on the right was of Hercules bearing a club across his shoulders, naked except for a lionskin cloak, with the lion's head for hood and its paws clasped at his throat. It was an odd choice for a library, but the workmanship could not be faulted. The tufts of the lion's fur had been scrupulously modelled; the texture of fur contrasted with the smooth muscularity of the demigod's flesh. Lucius Licinius had been as careless of his art as of his ledgers, I thought, for it appeared that the scalloped fur of the lion's head had somehow begun to rust.
'Marcus Crassus…' I began again.
He sighed and waved me aside without looking up. 'Yes, go now. I suppose I've made it clear that I have no enthusiasm for your project, but I will support you in whatever you need. Go to Fabius or Mummius first. If you cannot find satisfaction on some point, come to me directly, although I can't guarantee you'll be able to find me. I have a great deal of business to transact before I return to Rome, and not much time. The important thing is that when this matter is done, no man will be able to say that the truth was not sought or that justice did not prevail.' He at last turned his head, only to give me a weary and insincere smile of dismissal.
I stepped into the hall and closed the door behind me. The guard offered to show me the way to my room, but I told him that I was quite awake. I paused for a moment in the central atrium to look again at the corpse of Lucius Licinius. More incense had been put out, but the smell of decay, like the odour of roses, seemed to grow stronger at night. I was halfway to my room before I turned abruptly back.
The guard was surprised and a little suspicious. He insisted on entering the library first and consulted with Crassus before allowing me to enter. He stepped into the hall and shut the door, leaving us alone once more.
Crassus was still poring over the ledgers. He now sat in his undertunic, having stripped off his riding tunic and thrown it over the Hercules. In the few moments I had been gone, one of the slaves had delivered a tray with a steaming cup from which he sipped. The infusion of hot water and mint filled the room with its smell.
'Yes?' He cocked one eyebrow impatiently. 'Was there some point I neglected to discuss?'
'It's a small thing, Marcus Crassus. Perhaps I'm entirely mistaken,' I said, as I lifted his tunic from the Hercules. The cloth was still warm from his body. Crassus looked at me darkly. Clearly he was not used to having his personal things touched by people he did not own.
'A very interesting statue,' I remarked, looking down on the Hercules from above.
'I suppose. It's a copy of an original I have in my villa at Falerii. Lucius admired it once on a visit, so I had one made for him.'
'How ironic, then, that it should have been used to murder him.'
'What?'
'I think we're both sufficiently acquainted with the sight of blood to know it when we see it, Marcus Crassus. What do you make of this rusty substance trapped in the crevices of the lion's fur?'
He rose from his chair and peered down, then picked up the statue with both hands and held it beneath a hanging lamp. At length he set it down on the table and looked at me soberly. 'You have very sharp eyes, Gordianus. But it seems quite unlikely that such a cumbersome bludgeon should have been carried all the way down the hall to the atrium for the purpose of murdering my cousin Lucius, and then carried back again.'
'It was not the statue that was moved,' I said, 'but the body.'
Crassus looked doubtful.
'Consider the posture of the corpse as it was found, like that of a man who had been dragged. Certainly from this room to the atrium is not too far for a strong man to drag a body.'
'Easier for two men,' he said, and I saw he meant the missing slaves. 'But where is the rest of the blood? Surely there must have been more on the statue, and a dragged body would have left a trail.'
'Not if a cloth was placed beneath the head, and the same cloth was used to clean whatever blood was left behind.' 'Was such a cloth found?'
I hesitated. 'Marcus Crassus, forgive my presumption when I ask that you share this knowledge with no one else. Gelina, Mummius, and two of the slaves already know. Yes, such a cloth was found, soaked with blood, down the road where someone attempted to fling it into the sea.'
He looked at me shrewdly. 'This bloodstained cloth was one of the discoveries you mentioned earlier, the secrets you prefer to withhold from me while the evidence ferments in your head?'
'Yes.' I squatted down and looked for traces of blood on the floor. A cloak would hardly have been adequate to clean blood from the dark carpet, but in the dim light it was impossible to see any stains.
'But why should the assassins have moved his body?' He picked up the statue with his left hand and fingered the encrusted blood with his right, then set it on the table with a grimace.
'You say assassins, not assassin, Marcus Crassus.'
'The slaves-'
'Perhaps the body was moved and the name of Spartacus carved precisely to implicate the slaves and distract us from the truth.'
'Or perhaps the slaves moved his body to the most public part of the house precisely to make their point, where all would be sure to see it and the name they carved.'
To that I had no answer. One doubt led to another. 'It does seem unlikely that the killing could have occurred in this room without anyone hearing, especially if it followed an argument, or if Lucius was able to make any noise at all. Gelina sleeps just across the hall; surely the noise would have awakened her.'
Crassus smiled at me sardonically. 'Gelina need not figure in your calculations.'
'No?'
'Gelina sleeps like the dead. Perhaps you've noticed her liberal consumption of wine? It's not a new habit. Dancing girls with cymbals could parade down the hallway and Gelina wouldn't stir.'
'Then the question must be: why was Lucius murdered here in his library?'
'No, Gordianus, the question is the same as it always was: where are the two escaped slaves? That Zeno, his secretary, should have murdered Lucius here in the room where they often worked together is hardly surprising. The young stableman Alexandros may have been here with them; I understand he could read and do figures, and Zeno used him sometimes as a helper. Perhaps it was this Alexandros who committed the crime; a stableman would have had the strength to drag Lucius down the hall, and a Thracian would have had the gall to scrawl his countryman's name on the floor. Something interrupted him in the act and he fled before he could write the whole name.'
'But no one interrupted them. The body wasn't discovered until morning.'
Crassus shrugged. 'An owl hooted, or a cat stirred a pebble. Or perhaps this Thracian slave simply hadn't yet learned the letter C and was stumped,' he said facetiously, rubbing his eyes with his forefinger and thumb. 'Forgive me, Gordianus, but I think I've had enough for tonight. Even Marcus Mummius has gone to bed, and we should do the same.' He picked up the Hercules from the table and replaced it on its pedestal. 'I suppose this is another of your secrets that needs fermenting? I shall mention it only to Morpheus in my dreams.'
The lamp that illuminated the hallway had grown dim. I stepped past Gelina's door, treading lightly despite Crassus's assertion that nothing could wake her. In the darkness an eerie sensation crept over me; this was the very route by which Lucius's lifeless or dying body had been dragged. I glanced over my shoulder, almost wishing that I had accepted the bodyguard's offer to escort me back to my room.
In the moonlit atrium I paused for a long moment. The place was still, but not entirely quiet. The fountain continued to splash; the sound echoed in the well-like atrium, and was certainly loud enough to cover the incidental noises made by a man moving with intentional stealth. But would it have concealed the high-pitched screeching of a knife carving letters on a hard flagstone? The very idea of the noise set my teeth on edge.
From the corner of my eye I saw a strange shape like a white veil floating beside the funeral bier. I started back, my heart pounding, and then realized it was only a plume of smoke from the incense, captured for a moment in a beam of blue moonlight. I shivered, and blamed it on the clammy night air.
I ascended the stairway to the upper storey. I must have turned down the wrong hallway and somehow lost my way. Tiny lamps lit the passages at intervals, and windows let in shafts of moonlight, but still I found myself confused. I tried to determine the direction of the bay by listening, and instead found myself hearing the faint gurgling of hot water through Orata's much-esteemed pipes where they were invisibly laid beneath the floor and along the walls. I passed a closed door and thought I heard faint laughter within – the deep voice of Marcus Mummius, I was almost certain, and another, softer voice replying. I walked on and came to an open doorway from which came a steady, raucous snoring. I took a step inside, squinting in the darkness, and saw what appeared to be the bulbous profile of Sergius Orata reclining on a wide couch with a gauzy canopy. I returned to the hall and pressed on until I came to the semicircular room where Gelina had greeted us earlier.
'Gordianus the Finder' you call yourself, I thought with disgust, thanking the gods that no one was there to laugh at me. I had come to the northern end of the house, having turned in exactly the wrong direction after I ascended the stairway in the atrium. I was about to turn back, when I decided to step onto the terrace for a breath of air to clear my head.
Beneath a waxing moon, the bay was a vast expanse of silver scalloped with tiny black waves and circled by black mountains pierced here and there with a point of yellow light to indicate a distant lamp within a distant house. The sky above was rent by a few ragged clouds aglow from the moon, but otherwise was full of stars. Entranced by the view, I almost failed to catch the tiny glimmer of a lamp on the shore below, where the land steeply descended to meet the water.
Gelina had mentioned a boathouse. An outcropping of rock and the tops of tall trees obscured the view, but almost directly below me I could see a bit of roof and what must have been a pier projecting into the water, very small in the distance. I could also see at intervals a tiny flash of flame, coming and going. I listened more closely, and it seemed that each appearance of the lamp coincided with a soft splashing noise, as if something were being quietly dropped into the water.
I looked around trying to locate a stairway, and saw that a broad, descending path began at one end of the terrace on which I stood. I stepped carefully forward.
The path began as a paved ramp that doubled back on itself, then narrowed to a steep stairway that joined with another flight of stairs descending from elsewhere in the villa. The stairs narrowed into a trail paved with cobblestones that wound back and forth down the hillside beneath a canopy of high shrubs and trees. I quickly lost sight of the villa above and for a while could not see the boathouse below.
At last I rounded a comer and saw below me the roof, and beyond it the far end of the pier projecting into the water. A lamp flashed on the pier; there was a splash, and the lamp as quickly disappeared. In the same instant I felt my feet slip from beneath me and found myself skidding down the pathway, setting loose a spray of gravel that rained like hail onto the roof of the boathouse below.
I sat stock-still in the silence that followed, catching my breath and listening, wishing I had brought my dagger. The light did not reappear, but I heard a sudden loud splash followed by silence, then a noise in the underbrush below like the leaping of a frightened deer. I scrambled up and trotted down the pathway until it ended. Between the foot of the path and the boathouse there was a deeply shadowed patch of almost impenetrable darkness overhung by trees and vines. I stepped forward slowly, listening to the magnified sound of my own footsteps on the grass and the gentle lapping of water against the pier.
Beyond the circle of shadow, the boathouse and the pier were illuminated by full moonlight. The pier projected perhaps fifty feet into the water; it had no rail but was studded along either side with mooring posts. No boats were moored to it, and the pier was deserted. The boathouse was a simple, square building with a single door that opened onto the pier. The door stood open.
I stepped into the moonlight, towards the open door. I peered inside, listening intently, hearing nothing. A window high up in the wall admitted enough light to show me the coils of rope that lay on the floor, a few oars stacked beside the door, and the obscure implements that were hung on the opposite wall. Deep shadows filled the corners of the room. In the utter stillness I could hear my own breathing, but no one else's. I withdrew and stepped onto the pier.
I walked to the end, where the disk of the moon seemed to hover on the water just beyond the pier. The curving shore on either side was dotted with the lights of distant villas, and far away across the great flat water the lamps of Puteoli were like stars. I looked over the side of the pier, but there was nothing to see in the black water except the reflection of my own scowling face. I turned back.
The blow seemed to come from nowhere, like an invisible mallet swung from a black abyss. It struck my forehead and sent me staggering backwards. I felt no pain, only a sudden overwhelming dizziness. The invisible mallet swung out of the darkness again, but this time I saw it – a short, stout oar. I avoided the second blow by accident as much as by design – a staggering man makes an uncertain target. Flashes of colour swam before my eyes, but beyond the oar I glimpsed the dark, hooded figure who swung it.
Then I was in the water. Men who hire me sometimes ask if I can swim. I usually tell them I can, which is a lie. I shouted. I splashed. I somehow stayed afloat and desperately reached for the pier, even though the hooded figure waited there with the oar uplifted.
I reached for one of the mooring posts. My fingers slipped on the green moss. The oar swung down to strike my hand, but somehow I caught it in my grasp. I pulled hard, more to lift myself out of the water than to pull him into it, but the result was that my attacker lost his balance. An instant later, with a great splash, he joined me in the black water.
He came up beside me, struck me in the chest with his flailing elbow, and reached for the pier. I grabbed onto his cloak, frantically trying to climb over him onto the pier. Together we thrashed and struggled. Salt stung my eyes. I opened my mouth and sucked in a burning draught of saltwater. I lashed out at him blindly.
I think he knew that if he struggled with me I would only kill us both. He broke away and swam away from the pier, towards the overgrown shore beyond the boathouse. I clung to the slippery mooring post and watched him retreat like a ponderous sea monster, weighted down by his drenched clothing. His hooded head bobbed and retreated, bobbed and retreated. When he was safely far away I struggled onto the pier and lay gasping for breath. He disappeared into the shadows beyond the boathouse. I heard him climb out of the water, slipping and splashing, and then tearing through the underbrush.
The world was quiet again, except for the noise of my own laboured breathing. I stood up. I touched my forehead and hissed at the stinging pain, but I felt no blood. I staggered forward, my legs trembling but my head clear.
I should never have come to the boathouse by night, alone and weaponless; I should have brought Eco with me, and a lamp, and a good, sharp knife, but it was too late for that. I fished the oar from the water to use as a weapon-and hurried to the foot of the pathway. The way was hard and steep, but I ran all the way to the top, staring into every dark patch and swinging the oar at the invisible assassin who might be lurking there. The trail became stairs, the stairs became a ramp, the ramp opened onto the terrace, where at last I felt safe. I paused for a long moment to catch my breath. I began to feel the cold through my wet tunic. I hurried through the darkened house, shivering and still carrying the oar. I came at last to my room.
I stepped inside and closed the door behind me. Eco was peacefully snoring. I reached down and touched the soft shock of hair across his forehead, feeling a sudden welling of tenderness for him and a longing to protect him – but from whom, and what? Most of all I felt cold and wet, and so weary I could hardly take another step or think another thought. I stripped off my sodden tunic and dried myself as best I could with a blanket, then pulled back the coverlet on my bed and fell onto my back, desperate for sleep.
Something hard and sharp stabbed my back. I jumped to my feet. The night's surprises were not over.
I stared down and could only see a dark shape on the cushion. I bolted naked from the room to fetch a lamp from the hall. By its lurid glow I studied the thing that someone had left in my bed. It was a figurine the size of my hand carved in porous black stone, a grotesque creature with a hideous face. Its eyes were set with tiny shards of red glass that glinted in the light. It was the sharp, beaked nose that had stabbed me.
'Have you ever seen anything uglier?' I muttered. Eco made a noise in his throat and rolled towards the wall, sound asleep. Like Gelina, he would have slept through a train of dancing girls with cymbals. I set the little monster on the windowsill, not knowing what else to do with it and too weary to think about it..
I set the lamp on a table and left it burning, not because I trusted the light's protection but because I was too tired to put it out. I fell into my bed and was almost instantly asleep. Just before Morpheus claimed me, I realized with a shiver why the thing in my bed had been put there. Friendly or not – gift, warning, or curse – it was an act of sorcery. We had come to the region of the Cup, where the earth breathes sulphur and steam, where the ancient inhabitants practised earth magic and the colonizing Greeks brought new gods and oracles. That knowledge unsettled my dreams and clouded my sleep, but nothing, not even dancing girls in the hallway, could have kept me awake an instant longer.