The compounder knocked three times. Someone on the other side knocked once and then again and a small hatch was drawn open. The compounder leaned closer so he could be seen. For added security, he said his name. As the door creaked inward, I suppressed a flash of sudden panic and stepped into an interior that seemed to be in total darkness and smelled like an opened grave.
‘Please feel welcome here, My Lord Alaric,’ the compounder’s associate said, speaking for the first time, and in a strongly Syrian accent. ‘Be assured you are among friends and that no danger can come to you.’ By the dim light that came from the corridor, I could see I was in a curtained sliver of what may have been a large room. Whoever had opened the door was out of sight behind the foul and shining curtain.
The compounder pushed himself through the door, leaving me no choice but to stand against the curtain. ‘I assure you, My Lord, you are in no danger,’ he said, drawing the bolt shut. So many assurances of safety. I tried not to listen to the voice inside me that said to pull the bolt open again and make a dash for the light.
I looked past the compounder and willed my throat muscles to work properly. ‘Where’s your friend?’ I asked.
‘Keeping watch outside,’ the compounder answered. I suppressed another flash of panic. If this was a trap, it was unnecessarily elaborate. Avoiding the curtain, I pressed myself against a damp wall and let the compounder run his hands over that horrid cloth in search of an opening.
Through the curtain, I was in a room about the size of a large holding dungeon, though somewhat higher. It was pointless to wonder what had been its original purpose. Whatever that had been, its current purpose was decidedly more exotic.
‘You have brought him to us?’ the most decrepit-looking of the three old men quavered in Syriac. ‘You have brought us the seventh outsider to approach you after the breaking of the sun upon your face in the place of your business?’ He got stiffly up from his place beside his colleagues and peered at me from within the wide circle of candles.
‘As you directed, O Master,’ the compounder answered in a voice that seemed likely to tremble out of control, ‘I have brought the Lord Alaric.’
Oh dear! I thought. I’d assumed he was fussing about Priscus. If he believed I’d been in the drugs market to see him, his had been the bigger misapprehension. I kept my face steady and waited.
Without rising from his place, another of the old men looked at me. ‘The stars assured us the thief was an older man,’ he quavered, also in Syriac. ‘It was an older man, and a darker, who was seen carrying it from its place of safety,’ He reached out a bony hand to help him see past the candles. ‘Is this not a young barbarian? Has he brought it with him? If not, why has he not brought it with him?’
The compounder went forward another step and bowed. ‘Just as you told me a man would seek me out, Master, so came the Lord Alaric to me yesterday, seeking help. I have done as you directed. I can do no more.’ His voice caught and he began a sentence in Greek that trailed off before it could make sense.
Still on his feet, the first old man pointed at me. ‘Come forward, young man,’ he said in Greek. ‘Do you truly possess the Horn of Babylon?’ He raised both arms in a dramatic gesture, the black folds of his robe stretching out like the wings of a bat.
The stone floor had dipped in places and every depression was a puddle of slime. Avoiding these, I walked forward to the edge of the pentagram that I saw had been chalked just beyond the circuit of the candles. Even after the door was closed, I’d seen how the candles continued to flicker, but hadn’t used up the stinking air. From where I now stood, I could see a small window on my left. The main hole in its shutter was blocked with a sheet of oiled parchment.
‘I do possess the object of which you speak,’ I said, making my own attempt at the dramatic, ‘and would learn whatever can be said about its current significance.’ I stepped forward a few paces and tried to avoid showing my interest in the window.
The old man who hadn’t yet spoken put up an arm for attention. ‘Has My Lord touched the Horn of Babylon?’ he croaked. I think I was supposed to give way to terror at this point. I folded my arms and tried not to look impatient. Aside from the nonsense they speak, the problem with astrologers is that they can beat eunuchs every time for stretching out the most commonplace utterances. ‘Have you taken it from the box in which it was to be insulated forever, and touched it with your bare hands?’ he elaborated.
‘I have touched it,’ I said, sounding earnest — I, and whoever last polished the bloody thing, I might have added but didn’t. I ignored the nervous looks and the quiet muttering of the old men. ‘Is this a matter I have cause to regret?’ I asked. ‘I know nothing of your Horn. It was brought to me yesterday, wholly unsought by me.’ I paused and waited for the muttering to die away. ‘What is the Horn of Babylon?’ I asked with sudden firmness. If I wasn’t to be here till nightfall, I’d have to move things along.
The old man who was standing tottered forward to the nearest of the candles. He stared at me for a long time through dull eyes. I met his look and hoped he wouldn’t begin chanting incantations, or try for a conjuring trick with the candles. That sort of thing could soak up time beyond reckoning — it certainly would if this old fool set fire to his sleeve. But he only wanted to see me properly. Though he was five feet away, I could smell the filthy clothes he wore as if we were in bed together. I was almost glad of the otherwise overpowering background smell.
‘Does My Lord know the story of how, in ancient time, King Cyrus took Babylon?’ he shrilled. I knew the account given in Herodotus. I’d heard a few doubtful supplements to this when I was in Ctesiphon. Obviously, it was time to hear it again. I remained silent. ‘When the city fell to the Persians,’ he said, dropping his voice to an aged whine, ‘the last King of Babylon was too busy digging in the foundations of his palace to lead a defence. After the last moment for victory had come and gone, he found what he had been told to seek. This was a sacrificial vessel made not by human hands. It was sent down from the skies by the ancient gods of his country. Anyone who kept it close would infallibly get his heart’s desire — but, in return, would be deprived of all human happiness.
‘The Horn was possessed by Cyrus. After its loss by his successors, it was possessed by the Alexander known as the Great. After him, it passed into the hands of those who desired other than worldly power. It is now sought again by those whose power is, or would be, of this world.’
‘And who might those be?’ I asked, perking up. The room fell silent. I was aware of a fly at the window. It could have flown straight out by going through a gap in the frame. Instead, it was beating itself against the oiled parchment. Now there was no other sound in the room, I could hear a child saying something in Armenian. It came from a few yards beyond the window, which must be into one of the courtyards. An adult was responding, though in a voice too low for me to hear what was said.
‘Can you explain why Heraclius is Emperor, and not Nicetas?’ the old man asked. I tried to make sense of his tone. Was this meant to lead me to enlightenment? Or was he after some from me? His Greek was too oddly accented for me to tell.
‘The story is well known and true in its essentials,’ I said, keeping my voice even. When the old man said nothing more, I gave way to the inevitable. ‘Thirteen years ago,’ I summarised, ‘the Emperor Maurice was deposed in a bloody coup — the first break in legal continuity for about three hundred years. He and his five sons were murdered, but it was at first hoped that Phocas the Tyrant would stabilise the frontiers. When he failed to do this, he kept power by launching a reign of terror that squashed all opposition.’ I thought of Priscus, who’d been the most enthusiastic officer of the Terror — in which capacity I’d first encountered him.