over that wonderful ocean that washes every civilised shore. It sparkled so prettily in the sun. About a mile out, a few coastal ships were hurrying into port from Canopus or perhaps further out. If I strained, I could just hear the regular beating of time for the oarsmen chained to their benches.
Uton we hycgan hwær we ham agen,
ond þonne geþencan hu we þider cumen
I sang in English. Other than for secret notes to myself, I hadn’t used my own language in years. I no longer thought in it, though I believe I did sometimes dream in it. Now, its harsh sounds grated in my throat, nearly as unfamiliar and as menacing as Egyptian. I’d spent so long away from the language that any other Englishman who might overhear me would surely have thought I was a foreigner.
I fell silent. Once again, I asked what I was doing here. Again, the question had nothing to do with immediate circumstances. What was the point in this lunatic mission to stabilise the Empire by raising up the low? Hadn’t that landowner been right? Perhaps there was a reason for the difference between high and low that went beyond human injustice. Give it as you will, would not the cultivators of the soil eventually lose the soil again?
What was I doing here? On the other hand, what else should I be doing? There was a question worth asking. If only I could think of the answer . . .
I turned from looking over the endlessly fascinating sea and walked over to the little ruin.
I’d come across the abandoned shrine on one of my earlier walks. I call it a shrine, but it might have been a tomb. After so many centuries of neglect, it was hard to tell what the thing once had been. Roughly the shape and size of a small house, it stood up here about fifty yards off the Canopus Road.
It had plainly been intended as a place of some importance. Now, its roof had long since fallen in. Its walls held, but were buried up to perhaps two feet above their original base. The inscriptions covering the inner and outer walls might have been younger than that inscription in the Library. But they’d been in the open, exposed to the sea air. Reading even a few words here and there had so far been as much as I could manage.
I sat down on a fallen column. With a wild olive tree for shade, I reached into my satchel and took out the bread and cheese I’d brought with me. As I chewed on the slightly stale crusts, I fixed my eyes on the least worn area of the outer wall and willed myself to make sense of what could still be read.
Was this a dedication to one of the Kings Ptolemy? Or did it record an erection by a commoner called Ptolemy? Who was Aristarchus? What significance had these repeated quantities of oil and grain?
Land redistribution, Martin, Priscus, even the spring prices – these were all forgotten. Perhaps, I thought, after an endless scanning and re-scanning of those broken words, the place had been neither a tomb nor a shrine. Perhaps it had been some kind of civic building. If so, however, why so far outside the city walls? I took a swig from my wine flask and got up to look again at the rear inside wall. There had been words carved here that I’d already tried to read. They might now make sense.
Behind me, over on the road, there was the crack of a whip and a shrill cry. I turned and looked through the boughs of the olive tree. It was a chair for longish distance travelling, and one of the slaves had put his corner down too roughly. I could hear angry scolding from behind the curtains, while some steward laid about the offending slave with one of those flexible leather rods you use when pain is intended rather than actual bodily harm. If there was still a queue back at the gate, it wouldn’t be unreasonable for the owner of the chair to be thoroughly pissed off.
There was a sound of hooves further along the road. Still keeping behind the tree, I looked far to the left. Yes, it was a horseman. Dressed all in black, hood pulled over his head, he came on at a
Uton we hycgan hwær we ham agen,
ond þonne geþencan hu we þider cumen
I sang in English. Other than for secret notes to myself, I hadn’t used my own language in years. I no longer thought in it, though I believe I did sometimes dream in it. Now, its harsh sounds grated in my throat, nearly as unfamiliar and as menacing as Egyptian. I’d spent so long away from the language that any other Englishman who might overhear me would surely have thought I was a foreigner.
I fell silent. Once again, I asked what I was doing here. Again, the question had nothing to do with immediate circumstances. What was the point in this lunatic mission to stabilise the Empire by raising up the low? Hadn’t that landowner been right? Perhaps there was a reason for the difference between high and low that went beyond human injustice. Give it as you will, would not the cultivators of the soil eventually lose the soil again?
What was I doing here? On the other hand, what else should I be doing? There was a question worth asking. If only I could think of the answer . . .
I turned from looking over the endlessly fascinating sea and walked over to the little ruin.
I’d come across the abandoned shrine on one of my earlier walks. I call it a shrine, but it might have been a tomb. After so many centuries of neglect, it was hard to tell what the thing once had been. Roughly the shape and size of a small house, it stood up here about fifty yards off the Canopus Road.
It had plainly been intended as a place of some importance. Now, its roof had long since fallen in. Its walls held, but were buried up to perhaps two feet above their original base. The inscriptions covering the inner and outer walls might have been younger than that inscription in the Library. But they’d been in the open, exposed to the sea air. Reading even a few words here and there had so far been as much as I could manage.
I sat down on a fallen column. With a wild olive tree for shade, I reached into my satchel and took out the bread and cheese I’d brought with me. As I chewed on the slightly stale crusts, I fixed my eyes on the least worn area of the outer wall and willed myself to make sense of what could still be read.
Was this a dedication to one of the Kings Ptolemy? Or did it record an erection by a commoner called Ptolemy? Who was Aristarchus? What significance had these repeated quantities of oil and grain?
Land redistribution, Martin, Priscus, even the spring prices – these were all forgotten. Perhaps, I thought, after an endless scanning and re-scanning of those broken words, the place had been neither a tomb nor a shrine. Perhaps it had been some kind of civic building. If so, however, why so far outside the city walls? I took a swig from my wine flask and got up to look again at the rear inside wall. There had been words carved here that I’d already tried to read. They might now make sense.
Behind me, over on the road, there was the crack of a whip and a shrill cry. I turned and looked through the boughs of the olive tree. It was a chair for longish distance travelling, and one of the slaves had put his corner down too roughly. I could hear angry scolding from behind the curtains, while some steward laid about the offending slave with one of those flexible leather rods you use when pain is intended rather than actual bodily harm. If there was still a queue back at the gate, it wouldn’t be unreasonable for the owner of the chair to be thoroughly pissed off.
There was a sound of hooves further along the road. Still keeping behind the tree, I looked far to the left. Yes, it was a horseman. Dressed all in black, hood pulled over his head, he came on at a
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