‘He’ll wander by, I imagine, when he hears our voices. He’s here most nights. That’s why I’ve had the candles lit since summer. They say I do not sleep, you know. It isn’t true, though it is useful to have it said. But I believe it is true of Artibasos: I think he walks about here examining things, or bends over his drawings, or makes new ones all night long.’ The Emperor’s expression was difficult to read. ‘You are not. .. afraid of this, Rhodian? It is not too large for you?’
Crispin hesitated, looking at Valerius. ‘Only a fool would be unafraid of something like this dome. When your architect comes by, ask him if he was afraid of his own design.’
‘I have. He said he was terrified, that he still is. He said he stays here nights because he has nightmares about it falling, if he sleeps at home.’ Valerius paused. ‘What will you make for me on my Sanctuary dome, Caius Crispus?’
Crispin’s heart began pounding. He had almost been expecting the question. He shook his head. ‘You must forgive me. It is too soon, my lord.’
It was a lie, as it happened.
He’d known what he wanted to do here before he was ever in this place. A dream, a gift, something carried out from the Aldwood on the Day of the Dead. He’d been granted an image of it today amid the screaming of the Hippodrome. Something of the half-world in that, too.
‘Much too soon,’ came a new, querulous voice. Sound carried here. ‘Who is this person, and what happened to Siroes? My lord.’
The honorific was belated, perfunctory. A small, rumpled, middle-aged man in an equally rumpled tunic emerged from behind the massed bank of candles to their left. His straw-coloured hair stood up in random whorls of disarray. His feet were bare on the ice-cold marble of the floor, Crispin saw. He was carrying his sandals in one hand.
‘Artibasos,’ said the Emperor. Crispin saw him smile. ‘I must say you look every bit the Master Architect of the Empire. Your hair emulates your dome in aspiring to the heavens.’
The other man ran a hand absent-mindedly through his hair, achieving further disorder. ‘I fell asleep,’ he said. ‘Then I woke up. And I had a good idea.’ He lifted his sandals, as if the gesture were an explanation. ‘I have been walking around.’
‘Indeed?’ said Valerius, with patience.
‘Well, yes,’ said Artibasos. ‘Obviously. That’s why I’m barefoot.’
There was a brief silence.
‘Obviously,’ said the Emperor a little repressively. This was a man, Crispin already knew, who did not like being left in the dark. About anything.
‘Noting the rough marbles?’ Crispin hazarded. ‘One way to tell them, I suppose. Easier done in a warmer season, I’d have said.’
‘I woke with the idea,’ Artibasos said, with a sharp glance at Crispin. ‘Wanted to see if it worked. It does! I’ve marked a score of slabs for the masons to polish.’
‘You expect people to come in here barefoot?’ the Emperor asked, his expression bemused.
‘Perhaps. Not everyone who wishes to worship will be shod. But that isn’t it… I expect the marble to be perfect, whether anyone knows it or not. My lord.’ The little architect gazed narrowly up at Crispin. His expression was owlish. ‘Who is this man?’
‘A mosaicist,’ said the Emperor, still with a tolerance that surprised Crispin.
‘Obviously,’ said the architect. ‘I heard that much.’
‘From Rhodias,’ added Valerius.
‘Anyone can hear that much,’ said Artibasos, still glaring up at Crispin.
The Emperor laughed. ‘Caius Crispus of Varena, this is Artibasos of Sarantium, a man of some minor talents and all the politeness of those born in the City. Why do I indulge you, architect?’
‘Because you like things done properly. Obviously.’ It seemed to be the man’s favourite word. ‘This person will be working with Siroes?’
‘He is working instead of Siroes. It appears Siroes misled us with regard to his reverse transfer ideas for the dome. Incidentally, had he discussed them with you, Artibasos?’
Mildly phrased, but the architect turned to look at his Emperor before answering and he hesitated, for the first time.