‘I am a designer and a builder, my lord. I am making you this Sanctuary. How it is garbed is the province of the Emperor’s decorative artisans. I have little interest in that, and no time to attend to it. I do not like Siroes, if that matters, nor his patroness, but that hardly matters either, does it?’ He looked at Crispin again. ‘I doubt I’ll like this one. He’s too tall and his hair’s red.’
‘They shaved my beard this evening,’ said Crispin, amused. ‘Else you’d have been in no doubt at all, I fear. Tell me, had you discussed how you were to prepare the surfaces for the mosaic work?’
The little man sniffed. ‘Why would I discuss a building detail with a decorator?’
Crispin’s smile faded a little. ‘Perhaps,’ he said gently, ‘we might share a flask of wine one day soon and consider another possible approach to that? I’d be grateful.’
Artibasos grimaced. ‘I suppose I ought to be polite. New arrival and suchlike. You are going to have requests about the plaster, aren’t you? Obviously. I can tell. Are you the interfering sort who has opinions without knowledge?’
Crispin had worked with men like this before. ‘I have strong opinions about wine,’ he said, ‘but no knowledge of where to find the best in Sarantium. I’ll leave the latter issue to you, if you permit me some thoughts on plaster?’
The architect was still for a moment, then he allowed himself a small- a very small-smile. ‘You are clever at least.’ He shifted back and forth from one foot to the other on the cold marble floor, struggling to suppress a yawn.
Valerius said, still in his wry, tolerant tone, ‘Artibasos, I am about to command you. Pay attention. Put on your sandals-you do me no good if you die of a night chill. Find your cloak. Then go home to bed. Home. You do me no good half asleep and worn out, either. It is most of the way to morning. There is an escort waiting outside the doors for Caius Crispus, or there should be by now. They will take you home as well. Go to sleep. The dome will not fall.’
The little architect made a sudden, urgent sign against evil. He seemed about to protest, then appeared-belatedly-to recollect that he was speaking with his Emperor. He closed his mouth and pushed a hand through his hair again, to unfortunate effect.
‘A command,’ repeated Valerius kindly.
‘Obviously,’ said Artibasos of Sarantium.
He stood still, however, while his Emperor reached out and-very gently-smoothed down the sand-coloured chaos of his hair, much as a mother might bring some order to the appearance of her child.
Valerius walked them to the main doors-they were silver, and twice the height of a man, Crispin saw-and then out onto the portico in the wind. They both turned there and bowed to him, and Crispin noted that the little man beside him bowed as formally as he himself did. The Emperor went back inside, closed the massive door himself. They heard a heavy lock slide home.
The two men turned and stood together in the wind, looking out at the unlit square before the Sanctuary. The Emperor had assumed Carullus would be here. Crispin didn’t see anyone. He was aware, suddenly, of exhaustion. He saw lights a long way across the square, by the Bronze Gates, where the Imperial Guard would be. Heavy clouds blanketed the sky. It was very quiet.
Until a scream tore through the night-a shouted warning-and a figure could then be seen dashing madly across the debris-strewn square straight towards the portico. Whoever it was bounded up, taking three steps as one, landed a bit awkwardly and went right past Artibasos to twist and pull at the bolted door.
The man turned, cursing savagely, a knife in his hand, and Crispin- struggling to comprehend-recognized him.
His jaw dropped. Too many surprises in one night. There were movements and sounds around them now. Turning quickly, Crispin drew a breath of relief to see the familiar figure of Carullus striding up to the steps, drawn sword in hand.
‘Scortius of the Blues!’ the soldier exclaimed after a moment. ‘You cost me a fortune this afternoon, you know.’