The man’s hands were clasped at his waist. ‘As I said, you aren’t the first westerner to react this way. And it is often those who make their own attempts at such things who . . . are most affected.’
Crispin blinked. He might feel humbled by what was on the dome, but ‘attempts at such things’ was not acceptable.
‘I am impressed by your sagacity. It is indeed a fine piece of work. After I attend to certain requests from the Emperor in Sarantium, I might be willing to return and supervise the needed repairs to the erratic groundwork done on the dome.’
The cleric’s turn to blink, pleasingly. ‘That work was done by holy men with a holy vision,’ he said indignantly.
‘I have no doubt of it. One shame is that we don’t know their names, to honour them, another is that they lacked technique equal to their vision. You do know that tiles have begun to dislodge towards the right side of the dome, as we face the altar. Parts of the god’s cloak and left forearm appear to have recklessly chosen to detach themselves from the rest of his august form.’
The cleric looked up, almost reluctantly.
‘Of course you may have a parable or a liturgical explanation for this,’ Crispin added. In the oddest way, fencing with the man was restoring his equilibrium. Not necessarily a proper thing, he supposed, but he needed it just now.
‘You would propose changing the figure of the god?’ The man seemed genuinely aghast.
Crispin sighed. ‘It has been changed, good cleric. When your extremely pious artisans did this work centuries ago, Jad had a robe and a left arm.’ He pointed. ‘Not the remains of dried-out groundwork.’
The cleric shook his head. His features had reddened. ‘What manner of man looks up at glory and speaks of daring to set his own hands upon it?’ Crispin was quite calm now. ‘A descendant in the craft of those who did it in the first place. Lacking, perhaps, their piety, but with a better understanding of the technique of mosaic. I should add that the dome also appears near to losing some of its golden sun, to the left. I’d need to be up on a scaffold to be certain, but it seems some tesserae have dislodged there as well. If that goes, then the god’s hair will soon begin to fall out, I fear. Are you prepared to have Jad come down upon you, not in a thunderous descent but in a dribble of glass and stone?’
‘This is the most profane heresy!’ the cleric snapped, making the sign of the disk.
Crispin sighed. ‘I am sorry you see it that way. I do not mean to provoke you. Or not only that. The setting bed on the dome was done in an old-fashioned way. One layer, and most likely with a mixture of materials we now understand to be less enduring than others. It is-as we all know-not holy Jad above us, but his rendering by mortal men. We worship the god, not the image, I understand.’ He paused. This was a matter of extreme contention in some quarters. The cleric opened his mouth as if to answer, but then closed it again.
Crispin went on. ‘Mortals have their limitations, and this, too, we all know. Sometimes new things are discovered. It is no criticism of those who achieved this dome to note such a truth. Lesser men may preserve the work of greater. With competent assistants I could probably ensure the restored image above us would remain for several hundred years to come. It would take a season of work. Perhaps a little less or more. But I can tell you that without such intervention those eyes and hands and hair will begin to litter the stones around us soon. I would be sorry to see it. This is a singular work.’
‘It is unmatched in the world!’
‘I believe that.’
The cleric hesitated. Kasia and Vargos, Crispin saw, were eyeing him with astonishment. It occurred to him-with a restorative amusement that neither of them had had any reason to believe he was good for anything to this point. A worker in mosaic had little enough chance to show his gifts or skill walking the emptiness of Sauradia.