“What manner of people are these?” the old man groaned.
Michael decided that now was the time to come out with his theory. “Do you remember that sermon before we set out—about how heaven and hell exist in separate universes, and how we can only reach them by miraculous intervention?” That was as far as he got. The noise about them had blotted out the siren call. But it was time for the lights to go out across London, and for every machine to lose its moving force. Michael got up and fiddled with the switch on the portable lamp that had been provided. Before he could speak again, there was a polite knock on the door, and the usual sound of a key in its lock.
He waited for the attendants to clear away the remains of the dinner they’d earlier served, and tore at the wrapping that enclosed a stack of paper. “It’s stuff sent over by Tarquin,” he said impatiently once they were alone again. He pushed the note in Tarquin’s own Greek script under the lamp. “There’s been another change of plan. We’ve been told to get our things ready for a midnight departure from London. Tarquin regrets that a further meeting with the Prime Minister keeps him from assisting us with packing. But he’ll be here shortly before we are due to leave.” Simeon’s lips moved in a prayer of silent thanks. Suddenly, he winced and pulled himself heavily to his feet. Michael got first to the bathroom and turned on the portable lamp in there. Once his uncle had shuffled inside, he shut the door and turned his attention to the transcript of their meeting with the Prime Minister. It was superfluous to wonder how what amounted to a verbatim transcript had been made when he was the only person there taking notes. He stared at the neat and flawless Greek that covered half a dozen sheets of paper. The first time he’d seen this machine-written script, it had taken him a while to read it. But the oddities were consistent.
He was comparing this transcript with his own memorandum, when he heard a ragged cry from the bathroom. This was followed by the crash as of many things swept off the washbasin surround.
It was time for Michael to try a few words of English. “He fell down while emptying his bowels,” he shouted as he ran beside the trolley that carried Simeon from one chaotic and brightly-lit room to another. The men pushing the trolley stopped in the middle of the corridor and one of them shouted something back that he couldn’t understand. “Blood and vomit there was over him,” he added. The man who’d shouted said something more. He took down the glass bottle of liquid that was connected by a flexible tube to Simeon’s arm, and shook it violently. He pointed at the dark blotches that had overspread the whole arm and asked what sounded like a question. Michael shook his head and looked up and down the corridor.
Finding his uncle slumped forward on the lavatory had shown just how thin was the veneer of normality Michael had imposed on his surroundings. He’d called for help. At once, everything had jumbled as incomprehensibly as when they’d been intercepted off Dover. Now, as the trolley began hurrying back in the direction from which it had come, Simeon’s eyes opened, and he moved his lips. It was impossible to know what he was saying. Michael found English words to call everyone to stop.
“God and the all-holy Virgin, the Mother of God,” Simeon croaked softly in the comparative silence that had fallen, “protect the City and the Christian Empire.” Michael bent down and whispered that the old man should save his strength. But Simeon opened his eyes wider. Speaking as if to everyone about him, he raised his voice. “Those who call upon God in truth are not entirely forsaken,” he managed, “even if we are chastised for a short time on account of our sins….”
Michael took Simeon’s right hand in his own, and felt an almost imperceptible squeeze. “I will force them to give medical help,” he said. “I will force them.”
There was a woman at the end of the corridor. She stood in the way of the trolley and held up her arms. Everyone came to a halt just before she was run over. She picked up a page of notes that someone had stuck on the trolley, and glanced at them. “Why can’t you speak English” she asked in the same dialect of Greek as the driver had used. She switched into English and gave rapid orders to the men who were pushing the trolley. They all set off along another corridor. Half way along, two of the glass-helmeted police caught up with them. There was an argument between them and the Greek woman. One of them made a grab at her notes, and she shouted until he stood away.
She turned back to Michael. She pointed accusingly at Simeon’s swollen arm. “What drug did you give the old man?” she demanded. “Is he your grandfather?” She looked again at the notes. “You share the surname Acominatus.” She frowned and looked at Michael’s approximation to the machine script that he’d thought was most likely to be understood. “What part of Greece are you from?”
“He’s had a seizure because of the needle your people put in him,” he answered, trying to keep his temper. “Can’t you get him a priest?” he asked, now with a sick feeling in his stomach as Simeon let out a long groan and more bloody froth began bubbling from his lips.
“No priest!” the woman snapped. “Not until you produce your documents—and not until you stop speaking such stupid and affected Greek. Now, go with these men, and leave the old man to us.”
“No!” he shouted, laying hold of the trolley. “You’re all bloody murderers. I’m going nowhere.” The two officers got hold of Michael and pulled him into a darkened room. When he tried to resist, one of them pushed something into the small of his back that sent flashes of pain through his lower body and took away the use of his legs. “Simeon!” he called, no longer worried if these creatures saw him cry. “Simeon!” But the trolley was in fast motion along the corridor.
The Greek doctor shrugged and leaned against the bed. “We did everything laid down in our procedures,” she explained yet again. She looked at her fingernails. “If he didn’t respond to our treatment, it was no fault of our own.” She turned accusing. “Why didn’t you report his reaction to the testing of blood?”
Michael stared into the still face of his uncle. No one else had bothered, so he reached forward to close the old man’s eyes. They’d been left open too long, and they popped open again. For any diplomat, death is an occupational hazard. But it was only by heroic and continuing effort that Michael kept himself from breaking down and crying like a disconsolate child. Perhaps what really saved him was the feeling that death in these surroundings was as beyond regretting as a comrade’s death on the field of battle. It was something to be noted and taken into account. When Tarquin finally came into the room, he’d find the strength to make an official complaint. So far as it might count, he’d threaten a report to the Emperor himself.
He went back to trying to understand what the woman was saying, and he gawped stupidly at the sheet of paper she was pushing at him. It was fastened to a stiff board, and there was a short pen dangling from a piece of string. “You must sign here and here,” she said, pointing at two small boxes on the closely-written sheet. “It is your legal right to sign in Greek if that is all you can do.” Michael shook his head. In Greek or any other language, he’d put his name to nothing until he had a full explanation of what it meant. The woman had made some effort to explain things. But, if he could understand the individual words, their meanings had often changed, and their combination was probably intended to leave him ignorant. She now leaned forward and gave him a rough push on the shoulder. He resisted the urge to strike back and sat down beside his uncle’s body. All but one of the police had vanished into another room with unlit white tubes in their mouths. The one who remained had removed his helmet and was gawping at the shrivelled body, and joking with the male assistant who took orders from the doctor.