In the Holiest of Holies, there was nothing. Nothing at all. Beyond the sailing white walls, the coruscating flame of columns wreathed in gold, beyond slippery stairs redolent of slaughter and bedizened doors tall as a god, only a meagre meal, and then nothing. Darkness, and nothing at all. What is one war? I have seen so many, following the Eagle, that all, pale Celt or dark Libyan, fade into nothing, a grimace answering a sword. No more. See. This I had in one battle, that in another. I remember nothing, nothing at all. In the City, I have a name, a tribe, large and influential, offices. Each day begins with clients, and ends in conviviality. Between, clear light, ceremony, and conspiracy. The gods are white stone, wreathed in gold, reflecting the honour of a patron. In Rome, the women are veiled. At night, the statues sigh, the restless shift of imperfect stone. The streets make no reply. Stars glitter across the sky, thin jewels set in wood. The wind slides by like a veil. In dreams, I cry out: no one answers. I wake to darkness, and pray to sighing stones. No one comes, and I remember nothing. In the darkness, I cry out, to no answer. I remember nothing. Nothing at all.