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Ì'll tell you something,' Ian noted, raising his goblet to his lips. Erastus watched him closely 'Where I come from, wine as good as this would cost a pretty penny.'

'And where, exactly, do you come from, freeman?' asked Erastus.

`Britannia. Londinium. I've told you all the complete truth,'

Ian said, tapping the side of his nose. ‘Of course, my method of arrival was a sky chariot from the stars and I come from the far future where we have television sets and aeroplanes and computers that fit into a room half this size.' He laughed, aware that the wine had dangerously loosened his tongue. Ì

offer you a toast of reconciliation,' he said, half-standing and then slumping into his seat again, drunk. `To the nights of Byzantium, and the rise and fall of the Roman empire. God bless her and all who will sink in her.'

For a moment there was a complete silence. And then Erastus burst into spontaneous laughter. 'You are either a simpleton or a clown,' he said, draining his wine and standing to leave. 'Whichsoever applies, you are of no concern to me.

But I thank you, Briton, for the entertainment which was appreciated.'

Ian watched him leave and finished off his own wine. 'Nice fellah,' he said as he stood, knocking over the table as he did so. 'Leave that,' he said, apologetically, to the empty room.

'I'll wipe it up in the morning.’

After a siesta to sleep off the effects of this most potent of wines, Ian awoke with a sore head and determined to walk off his hangover by exploring as much of the house as he could.

Soon, he found himself inside an enormous library in the west wing. Picking a scroll at random from the numerous neatly stacked shelves, he looked at the opening line which seemed to concern a great sea battle. Ian didn't feel in the mood for war stories that hadn't been written by Alistair MacLean and slipped it back into its place.

Ah,' noted a soft voice behind him. 'Marcus Agrippa's account of the great battle of Actium. A most excellent and wise choice.'

Ian turned. 'History's not really my field,' he said, noting the presence of a studious-looking man with a kindly face.

'I'm a scientist, I deal in the present rather than the past.'

‘But without the past, there can be no present. Or future,'

noted the librarian.

'Good point,' muttered Ian, reflecting on how Barbara would have loved it here.

'Of course, it is perfectly possible that one day all of my books will be nothing more than dust in the wind,' continued the librarian sadly. 'But the knowledge of what is contained within them will live on in the minds of scholarly men. All things must pass into the pure light of knowledge.'

Ian found this a curiously narrow view for a man of such obvious intellect. 'Entropy,' he said at last. 'That is what will destroy your books. It's an inevitable process.'

'I do not follow.'

Ian picked up another scroll and drew his fingernail along the edge of the paper, flaking off a fine dust onto his thumb.

'See. Entropy. It's a thermodynamic constant that changes in a reversible process by an amount equal to the heat absorbed or emitted, divided by the thermodynamic temperature. It is measured in joules per kelvin. It also means a lack of pattern or organisation.'

The librarian shrugged. 'Which means...?'

'That everything gets old, decays and dies'

'Except knowledge,' noted the old man. 'You are our recently arrived guest from far and distant shores, yes?'

Ian couldn't believe how infamous he was becoming in this place. 'Don't you people have anything else to talk about?' he asked.

'Not in Byzantium,' the librarian replied with a rueful smile.

'I am Fabulous, the keeper of the master's library. Erastus believes that you are a wandering fool.'

'I have been called one often enough,' Ian noted sullenly.

'I take a less parochial view than our noble cadet trainer,'

said Fabulous. 'My passion is for stories. I have a feeling that you have many a fascinating tale to tell.'

An ally, perhaps, in this house