He was quite oblivious to the slight changes in the scenery, as ivy and moss-clad drystone ruins gradually became a feature of his surroundings, until it seemed that he rode through some long-abandoned city. When he did start paying attention, it had little to do with these magnificent if entirely foreboding shells of temples and sepulchres, which might have dated back to the Dacian empire itself, before even the Roman invaders set their foot on Wallachian soil. Far more interesting to him were the voices – whispering, incoherent, but depressingly audible – coming from up ahead. Well, it’s about time, he grimly conceded, and with fumbling motions took out his tinderbox and lit the taper of his arquebus (which he had made sure to keep loaded from the outset of this wretched journey).
Our Beloved Tyrants Scene 3
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