Immediately a faint musty smell, mingled with spices, tickles her nose. She holds her lamp high, but its tiny flame casts only a small golden halo. She can just make out the bulky shapes around her, blacker than the blackness of the air. Her thick long hair sticks to her back, slick with sweat. The westernmost territory of the Persian Empire is usually cool and breezy, but for the past few days it seems as if the sticky heat of Babylon itself has engulfed it. She turns around and is relieved to see the dim outline of a torch in a wall sconce next to the door, which she lights, discarding the ineffectual lamp. Holding the torch high, she sees old tables, rolled-up carpets, and traveling trunks. Palace detritus, tucked out of sight. “Cosmas?” she whispers. She hears something stirring in the dark and turns. It’s just a cat—one of the palace mousers, no doubt, that guard the basement grain rooms against vermin.
