His slaves were made fearful by the noise but none dared wake him. Their master slept so little as it was; any slumber, however dream-filled, was better than insomnia. Still, they consulted among themselves and decided to record what their master spoke, in order to show it to him at dawn. These dreams were portents, they sensed – messages from the gods for their master. But none of the slaves had been granted the gift of literacy. They couldn't write. Then they remembered the slave who could. They sent for me. When I arrived, their master's state was unchanged – he was speaking aloud, as if engaged in a conversation with spirits. I was hesitant to enter. This was not a household in which I held authority. I was wary of this master – and wary of the mistress, too. But the slaves assured me that their mistress slept soundly at the other end of the house – she would never know of my presence. And just to make sure, someone had already been sent to wait outside her door to warn me if she stirred.
