Sunday. Crowded as usual this afternoon but most of the tourists down in Egyptology. Met up with Trimalchio amongst the coin display cases, the only room you can hear yourself think. So he suggests I start writing; says that trouble’s looming and someone ought to keep a record. Says he’d do it himself but has no time, meaning he’s too busy carousing with the Assyrians. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about anyway – he gets all his news from the pale woman at reception, and I think she buys hers from a streetwalker (I saw them together last week when the moon was full). Still, the rumours are worrying, that’s true enough. I think it’s time I left this place and had another look at the city. It’s been ages since I was outside.
I don’t know what will come of this diary – I’ve never kept one before. It’s easier to write with a reader in mind so I’m picking you, Tamar – I hope that’s OK but I don’t suppose I’ll ever know. It must be getting on for three thousand years since we walked on this earth and not a day passes without my wondering where you are now.