Well, if the Chamber were real, Scipio might be returned to life by some sainted alchemist with a close understanding of the ritual and practice of deep religious magic. Here, in this place, such a magus could work miracles to awe the world—or merely raise one man from the dead, by the grace of God. Or perhaps two, if I might beg a boon. Why not? What price would I not pay for such a thing? If the Chamber were real. And yet I stand in it, among it. I am branded on to it and it is filled by me, fleshed by me or through me. Perhaps it is real: perhaps I was drafted in my cups by some angel, and this appalling mockery of hope needs only faith to make it a true holy place. But even if it were so, where in modern Carthage would you begin to find someone like that? Someone of such deep knowledge, faith and daring? I look around the room for a hidden holy fool—and see them all looking back at me. That misplaced, absurd expression on their faces: is that hope? What could they be hoping for, in this place?