"These are the quarters of the married people," explained Kara. "Beran sleeps here." She pointed to a pallet in the recess that I likened to an apse. "The others upstairs."
"And you?" asked Nikka.
"Oh, I live where I choose, but most of all I like my garden."
"Your garden? Where is there a garden?"
"I will show you, Giorgi Bordu."
At the end of the hall opposite the apse there was a worn stone stair. The shallow steps descended straight to an opening, barred by a rude pine door. As we passed it, I noted idly holes in the stone lintels where formerly had been cemented the bolts of heavy metal hinges. A gate, perhaps. Beyond the door was a pleasant room in which several women sewed, and children scrabbled in the dirt on the floor. The sunlight poured in from windows facing us. I saw trees tossing, heard the splash of water.
Kara crossed the room, with a nod to the women, and opened another door. This led to a pillared portico, and I gasped in wonder at the sheer loveliness of this morsel of imperial Byzantium, buried in the frowsy lanes of Stamboul. There was a tangled stretch of garden, weed-grown, of course, and two jade-green cedars that lifted their heads in isolated majesty. Around the four sides ran the portico, although in two places the pillars had collapsed and the wreckage of the roof strewed the ground. But the gem of the place was the fountain in the center, a lion rearing back on his hind-legs with a broken spear in his chest. From his open mouth poured a stream of water that fell into a stone-rimmed pool.
"That is where I swim," volunteered Kara. "It is not far, but I can beat you across it. Would you like me to try?"
And with that pagan innocence which characterized her, she started to drop skirt and bodice.
"Another time," said Nikka, laughing, and with a single look to see if he was in earnest in refusing such sport, she promptly refastened her clothes. "This is lower than the rest of the house, isn't it?"