That night, after I had weighed my fæces and recorded their mass in the book which I had been given for that purpose, I paused; I set down the chamber-pot and replaced the lid.

I was sensible of a growing revolt of the spirit that suffused the whole of my frame, which would no longer be stifled or mollified. I saw again the instruments of torture before me.

I proceeded along the passage to my mother’s chamber. She and one of the maids sat before the fire, sewing. She asked me what had brought me there at so unseasonable an hour. In response, I merely passed to her my record book, which with quizzical countenance, she turned through. Coming to the last page and finding it unremarkable, she looked at me for explanation.

I could not speak; and so merely shook my head. I shook it slowly and with finality.

She put a thread in her mouth and wet it with her lips. “Then go speak to him,” she said. “For what little good it will do you.”

I went out upon the landing. I went down the stairs. I sought out Mr. Gitney. I found him in the experimental chambers, burning hair.

“Sir,” I said, “I am delivering my ingestion book.”

He indicated that I should put it down on the table. He was absorbed in his calculations. “Is it full?” he said. “The book? That seems quick.”

I did not answer.

He looked up, saw my face, and ceased his experiment. He drew the book to him across the slats of the table. He flipped through. “It is nearly half empty,” he said.

I did not move. He watched me. He frowned, and he arranged his coat-tails around his thighs.

I could not look at him, so I cast my eyes down; but I shook my head as I had for my mother in clear refusal.

“That is not for you to say,” he explained.

For a long time I revolved what I should next say. At long last, I hit upon, “Why are you doing this to me?”

“It is not to you, Octavian. It is for you.”

“Sir —”

“We have noted that your attention lags. Your ability to comprehend Greek and Latin seems to have declined over the course of the last two years.”

“I am given only fragments to read.”

“Reading is but reading, Octavian. We are disappointed in you.”

Our business was done. I wished heartily to withdraw. (O turncoat heart, which in retirement speaks of great deeds, and then in the fray, whimpers for retreat and quiet!) Yearning for the door behind me, the passage, the darkness of my chamber and the assurances of Bono, I began almost to weep; but instead asked, voice husky with tears, “Why can I not study with Dr. Trefusis?”

“The investors have determined that he skewed the experimental results by introducing incentives. The material he had you study was deemed impractical.”

“Who are the investors?”

“This is not relevant.”

He waited for me to take my leave. I did not. I stood in that closet, before the books recording my defecation and the engraving of my mother naked, and I did not step from that space.

I said, “You wish me to fail.”

“Octavian.”

I did not move.

He said, “I wish no such thing. I have watched over your education with affection and benevolence.” He leaned back in his chair. “In the formulary of Diocles the Physician, we are told that in the selfsame toad there are two livers — one poisonous, and one which brings instant health. We might consider: Is not this like unto —”

“Why does Mr. Sharpe interfere with my education?”

“He does no such thing.”

I thought of the fragments he taught me and the whippings. I nodded without words; I would not stop; I could not while the lie still prospered.

“Octavian, I dislike this impertinence. Mr. Sharpe is impartial. He wishes neither your failure nor your success. That is the nature of an experiment. He is making a rational inquiry into your capacities.”

“He wishes me to fail.”

“That would counter the dictates of rationality.”

“In Bono’s catalogue, I saw devices . . . the ones which hobble the legs . . . so flight is impossible. . . .”

“I wish you had not seen that.”

We stared at each other in the brown evening. Mr. Gitney could not hold my gaze. He looked away. “I could wish,” he said, “that Mr. Sharpe had not instituted these regulations respecting your learning. I am sensible they do seem . . .”

I stepped closer to the table. “Sir,” I demanded softly, “with the respect due to me as your student, tell me why Mr. Sharpe wishes me to fail.”

Wearily, Mr. Gitney said, “Mr. Sharpe does not wish you to fail.” He picked up strands of hair from before him and rolled them between his fingers. He wrapped the hairs around a thumb and tugged. At last, he admitted, “The nature . . . of the experiment . . . has changed.”

“How?” I asked.

“We receive our funds now from a consortium of men of affairs who have some interest in proving the inequality of African capacities.”

I had known the answer, and yet, to hear it stated so baldly was terrifying.

“Our investors took particular interest in your progress, but felt that the experiment was skewed by a certain favoritism towards the African subject. They requested that we institute new practices to ensure that the experiment was conducted with more complete impartiality.”

“Who are they?” I whispered.

“They are drawn from several of the Colonies. They are, for the most part, merchants, the owners of some few plantations . . . rice, tobacco. . . . They have been most generous in their funding.”

I stepped backwards. “Sir,” I said, “how can this be supported?”

He looked careful in the candlelight. “I would be racked with guilt,” he admitted, “were I not devoted to the belief that the results you will produce will more than outweigh their claim.”

This was the comfort I received.

I left the book on the table.

Empedocles claims that in utero, our backbone is one long solid; and that through the constriction of the womb and the punishments of birth it must be snapped again and again to form our vertebræ; that for the child to have a spine, his back must first be broken.