The underground interrogation room at the Moscow Police Headquarters was bathed in the dim glow of kerosene lamps, the steam from cast-iron heating pipes making the mold spots on the walls emit a sweet, putrid smell.
Herzen leaned against the wall, holding a dog-eared copy of "Italian Rhetoric and Grammar" in his hands.
From deep within the corridor came the occasional dull thud of Ural sabers clashing against the walls, followed by Latin prayers mixed with Russian curses, and finally all sounds being snuffed out by splashes of water. It's obvious that several unlucky souls were being forced into wooden barrels filled with icy water again.
