“I’m telling you!” Paul slammed his fist onto the mirror hanging on the wall to emphasize his point. The mirror shattered. “I’m not paranoid!” He ran his cut fingers through his unruly, dark hair. “Scratch that. I don’t think I’m being watched; I know I’m being watched. I can feel it.” He shuddered. “I can’t eat. I can’t sleep.” In frustration, he threw his arms up in the air. “I’m going crazy!”

He dropped to the faded black leather couch with a long exhale. “I can’t even shit in private! They’re… always …watching…” His heart pounded in his chest. “I told so many people and no one will help.” He clutched his face in his hands and slowly rocked back and forth. “Why won’t they go away…” he trailed off. Jerking his hands from his face, he looked around, scanning for his nemeses. “Why are you doing this to me? I didn’t do anything!” His eyes grew large and wild. Jumping up, he approached the window. Breathing heavily, his breath showed in the chilly air.

The snow sparkled in the blaring sun. It was bright, but it was below freezing with long icicles hanging from the house next door. The houses were so close together that he could see inside of the neighbor’s living room when the light was on. It wasn’t. He rubbed his eyes, and then peered out of the window again, snow blinded. He knew the neighbors weren’t watching him. They had left for vacation a few days before.

He pressed his face against the cool glass, creating a foggy impression of his forehead. He strained to see the ground beneath his window. Were those footprints in the snow, frozen to reveal that his suspicions were correct? It certainly looked like that!

Panting, he whirled away and stumbled to the door. Wearing only a thin, sweat stained T-shirt and lounge pants, he rushed outside. His feet slipped on the ice. He attempted to right himself but failed. He fell, slamming his knees and elbows on the hard earth. Not registering the pain, he forced himself up. He was certain that they were footprints! Not that he needed evidence, but it would help to alleviate the prying accusations of insanity within his own brain.

Oblivious to the bitter cold, he trudged onward, slipping and sliding all the way to the side of the lengthy apartment building. He stood still in the frigid wind, studying the frozen indentations. Sure enough, they were footprints! They were a set of human footprints that led to the window from the sliver of land between the two houses. Large feet, like a man’s feet. Like a large man’s bare feet. He could clearly see the outline of five toes. This person had not been wearing shoes. His breathing increased. What kind of weirdo was stalking him? He frantically looked around. He didn’t see anyone, just a quiet, serene day in the city. But he knew they were watching. Of course, they were watching! They were always watching! Cursing softly, his eyes darted around.

He shook his head, a worried expression on his gaunt face. “Who would do this?” he muttered, his breath showing. He looked around again, searching for prying eyes. “I haven’t done anything wrong!” he yelled, hoping that was heard. He had made sure he had done everything he could to be a law-abiding citizen. He had recently served a six-month prison sentence for assault. It had been the worse experience of his life, having been forced to take weekly injections of an unknown substance. They claimed it was an anti-psychotic medication, but how was he to know what it truly was? Just take their word for it? Maybe it was poison! Maybe it was making him nuts and slowly causing his brain to erode until he died! And why had they suddenly stopped administering the substance a week prior to his release? They had answered his questions with a simple explanation; the doctor had ordered a specific number of injections, and they had all been administered. The treatment had run its course. However, in his vast experience of taking anti-psychotics for much of his life, this was not how it worked. He hadn’t even been prescribed medication for when he was freed. It didn’t make sense.

Initially he had suspected that his probation officer and his flunkies had been spying on him, but now he doubted it. His probation officer was a jerk, but he would not sneak up to his window, barefooted in the snow, to try and catch him breaking the rules of his probation. He frowned, uncertain. Would he?

His attention returned to the footprints. His gaze followed them. They led back around the house. His eyebrows rose, a horrifying thought entering his mind. Is the barefooted man in his home?

He warily made his way around the house, careful not to fall, following the prints. He had left the door open when he had investigated outside. He eyed the room from where he stood on the stoop. Nothing unusual was noted. Holding his breath, he stepped into his apartment and quietly closed the door behind him.

He rubbed his arms vigorously, suddenly acknowledging the cold. He tentatively stepped toward the couch. Slowly easing himself to a sitting position, his eyes scanned over the room, searching for an intruder. Nothing seemed out of place. He lived in a small studio apartment, and he could see in the bathroom from where he sat. The shower stall stood empty; the shower curtain crumbled in a ball beside the toilet. There wasn’t any place to hide.

He was aware that the room was not a place to be trusted. His probation officer had made the arrangements for him to live here, a home for a convict, a half-way house. It must be under supervision. It had to be! There was no such thing as privacy after being incarcerated. They wanted you to mess up so they could haul you away again. But where were the cameras? Where did they hide the microphones? He had torn the place apart looking for surveillance equipment. He had even ripped down the ceiling. Not one tile of the drop ceiling remained intact. They had been thrown in a heap on the floor beside the piles of pink insulation. He had smashed his television set, and then had promptly discarded it in the dumpster in the back yard. He had used a hammer on his cell phone, destroying it. That went in the dumpster as well.

He began rocking back and forth, his eyes continuing to scrutinize the area. His heart began pounding again. His body trembled and his perspiration increased. His breathing became choppy as anxiety rushed over him. He had removed all of the outlet covers and light switch plates. The two light fixtures had been disconnected, leaving bare bulbs hanging in their places. No monitoring devices had been found.

He jumped up, his arms raised to the wooden joists of the ceiling. “Please,” he implored. “I can’t take this!” He yelled something unintelligibly, tears streaming down his face. “I can’t do this anymore!” Feeling the sudden need to flee, he wrenched the door open and ran outside, forgetting it was slippery.

Delete Created with Sketch.

The heavy-set, balding man lowered the binoculars, and then removed the headphones he had been wearing. He slowly took a sip of his hot coffee, undisturbed about the unconscious man sprawled out in the yard. He casually glanced at the thin man who sat beside him. “Looks like this investigation is over.” He glanced at his watch. “Time is 1430.”

The thin man looked at the scene before him with obvious concern. He had seen the man slip and hit his head. He doubted that anyone would find the injured man any time soon as his location was somewhat isolated. “Should we call an ambulance, John? Anonymously, of course.” He could see blood forming in a pool around the fallen man’s head, staining the snow red.

“Let him freeze to death,” was John’s callous response. If the weather didn’t kill him, the toxins he had been injected with surely would. He gathered the stack of paperwork on the table before him and pushed his chair back. He looked grimly at his intern who was still staring at the incapacitated man lying motionless next door.

They had relocated from a van parked down the road, to this apartment two days ago when the occupants left for a vacation. Although the family was confused that they unexpectedly won an all-expense paid trip to Florida from a lottery that they had never even entered, they didn’t hesitate to escape the bleak New England winter.

“Paul, I realize this is your first time in the field, but this is the protocol. I’ve been doing this for a long time. The subjects are to be studied. They’re all degenerates who nobody cares about. We collect the data, and then we leave. That’s it.” He stood and added, “If you don’t think you can handle the job, maybe you should stick to working in the office.”

Paul had just witnessed first-hand what the experimental serum’s effect had been to the man. He had observed the subject, Mr. Pellater, rapidly transform from a confident young man who had been working hard to turn his life around, to a pathetic shell of a human being riddled with panic and anxiety.

It appeared that the paranoia had averted his attention from his basic needs. He hadn’t consumed anything in three days. Showering had been nonexistent. He had rapidly spiraled downward, losing his grip on reality. Paul had seen him tear his assigned room apart in an uncontrollable frenzy, searching for hidden taps and cameras. In fact, he had been unwittingly close to discovering one of them when he had smashed the mirror. He had, however, managed to destroy the expensive spying apparatuses that were located in the television set and cell phone.

It had been painful to watch, gut-wrenching actually. Last night he had seen him sneak around the house, carefully ambling through the freshly fallen snow outside of his room’s window. Cupping his hands around his eyes, he had peered inside. He stood there for quite a while in the brutal elements. He had been wearing the same sweat-stained T-shirt and lounge pants that he currently wore. And he was barefooted.

From where he had sat, Paul had easily noted how red the man’s feet had become. Eventually the subject had turned to leave the window. His feet had changed in color to white with a bluish tinge. The man didn’t seem to notice though as he cautiously made his way back inside. Paul had put the binoculars down and briefly turned away with an involuntary shudder. This was torturous. This poor man was a victim of a cruel, government-funded experiment.

The bald man scrutinized Paul, wondering if the thin man’s conscience would earn him a death sentence. “You good?”

Paul swallowed hard but didn’t say anything further. He knew they were listening. They were always there, watching and listening. And he didn’t want to end up being a statistic. He was aware of what happened to whistle blowers. Ironically, they had all committed suicide. He looked away from Mr. Pellater and picked up his neatly stacked paperwork. It was time to leave and report their findings. The clean-up crew was already on their way to conceal any evidence that the men had ever been there.

sometimes silence is a cure-all after arguments

if we walk away before all our respect for the other is chipped off

bit-by-bit

if neither party is too loud

and if and only if

we've already hashed it out once

or twice

eventually silence happens anyway

after a peaceful truce, a polite ducking out of the room

“agree to disagree”

ceasefire

neither party puts up a white flag for surrender

but, in not-so-good cases,

someone slams the door

and leaves only silence behind them

it is a bandaid for an oversized wound

the bleeding stops, at least while they're gone

you cannot cut me open any further

in the worst cases, in fatal screaming matches

if you rip pages of old memories from your diary

and I pour out all the unatoned for mistakes like miles and miles of gasoline

the flames will get higher

if you kindle the fire, it will grow

but silence will happen

terrified and resigned, we will walk away

in opposite directions

or with all the energy spent poking and prodding at things

in the room that keeps getting hotter

we will sit down in the burning house

and let it swallow us

when we are no longer anything tangible

there is silence for those around us

the crime scene cleaners will have to come before anything new can be built there

new partners and children will not arrive until the debris is gone

they will have an exorcist come, too, to rid every bit of evil from the newly-built home

until then, there will be a sign that reads for every guest:

these walls cannot love without shame

cannot wake without funeral

even after we are born again, halfway across the world from each other

there is no more blood on the carpet, no strands of my hair are stuck in the shower drain

when everyone is asleep in comfortable sheets

I walk downstairs to double-check that the doors are locked

and I swear - I hear us arguing at the kitchen table

silence - in its most literal sense -

does nothing to stop the noise

and in that sense, it is like a disease

the incurable kind

Evidence has come to light that casts England's best known and much revered playwright William Shakespeare in the role of villain. The stage is set for second year archaeology student and erstwhile gigolo Max Rush to not only reveal the truth but to solve two murders. Crimes committed five centuries apart. With Dr Godfric Templeton and Detective Chief Inspector Arthur Doyle of Scotland Yard in supporting roles, the final dramatic scene could re-write history.

Titus Andronicus: A tale of revenge and bloody murder in which the number of dead bodies continues to rise until there's no room left on stage.

Roman Britain / 61 A D

"Pray to the Devils. The Gods have given us over."

Boudicca, surrounded by her vassal lords, stands in the ruins of a Roman villa. The broken mosaic on the floor depicts the famous scene of a defiant Horatius defending the bridge of Rome. A messenger enters.

Messenger

'My Queen! The Roman governor approaches. The strength of his forces are far less than we expected. Our spy within the Roman camp reports the troops based at Isca have refused his call.’

Boudicca

’So much for the iron legions of Rome. Soon our righteous fury shall be fully sated. Thus will I encounter Suetonius and say I am revenged.'

Warwickshire England / 1950

"My heart suspects more than mine eye can see."

Max Rush is taking part in a joint Harvard-Oxford excavation led by Dr Godfric Templeton who believes Roman Tripontium is the site of the last battle of Boudicca’s rebellion.

The expedience of barrows and shovels has given way to the time consuming tedium of sifting and brushing. Shards of pottery. Small coins. Colour-glazed tessera.

Templeton

'The devil of archaeology is in the detail.'

Harry Cromwell is an accomplished English actor who has fallen on hard times. He's desperate for a new hit, and the open-air production of Titus Andronicus in the ruins of Coventry Cathedral could be just what his failing career needs.

Cromwell himself is directing and appearing as Emperor Saturninus.

An overcast morning. Godfric Templeton politely shakes the hand of his unexpected visitor.

Templeton (gestures enthusiastically)

'The Queen of the Iceni has burned Camulodunum, Londinium and Verulanium in her desire to avenge the humiliation she and her daughters experienced at the hands of Rome. Governor Suetonius Paulinus, recently returned from slaughtering druids in North Wales, commands the last Roman army that stands in her way. The outcome of this battle between Romans and Celts will decide the fate of Britain.'

Cromwell

‘Fascinating. It's very kind of you to show me around, Doctor.’

Templeton

'The pleasure's all ours. This is the first time we’ve had a star of stage and screen come by.’

Cromwell

’A somewhat faded star these days. But I’ve always had an interest in history. As, of course, did Shakespeare. Such a shame he never chose Boudicca as a subject for one of his plays.'

Templeton

'But Tamora, Queen of the Goths, and the main female character in Titus Andronicus could have been inspired by her.’

Cromwell

'You surprise me, Doctor. I didn't know you were a fan and a scholar.'

Cromwell peers down at the dig. A dapper man in his mid-forties, he's come poorly dressed for wandering around an archaeology site. Young Max Rush calls Templeton's attention to their latest find, a bronze buckle from the leather strap of a Roman sandal.

Attracting Cromwell’s attention as well.

Cromwell

‘And who do we have here?’

Templeton

‘This is Max. One of our students from Harvard. Max, come and say hello.’

Max is polite, of course, but not naive. The nature of Cromwell’s interest in him is clear

(if not obvious to everyone).

Max

‘Is it true that all the female parts were played by boys?’

Cromwell

‘Parts? Well, yes. If by "parts" you mean roles. Have you ever thought about acting yourself, Max? I'm sure we could find a part for you.’

Max (laughs)

'Me? Maybe, if it was a comedy.'

Cromwell

'How about coming to tea one afternoon and meeting the company? Read a few lines. You’d look good dressed as a Roman. You have the legs for it. And we don't have an understudy for Gloucester's Lucius.'

Max looks at Dr Templeton.

Max

‘What about the dig?’

Templeton

‘I don’t think we’re going to get much more done. Not if the weather forecast is right. But before you run off to join the theatre, you can help the rest of the team get the rain covers in place.’

Cromwell

’Splendid. If you think the role of Lucius might be too much, you can understudy for a couple of the smaller parts.'

Max

'Lady parts?'

Cromwell (winks)

’I think if you were under me, I could study you more closely.'

Max

'When you said you might have a small part for me, I didn't know it was going to be yours.'

Cromwell

'Oh, sauce! Don't be so bloody cheeky!'

Dresden Germany / 1945

"Must my sons be slaughtered in the streets for valiant doings in their country’s cause?"

The carpet-bombing of Dresden results in the death of 25,000 people and is later viewed by many as one of the more morally questionable acts of the Allied forces.

All around, as far as the eye can see, is the ruin of war. Rubble, smoke, twisted metal, pulverised stone, and broken bodies. A middle-aged woman is clambering across a wreck of broken bricks, the remains of an elegant town-house. A youth wearing the uniform of the Hitlerjugend is beckoning her.

Youth

'I found the door to the basement. Hurry!'

Woman

'Go. I will follow you. Please, my little bear, save yourself!'

The young man nods and turns away to hurry down the steps, where he tries the handle of the door to the cellar. It’s locked. He throws himself against the door in frustration and fear, but it refuses to budge. He can hear the sound of bombers overhead. Explosions draw closer. Adrenaline coursing through his veins, he redoubles his efforts. The door opens and he falls through. Even as he does so, he hears the sound that will haunt him night after night for years to come.

His mother screaming as she's engulfed in flames.

Thirty thousand feet above, Squadron Leader Peter Carter looks down from the cockpit of his Lancaster at the firestorm below.

Carter

‘Dresden. The Jewel Box of Saxony. Look what we’ve done to it.’

Bob (The Bomber’s Sparks / or Engineering Officer)

‘Payback for London. And Swansea. And Coventry.’

Carter (shakes his head)

’No, Sparks. It's madness. Sheer and utter bloody madness.'

Warwickshire England / 1950

"She is Lavinia; therefore she must be loved."

Coventry Cathedral is only a short distance away from the site at Tripontium, and no one is more excited at the possibility of being backstage during rehearsals than Lavinia Kauffmann, Max's fellow student and sometime lover.

Promiscuous and manipulative, what Lavinia wants, Lavinia gets.

Lavinia

'Isn't it wonderful? You must let come with you!'

Max

'I don't know that I'm going. It all seems a bit silly.'

Lavinia

'Oh, don't be such a stick in the mud. Your bits of old pot will still be here. What's a few more days after two thousand years?'

Max (reluctantly)

'I suppose so.'

Lavinia

'You won't be sorry!'

Tea with the cast. Max prefers crumpet to a piece of victoria sponge.

Bernard Quandt is an up and coming young German actor who has been cast as Aaron, the Moorish lover of Tamora and one of the villains of the piece.

Tamora will be played by Delphine Bouchard, a young French-Canadian starlet who Harry Cromwell had seduced while in Hollywood.

The title character of Titus is to be played by Rupert Dyson, a rising star who's flirting dangerously with Delphine. Although she seems to lavish more of her affection on her Siamese cats, Salt and Pepper.

For the role of Titus' daughter - also called Lavinia - Cromwell has chosen Miss Ivonna Turner, who will be making her stage debut.

Miss Turner turns heads, and has certainly turned Max's. It doesn't matter to Max that the inside of Miss Turner's head is an unfurnished room.

Max suddenly takes an interest in all things dramatic. Cromwell and Bouchard both take an interest in Max. And Lavinia is seduced by Bernard Quandt's swashbuckling charm.

Quandt

‘How curious that you should share the same name as Titus’ daughter.’

Lavinia

‘Is it a big part?’

Quandt

‘Let’s just say she diminishes somewhat as the play goes on.’

Other members of the cast are Richard Gloucester, Anthony Burton, Ellen Moreau,

Dante Tyrell, and Lincoln Forrester. All of whom, as well as their singular parts, will share the minor and the non-speaking roles of Tribune, Senator, Soldier, Goth, Messenger or Captain etc.

No one licks the cream from a chocolate eclair quite like the lascivious Lavinia Kauffmann.

Max is already sorry he brought her.

Ivonna Turner's trailer. A chaise-lounge is not the perfect setting for a romantic tryst. The lounge is too short and the angles of the chaise are proving problematic. But young people are flexible, and Max is keen to make it work.

Ivonna

'If only Mummy could see me now.'

Max

'It might be better if she didn't.'

Ivonna

'Don't be silly, darling. She'd be in fits and giggles.'

Max

'Is she as beautiful as you?'

Ivonna

'Ooh, you are wicked! Be a sweetie and pour me another snort of champers?'

Coventry Cathedral / Cromwell's Titus Andronicus

"And now at last, laden with honour’s spoils, returns the good Andronicus to Rome,

renowned Titus, flourishing in arms."

Stone walls in various stages of disrepair are the unburied bones of religious reformation. The vacant eyes of windows open on to a scene from the very depths of Hell itself. Beauty defiled beyond belief.

A body is discovered in the ruins of the cathedral. It’s one of the students.

Lavinia Kauffmann is the daughter of an official at the Israeli embassy in London. Her body has been mutilated just like the other Lavinia: Titus’ daughter in the play.

Beside her body is an old manuscript. It’s an original of Titus Andronicus minus the final page. On the front page, scrawled in Lavinia's blood, are the words "The Titus Principal".

It’s initially presumed by investigators that "Principle" has been misspelled.

And the "Titus Principle" is REVENGE.

London England / 1950

“Why, foolish Lucius, dost thou not perceive that Rome is but a wilderness of tigers?”

An unremarkable office in a nondescript building in an undistinguished street. Donald Maclean - also known as "Homer" - sits across an unnoteworthy desk from MI6 agent Mandrake.

Maclean

'Have you read the report on this nasty business in Coventry? We’ve managed to keep the more graphic elements of the murder from the press and, most importantly, not a hint of the Israeli angle. The ambassador was on the phone to me this morning. Scotland Yard are sending one of their finest detectives to head up the investigation. A man named Doyle, if you can believe it, Arthur Doyle.'

Mandrake

‘Let's hope his sleuthing is equal to Sherlock Holmes and not Watson. Should I be involved?’

Maclean

‘Not with this business in Korea. You might be needed over there.’

Mandrake

’I’m not sure we can leave this to the police, however good their man is.'

Maclean

'What do you suggest?'

Mandrake

'There’s someone.we could borrow from the Americans. Our archaeologist friend, Templeton, just happens to be working on a dig nearby. In fact, I’ve learned the murder victim was one of his students. And another of his students had recently joined the company that was performing the play.’

Maclean (scowling)

‘Another student? Who?’

Mandrake

'Fools rush in where angels fear to tread.'

Maclean

'Not that damn boy again. Always sticking his oar in where it's not wanted. Absolutely not! Max Rush is a menace, and a dangerous one.'

Mandrake

'Perhaps we should ask C. I know Templeton has convinced his superiors at the CIA that Rush has potential, and has taken him under his wing.'

Maclean (grimaces)

’That won’t be necessary. Templeton can be our liaison with Doyle. But tell him to keep Rush out of it. If it's not already too late.'

Warwickshire England / 1950

“Hark, villains! I will grind your bones to dust."

Coventry Cathedral. The scene of the crime. Detective Chief Inspector Arthur Doyle bums a cigarette off one of the local constabulary, then asks for a light. The packet of Players and the box of Lucifer matches both disappear into a pocket of Doyle's grey Macintosh.

Doyle

'What do we know about the victim?'

Constable

'Popular girl.'

Doyle

'How so?'

Constable

'When I was a lad, our village only had one bicycle. It belonged to the vicar, but he was in his eighties and couldn't manage the hills, so he'd leave it out front for anyone who wanted to borrow it. Anyone who did would put it back for the next person.'

Doyle

'Where is this going?'

Constable

'Our lass was like that bicycle.'

'Doyle

'What's your name?'

Constable

'Dunstable, sir.'

Doyle

'There's nothing amusing about murder, Dunstable. Where are the pages that were found near the body?'

Constable

'A Doctor Templeton has them.'

Doyle

'Why the hell would - Never mind. Where's he?'

Constable

'Here he comes now, sir.'

Doyle

'Templeton?'

Templeton

'Detective Chief Inspector.'

Doyle

'How do we do this?'

Templeton

'I'm here to assist in any way I can.'

Doyle

'Right. In that case I want my bloody evidence!'

Templeton raises an eyebrow at Doyle's unfortunate choice of words.

A demountable building serves as the cathedral's visitors' centre and souvenir shoppe. Dr Templeton fans the pages of the manuscript across the information counter.

Templeton

'We think Lavinia Kauffmann took the manuscript from Harry Cromwell's dressing room. We don't know when, exactly, but it had to be some time during the performance. I've shown photographs of several of the pages to a friend of mine in Stratford who's an expert on Shakespeare and his contemporaries. He's compared the writing to other samples, and we now have the possible identity of its author.'

Doyle

'Not Shakespeare?'

Templeton

'No.'

Doyle

'What does any of this have to do with our dead girl?'

Templeton

'Cromwell's theatre company is virtually bankrupt. The manuscript, if it can be authenticated, could be priceless.'

Doyle

'You think he might have killed her to get it back?'

Templeton

'There's more. The last page is missing. If you can find that last page, you'll have found the murderer.'

Doyle

'I don't suppose I can bother you for a cigarette?'

Dr Templeton hands Doyle a pack of Chesterfields. When Doyle fumbles in the pocket of his overcoat for matches, Templeton passes him a gold-plated Dunhill lighter. Doyle takes his time, tapping one end of the unfiltered on the mostly full packet and thumbing the Dunhill.

Doyle (smokes)

'Thank you, Doctor. I'll handle the investigation from here.'

Doyle stands up and leaves.

Some time later, as he's walking towards his car, Dr Templeton reaches into a pocket of his houndstooth coat for his cigarettes.

Templeton

'The son of a bitch!'

The Globe Theatre London / 1599

"Heaven guide thy pen to print thy sorrows plain, that we may know the traitors and the truth!"

The yard is filled with unwashed bodies, but this is Elizabethan England, and the actors on the stage of this splendid new theatre are used to the stench of the city. There is a hushed silence from the audience as the production being performed draws to its iconic close.

Lucius Andronicus

"Some loving friends convey the emperor hence,

And give him burial in his father’s grave:

My father and Lavinia shall forthwith,

Be closed in our household’s monument."

"As for that ravenous tiger, Tamora,

No funeral rite, nor man in mourning weed,

No mournful bell shall ring her burial;

But throw her forth to beasts and birds of prey.

Her life was beastly and devoid of pity."

The theatre erupts in applause and the actors take a bow. From the wings, the Bard of Avon - Will Shakespeare himself - looks on, smiling. Next to him is his business partner, Richard Burbage.

Burbage

’They do like a bloody tragedy of revenge and mayhem.'

Shakespeare

’Aye. A pack of curs baying round the slaughterhouse gate.'

Burbage

'But Will, this play be mere trifle when one compares it to that noble tale of Julius Caesar.'

Shakespeare

'Titus is not my finest tragedy, I grant thee, but always have I felt a desire most tender for it.'

Burbage

'Tell me once more, why Titus?’

Shakespeare

'As thou remarked, Dick, the crowds complain not.’

Burbage

'Nor does De Vere, I wager. Do we render unto Caesar all that is Caesar's?'

Shakespeare

'Oxford tells me his next is almost complete.'

Burbage

'Does it have a title?'

Shakespeare

'He refers to it only as "the despairing Dane".'

Warwickshire England / 1950

"These words are razors to my wounded heart."

The tea room where Max first met the members of Cromwell’s company. It's a summer's day, though it's lease has all too short a date, and a troubled Max is not a happy camper.

Max

'Why can't I help?'

Templeton

‘I’m sorry Max, but my orders are you’re not to become involved.’

Max

‘Orders? Who from?’

Templeton

‘From whom. And I can’t say. I think you should go back to Tripontium. The weather has cleared and we can recommence the dig. I’ll join you as soon as I can.’

Max

‘Lavinia was my friend.’

Templeton

’We both know that’s not true. She used you the same way she used everyone. Lavinia didn't deserve to die so horribly, but don’t pretend it’s giving you sleepless nights. You saw much worse in Germany. I don't know how you survived a winter in the ruins of Berlin.'

Max

'I ate a lot of cats. But, listen, I can help with the investigation in ways that you can’t.'

Templeton

'Oh, I can imagine, Max! Just try not to get in Doyle's way. He doesn't want any Baker Street Irregulars snooping around.’

Max (puzzled)

‘Any what?’

Templeton

’Never mind, Wiggins. If you find that missing page, come to me first.'

Ivonna Turner’s trailer. Max avoids the chaise-lounge, but notices all evidence of his conquest is concealed by a paisley silk pelerine in jade-green and cinnamon-brown.

Ivonna

‘I’m not sure if I can go back on stage as Lavinia now. Not after what’s happened.’

Max

‘How did you come to join the company in the first place?’

Ivonna

’Don’t put your daughter on the stage, Mrs Worthington. But Mummy wasn’t having any of it. She was a chorus girl herself when she was younger. Let’s just say Daddy Cromwell owed her a favour. He came to see me after the performance. The night your friend... '

Max

‘What did he want?’

Ivonna

‘It's not important, darling. He wasn't very pleased. I think he thinks I'm trying to steal you away from him.’

The resemblance suddenly strikes Max like a bolt from the blue.

How had he missed it?

Max

'Harry Cromwell's your father!'

Ivonna

'Yes, but you mustn't tell. You haven't touched your champers. Don't you like it? Let me make you a vodka martini.'

Max

'I have a better idea.'

Max leaves Ivonna shaken (if not stirred).

Delphine Bouchard is in her mid-twenties. Far too young for the role of Tamora. But the fear of fading looks and a bulging waistline aren't stopping her from tucking into a large meat pie when Inspector Doyle knocks on the door of her dressing room, only minutes

after Max has left.

The air is thick with the fug of french cigarettes and the redolence of too-recent sex. Doyle's eyes narrow behind the lenses of his black hornrims and his ginger moustache twitches.

Delphine

’Ah Inspector! This really is too much. When can our performances resume? We have

three more nights and a matinee on Saturday.’

Doyle

’I’m sorry for the inconvenience, but we’re still pursuing our investigations. I'm endeavouring to ascertain the whereabouts of each member of the cast during and after

the performance. Where were you, Mademoiselle?’

Delphine

‘So sad. This curious double tragedy. Life imitating art.’

Doyle

'We believe Miss Kauffmann was murdered because she discovered something someone didn't want to be found.’

Delphine

’The manuscript that Harry was always boasting about. He was most mysterious about it, saying it would help him recover his fortune.'

Doyle

‘Did you ever read the manuscript yourself?’

Delphine finds a curious hair in her pie and frowns. She disposes of it discreetly into the folds of her white-satin serviette, but the sharp-eyed detective notes her action.

Delphine

’Never. And in answer to your question as to my whereabouts, speak to Rupert. I was with him, going through my lines. The art of perfection. Max might know more about the manuscript than I do. You just missed him.'

Doyle

‘Pumping you for information, was he? We’ve already spoken to Mr Dyson. I gather he doesn’t have much of a liking for your cats. And I wasn't looking for Rush, as it happens, but perhaps I should be.’

Delphine (shrugs)

’Rupert claims he’s allergic to them. But - now that you mention it - where are my little darlings? They do like to go mousing around the ruins of the cathedral. And I haven’t seen them all morning.'

“Why, there they are both, baked in this pie, whereof their mother daintily hath fed.”

Templeton pops his head around the door of the Cathedral visitors’ centre, which Doyle has commandeered as his incident room. The Inspector is reading a cheap pocket edition of Titus Andronicus, and frowning.

Templeton

‘Any new developments?’

Doyle

’You could say that. Bouchard has been rushed to hospital. It seems that there was too much Salt and Pepper in her steak and kidney.'

Evening. Sunset. Max is sitting on a bench on the bank of the river Sherborne, brooding. He’s spoken with most of the members of the Company without learning anything of value. Almost without him noticing, a young man sits down next to him. Max glances across. It’s the neat, precise figure of Bernard Quandt.

Quandt is just a few years older than Max.

Quandt

'Penny for your thoughts.’

Max

'Thoughts? Not much. I just needed to find somewhere quiet.’

Quandt

’Ja. All these policemen asking questions. And then there's you.'

Max

'Me?'

Quandt

'Also asking.'

Max

'Do you have any answers.'

Quandt

'You also are from Germany, I think. Though you go to much trouble to hide it. Like many of us abroad these days.’

Max

’My father was German. I live in America now. My mother was from Boston. What about you?'

Quandt

’I am from Dresden. My father was an industrialist, part of a rich and powerful family. He wanted me to follow in his footsteps. The war put an end to all that. I was closer to my mother. She called me her “Little Bear”.'

Max

'You talk about her as if she's gone.'

'She was killed. In the war.'

Max

'Really? I'm sorry. So was mine.'

Quandt

'My mother was an actress with a great, artistic heritage. Her father was an antiquarian,

a collector of old manuscripts. My mother’s family were related to Goethe. You’ve heard

of Goethe?’

Max

‘He wrote Faust.’

Quandt

‘Marlowe was there before him. The Tragical History of the Life and Death of Doctor Faustus. But when does influence become imitation? And when does imitation become theft? Anyway, I’m off for a stroll around the cathedral ruins. Das lebewohl, Max.’

Meanwhile.

Doyle is looking thoughtfully at a list of names he’s scrawled on a chalkboard in the incident room.

Doyle

‘These are the names of everyone the company who knew about the manuscript. The killer is one of these, I’m certain of it.’

He crosses off the name of Delphine Bouchard.

Doyle

‘The latest hospital report isn’t hopeful. The pie was laced with strychnine as well as substantial chunks of cat. I think we can safely assume that she didn’t poison herself. That still leaves the others.’

Templeton

‘You can eliminate Max from your list of suspects.’

Doyle

‘How can you be so sure? Something tells me he’s more than capable.’

Templeton

‘And you’d be correct. But sadistic? No, never. That’s what we’re looking for. Only a twisted, tortured mind could have done what was done to that poor girl.’

Doyle

‘I think we should speak to Cromwell again. He’s holding out on us.’

Templeton and Doyle are sitting in Harry Cromwell’s well-appointed dressing room. It's large enough for Cromwell to pace up and down, which he's been doing with increasing agitation ever since they arrived. His smoking jacket is slightly askew and his normally immaculate hair is ruffled.

Cromwell

‘I told you, Detective Chief Inspector, I showed no one the contents of that manuscript. No one!’

Templeton

‘But you weren’t being particularly circumspect about possessing a document that could overturn four hundred years of Shakespearian scholarship, were you? Delphine Bouchard knew about it. So did Rupert Dyson. And Bernard Quandt. You even told my student, Max Rush. You offered to show it to him. Did you make a similar offer to Lavinia Kauffmann?’

Cromwell

‘I’m sorry, but why is an archaeology professor interrogating me about a murder?’

Doyle

‘Dr Templeton is assisting in the investigation. Did you show the manuscript to Miss Kauffmann?’

Cromwell

‘Of course not! I might have mentioned something about it to her. Nothing more.’

Doyle

’You know a fair bit about Shakespeare, I gather. Bit of a mystery man, our Will. Spelled

his surname six different ways, from the various signatures he left behind. What does it say about a man that he can’t spell his own name?’

Cromwell

‘Conventions in orthography weren’t so rigorous in those days. Shakespeare died a century and half before Johnson published his epic Dictionary. Spelling was more fluid then than it is now.’

Templeton (excitedly)

‘Spelling! That’s it! That’s what Miss Kauffmann was trying to tell us!’

Doyle

‘What do you mean?’

Templeton

‘We’ve all been presuming Lavinia’s message was about the Titus Principle, i.e. Revenge. When she wrote Principal, we thought she made an error. That she'd meant to write Principle. But what if she didn't make a mistake? In the theatre the term “Principal” normally applies to the lead actor!’

Cromwell (nodding)

‘Yes, of course.’

Templeton

‘And the lead actor in Titus Andronicus would be the man who played the role of Titus himself. Which points us to - ’

Doyle

‘Rupert Dyson. He's our man. Come on, Doctor!’

Cromwell stops them.

Cromwell

'Rupert can’t possibly be the murderer. It’s rather embarrassing, but I can prove he’s innocent.'

Coventry Cathedral / The Scene of the Crime

"Thy years want wit, thy wit wants edge and manners, to intrude where I am graced."

Night has fallen. All is quiet. The old stones of the cathedral courtyard glow eerily in the moonlight. A single bright spotlight falls upon the altar, bearing the three large mediaeval nails salvaged from the ruined building that had been bound together with wire to form a cross. Max looks towards the wooden gantry erected a week before in preparation for the play. Looking down upon him from his high vantage point is Bernard Quandt, holding a Luger pistol in his left hand.

Quandt

‘I had a feeling you’d follow me here, Max.’

Max

‘I think I’ve worked it out. Your maternal grandfather - the antiquarian - he had a certain manuscript in his possession, didn’t he?’

Quandt

‘Yes. One passed down to him from Goethe. The original manuscript of Shakespeare's Titus Andronicus.’

Max

‘Except it wasn’t really Shakespeare’s.’

Quandt

‘No more than the manuscript belongs to Harry Cromwell. It’s not enough that he steals other men’s wives. That bastard also stole my grandfather’s most valuable possession. And now I’ve liberated it. Or the all-important final page, at least. Lucius’ closing speech. You know it. You learned it well enough. But on the reverse there’s a signed statement from the true author.'

Max

'Do you have it? The page? Can I see it?'

Quandt

Enough talk. I think it’s time for us to enact that most famous of Shakespearian stage direction. Exit: pursued by a bear.’

Quandt raises his pistol, just as two more figures step into view. DCI Arthur Doyle and Dr Godfric Templeton have arrived for the final act.

Doyle

‘Wrong stage direction, wrong play, Quandt. It was the Titus Principle all along, wasn’t it? Revenge, pure and simple. You wanted us to think that Lavinia Kauffman’s last message - which you wrote in her blood - was intended to point us towards Rupert Dyson, the principal of the play. When you learned from that plod, Dunstable, that we'd misread your intention, you became frustrated. You poisoned Bouchard. But why Dyson? Could it have anything to do with the fact that his father was Air Commodore Thomas Dyson. One of the key staff in British Bomber Command responsible for planning and executing the fire-bombing of Dresden?’

Quandt

‘Thomas Dyson. Harry Cromwell. William Shakespeare. All guilty as charged. And as the French say: Revenge is a dish best served cold.’

Doyle

'In a pie.'

Max

'What about Lavinia Kauffmann? Why her?’

Quandt

’Miss Kauffmann was no innocent. She was ready enough to play the role I set for her, stealing the manuscript from Cromwell’s dressing room. But as to why I killed her? Being

a verschmutzt Juden was reason enough.’

Quandt takes aim at Max. But before he can pull the trigger, he's winged by Dr Templeton, who has pulled his Beretta from inside his jacket. Quandt loses his balance and falls from the gantry. Max races toward him. Quandt fires his Luger. Max stumbles, clutching his side. Quandt raises his gun again and points it at Dr Templeton.

A single shot rings out. Bernard Quandt is dead before he hits the ground.

Detective Chief Inspector Doyle re-holsters his Colt Navy.

Doyle

'Not standard issue. But the bigger the bullet, the harder they fall.'

After all the excitement, Templeton and Max are alone, silently contemplating the ruined cathedral. Max's wound isn't much worse than a graze and the bleeding has stopped.

Templeton

’You know, they’re planning to build a new cathedral, but on the adjacent grounds. The plan is to leave the ruins here as a memorial.'

Dr Templeton points towards the wall behind the altar and the cross of nails.

Templeton

’Father, forgive. Words to remember, Max. In the world of an eye for an eye, we all end up blind.'

Max

‘I’m not sure I’m cut out to be an actor. Can we go back to the dig?’

Templeton

‘Certainly. There's just one thing, though.’

Dr Templeton takes a single piece of manuscript from his jacket pocket.

Max

‘Is that - ?’

Templeton

‘The final page. I found it in Quandt’s jacket. The question is, what do we do with it? Return it to Harry Cromwell?’

Max

‘Why should he make millions from it? Quandt said he stole it in the first place.’

Templeton

’I’m not sure what the law courts would say about that. But I think we can persuade Cromwell to “donate” the whole manuscript, including this final page, to the British Library. It can be properly studied there. And kept safe from any undue scrutiny. I don’t think the British people are quite ready for the truth about their greatest literary figure,

do you?’

Max

‘How are you going to convince Cromwell?’

Templeton

‘Ah, well. That’s easy. You see, he was the one who provided Dyson with his alibi. It seems, the night Lavinia was killed, after the performance, Rupert Dyson, Harry Cromwell and Delphine Bouchard were engaged in a - what do the French call it? - une liaison amoureuse? I know that actors have a certain reputation, but there are limits to what their adoring public will stomach.’

Max

‘Blackmail, Doctor? I’m shocked.’

Templeton

‘No you’re not. So, do you want to read the note on the final page?’

The script is faded and hard to read, but Max can make out the signature.

Max

’Marlowe.'

Templeton

'There's more on the back. Turn it over.'

Max (reads)

'This playe written by Kit Marlow fromme whom I did steale it and in his murrder I did conspire. May Godde have mercye on my soul. Will Shakespear.'

Max

'So, if Marlowe was dead, who wrote Shakespeare's other plays?’

Templeton

‘That’s just it Max. We don’t know. And we probably never will.’

Kent England / 1593

"Not till I have sheathed my rapier in his bosom, and withal thrust those reproachful speeches down his throat that he hath breathed in my dishonour here."

A tavern in Deptford. A darkened den of darker mood. A stable of slatterns to disgrace the dandling knee.

Shakespeare

'The boil on my buttock that is Marlowe must be lanced.'

Taverner

'What would you have me do, start a war?'

Shakespeare

'An argument will suffice. The chaos that ensues will both cloak the deed and give you just cause should anyone inquire as to the circumstance of his mortal injury.'

Taverner

‘What grievance do you hold against him? A rivalry of hearts?’

Shakespeare

’Aye, though not as thou would esteem, but a ballot for the affections of the people. He is jealous, too, of my newfound success on the stage with my Roman tragedy, Andronicus. His friendship with Robert Greene - who did slander my name in ways most vile - has also caused me much offence. Greene now rots beneath an sward of green, and I would have Marlowe moulder with him.'

Taverner

'First, let me see what coin you offer..’

Shakespeare (tossing over a purse)

‘Gilded tombs do worms enfold. Will this suffice?’

Taverner

‘Aye. It will. We have a deal.’

Shakespeare

‘One worthy of Faustus, methinks.’

Oxford England / 1600

"Here are no storms. No noise, but silence and eternal sleep."

An Elizabethan manor. A spacious library in oak and leather where walls of shelves host voluminous volumes and tightly rolled scrolls. Edward De Vere, the 17th Earl eponymous, paces the floor, cogitating verbally.

De Vere

'Two households, both alike in dignity, In fair Milan where we lay our scene. Milan? No, strike that. Venice? Verona! In fair Verona where we lay our scene.'

His manservant, Falstaff, looks up from the scratching of his oft-inked goose quill.

Falstaff

'Verona? Again?'

De Vere

'I like Verona.'

The dawn's light breaks through tall lead-light windows set between Doric columns.

De Vere steps out onto a balcony.

De Vere

'It is the East, and Jocelyn is the sun.'

Falstaff

'Jocelyn?'

De Vere

'Give me a name!'

Falstaff

'Janet, Julia, Juliet, Joan.'

De Vere

'Yes! Juliet. That's it. Well? What are you waiting for? Write it down!'

Falstaff

'It's not very Italian.'

De Vere

'The great unwashed of London will not know, nor care.'

Falstaff (sighs)

'Juliet. A Capulet. And her star-crossed lover.'

De Vere

'There is our title, Falstaff. The tragedie of Rudolfio and Juliet!'

They move around,

Eyes blind to me,

Clash of noises

And thrumming steps.

I slither in the shadows,

Watching as they pass,

My sound consumed

By the cobbles.

Their tumult deafens their eyes,

My quiet opens mine.

Cold blooded killer. Hot blooded lover. As American as apple strudel. Sixteen year old Max Rush is a young man on a mission. A mission full of action, adventure and intrigue, as Max rushes headlong into danger in a race to save the world from an ancient weapon. A weapon so powerful it could herald the dawn of a Fourth Reich.

Nazi Berlin / 1944

The city at night. A sky lit by anti-aircraft batteries and filled with the sound of air raid sirens. Near Hochmeisterplatz. The dark interior of a parked car.

Maximillian Rorsch presses the barrel of the silenced Walther PPK into his father's temple and pulls the trigger. The lead slug takes bone, blood, and a blowout of mucilaginous brain with it, and punches a hole through the driver's side window of a black Mercedes sedan.

Fifteen year old Maximillian can see no alternative. Alive, Feldmarschall Albrecht Rorsch could prolong the defense of Germany, and the city of Berlin itself, by months, possibly even as long as a year. Claiming a million more lives, many of them innocent civilians, like Maximillian's mother.

An attempt to assassinate both the British Prime Minister, Winston Churchill, and American President Franklin Delano Roosevelt while they were meeting in the Iranian capital Teheran to discuss the planned invasion of Normandy (Operation Overlord) has failed. But the possibility that another attempt could succeed is very real.

A Germany with Feldmarschall Albrecht Rorsch in command could slow the Allied advance, giving the Nazis the time they need to complete Projekt Hektor. A weapon

that will not only alter the course of the war, but would give Nazi Germany absolute domination of the entire world.

Convinced he's doing the right thing, Maximillian puts the gun in his father's gloved hand, takes the black leather courier case that's between them on the seat, opens the passenger side door of the staff car, and walks into the night.

Occupied Berlin / 1945

An expanse of public square. Ruined buildings in the background. An American MP post in Potsdamer Platz. A sergeant sees Maximillian Rorsch approaching.

Sergeant

'Buzz off, kid.'

Maximillian

'Please. I'm an American citizen. My mother was from Boston. I was born there. I have my passport and birth certificate to prove it.'

Maximillian hands over his ID.

The sergeant inspects them and hands them back.

Sergeant

'They could be forgeries.'

Maximillian

'They're not. I'm telling you the truth. We were visiting my father's relatives when the war started. He was a scientist. The Nazis came and took him away. I don't know what happened to him, or where he is now. My mother was killed in an air raid.'

The sergeant turns and calls to one of his men.

Sergeant

'Brodsky! Escort this young man to MHQ. He says he's one of us. Let them sort it out.'

Cambridge Massachusetts / 1946

Some eleven months later, Max Rush is a high school sophomore living with his Great Aunt Freida in a four storey house of red brick and Boston Ivy; built when the Americas were still a British colony.

Aunt Freida hasn't exactly welcomed the responsibility of taking in a teenager she's never met, but in the short time Mas has been there her attitude toward him has warmed.

Max wonders (at first) how Aunt Freida can change her hair colour as often as he changes his underwear, which is every day, but the penny soon drops. His aunt has a large collection of wigs, all of them 100% human hair, all of them made in Italy, and all of them excellent quality.

Their relationship is strengthened further one rainy Sunday in September when Aunt Freida encourages a bored and restless Max to try on several of her wigs, and the two of them laugh themselves silly.

Aunt Freida's bedroom is redolent with Queen Anne furniture. Authentic (antique) persian rugs. Silk tapestry on one wall. Abstract art on another. Rain on the windows. Several wigs are arranged on plaster heads on a sideboard. As many again are scattered casually on the king-sized bed.

With the easy androgyny of youth, his brown eyes full of the promise of mischief, and a little artfully applied make-up, Max makes a convincing girl.

Aunt Freida might not be as rich as the Rockerfellers or the Vanderbilts, but her late husband Freddie has left her "comfortably cushioned". At seventy-something, Aunt Freida looks fifty, plays tennis four days a week, and is still a social moth.

Freida

'Age is just a number on a birthday card. The only number that counts is the one in your head. Think young to be young.'

Max (playing the coquette)

'I like being the age I am. It's a great age to be.'

Boston Massachusetts / 1947

Dinner guests gather in twos and threes under a crystal chandelier. Men in tuxedos. Women in evening dresses. Drinking. A happy buzz of conversation.

Max is introduced to his Aunt Freida's conspicuously homosexual friend Dr Emile Faust, Professor of Archaeology at Harvard University. Max, with his blond curls and youthful looks, has caught the Professor's twinkling eye.

Max likes girls. It's as simple as that. But if Professor Faust's physical displays of misguided affection sometimes cross the line, Max doesn't mind. It's easy enough for Max to casually redirect Emile's wandering hands.

Inside Dr Faust's office at Harvard University. A restless Max stands fidgeting nervously. The Professor sits behind his cluttered desk.

Max has his fingers crossed for a summer placement with a team of archaeologists and students who are hoping to search for the lost city of Ilios.

Faust

'It won't be easy. Just getting to Turkey will be exhausting enough. The weather there will be warm, if not downright unpleasant some days, and you'll be doing a lot of digging and shifting. Hard work, believe me. There won't be any hot showers or comfortable beds when we're in the field. And the food will be basic fare, at best. So, Max, do you still want to come?'

Max

'Yes, sir. More than anything!'

Faust

'I'll see what I can do. But you have to remember, Max, that this is for students of the college, and you're still a sophomore in high school.'

Max

'If you can swing it, Doc, you won't regret it. I promise.'

Faust

'I scratch your back and you scratch mine?'

Max shrugs and thinks, What the heck? It's worth it.

Faust

'Be careful what you promise, Max. I wouldn't want you to regret it.'

New York to Liverpool

The passenger ship Olympic crosses the North Atlantic in three days. From there it's Liverpool to London and London to Dover by steam-engine. From Dover to Calais by ferry. Then another train from Calais to Paris, to catch yet another train - the famed Orient Express - to Istanbul, Turkey.

Onboard the ship, Professor Faust's port-holed cabin is 1st class. The Professor has spared no expense (for himself). Max is bunking in steerage.

Faust

‘What do you know of Ilios?’

Max

'It’s the city Homer wrote about in the Iliad. Also known as Troy. The Greeks launched a thousand ships against the city after the abduction of Helen of Sparta by Paris, the second son of King Priam. Or that's the story, anyway.'

Faust

'Latin Troia, Troja, or Ilium. A city in northwestern Anatolia. Ilios occupied a key position on trade routes between Europe and Asia. The legend of the Trojan War, fought between the Greeks and the heroes of Troy, is the most notable theme from ancient Greek literature and forms, as you say, the basis of Homer’s Iliad. Although the actual geographical location remains a matter of scholarly debate, the ruins of Ilios are thought to be at Hisarlık.

Max, already bored, pretends to listen.

Faust

’Was this the face that launched a thousand ships, and burned the topless towers of Ilium? It was the German archaeologist, Heinrich Schliemann, who first uncovered what he thought were the ruins of Troy in 1870. Hisarlik means "the Place of Fortresses". Schliemann made some remarkable discoveries, uncovering no less than nine buried cities on the site. But his conclusions were completely wrong.'

Faust is convinced, from his own extensive research, that he can succeed where Schliemann had failed.

Max paces as Faust continues.

Faust

‘What's known as Troy II couldn't possibly have been Homer’s Ilios. We have to dig deeper. I'm almost certain that the level we commonly refer to as Troy VII/a is where we will find the answers! Max?’

Max

'Uh-huh. Yeah. What?'

The Professor ushers Max toward the door of his cabin.

Faust

'Go on. Go. Out. You'll learn more at dinner tonight. We're dining with the captain.'

At the Captain's Table. Faust ignores his smoked salmon. Max pokes at his with his fork, wondering what it is. At the table with them are the Professor's colleagues, Drs Templeton and Kowalski. Seated next to each other they remind Max of a giraffe and a bulldog. Suitably tweeded. Templeton's glasses have round tortoiseshell frames and he wears bow ties that are too small. Kowalski has coarsely bearded jowls and bushy eyebrows. His barrel chest produces a booming basso voice.

Faust

'Daedalus was the greatest engineer of the ancient world. Forget Archimedes, Daedalus was a true genius. His accomplishments were lost long ago, and only stories about him survive, embedded in myth. The tale of the Labyrinth. The greatest maze ever devised. Home of the Minotaur.'

The captain's oiled comb-over isn't fooling anyone, but Max admires his Erroll Flynn moustache.

Captain

'Fascinating!'

Faust

'How he and his son Icarus were imprisoned by the Cretan king Minos. How they escaped their imprisonment when Daedalus devised intricate wings from bird feathers held together with beeswax. And how Icarus was lost in the escape attempt when, in disobedience of his father, he flew too close to the sun.'

Templeton

He perished in the plunge, as it were, into the Aegean Sea. Somewhere off the coast of the island that was named after him. Icaria.’

Captain

‘I know the story.’

Kowalski

‘What you might not know, is that Daedalus was responsible for the greatest invention ever devised in ancient times. The very pinnacle of Minoan civilisation. Before it was destroyed in the Thera explosion.’

Captain

'You don't say?'

Faust

’It was one of the most cataclysmic events in human history. The Aegean island of Thera, or Santorini, was a volcanic island that was two-thirds destroyed when the volcano exploded in around 1600 BC. Bigger than Krakatoa in 1883, and far bigger than the eruption of Vesuvius that destroyed Pompeii.'

Templeton

The earthquake that followed the eruption generated a tsunami that devastated coastal regions all around the Aegean and much of the Eastern Mediterranean. The ash clouds would have devastated crops for years, causing widespread famine.'

Kowalski

'The nearest we've come in the twentieth century is the Hiroshima bomb.’

Captain

'That was terrible. I know it ended the war in the Pacific but, all those poor people.'

England / 1947

A British Railways engine steaming from Liverpool to London. The carriage rocks and lurches. Max and Professor Faust sit opposite each other in uncomfortable seats.

Faust

‘That was the way the world ended, for the Minoans, and Daedalus’ great legacy was lost in the aftermath. But I think we can find it again.’

Max

‘What do you mean? The expedition to Ilios? But that’s hundreds of miles away from Crete.’

Faust

'The Hector Device isn't on Crete. It's in Berlin. What we're looking for is the key that unlocks the Perils of Hector.'

Max

'I thought we were looking for Ilios.'

Faust

'We are. But why not kill two birds with one stone? I’ll tell you more another time. Let’s just say, for now, that Daedalus left behind a decoder of sorts. Found by another archaeologist, an Italian named Luigi Pernier, in the ruins of the Minoan palace at Phaistos. The Phaistos Disc is the key. It went missing during the German occupation of Crete. And since Hisarlik is only a hop, skip and a jump away from Heraklion, I thought we might have a poke around.’

London

The Savoy Hotel. Max's room isn't much. But, at the Savoy, "not much" is still something. A double-bed. A wardrobe. And, weirdly, a kitchen sink in one corner. Or that's what it looks like. The bathroom is at the end of the hall. Max doesn't fancy sharing. What if he's taking a dump and some guy walks in?

Max sits on the bed and opens a small chest of carved sandal-wood. Inside it are his most treasured possessions. A photograph of his mother. A pearl brooch she wore. Her wedding ring. Among them is a curious, circular object - about four inches across - made of a heavy metal. One side is blank. The other is intricately designed with wavy lines radiating out from a central figure. Around the edge are carved symbols that could be some kind of ancient script.

But what script? And what language? It isn’t Latin, or Greek, or Phoenician. And the characters aren’t Egyptian hieroglyphs, or Babylonian cuneiform. The figure - which would be revealed if someone could decipher the inscription - is Daedalus. Max is holding the key the Professor is looking for. It was in the black leather courier case he took from his father's car.

The question Max keeps asking himself is why the Professor would want it. Could he really be thinking of using the Phaistos Disc to unlock the Perils of Hector? But that would be crazy!

London is a nightmare Max can't wait to wake up from. Destruction, desolation, and the inescapable dark cloud of depression. There isn't enough of anything, so everything is rationed. The food is disgusting and the weather is abysmal.

Berlin had been no different. Even when his father was one of the highest ranking officers in the Wehrmacht, Max's family weren't spared the horrors of a world gone mad. Would Paris (France) be any better? Max puts the disc back in the chest and takes out one last treasure. It's a small pendant on a gold chain. He kisses the Star of David and fastens the chain around his neck.

Also in London / At around the same time

A nondescript office in the underground bunker of a nondescript building. Two unremarkable looking men in unremarkable suits sit either side of an unremarkable desk.

It's an open secret - in other words no secret at all - that the head of the British Secret Intelligence Service (known as MI6) is referred to as ‘C’.

C for ‘Chief’ according to some. C for ‘Control’ according to others. Or, alternatively, C for a part of the female anatomy, depending on who's asked. In truth, it's simply because the first holder of the post had had a surname beginning with the letter C. But it had stuck, regardless.

The current ‘C’ is the third holder of the post in the organisation’s existence.

C

‘Smoke?’

Agent

‘No, thank you, sir.’

C

’Filthy habit. Ever been to America? Fascinating place. Terrifying. But fascinating. If only our people knew how much we’re in debt to them. The British Empire’s all but bankrupt. We pretend we’re a great power still, but it’s all smoke and mirrors. And the Service has an important part to play in maintaining the illusion.'

Agent

‘If you say so, sir.’

C

’Right. Down to business. We’ve had a report from our Washington station. From our agent there, Homer. A rather interesting development. The Hector Device has been uncovered inside a storage facility leased by the Berlin Museum of Ancient Antiquities.'

Agent

'Aren't all antiquities ancient?’

C

'Mmm. The key is the key, so to speak. The Phaistos Disc. The Americans want it. So do the Russians. But we're not going to bloody well let them have it. The device has been secured by our people and is on its way here. Your mission is to recover the key and to bring it back. We must have both. Wiser heads must prevail.'

Agent

'Does our friend in Washington have any idea where the key might be?'

C

'It's last known location was also Berlin, in the possession of Feldmarschall Albrecht Rorsch. Rorsch was supposed to hand it over to an expert in ancient languages to be translated. Only, for some reason, that never happened. Rorsch committed suicide and the Phaistos Disc disappeared. All very odd. Until now. Homer has had his ear to the ground, and the word on the grapevine is that Rorsch's son has turned up on the other side of the pond. Living with an aunt in Cambridge, Massachusetts. Except he isn't. The boy is here... In London. On some kind of jaunt with a team of American Archaeologists from Harvard.'

Agent

'Do we know if the son has the key with him?'

C

'Not for certain. And we don't want to step on any toes. Not yet, anyway. Washington says he's one of theirs. American mother. German father. We want you to follow them. Don't let the boy out of your sight. Agent Marigold will be going with you.'

Agent

'Why her? She was very nearly killed in that trouble in Palestine. I would have thought she's done enough for us. Marigold's time in covert operations is over, surely.'

C

'It's never enough. And it's never over. Never.'

En-route from London to Dover

Professor Faust has returned to Max's (not) favourite subject. This train rattles and shunts even more than the last one. The seats are wooden benches. Max shifts uncomfortably.

Faust

'Ilios commanded a strategic point at the southern entrance to the Dardanelles, or Hellespont, a narrow strait linking the Black Sea with the Aegean Sea via the Sea of Marmara. The city also commanded a land route that ran north along the west Anatolian coast and crossed the narrowest point of the Dardanelles to the European shore.

In theory - '

Max

'Do you think the conductor could find me a cushion?'

Faust

'You look tired, Max. Did you sleep last night?'

Max

'Not really.'

Faust

'Bad dreams?'

Max stares out the window.

The bright summer sun blazes down from its zenith upon Max’s perspiring brow. All around him, in every direction, ascend tall gleaming towers of the most lustrous marble and the finest rose quartz. But beneath the delicately scented lemon tree within the royal gardens at the heart of the palace, Max only has eyes for the young woman who stands before him. The daughter of a king.

He knows there'll be trouble if he's discovered with her. But he doesn’t care.

Athea

‘My father will kill us both if we're seen together.’

Max

Come away with me. We can take a ship to anywhere.'

Athea

’We will be hunted down like animals. The ends of the known world and beyond would not be far enough to escape my father's wrath.'

He embraces her with a suicide's passion.

Max

'Then let us die in the other's arms.'

Athea

'I cannot leave. Not while Icarus is here. They say he has brought a great gift for the mighty king of Atlantis.’

Max pushes her away. Atlantis? He looks around, taking in the marbled halls, fluted colonnades, and sacred temples of the great city. How suddenly they resembled more the white-washed tombs of the dead. As splendid as they might appear, he can't help thinking the very stroke of doom is at hand.

The roar of the blast when it comes is deafening. The sun vanishes in an instant, hidden behind a pall of thick, black cloud and, in the far distance, above the city's walls, Max can see a curling, steadily rising wave, rushing towards them.

As the ground shakes violently beneath their feet, Max and the last princess of Atlantis desperately cling to one another. Helpless against the remorseless judgement that mighty Zeus and pitiless Poseidon have together unleashed.

Max wakes up to the zest of lemon. The curtains of the open carriage window softly billowing. A hand on his shoulder. The Professor leaning over him. Holding a china cup and saucer.

Faust

'Tea?'

On the saucer is a thin wedge of lemon.

A ferry from Dover to Calais

Max has found Dr Kowalski.

Max

'Do you think Ilios was real?'

Kowalski

'I wouldn't be looking for it if I didn't.'

Max

'And Atlantis? Could that have been Thera?'

Kowalski

'The name Atlantis came later, but yes, I think so. There are too many similarities for it to be mere coincidence. Let me give you an analogy I tell all my students. In the same way pearls are formed around single grains of sand inside oyster shells, legends grow from small grains of truth. But why the interest in Atlantis? Have you caught the archaeology bug?'

Max

'Is that a bad thing?'

Kowalski

'No, Max, not at all. Just remember it's a science, and like every science, what we do is a whole lot of theory based on very little actual evidence. We know the pyramids in Egypt are burial markers, and if we apply logical reasoning, we can explain how they were constructed. But why? All that cutting and shaping and transporting enormous blocks of stone, when all they had to do was dig a hole and drop the body in?'

Max

'To be closer to the Gods?'

Kowalski

'What need have we of Gods, when we make Gods of ourselves?'

The Orient Express from Paris to Istanbul

Max is getting tired of trains, but at least the seats are upholstered. And Max has a bed. A narrow bunk in a cramped compartment that Max has to share with three of the students who are part of the expedition. They're older but they're okay. They talk about baseball. And girls. And music. And girls. Cars. And girls.

In the opulent dining car of the OE, Max is looking (definitely not staring) at an English rose. She's his age, he thinks. And the interest is mutual. Max would like to talk to her. But there's a goon in a suit. He leaves the dining car, and his plate of untouched snails, to find his friend Merrily.

Miss Merrily Mountjoy is Dr Kowalski's research assistant. A pretty but practical twenty-something, Merrily is too busy for pearls and perfume. The only female on the team, Merrily has a compartment all to herself.

Max

'I need a dress.'

Merrily

'What? Why?'

Max

'There's this girl, and I really like her, and I think she likes me, but if I go near her a goon in a suit will probably shoot me.'

Merrily

'Okay. But why do you need a dress?'

Max

'I think if I was a girl, I could maybe not get shot.'

Merrily

'You want to look like a girl to talk to a girl. It's different from the usual approach.'

Merrily takes her suitcase down from an overhead rack and opens it on her bed.

Merrily

'Most of what I packed is for when we get to the site. Work clothes. I only brought one dress. It's my Sunday dress.'

She holds up a powder-blue bodice and petticoated skirt combination with puffed sleeves and lace collar: that was (possibly) the latest fashion when the pioneers were crossing the great plains to settle in the wild west.

Max (undressing)

'Can you help me put it on?'

Merrily's eyes linger on Max's body. In fact, they linger long enough for Max to notice.

Max

'What?'

Merrily

'Nothing'

Max suddenly thinks of something.

Max

'I don't have breasts!'

Merrily (laughing)

'Not all girls do. But if we tighten the belt... Like this... I think the blouse will be loose enough.'

Max's brown leather lace-up shoes and white socks don't look out of place.

Merrily

'Max? Your hair. It's not... '

Max

'Girly? I can fix that. I have a wig.'

Max leaves before Merrily can ask any embarrassing questions.

The bathrooms of the OE are in a separate carriage that's connected to the dining car. Max is about to push through the Homme door when the girl from the dining car takes him by the elbow and gently but firmly guides him to the Femme.

Girl

'This way. It's confusing, I know. Thank God there wasn't a queue. I'm Elizabeth.'

The girl (Elizabeth) closes and latches the door.

Max

'It's me.'

Elizabeth

'I know who you are. Where did you get that horrid dress? It's positively ghastly! And the wig?'

Max's wig is a black pageboy that curls in at the collar.

Max

'No time to explain. Where's the gorilla?'

Elizabeth

'Edwards? He won't follow me here. These are the only private moments one has.'

Max takes Elizabeth in his arms and kisses her. There's no time for polite conversation. He has the hem of her skirt up and her underwear out of the way before she can finish unbuttoning her blouse. By the time the train has crossed the bridge over the river Danube from Buda to Pest it's all over.

Elizabeth powders her nose, while Max makes a quick exit (from the bathroom).

Merrily's Compartment. Merrily points at Max's wig.

Merrily

'Can you explain that?'

Max

'Not really. My aunt gave it to me because she says it suits my bone structure.'

Merrily

'So? Did you get to talk to your mystery girl? I don't see any bullet holes.'

The answer is written all over Max's face. He takes the wig off and tosses it onto Merrily's bed.

Merrily

'You didn't. You did! You didn't get anything on my dress, did you? Take it off. Let me see!'

Max is all thumbs. Merrily has to undress him. Her eyes linger longer. The carriage shudders. The lights flicker. Merrily's fingers are in Max's hair. His hands are on her breasts. They topple onto Merrily's bed. Max can smell her arousal. Merrily's hands find Max ready and more than able.

Merrily

'I can't believe I'm doing this.'

Hisarlik Turkey / Heraklion Crete / Icaria /

Professor Faust leaves Drs Kowalski and Templeton to supervise the excavation while he takes Max to Heraklion, Crete, (supposedly) looking for clues to deciphering the Phaistos Disc.

Heraklion. Mismatched tables and chairs are arranged haphazardly in front of a popular kafeneío.

Max can’t help feeling he's being watched by the bewitching olive-skinned woman at the next table. If only he was ten years older, but then, who dares wins, right? The woman is in her thirties. Her evenly balanced features are in almost every aspect, completely perfect. It was just a shame about the livid scar on her temple. He wonders how it happened.

The woman stubs out her cigarette and gestures at a passing waiter. They exchange a few words Greek, but Max can’t quite catch what they say. Professor Faust takes a seat opposite Max, flapping his straw hat.

Faust

‘My, this heat! I’m sorry to have kept you waiting so long. Professor Economides is anything but economical when it comes to the Hector Device.’

Max

‘Did he help you decipher the script on the Phaistos Disc?’

Faust (nodding)

'The man's been studying it for years. Has quite an obsession with it. I received a telegram from Templeton this morning. Seems that he and Kowalski have completed their excavation of what they're convinced is the ancient throne room of Priam. Not much to show for all their hard work, alas. The Greeks thoroughly ransacked Ilios, just as Homer wrote.’

Max

‘Taking the Perils of Hector with them?’

Faust

‘No, I don’t think so. I think the Greeks had good reason to fear it. It was Aeneas, last surviving member of the House of Priam who spirited it away, before or during the fall of Ilios. Of that, I'm now certain. As to where he stopped on his voyage across the Aegean? Finish your milk. We have to find someone who can take us to Icaria.’

Max

‘What's at Icaria?’

Faust

’A one-time German artillery redoubt, during the war, guarding the passage through the eastern Aegean.'

Max looks for the woman but can't see her anywhere.

Agents Mandrake and Marigold watch Max and the Professor leave.

Marigold

'What exactly is this Hector Device?'

Mandrake

'It's a bomb in a box, basically. An atomic bomb. Iron and nickel composite cobalt casing thought to be from a meteorite. No one's sure how it works but, at its maximum capacity it has the potential to wipe every living thing from the face of the earth.'

From Crete the Professor and Max take a fishing trawler to the island of Icaria.

Faust

'Did you know your father was here briefly during the war? A team of Polish slave labourers extending one of the tunnels discovered two strange objects, very old, very mysterious. Your father was ordered to collect them and take them back to Berlin, where an expert on ancient languages from the museum was supposed to examine them. Unfortunately, your father shot himself before the meeting could take place, and one of the objects disappeared. The Phaistos Disc. It wasn't found on your father's body, or in the car, at your home, or anywhere else. But you already know that, don't you, Max? Because you were the last person to see your father alive, and therefore logic dictates that you must have it.'

Max

'I don't know what you're talking about.'

Faust

'I think you do. Give it to me.'

Taking a small pistol from one of the many pockets on his many-pocketed jacket, the Professor points the gun at Max.

Faust

'I didn't bring you all this way for nothing. I know you have it. Where is it?'

Max

'I don't know what you mean. I've never seen any disc with strange writing on it.'

Max realizes his mistake too late. The Professor steps closer and holds the gun to Max's head.

Faust

'Who said anything about strange writing?'

Max

'Maybe I do have it. But I didn't bring it with me.'

Faust

'I don't believe you. Take off your rucksack and open it.'

Max does, pretending to have trouble unbuckling the straps.

Max

'There's only clean socks and a change of underwear.'

Faust

'Do stop being difficult. It's appropriate, don't you think? Ironic that we're here on Icaria. You remember the story, the boy who flew too close to the sun. I didn't bring any feathers with me, so I guess you'll just have to wing it, as they say.'

Max

'You don't seriously expect me to jump?'

Faust

'No. I expect I'll have to shoot you first and toss you off after.'

Max

'One last grope for old time's sake?'

Faust

'Very funny.'

MI6 agents Mandrake and Marigold have approached Icaria from the sea and have scaled the cliffs by rope. Appearing just in the nick of time.

Mandrake has his gun aimed at Professor Faust.

Mandrake

'Drop it, Doctor. He's only a child.'

Max (offended)

'Hey. I'm sixteen, nearly seventeen!'

Faust

'I need the key. With the Phaistos Disc, I can activate the Hector Device, and then you'll see a Brave New World.'

Max

'Gays aren't exactly the Nazi's favourite people.'

Faust

'Did your mother really die in the Allied bombing of Berlin? Or in the cellars of the Gestapo SD? There won't be any Nazis. No politics. And no religion. Only the Haves and the Have-nots who serve them.'

Mandrake

'How is that any different to the way the world is now? There'll always be someone who's higher up the ladder stepping on some other poor bastard's fingers.'

While all this is going on, Max has found his box of treasures and is holding the disc hidden inside his rucksack. Moving quickly, he hurls it over the edge of the cliffs and into the sea. Faust runs after it, straight at Mandrake, who drops the Professor with three clean shots right in the middle of the chest. Faust's momentum carries him over the edge but he's already dead before he hits the rocks below.

When Max has his breath back he recognizes the female operative from the cafe.

Marigold

’You did good, kid. That was a great throw. Not great for the divers who'll have to look for it, but it'll give the Navy something to do.'

Mandrake

'And the Hector Device is safely tucked away.'

Max

'Don't suppose you can tell me where.'

Mandrake

'I could. But then I'd have to shoot you.'

Marigold (winking)

‘Kali tychi, Max. It means good luck.’

Max walks back to the nearest town and reports a terrible accident to the local police. His friend the Professor has slipped and fallen from the cliffs of Icaria while they were sight-seeing.

An envoy from the American Embassy in Athens travels with Max back to the dig site.

The ruins of Ilios / Hisarlik Turkey

Merrily and Max are walking together through the ruins of what might be Ilios.

Merrily

'What really happened to Professor Faust, Max?'

Max

'He made a deal with the Devil.'

Merrily

'You never did tell me about your mystery girl. Does she have a name?'

Max

'Elizabeth something. I don't know.'

Merrily

'Not Elizabeth Windsor!'

Max

'It might be. Why? Who is she?'

Merrily (laughing)

'Oh, no one. Her father's only the King of England.'

Washington / United States

The man known as ‘Homer’ searches through the draws of his desk in frustration. Faust and his plot had been thwarted. He winced as his ulcer flared. It was an occupational hazard of the unending stress caused by the life he led, diplomat, British spy, Soviet counter-spy. Guy had warned him this would be a consequence of the choices they had made. But what cause could be higher than serving the Party and working to build not heaven on earth, but a new, and more egalitarian world?

Homer steps into the outer office and smiles at his secretary.

Homer

‘I’m leaving early, Miss Greenaway. Tickets for the opera. All's quiet on the western front. See you next week.’

They call her strong

So she pours the coffee

They call her brave

So she paints another lipstick smile

They call her tough

So she grits her teeth through the pain

They call her courageous

So she puts on her cape

They call her compassionate

So she calls a grieving friend

They call her selfless

So she sets aside her plan

They call her capable

So she grabs her car keys

They call her persistent

So she opens the door

They call her competent

So she weaves through the traffic

They call her clever

So she narrowly avoids a fender bender

They call her caring

So she knocks on the door

They call her loving

So she reaches out to hug her friend

They call her attentive

So she listens to the fears

They call her empathetic

So she cries alongside

They call her helpful

So she puts together a meal train

They call her generous

So she is the first to cook

They call her faithful

So she says another prayer

They call her independent

So she dares not ask for help

They call her steadfast

So she dare not give up today

They call her reliable

So she does it all over again–tomorrow

You stood tall on the hill

Branches swaying in the wind

Watching me as I turned from a seed into a sprout

From a sprout to a seedling

From a seedling into a sapling.

As a sapling I was tall and lanky

Stealing your sunlight

And yet you stood there and watched

Let me be

You did not complain.

Then I turned into a tree

And your branches tipped to me.

You stood by my side

Even as the pine bug took you.

You did not get to watch

As a seed took flight from my branches

As it landed and rooted

And started sprouting.

Your roots are still there and will forever remain.

Thank you.

The world has turned a dazzling silver

And all the stars have turned to stone

What is now and what has been

Lacks all meaning when you're alone

A bed of glass shall harbor my dreams

My eyes from soft to hardened bone.