Spoiler Alert!

PLEASE read the story Max Rush / The Arrows of Akhenaten FIRST, before reading this. You’ll find the tale on Hunter Graham’s Prose page: @hunter_graham

Commentary

Once again, it has been a delight to collaborate with Hunter Graham on a further adventure with Max Rush. This one is set in the autumn of 1948 - some fifteen months or so on from the first story. The Greek civil war is at its height, the Arabs are battling against the newly established state of Israel, and West Berlin is under blockade. But Max’s attention will soon be focused upon events from more than 3,000 years ago: the golden reign of Egypt’s most enigmatic ruler…

The reign of Pharaoh Akhenaten is one of the most intriguing periods of ancient Egyptian history. By the time Akhenaten came to the throne, what Egyptologists refer to as the Eighteenth Dynasty had already been ruling for two hundred years. It was perhaps the most successful dynasty in ancient Egypt’s long history, and had already produced many notable rulers such as Ahmose, the dynasty’s founder; Thutmose I, under whom the borders of Egypt’s empire reached its greatest expanse; Hatshepsut, only the second female to reign as Pharaoh in her own right; Thutmose III, perhaps ancient Egypt’s greatest military commander; and Amenophis III, also known as Amenophis the Magnificent.

Amenophis III was succeeded by his son Amenophis IV, who soon took the name by which he is now better known: Akhenaten. He is remembered as the ‘heretic king’, who turned away from the traditional polytheism of his predecessors by promoting one God, ‘the Aten’ - represented as a golden disc, originally an aspect of the sun god Ra. Scholars are divided as to whether or not ‘Atenism’ was true monotheism, or not: but it was certainly radical in the sense of making Aten as the focus for all worship within the royal court, which Akenaten relocated to a city later known by archaeologists as Amarna (halfway between the traditional capitals of Memphis in Lower Egypt, and Thebes in Upper Egypt). Here Akhenaten oversaw a remarkable cultural revolution that was without parallel, which saw his wife, the beautiful Nefertiti, elevated almost to the status of a co-ruler, and depicted the royal family in art with a degree of tender intimacy that had never been seen before (and would not been seen again until the European Renaissance some three thousand years later).

The Hymn to the Aten (a line of which is quoted in our tale) was reputedly written by Akhenaten himself. Some scholars have noted the resemblance between Akhenaten’s hymn and certain of the psalms, particularly Psalm 104: the Christian apologist C.S. Lewis popularised this view in his 1958 book Reflections on the Psalms.

Akhenaten’s religious reforms were ultimately unsuccessful. He was succeeded by his young son Tutankhaten (possibly after the extremely short-lived rule of another king, Smenkhkare). Tutankhaten soon changed his name to Tutankhamun - a sign of his embracing the old orthodoxies of the priests of Amun, who had vigorously opposed Akhenaten’s innovations. Tutankhamun was in all likelihood a puppet of ambitious members of Akhenaten’s court such as the vizier Ay and chief general Horemheb, each of whom succeeded Tutankhamun in turn as rulers, before power passed to a new dynasty - the Nineteenth. Tutanhkamun’s brief and largely inconsequential reign is only remembered because of the remarkable discovery of his virtually intact tomb by Howard Carter in 1922.

The burial site of Akhenaten is an enduring mystery. It seems likely that his original intention was to be buried at Amarna. It’s been suggested that his remains were later moved to the Valley of the Kings near Thebes - the traditional burial site of previous pharaohs of the Eighteenth Dynasty. However, none of the mummies recovered from this site have been conclusively identified with Akhenaten (it was for a long time believed that the mummy found in the tomb known as KV55 in 1907 was that of Akhenaten, but this is now disputed by many scholars). Similarly, although several mummies have been identified with Nefertiti, none of the candidates has yet been shown conclusively to have been Akhenaten’s consort.

This air of mystery surrounding the possible fates of Akhenaten and Nefertiti was a great opportunity for Hunter and myself when it came to the writing of Max Rush’s second adventure: particularly when coupled with the enigmatic tale of Zerzura…

The story of Zerzura is an intriguing one, inspired by the 1996 film The English Patient (itself based on the book of that name by Michael Ondaatje). The English Patient tells a heavily fictionalised account of the story of Count László Almásy, a Hungarian adventurer who in the 1920s and 1930s was a leading member of the ‘Club Zerzura’, a band of desert cartographers and explorers who spent much of their time hunting for the legendary ‘Shangri-la of the sands’ - Zerzura.

Zerzura was long rumoured to have existed deep in the Sahara Desert. The allure - and danger - of the deep desert dates back at least to Herodotus, who recorded that the Persian king Cambyses once lost a great army in the desert wastelands (another incident that Hunter and I refer to in our tale).

But the first certain mention of the name Zerzura - which in Arabic means ‘Oasis of Little Birds’ - dates from the 13th century. Later, in the 15th century, an anonymous treasure-hunter’s guide entitled Kitab al Kanuz (‘The Book of Hidden Pearls’ in Arabic) describes Zerzura as a white-washed city of the desert, on whose gate is carved a bird. The description of Zerzura that Templeton gives is taken directly from this 15th century manuscript.

Another intriguing tale is that of a camel driver called Hamid Keila, who in 1481 was rescued from the deep desert, following an unusually severe sandstorm, by a group of men the like of whom he had never seen before. They were tall, fair-haired and blue-eyed. What is more, they carried straight swords, not scimitars. The strange men came from a city in the desert called Zerzura where they took the half-dead Keila and treated him with kindness. The citadel was well watered with springs, and vines and palms sprouted, and the dwellings were richly furnished. The people of Zerzura spoke Arabic, but with many peculiar words that the camel driver could not understand until they were carefully explained. The strange people were evidently not Muslims, because their fair-skinned women were unveiled, and Hamid Keila saw no mosque and heard no muezzin. Some months later, the camel driver turned up in Benghazi, and was brought before the local Emir, to whom he told his tale. The Emir asked the camel driver how he came to be in Benghazi. Looking uncomfortable, he said he escaped one moonless night when he had regained his strength, and after a difficult journey north had arrived in Benghazi. The Emir was puzzled and wondered why, if his rescuers were so kindly, it had been necessary to escape. The Emir ordered his guards to search the luckless camel driver and they discovered in his robes a huge ruby set in a gold ring. Asked how he had obtained the stone, Hamid Keila could not answer and the Emir judged that he had stolen it from people who, although apparently infidels, had shown him great kindness. The Emir ordered the unfortunate man to be taken into the desert again and to have his hands cut off. Had the hapless camel driver encountered the descendants of a lost band of Teutonic crusader knights?

The first European reference to Zerzura comes from 1835, from the English Egyptologist John Gardner Wilkinson, based on the report of an Arab who claimed to have found the oasis whilst searching for a lost camel. According to Wilkinson, the oasis abounded ‘in palms, with springs, and some ruins of uncertain date’. The hunt for Zerzura began in earnest between the two World Wars - but although explorers, including Count Almásy, found evidence of human settlement from days when the Sahara Desert region was far less harsh than today (such as the exquisitely-beautiful Cave of Swimmers), of Zerzura and its hidden treasures there was no such trace. Over the centuries, Zerzura has joined the ranks of Camelot, Shangri-la and El Dorado as a mythic place of wonder and delights.

But what if Zerzura truly existed? And what if the king and queen buried there (according to ‘The Book of Hidden Pearls’) were none other than Akhenaten and Nefertiti? This is the premise underlying The Arrows of Akhenaten.

A note now about the political backdrop to our tale. The reappearance of Donald Maclean (also known as ‘Homer’) from our first Max Rush story is fortuitous. In reality, Donald Maclean was transferred from the British embassy in Washington in 1948 to the British embassy in Cairo (he would soon be followed in Washington by Kim Philby, then Guy Burgess, both members of the Cambridge spy ring). Maclean’s transfer to Egypt came at a critical time for the Middle East, with the outbreak of the First Arab-Israeli War (following Britain’s withdrawal from the Palestinian Mandate and the foundation of the state of Israel). In 1948, the Americans were still the sole nuclear power: but the Soviets were only a year away from exploding their own atom bomb, and were undoubtedly emboldened by the knowledge (gleaned from Maclean in Washington) that the Americans still had only a few atomic devices at their disposal, and none were easily deployable against the Soviets directly. The outbreak of the Arab-Israeli War coincided with the beginning of the Berlin blockade - perhaps the first overt action of the Cold War - as the USSR attempted to force the Western allies to withdraw from Berlin. The Berlin blockade, combined with the tightening Soviet grip over the Eastern European bloc, were factors that contributed to the creation of NATO just six months after the events of The Arrows of Akhenaten. Max Rush’s search for the Pharaoh whose arrows pointed to the light is played out against a darkening world order. For in the famous words of Winston Churchill, from two years earlier: ‘From Stettin in the Baltic to Trieste in the Adriatic an iron curtain has descended across the Continent.’

Finally, the character of Nick Flaire and the seedy dive ‘Club Cleo’ is inspired by Rick Blaine and his ‘Rick’s Café Américain’ in the 1942 American romantic drama Casablanca - relocated to Port Said. As Nick might have said to Agent Marigold (or perhaps to Merrily Mountjoy): ‘Here’s looking at you, kid…’

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!'

Teen hero and aspiring Casanova, Max Rush is up to his neck in sand, camels, and counter-intelligence conspiracies. But if Max can stay alive long enough he might just solve one of the greatest mysteries of the ancient world. Where are the remains of Egypt's heretic Pharaoh? Max must follow the Arrows of Akhenaten to discover the answer. And every step could be his last.

Somewhere in Egypt / 1948

Dr Eugene Kowalski has personally invited Max to join him on a new quest.

Kowalski (singing)

'I'm the man who broke the bank at Monte Carlo!'

Max

'If I never see another camel's ass it'll be too soon.'

Kowalski

'Tut-tut, Max. There's no better train than a camel train. And ships of the desert don't sink.'

Max

'I think you're mixing your metaphors again.'

Kowalski

'Am I? You're the one who can't tell his ass from his camel. You'll have us riding giraffes next!'

Max

'Talking of giraffes, do you think Dr Templeton will have everything ready?'

Kowalski's colleague from Harvard University is waiting for them in Cairo.

Making the necessary preparations before they leave for Amarna in Middle Egypt. Where the esteemed Drs have - what should be - a fairly simple task to perform at the behest of the Egyptian Ministry of National Treasures.

Kowalski

'Trust in two things, Max. God and Godfric Templeton. They won't let you down.'

Perched on his dromedary's lurching poop deck, Max is feeling more than a little queasy. Last night's stewed goat has come back to life and is trying to kick its way out of his stomach, and the dried date he's chewing has none of the flavour and all of the texture of a dead cockroach.

Max

'I think I'm going to vomit.'

Kowalski (sings)

'Heave away, me hearties! Heave away! Haul away!'

Max

'You're not helping.'

Kowalski

'You don't hear Lawrence complaining.'

Lawrence, Dr Kowalski's camel, does nothing but complain. Often expressing his displeasure from both ends at the same time.

Their Bedouin guide is a man called Mosul Bin Muhammed, a friend of Dr Kowalski's from before the war, Muhammed is taking them to meet an old man who, he says, has in his possession an even older skull. Older than the sands of the desert. Perhaps as old as the Garden of Eden itself.

Ibrahim Bin Ibrahim welcomes them with open arms and toothless gums. He could be anywhere between eighty and a hundred years old, but there's nothing frail or vague about him. Bin Ibrahim still has the eyes of a falcon and a rogue's courteous charm.

Dr Kowalski is the only one allowed to examine the skull, while Max is dragged away by Bin Ibrahim's dozen or so curious, chattering grandchildren.

Max is a little disappointed at being excluded, but if there's anything worth telling, the Doctor will tell him later.

Max

'Was the skull worth it?'

Kowalski

'Oh, yes! Fascinating! Old, undoubtedly, but exactly how old I can't say. It could be tenth century. Or it could date as far back as the last ice age.'

Max

'Almost as old as Ibrahim.'

Kowalski (laughs)

'Possibly. But don't let him hear you say that.'

The City of Armarna / 3000 BC

The torchlights in the palace flicker. Akhenaten, Great King, Pharaoh of Upper and Lower Egypt is dying. His physicians are powerless to do anything more than alleviate his suffering. His reign has been far too short - a mere seventeen years - to allow him to make the lasting impact he desired with his religious reforms. His wondrous new city, with its lavish buildings, tranquil pools and ordered gardens, is unlike any other in Egypt. Completed in the ninth year of his reign, it has been home for his beautiful and beloved consort Nefertiti and their six daughters.

But Nefertiti is dead, and Akhenaten has been plagued by a mysterious, debilitating illness. His young son Tutankhaten, the child of one of his lesser wives, will succeed him, but it will be his vizier Ay, and his chief general Horemheb, who will wield the true power.

Akhenaten knows there is no hope that they might remain faithful to Aten.

What will remain of his legacy? And how can he protect his own body from the defilement of both tomb robbers and the vengeful priests of Amun? The original plan for his resting place - here in Amarna - is no longer feasible. Nor does he wish to be buried in the Valley of the Kings. The days of the Great Pyramids of the Pharaohs has long since passed.

But there is a final contingency. Akhenaten's most trusted servant, Kamose. He will see to it that none disturb the final resting place of the Son of Aten.

How manifold are thy works, what thou hast made. They are hidden from the face of man.

The City of Amarna / 1948

Akhenaten's tomb is, for all intents and purposes, empty. The hewn rock walls are bare of plaster, there are no paintings, no carvings, and no statues. Only a rectangular stone plinth set slightly off centre supports the stone base of the Pharaoh's unadorned sarcophagus. Also empty.

Max is decidedly underwhelmed.

Kowalski

'Not what you were expecting? Akhenaten founded a new religion dedicated to the worship of Aten, the power and life giving light of the sun. Not long after Akhenaten's death, his son Tutankhamun restored the traditional Gods and temple institutions. Anything that was here was either stolen or destroyed. The city of Amarna was abandoned, and Akhenaten's body was believed to be removed to the royal burial ground in the Valley of the Kings. But his remains have never been found.'

Max

'So why are we here?'

Kowalski

'The Ministry of National Treasures has asked us to lift what's left of the sarcophagus off the plinth and prepare it for safe transport to their museum in Cairo.'

Max watches a small team of Arab and Egyptian labourers sling a cradle of ropes under and between the sarcophagus and its plinth and feed a line through a system of pulleys hanging from a chain attached to a block and tackle.

Dr Kowalski gives them the nod and the stone sarcophagus slowly rises, ready to be swung over and manhandled onto a wheeled flatbed trolley.

Relieved of the weight of the hefty sarcophagus, the plinth begins (unexpectedly) to sink into the floor of the tomb with a loud grinding of stone on stone.

Kowalski

'What the hell?'

Max

'Is that supposed to happen?'

The four fixed sides of the hollow plinth stay together, but the bottom is hinged and opens to reveal a narrow tunnel with steps going down that have been cut into the bedrock.

Max points at the suddenly revealed passage way.

Max

'Should that be there?'

Dr Kowalski is tugging at twin handfuls of his bristling beard. His usually ruddy face has gone a whiter shade of pale.

Kowalski

'Well, that's just... '

The mixed crew of labourers look ready to run for their lives.

Seemingly unfazed, Dr Godfric Templeton removes his glasses and wipes the dusty lenses with a handkerchief he takes from the breast pocket of his leather-elbowed houndstooth jacket.

Templeton

'The Ministry will need to be informed of this.'

Dr Kowalski turns to the frightened workers.

Kowalski

'Anyone breathes an ant's fart about this outside these walls and I'll make damned sure they never work on another site again!'

Max (to himself)

'Mummy's the word.'

The City of Cairo / 1948

Shady deals and shadier characters. Where every vice known to man, and more that are only known to a few, can be bought. Barefoot urchins easily outrun furious stall-holders. Sirens lure the unwary traveller from the upper storeys of balconied brothels.

Two contrasting individuals sit in wicker chairs carefully placed in the accommodating shadow cast by a wide-spanning date palm. Theirs is a quiet corner of an otherwise busy Egyptian ahwa. They have a clear view of their surroundings and they only speak when they're certain no one can hear them.

One is tall, debonair, aristocratic in appearance. His annunciation is as clear and precise as the narrow pin-striping of his charcoal-grey suit. His name is Donald Maclean. Known only, if he's known at all, and only to those who need to know, as "Homer"

The other is short and has a face like a rat. His sunken eyes are shadowed with dark half-moons in shades of aubergine under swollen, yellow-crusted lids. Vladimir Volodkin is a man who has not only witnessed unspeakable atrocities, but has committed more than might be considered his "fair" share. His dress style is shabby-psychopath. His accent is elusive. He isn't a spy, as such, but a facilitator. He makes things happen. His codename is "Grey Goose".

The rat-faced Volodkin stirs a tall glass of iced mint tea.

Volodkin

'So, how are you finding Cairo? Enjoying your promotion?'

Homer

'Hot. My wife hates it.'

Volodkin

'Wait till we get to the summer. She will like it even less. I understand King Farouk is a most convivial and generous host. Didn’t Life magazine call him "the very model of a young Muslim gentleman"?’

Homer (shaking his head)

'He’s venial and corrupt. Egypt came out of the war one of the richest country in the Middle East, but he’s squandering it away.'

Volodkin

'You say squandering, I say pissing. And at least he's pissing in my direction so some some of it trickles down to me.'

Homer

'Was the full implication of my final communique from Washington sufficiently clear?'

Volodkin

'Don't over complicate things. The Americans can't make their atom bombs quickly enough. I'd say that's clear enough. When can Moscow expect your initial report on the British Embassy here?'

Homer

'Give me a fortnight.'

Volodkin drains the last of his tea. Stands up to leave.

Homer

'MI6 has an undercover operative in Cairo.'

Volodkin sits back down.

Volodkin

'Who?'

Homer

'There's more. Washington has its own agent here as well.'

Volodkin

'Besides you.'

Homer

'Besides me.'

Volodkin (snorts)

'The bumbling professor?'

Homer

'The "bumbling professor" is fully trained and has twenty years experience in the field. Not someone to shrug off so lightly.'

A woman in a green silk dress stops to pick a flower from an earthenware planter defining the restaurant's forecourt. The flower is one among dozens of yellow and orange marigolds.

The City of Amarna

Dr Templeton supervises the loading of Akhenaten's sarcophagus onto the truck that will take it, and him, back to Cairo. Leaving Max and Dr Kowalski alone in the tomb, with the temptation of a secret passage way only just discovered and, as yet, unexplored.

Kowalski

'What do you say, Max, do you want to know what's down there? Or do we go back to base and twiddle our thumbs while we wait for some pompous little prick from the Ministry to steal our thunder?'

Max

'I don't think Dr Templeton will be too happy if we go in without him.'

Kowalski

'Godfric is one of my dearest friends, and an excellent archaeologist, but his idea of excitement is Thursday night bingo.'

Dr Kowalski switches on his battery powered, handheld flashlight and shines it into the tunnel.

Kowalski

'Just a quick look. We won't touch anything.'

Bare walls are hewn from the rock. At the bottom of the twenty-one steps - Max counts them - is a small, naturally formed cavern. There's a wall of sandstone blocks directly opposite the steps, and there's nothing natural about it. Chiselled into the face of each large, rectangular block of stone is a single hieroglyph.

Kowalski (reads aloud)

'These be the Arrows of Akhenaten. Only the most loyal and faithful of subjects may pass. The Falcon kneels before the one true God.'

Max

'What is it? Some kind of riddle?'

Kowalski

'The men who designed and built the royal burial tombs would always have more than one way in and out. But what's the prize? The half-circle over a feather next to a zig-zag over a donut is Aten, the Sun. Akhenaten's one true God. Horus is the falcon. Not to be confused with Re, who has the head of a hawk but whose hieroglyph is a donut on a stick and a man holding what looks like a candle. A young fellow from Oxford only made that mistake once. Nasty things, scorpions.'

Max

'What are we supposed to do? Stand on our heads and say their names backwards?'

Kowalski

'It's not magic, Max. It's science. My guess is there's some kind of hidden mechanism behind the wall that unlocks a concealed door. Put your hand on the block with Horus and push. I'll do the same with Aten. On the count of three. Ready? One. Two. Three.'

The stone blocks glide into the wall with little effort, and there's a loud, metallic clank, followed by the sound of a cogged wheel turning. Three irregular shaped flagstones in the chamber's floor suddenly drop away, revealing another narrow tunnel with another set of steps.

Max

'You're a genius!'

Kowalski

'Not really. The Knights of Saint John had something similar in their citadel on Malta. Pick the right apostle to win a prize.'

Max

'What was the prize?'

Kowalski

'You didn't die horribly.'

Twenty-eight steps lead down to a second chamber, another cave, but this one is long and narrow, and instead of a wall there's a stone wheel segmented like pieces of a pie.

Kowalski

'The two Queens of the night wear one Crown.'

Max

'Who are we looking for?'

Kowalski

'Bastet and Khensu. One's a cat and the other is another bird-man with horns and a full moon. Look for a vase and two half-circles. And a full circle over a horizontal zig-zag next to a corn-stalk next to a baby chicken.'

Max (confidently)

'These are easy.'

Kowalski

'Don't count your baby chickens before we have our ducks in a row or we might end up with egg on our faces.'

There's no loud clank this time. Just the rumbling of the heavy wheel rolling into its cut to fit recess. The passage way is level and thirty-five paces in length. At the end is what is unmistakably a door, cast in solid bronze, between two stone columns. Another riddle is inscribed above the door.

Kowalski

'The Mother devours her many Children. Mother is Isis, Goddess of the Nile. Tall building next to a half-circle over a suppository next to a finger-puppet. The other is Hapi. Lord of the Fish and Birds of the Marshes. Twisted vertical ribbon next to a pipe over a square with two lines leaning to the left. You know what to do, Max.'

The bronze door swings open on an inward arc. Another passage way, forty-two steps going up at a steep angle. At the top of the steps is a large, flat slab of smooth stone. Another puzzle is cut into its surface.

Kowalski

'The Scales that weigh Eternity. Set or Sutekh. Murdered his brother. And Thoth. Decides who goes through to the after-life. Knotted rope over half-circle over spoon. A bird with a long curved beak.'

Max

'Nothing's happening.'

Kowalski

'Try lifting it.'

The large, flat slab of stone is part of a floor. Max is able to work the slab free and push it to one side, and they climb into the largest chamber so far. It has a high ceiling with holes in it that allow sunlight and fresh air in. Relieved to finally be able to stand up straight, Dr Kowalski kneads the kinks out of his aching back.

Kowalski

'This is more like it. A man needs room to move! Mites and tites, Max. See them? Do you know how to tell the difference? The "mights" go up when the "tights" come down.'

There's no wall, no wheel, no door, and no slab. The riddle is chipped out of one of the stalagmites, with veins of quartz that glitter rose-pink.

Kowalski

'The Sun's rays are brightest beneath the Earth. Amun-Ra. God of creation. Look for a feather next to balls on a table over a zig-zag line next to a man holding a golf putter.'

Max finds what might be the answer scratched into a stalactite. Centuries of water dripping from the roof of the cave have worn it away until it's almost indecipherable. Pressing on the hieroglyph has no effect. Max doesn't give up, but cups both hands under the rounded tip of the stalactite and heaves.

Max (sings)

'Heave away, me hearties!'

A minor avalanche of loosely piled rocks tumble to reveal another passage way. It's a ramp that slopes down.

Max (counts)

'Forty-seven. Forty-eight. Forty-nine. Forty-nine paces.'

Kowalski

'I expected as much. Multiples of seven. A sacred number to the Egyptians.'

The fifth chamber. The sixth Arrow. A low stone plinth against the far wall.

Kowalski

'The Lion roars with no Man's voice. Has to be Sekhmet. Woman's body. Lion's head. The other one I'm not sure.'

Max

'You're not sure?'

Kowalski

'Could be Ma'at. Goddess of truth. And all men are liars. Or so my wife says.'

Max

'Could be?'

Kowalski

'Okay, let's try candle in a holder next to circle over half-circle next to finger-puppet. And ostrich feather. If that doesn't work then... '

Max

'Scorpions?'

Kowalski

'Let's hope not.'

The stone plinth separates into two equal halves. Behind it is a cramped, narrow, twisting crawl-space. The only way through it is on their hands and knees. It opens onto a square, vertical shaft. Niches dug into the rock provide places for gripping fingers and the toes of their boots.

Max

'The only way is up.'

The exit is a building. One room. Low mud-brick walls. A collapsed roof of terracotta tiles. A sea of red sand outside the unobstructed arched doorway.

One final Arrow scribed with faded ink on a piece of ragged parchment lies among the rubble.

Kowalski

'A King remains a King beyond the River.'

Max

'Are you sure?'

Kowalski

'Relax, Max. This one's as plain as the nose on a sphinx. Tall building over an eye next to a bearded lady. Feather, zig-zag over square, baby chicken, dog on a box.'

Max

'But there aren't any hieroglyphs except those on the note.'

Kowalski

'That's because it's not a riddle. It's a map. These are the directions to Akhenaten's actual resting place. Godfric's the scholar. He'll know. We have to get back to Cairo. Hurry, Max. There's no time to lose!'

Max

'Back the way we came?'

Kowalski

'No! No! We must still be near Amarna! Come on!'

The City of Cairo

Dr Kowalski's research assistant Miss Merrily Mountjoy is enjoying her day burrowing through the bazaars. She doesn't return to the hotel. Dr Templeton begins to worry.

A short walk away from the hotel, Dr Templeton sits at a table in the dining room of a much grander and more luxurious hotel, the aptly named Grand Imperial. He wears a marigold in the breast pocket of his navy-blue suit. A dark-haired woman in a green silk dress slides into the seat opposite.

Templeton

'I need your help.'

Dr Godfric Templeton and British Agent Marigold start searching Cairo for Merrily. An obscenely obese, extremely unattractive Arab, whose known as Baksheesh, tells them Merrily is being taken to Port Said. Where a Soviet submarine will be waiting for Volodkin.

The road to Port Said. Volodkin drives a six-wheeled Bedford truck left to rust when the British army pulled out of Egypt at the end of the war. He has Miss Mountjoy with him. She isn't happy about it.

Dr Templeton and Marigold race after them in an open-topped jeep with Marigold driving.

Volodkin leans out of the driver's side window with a Tokarev TT semi-automatic pistol.

Templeton

'He's shooting at us!'

Marigold hands him her Webley Mk IV .38 service issue revolver.

Marigold

'So shoot back!'

Templeton

'Slow down. You're going to hit the truck.'

Marigold

'Relax, Doctor. I've done this before.'

She jinks the steering wheel with a casual twist and speeds up beside the driver's side of the truck. Volodkin bumps them. Metal scrapes metal as the two vehicles grind together.

Templeton empties all six rounds from the Wembley and draws his own Beretta .32 / 9mm. A compact pistol with a lot of punch.

Marigold

'We have company!'

Max rides out from behind a red-ochre sand dune on a white arabian stallion. Dr Kowalski and Mosul Bin Muhammed aren't far behind. With them are maybe thirty or more Bedouin horsemen.

A vintage WW1 Fokker D.VII biplane - piloted by the one and only pilot serving in the Royal Egyptian Air Force - and armed with twin machine guns mounted on its top wing dives out of the cloudless sky.

The Bedouin scatter. The Fokker comes back for a second run, machine guns strafing the road. The Bedouin return fire with their antique weapons.

Max asks Muhammed if he can borrow his Lee Enfield.

A sceptical Muhammed hands Max the rifle.

Standing in the stirrups, Max puts a .303 bullet between the spinning blades of the biplane's propeller and into the centre of the pilot's forehead.

Muhammed

'It was a lucky shot.'

The Fokker veers away erratically, dips its wings, ploughs nose first into a sand dune, cartwheels end over end, and bursts into a ball of fire.

Volodkin loses control of the truck and crashes into the side of a roadside building on the side of road.

Nick Flaire looks up from behind the bar. Sees a hole in wall of his hole-in-the-wall with the unconscious Volodkin slumped over the Bedford's steering wheel. He helps Merrily out of truck.

Nick

'Of all the dives in all the world, you had to crash into mine.'

The City of Port Said

The hole in the wall of Nick's "Club Cleo" is an improvement. The two Drs Kowalski and Templeton, Marigold, Max and Merrily sit around a table, talking. Nick is back behind the bar.

Max

'I still don't understand why Volodkin had you kidnapped.'

Merrily

'He said something about exchanging me for a British agent. The Russians know they have the Hector Device. I guess he was going to torture Marigold to find out where.'

Marigold

'Good luck with that!'

Templeton

'You don't know?'

Marigold

'I know it's somewhere the Soviets and you Americans won't be able to get your homicidal hands on it.'

Max

'You're the lady from Crete.'

Marigold

'And you're the kid with the golden arm.'

'You saved my life on Icaria when Professor Faust was going to shoot me and throw my body off the cliffs.'

Marigold

'Not just me.'

Max

'Did the Navy find what they were looking for?'

Marigold.

'Yes. We have that too.' *

Kowalski

'So the world is safe?'

Templeton

'For another day.'

*{See Max Rush / The Perils of Hector}

The Oasis of Little Birds / Egypt

Beyond the Bedouin camp the desolate red-brown wastes of the desert stretch as far as the horizon. Unable to sleep, a restless Max stands star-gazing.

Dr Kowalski steps out of his tent and joins him.

Kowalski

'Thinking about tomorrow, Max? I know I am. A lost city. Imagine that! Even the hairs standing up on the back of my neck have hairs standing up on the back of their necks!'

Max

'It was amazing how Dr Templeton remembered the story of the fabled city of Zerzura.'

Kowalski

'True! True! Good old Godfric!'

Max

'Can you hear something? Like voices a long way off? I thought it was just the wind but... '

Kowalski

'Now that you mention it, yes. You know, there’s a tale that Herodotus tells of the Persian king Cambyses. The story goes that he sent a vast army into the western desert to seize the Oracle of Amun in the Siwa Oasis. They were halfway across the desert when a terrible sandstorm swallowed them whole, every last one of them. The Bedouin say their voices can be heard on the wind, pleading to the Gods to release them and grant them the peaceful repose of eternal death.’

Max

'I think they're the voices of my mother's family. I hear them in my dreams.'

Kowalski

'I sometimes wonder if it isn't the people of Hiroshima and Nagasaki.'

Max

'Those, too. A world of wounded souls.'

'What in the name of all that's holy could ever have possessed us that we would do such dreadful things?'

Dr Kowalski takes a silver flask from a vest pocket, unscrews the cap, puts the flask to his lips, and doesn't stop drinking until it's empty.

Morning. Everyone's up bright and early. A little too early for some.

Dr Templeton (quotes)

“You will find palms and vines and flowing wells. Follow the valley until you meet another, opening to the west between two hills. In this valley you will find a forsaken path. Follow it. For the path will lead you to the City of Zerzura. It is a city of white, like a dove is white. By the closed gate you will find a bird sculpted from the whitest marble. Stretch up your hand to its beak, and take from it a key. Open the gate and enter. There will you find much wealth. There also will you a find king and his queen, sleeping the sleep of enchantment...

Do not go near them...

Do not trespass upon their rest...

Take the treasure and that is all.”

All around them, half-buried beneath the desert dunes, are the ruins of the lost city of Zerzura.

Templeton

'In the end, all must turn to sand and dust.’

On either side of the entrance to the temple of Aten stands a tall, imposing statue.

Kowalski

’The figure on the right is clearly Set. The other is Osiris. This is the place.'

A series of short corridors and stairs twist their way into the building. There are no false entrances, no sealed chambers, no puzzles to solve. The central chamber is full of light, mirrors carefully aligned one with one another capture and disseminate shards of bright sunlight.

In the very centre of the chamber is a black granite stele, and on either side of it are two stone sarcophagi. The heavy lid of one has been forced open. Inside it is a simple coffin of wood, and in the coffin are the wrapped, mummified remains of Akhenaten. All except for his skull.

Kowalski (murmurs)

'Ibrahim. You inglorious bastard.'

Templeton

“Akhenaten. Great in his lifetime. And the Queen whom he loved. What treasure is greater than peace? Into His hands I commit my spirit, taking nothing with me. For I am content to follow the true path. The destinies of all men are written in the stars. And the Arrows of Aten shall point the way."

The City of Cairo

The hotel elevator of the Grand Imperial. Marigold has Max pressed up against a wall. Max has her dress hiked up and his hands on her narrow waist. He kisses her neck the way a trout kisses flies on the sunlit surface of a rippling stream.

Max's shirt is open. Marigold lifts his gold Star of David on its chain.

Marigold

'I didn't know.'

Max

'Does it matter?'

Marigold reaches with two fingers into the valley between her high, firm breasts and shows Max a pendant of her own.

Hers is a round wafer of solid silver with a blue enamelled six-pointed star.

Marigold

'I'm kind of wild. Do you think you can tame me?'

Max

'I'm not sure. But I can try.'

Marigold

'Use your whip, Max. Make me jump through hoops.'

Max

'I don't know your name. Your real name.'

Marigold

'It's not important. Seize the day, kid. You might never get another chance.'

Marigold is not a shrinking violet.

Spoiler Alert!

PLEASE read the story first, before reading this. You’ll find it on Hunter Graham’s Prose page:

https://www.theprose.com/post/749640/max-rush-the-perils-of-hector

Commentary

As my good friend Hunter says of me, in his understated way: ‘He likes to explain things’. So: time for some elucidation on the subject of our Forties thriller Max Rush: The Perils of Hector. Because like any good spy drama, our adventure includes a mix of the historically factual, the fantastically improbable and the intriguingly speculative.

Just as Hitler himself was the subject of various assassination attempts (most famously the Wolf’s Lair bomb plot of July 1944), so there really were a number of Nazi schemes to assassinate the Allied leaders during the Second World War. One of these was Operation Long Jump, an alleged plan to kill Stalin, Roosevelt and Churchill at the Tehran Conference in November/December 1943 (I say ‘alleged’, because some believe the whole plot to have been a Soviet contrivance. But for the purposes of our tale, we’re assuming it was true).

In reality, the RMS Olympic (twin ship to the ill-fated RMS Titanic) was scrapped in 1935. In 1947 (the year in which the main plot of The Perils of Hector is set), some of the surviving ocean liners were still serving as troop carriers. Others had returned to their pre-War service, such as the Cunard White Star liner RMS Queen Elizabeth. Perhaps we should have set the Atlantic crossing scene on board this vessel. Then again, we already had another royal Elizabeth playing a role in our tale. But I’m getting ahead of myself...

As for the famed Orient Express, that most renowned and opulent of continent-spanning train services had resumed operations in 1945 after being suspended throughout the War. No Murder on the Orient Express this time, though: just a couple of sexual conquests on the part of our plucky young hero. Kaboom.

Talking of which: to the best of our knowledge, the destruction of Thera (Santorini) in around 1600 BC was not triggered by the premature detonation of some ancient Greek weapon of mass destruction. Rather more prosaically, it was the result of the cataclysmic explosion of the volcano that sat at the heart of the island (the evidence for which is clearly identifiable when you look at a satellite image of Santorini today). It was one of the most devastating natural events in historic times, and it has, indeed, been long-speculated that the downfall of Minoan Crete was at least partially caused by it. Hittite King Mursili I (ruler of much of Anatolia at the time) is known to have led an expedition to Babylon, sacking the city in around 1595 BC. What caused Mursili to undertake an unprecedented march of some 2,000 kilometres into the heartland of Mesopotamia, for no apparent strategic advantage? It’s been speculated that he was simply desperate to ransack Babylon’s rich grain reserves, following several years of failed harvests in the Hittite kingdom: a likely consequence of the devastating climate change visited upon the environs of the Aegean following Thera’s explosion.

For a century and a half, Homer’s Troy has been identified with the archaeological ruins at Hisarlik first excavated by Heinrich Schliemann (commonly regarded as one of the founding fathers of archaeology, even if his methods left an awful lot to be desired). For hundreds of years, Troy was a vassal-state of the Hittite kingdom, before becoming embroiled in the famous conflict at the end of the Bronze Age we know today as the Trojan War. We can imagine that in our ‘Maxiverse’ (hey, if you can have the View Askewniverse, the Buffyverse and the Snyderverse, then why not?), the wondrous invention that eventually became known as the ‘Perils of Hector’ had somehow passed from Minoan Crete to the Hittite kingdom and then on to Troy. In our story, it’s hinted that the Greeks had good reason to fear the ‘Perils’ during their War with Troy. Perhaps the mysterious plague that afflicted the Greek camp in the final year of the War was caused by some kind of radiation sickness emanating from the Device?

Aeneas, a second cousin of Hector and Paris, and the last scion of the Royal House of Troy, was the eponymous hero of Virgil’s epic The Aeneid. According to legend, after escaping the fallen city he seduced Queen Dido of Carthage, before eventually settling in Italy. His descendants included Romulus and Remus, the traditional founders of Rome, in 753 BC. It’s perfectly plausible that while on his long journey westward, Aeneas stopped off for a time at the island of Icaria. It’s also quite apt, given the mythological association between the island and the ill-fated son of Daedalus, Icarus.

According to the Greek myths, Daedalus was the most brilliant engineer of all time. The tale of the Labyrinth, home to the Minotaur, is probably inspired by the palace of Knossos, one of the archaeological wonders of the world. Knossos was excavated a generation after Schliemann’s pioneering exploits at Hisarlik by the British archaeologist, Sir Arthur Evans. Evans claimed to have found the very throne of King Minos himself (a claim as ludicrous and hyperbolic as Schliemann’s earlier assertion to have found the funeral mask of King Agamemnon in the ruins of ancient Mycenae!). And talking of archaeological artefacts of dodgy provenance…

The Disc of Phaistos is an actual Minoan artefact. Maybe. (I say maybe, because some still maintain that it was an elaborate hoax). Be it genuine or not, I saw the Disc for myself, back in the 1980s, on a visit to the Heraklion Archaeological Museum in Crete. However, other than the name, and its being inscribed with a baffling script (still untranslated today in the real world), the Maxiverse’s version of the artefact bears as much relation to the real thing as Indiana Jones’ Dial of Destiny™ does to the Antikythera Mechanism, the remarkable hand-powered orrery that - at more than two thousand years old - has been described as the oldest example of an analogue computer (clever guys, those ancient Greeks). The fascinating true stories of both the Disc of Phaistos and the Antikythera Mechanism are well worth googling.

(And in case you’re wondering - the fact that Faust does not have possession of the Disc, but is still capable, with the help of the unseen Professor Economides, of translating the inscription upon it, is not a plot hole. The Disc was discovered by Luigi Pernier in 1908 (unless it was a hoax - see above), and (in our story, though not in fact) was spirited away during the German occupation of Crete. But - of course - scholars would have had ample time to make copies of the puzzling inscription engraved upon it during the decades prior to its disappearance. Just thought I should clear that up - before any of you accuse Hunter and I of inconsistent plotting!)

The climactic confrontation in the story, as Faust tries to recover the Disc from Max, fittingly takes place on Icaria. The reference to wartime German artillery emplacements on the island, guarding the neighbouring sea approaches, is a small homage to Alistair Maclean’s 1957 thriller The Guns of Navarone. If you haven’t read the book (or watched the excellent film adaptation), check them out.

Rather like policemen, all good plot devices come in twos: hence the idea that there were actually not one, but two, ancient Greek uber-bombs. Named by their inventor, of course, in honour of himself and his son Icarus. The ‘Icarus Device’ is the one exploded on Thera (and, implicitly, is responsible for the myth of the death of Icarus, flying too close to the sun - in my book, a pretty good definition of atomic hubris). The ‘Daedalus Device’ is the surviving weapon that eventually ends up in Troy, renamed as the ‘Perils of Hector,’ or simply the ‘Hector Device’.

And Atlantis? Well, we have the Greek philosopher Plato to thank (or blame) for the tale of this wondrous lost civilisation. Many scholars have hypothesised that there is a kernel of truth underlying the fable: i.e. that the dramatic downfall of Atlantis was inspired by a folk-memory of the calamitous destruction of Thera. Plato’s Atlantis, incidentally, also inspired J.R.R. Tolkien’s account of the Fall of Númenor in The Silmarillion. In his mythology of Middle-earth, Númenor is the lost island of the Men of Westernesse, destroyed because of an act of hubris as foolish as that of Icarus in our tale.

Of course, the idea of Daedalus, however gifted, being a sufficient genius to contribute (one presumes) to a super-advanced pre-Classical civilisation, as well as to devise an (almost literally) Earth-shattering weapon, is fanciful in the extreme: but no more so than some of the over-the-top plans and machinations of the villains in the Bond universe (‘Bondiverse’? No, that sounds very silly). The technobabble Agent Mandrake at one point spouts about the iron and nickel composite cobalt casing of the ‘Hector Device’ isn’t that far removed from the idea (first scientifically postulated in 1950) of a cobalt bomb, a mega-weapon capable of ending all human life on earth. The concepts of ‘doomsday devices’ and ‘Armageddon by cobalt bombs’ were further explored in Nevil Shute’s grim 1957 novel On the Beach, and later to darkly comedic effect by Stanley Kubrick in his 1964 film Dr Strangelove.

Talking of Agent Mandrake (and his companion Agent Marigold): the identification of their London boss, the director of MI6, as ‘C’ is quite correct (as also the fact that he is the third overseer of the Secret Intelligence Service in its history). ‘Control’ in John Le Carré’s thrillers, and ‘M’ in Ian Fleming’s Bond novels, and their respective adaptations, were directly inspired by ‘C’. Then there’s the mysterious operative in Washington, referred to as ‘Homer’. This is none other than Donald Maclean, one of the infamous Cambridge Spy Ring that for years passed British intelligence to the Soviets. The ‘Guy’ he recalls (obliquely) is Guy Burgess, another member of the Ring. Maclean was well-placed, as First Secretary in the British Embassy in Washington at the time of our story, to carry on his work as a double-agent. Burgess later followed him into that post, before they both defected to the USSR in 1951. And yes: I know that ‘Homer’ was actually the cypher that the Soviets gave to Maclean, not MI6’s own alias for him. But a spy code-named Homer was a perfect addition to a story inspired (in part) by the forefather of Western literature. So purists can give us that one, surely. And, who knows, Homer may even return one day as a foil for Max in a future adventure.

We trust that you, the reader, will also forgive the most outrageous subplot of the narrative: our young hero’s dalliance with a certain English rose (and British heir apparent). Hopefully, the Royal Family will not sue us for defamation! The Maxiverse is fictional, dammit…

And finally - on the subject of passionate liaisons - some of you will recognise the quotation (in reference to Helen of Troy) that Dr Faust recalls to Max from playwright Christopher Marlowe, a contemporary of Will Shakespeare: ‘Was this the face that launched a thousand ships, and burned the topless towers of Ilium?’ Well - it’s very appropriate that our villain should find himself quoting this. After all, Marlowe’s play is called Doctor Faustus, and is based on German legends about a character called Faust who - quite literally - makes a pact with the devil. Rather a nice touch, that.

Anyway, that’s quite enough from me: else Hunter will complain that the Commentary is in danger of overshadowing the story. Perish the thought.

Just remember: MAX RUSH WILL RETURN…

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.’

By Marky Sparky and Hunter Graham

‘Et tu, Brute?’

With these words, the man who for years had bestrode the narrow world like a Colossus broke the long silence. Slowly, I nodded.

‘Aye, Caesar. Even Brutus, your friend. The bitterest of betrayals, save one. For which part, I will perchance be remembered as a serpent.’

‘Rather, would I think of you as a serpent’s egg, which hatch’d, would as your kind grow mischievous. It would have been better, by far, for me to have killed such a creature in the shell.’

‘Your honey tongue drips more venom than any viper, O Caesar,’ I retorted.

He smiled. ‘Come, Brutus. You can’t compare my words with those of Cicero. His rancorous wit displayed each day in the Senate is a thousand times more astringent than anything I could come up with.’ He filled two goblets from the richly decorated pitcher resting on the table between us. I noted the glazed scene displayed on the pitcher – Horatius defending the Pons Sublicius against the Etruscans. I murmured:

‘And how can man die better than facing fearful odds, for the ashes of his fathers, and the temples of his Gods?’

‘How indeed,’ replied Caesar. ‘I have only ever desired the good of Rome. Just like you, just like Horatius, I am a patriot.’ He gestured towards the goblets. ‘Slake your thirst, Brutus.’

‘Your health,’ I said, unironically, raising the wine to my lips. I drank deeply. It was good.

He raised his own goblet and sipped, savouring the drink more slowly. ‘To Rome,’ he said.

I snorted. I couldn’t help myself. ‘Rome? There is no Rome. It was an idea. More…’ I paused. ‘More an ideal. A city of the people, governed by the people, for the people. That Rome is no more. It ceased to exist when you accepted the adulation of those who would acclaim you as King.’

‘Not so, Brutus. Three times I was offered the crown during the Lupercalia: three times I refused.’

‘O Caesar, your truths prove you false: your lies march in legions. And yet, I have shed tears for your love; experienced joy for your fortune; known honour for your valour–’

‘Yet desired death for my ambition,’ he countered. ‘Can you not see my ambition, and Rome’s ambition, are one and the same? Who has loved Rome with a greater love than I?’

‘My ancestors,’ I replied, ‘who from the streets of Rome the Tarquin drove, when he was called a King. But what does that matter now? Give me a sword, that I might cut my heart out. I cannot live with the shame of having failed.’

‘You will live, dear Brutus, for as long as it takes for me to fathom the full extent of this conspiracy. There’s much that I still do not understand. The peculiar prescience of the Soothsayer, for instance.’

‘Did his words concerning the Ides of March put you on your guard?’ I asked, curious. ‘Or was it the dream of your wife Calpurnia?’

Caesar shook his dead. ‘Neither. It was this letter’–he picked up a piece of parchment that was lying on the desk–‘that made the difference. It was thrust into my hand by the philosopher Artemidorus of Cnidos as I was about to enter the Senate. Shall I read what is written within?’

I shrugged. ‘As Caesar wishes.’

‘Caesar, beware of Brutus; take heed of Cassius; come not near Casca; have an eye to Cinna; trust not Trebonius; mark well Metellus Cimber; Decimus Brutus loves thee not; thou hast wronged Caius Ligarius. There is but one mind in all these men, and is bent against Caesar. The mighty gods defend thee!’

He tossed the parchment to one side. ‘You showed the open palm of peace and welcome with one hand, Brutus, but hid a poisoned dagger behind your back with the other!’ The level of reproach in his voice had become heightened. ‘And for what? For all your protestations about liberty and freedom, you have chosen to align yourself not with the people, but with the patricians. Fill their purses. Weight them heavily. And when the city sinks into the mud of the Tiber, the gold will drag them down all the faster.’

He paused, and took another sip of his wine, before continuing, rather more calmly. ‘No matter. Your co-conspirators have all been arrested, and interrogated, quite thoroughly: save for Cassius, the ring-leader. He took his own life, alas, before we could prevent it. But I wanted to leave questioning you until last, old friend. Marcus Antonius thinks I’m wasting my time, yet I believe you to be an honourable man. More so than Cassius was, for certain. He always had a lean and hungry look; the look of one who thinks too much. Such men are dangerous. So, Brutus: do you have anything more to say?’

There was one more thing I could add, that I knew would devastate this proud man. I did not know if he would believe me: but there was nothing to be achieved by deception.

‘There is one person whose treachery is greater than that of Cassius, or Cinna, or even of Marcus Brutus, your friend. One other who believed he stood to profit greatly from your death. One who had assured Cassius he would readily lend his support to our cause once the fatal blow had been struck. For my part, I mistrusted his words. But I know that Cassius believed them.’

Caesar leaned forward, an intense look on his face. His eyes bored deep into me. ‘To whom do you refer? Who, Brutus?’

‘Someone who assured us of a promise that you had made to him, a few years ago. A promise sealed in your last will and testament. The conviction of a young man who believes himself to be heir to the conqueror of Gaul. I speak of one who believes himself to be the heir by adoption of Gaius Julius Caesar. I speak of–’

‘Gaius Octavius. My great-nephew.’ Caesar’s tone was devoid of emotion: but I was conscious that his eyes had not flickered once. He was scrutinising me intensely, looking for any clue that I might be speaking falsely.

‘Yes. Cassius learnt you’d lodged your will last year. Naturally, he couldn’t verify the claim of Octavius: any more than Octavius could be certain that you had honoured your promise to him. But I note you do not deny it, O Caesar.’

‘What would motivate my great-nephew – if, indeed, I have named him as my heir – to turn against me?’

‘The fear of being unnamed, of course. In favour of a natural-born heir.’

‘I have no such heir.’

His denials meant nothing. ‘No legitimised heir, it’s true. So the rumours that the young child born to Queen Cleopatra three summers ago is your son are false?’

'Your words fall on deaf ears, Brutus. I will not lend you mine.’ There was a cold look of anger in his eyes now: but it was not, I sensed, aimed at me.

Not for one moment did I believe that Octavius’ secret pledge of support had been motivated by a desire to see the Republic saved. It was nothing more than a duplicitous piece of political manoeuvring on the part of an ambitious young man who aimed to become a second Caesar.

The now unchallenged ruler of Rome sat stock still, silent for a while. He was calculating furiously, I knew. I hardly dared to breathe. I had prayed to the Gods for the wisdom of Jupiter and the strength of Mars, but they had blessed – or cursed – me instead with the winged sandals of Mercury. Don’t fire arrows at the messenger, I thought. Was it yet possible that my life – and the lives of my fellow conspirators – might be spared? Would Caesar act swiftly, and decisively, to eliminate his dangerous great-nephew? Might he yet recognise the young boy that Cleopatra had named Caesarion? And what counsel might be given by his fellow consul, Marcus Antonius?

As I waited for his decision, a chill overtook my heart. I might, perhaps, have saved my own life. The crisis might pass: a reconciliation between the parties of Caesar and the Republic might yet be possible. But was this, truly, the dawn of a Pax Romana? I looked at the great dictator, and thought: ‘The name of Caesar will die with Rome, but everything you are will rise again in the hearts and minds of others. The abuse of greatness is when it disjoins remorse from power; and men who will crawl their way to absolute power only to abuse it. Crying havoc, and letting loose their dogs of war!’

Finally, Gaius Julius Caesar looked up, and his gaze met mine once more. His pale blue eyes were clearer than I’d ever seen them. At that moment, I knew exactly what his decision would be.

*

Note:

Abridged slightly to fit the word limit of this challenge!

By Marky Sparky and Hunter Graham

‘Et tu, Brute?’

With these words, the man who for years had bestrode the narrow world like a Colossus broke the long silence. We were alone, perhaps for the final time. I knew that my fate was hanging by a thread. Slowly, I nodded.

‘Aye, Caesar. Even Brutus, your friend. The bitterest of betrayals, save one. For which part, I will perchance be remembered as a serpent.’

‘Rather, would I think of you as a serpent’s egg, which hatch’d, would as your kind grow mischievous. It would have been better, by far, for me to have killed such a creature in the shell.’

‘Your honey tongue drips more venom than any viper, O Caesar,’ I retorted.

He smiled. ‘Come, Brutus. You can’t compare my words with those of Cicero. His rancorous wit displayed each day in the Senate is a thousand times more astringent than anything I could come up with.’ He leaned over, and filled two goblets from the richly decorated pitcher resting on the table between us. I noted the glazed scene displayed on the pitcher – it was that of Horatius defending the Pons Sublicius against the Etruscans. I murmured:

‘And how can man die better than facing fearful odds, for the ashes of his fathers, and the temples of his Gods?’

‘How indeed,’ replied my friend, the tyrant of Rome. ‘I have only ever desired the good of Rome. Just like you, just like Horatius, I am a patriot.’ He gestured towards the goblets. ‘Slake your thirst, Brutus. Choose whichever one you would.’

I took the one nearest to me. I was not so stupid as to think that Caesar might seek to poison me: not when I was completely at his mercy, and he could end my life by summoning with a mere snap of his fingers the guards that stood ever vigilant in the corridor without.

‘Your health,’ I said, unironically, raising the wine to my lips. I drank deeply. It was good.

He raised his own goblet and sipped: savouring the drink more slowly, as was his want. ‘To Rome,’ he said.

I snorted. I couldn’t help myself. ‘Rome? There is no Rome. It was an idea. More…’ I paused. ‘More an ideal. A city of the people, governed by the people, for the people. That Rome is no more. It ceased to exist when you accepted the adulation of those who would acclaim you as King.’

‘Not so, Brutus. Three times I was offered the crown during the Lupercalia: three times I refused.’

‘O Caesar, your truths prove you false: your lies march in legions. And yet, I have shed tears for your love; experienced joy for your fortune; known honour for your valour–’

‘Yet desired death for my ambition,’ he countered. ‘Can you not see my ambition, and Rome’s ambition, are one and the same? My glory: and Rome’s glory. Who has loved Rome with a greater love than I?’

‘My ancestors,’ I replied, ‘who from the streets of Rome the Tarquin drove, when he was called a King. But what does that matter now? Give me a sword, that I might cut my heart out. I cannot live with the shame of having failed.’

‘You will live, dear Brutus, for as long as it takes for me to fathom the full extent of this conspiracy. There’s much that I still do not understand. The peculiar prescience of the Soothsayer, for instance.’

‘Did his words concerning the Ides of March put you on your guard?’ I asked, curious. ‘Or was it the dream of your wife Calpurnia?’

Caesar shook his dead. ‘Neither. I paid no heed to the words of the Soothsayer; and when Decimus Brutus – your cousin – came to escort me to the Senate meeting, he dissuaded me with considerable eloquence from giving credence to the premonitions of my wife. No, it was this letter’–he picked up a piece of parchment that was lying on the desk–‘that made the difference. It was thrust into my hand by the philosopher Artemidorus of Cnidos as I was about to enter the Senate. Shall I read what is written within?’

I shrugged, and drank the dregs of my cup. I was still thirsty. ‘As Caesar wishes.’

‘Caesar, beware of Brutus; take heed of Cassius; come not near Casca; have an eye to Cinna; trust not Trebonius; mark well Metellus Cimber; Decimus Brutus loves thee not; thou hast wronged Caius Ligarius. There is but one mind in all these men, and is bent against Caesar. The mighty gods defend thee!’

He tossed the parchment to one side. ‘You showed the open palm of peace and welcome with one hand, Brutus, but hid a poisoned dagger behind your back with the other!’ The level of reproach in his voice had become heightened. ‘And for what? For all your protestations about liberty and freedom, you have chosen to align yourself not with the people, but with the patricians. Fill their purses. Weight them heavily. And when the city sinks into the mud of the Tiber, the gold will drag them down all the faster.’

He paused, his face flushed, and waited for me to respond to his challenge: but I said nothing. He took another sip of his wine, before continuing, rather more calmly. ‘No matter. Your co-conspirators have all been arrested, and interrogated, quite thoroughly: save for Cassius, the ring-leader. He took his own life, alas, before we could prevent it. But I wanted to leave questioning you until last, old friend. Marcus Antonius thinks I’m wasting my time, yet I believe you to be an honourable man. More so than Cassius was, for certain. He always had a lean and hungry look; the look of one who thinks too much. Such men are dangerous. So, Brutus: do you have anything more to say?’

There was one more thing I could add, that I knew would devastate this proud man. I did not know if he would believe me: but there was nothing to be achieved by deception. A man facing almost certain death is surely the most honest, and honourable, of men. What could I lose?

‘There is one person whose treachery is greater than that of Cassius, or Cinna, or even of Marcus Brutus, your friend. One other who believed he stood to profit greatly from your death. One who had assured Cassius he would readily lend his support to our cause once the fatal blow had been struck. For my part, I mistrusted his words. But I know that Cassius believed them.’

Caesar leaned forward, an intense look on his face. His eyes bored deep into me. ‘To whom do you refer? Who, Brutus?’

‘Someone who assured us of a promise that you had made to him, a few years ago. A promise sealed in your last will and testament. The conviction of a young man who believes himself to be heir to the conqueror of Gaul. The heir to the man who crossed the Rubicon in defiance of the will of the Senate, who defeated Pompey and who went on to capture the hearts and minds of the plebeians of Rome. The heir to the great consul, the wooer of Cleopatra, the Colossus who had everything he could desire, save only for a legitimised natural-born heir. I speak of one who believes himself to be the heir by adoption of Gaius Julius Caesar. I speak of–’

‘Gaius Octavius. My great-nephew.’ Caesar’s tone was flat, completely devoid of emotion: but I was conscious that his eyes had not flickered once. He was scrutinising me intensely, looking for any clue that I might be speaking falsely.

‘Yes. Cassius learnt you’d lodged your will last year. Naturally, he couldn’t verify the claim of Octavius: any more than Octavius could be certain that you had honoured your promise to him. But I note you do not deny it, O Caesar.’

‘What would motivate my great-nephew – if, indeed, I have named him as my heir – to turn against me?’

‘The fear of being unnamed, of course. In favour of a natural-born heir.’

‘I have no such heir.’

His denials meant nothing. ‘No legitimised heir, it’s true. So the rumours that the young child born to Queen Cleopatra three summers ago is your son are false?’

'Your words fall on deaf ears, Brutus. I will not lend you mine.’ There was a cold look of anger in his eyes now: but it was not, I sensed, aimed at me. He had considered the possibility that I might be seeking to deceive him, and had clearly dismissed it.

Not for one moment did I believe that Octavius’ secret pledge of support had been motivated by a desire to see the Republic saved. It was nothing more than a duplicitous piece of political manoeuvring on the part of an ambitious young man who aimed to become a second Caesar.

The now unchallenged ruler of Rome sat stock still, looking deeply into his half-empty wine goblet, silent for a while. He was calculating furiously, I knew. I hardly dared to breathe. I had prayed to the Gods for the wisdom of Jupiter and the strength of Mars, but they had blessed – or cursed – me instead with the winged sandals of Mercury. Don’t fire arrows at the messenger, I thought. Was it yet possible that my life – and the lives of my fellow conspirators – might be spared? Would Caesar act swiftly, and decisively, to eliminate his dangerous great-nephew? Might he yet recognise the young boy that Cleopatra had named Caesarion? And what counsel might be given by his fellow consul, Marcus Antonius?

As I waited for his decision, a sudden chill overtook my heart. I might, perhaps, have saved my own life. The crisis might pass: a reconciliation between the fractious parties of Caesar and the Republic might yet be possible. But was this, truly, the dawn of a Pax Romana? I looked at the great dictator across the table, and thought: ‘The name of Caesar will die with Rome, but everything you are will rise again in the hearts and minds of others. The abuse of greatness is when it disjoins remorse from power; and men who will crawl their way to absolute power only to abuse it. Crying havoc, and letting loose their dogs of war!’

Finally, Gaius Julius Caesar looked up, and his gaze met mine once more. His pale blue eyes were clearer than I’d ever seen them. At that moment, I knew exactly what his decision would be.

***

Commentary

The Dogs of War is a joint endeavour between @hunter_graham and myself. I’ve really enjoyed the collaboration, and Hunter came up with some sparkling lines of dialogue. The observant will notice that there’s also a judicious sprinkle of quotations from William Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar, as well as Abraham Lincoln’s famous observation on democracy from the Gettysburg Address, and the most well-known extract from Thomas Macaulay’s ‘Horatius’, the finest of his Lays of Ancient Rome.

Although Shakespeare’s retelling of the assassination of Julius Caesar, and the events preceding and following it, is perhaps the best known today, his play was based upon far earlier accounts recorded in classical literature, notably those of the Greek historian Plutarch and the Roman historian Suetonius. Most of what we know about Caesar’s death comes from these two sources.

When considering the parameters of this challenge, two questions immediately presented themselves. Firstly, how did the conspiracy fail? Secondly, what could have caused Caesar to even consider clemency for Brutus, given his exposure as a would-be assassin?

In answer to the first question, Caesar was presented with several opportunities to escape his date with destiny. He had been forewarned by the Soothsayer who had cautioned him about the Ides of March. Calpurnia’s reporting to her husband of her dream was another moment when history could have taken a different course. But perhaps the most dramatic moment was when the philosopher Artemidorus tries, and fails, at the very last to prevent Caesar from meeting with the plotting senators. What if Caesar had read the note Artemidorus had given him? In our story we quote directly from Shakespeare - albeit in slightly truncated form - the contents of that fateful letter.

As for the second question: one of the most fascinating of all the characters from Roman history during the last century of the Republic was Gaius Octavius (frequently anglicised as Octavian), the future first Emperor of Rome, Caesar Augustus. In the final act of Julius Caesar, Shakespeare is already hinting at the trouble that will follow in his next Roman play, Antony and Cleopatra, when Octavian makes his play for supreme power. Roddy McDowall completely nails the true character of Octavian, in the 1963 Hollywood epic Cleopatra. The serene public image personified by the surviving sculptures of this first, and greatest, Roman Emperor, should not disguise his utter ruthlessness. The propaganda that followed once Octavian, now Augustus, had eliminated all his enemies and attained mastery of Rome – imposing the Pax Romana that would last throughout his forty-year-long reign, and building up the Imperial cult of the divine emperor – was impressive. There is, of course, nothing in the public record to suggest that Octavian knew anything of the conspiracy against Caesar in advance, much less had any part in it. At the time of the assassination, he was hundreds of miles away from Rome studying in Apollonia (in modern-day Albania).

But just suppose he had been aware of the plot; was additionally aware that Caesar had named him as his heir; but was also fearful that Caesar was about to legitimise the young son, Caesarion, whom he had sired with the Egyptian queen? This is precisely the situation we have envisaged in our re-imagining of events.

The historical facts (as far as we know them) are that Julius Caesar had little or no interest in Caesarion, and no plan to acknowledge him publicly; and we have no evidence that Octavian himself was already aware of the contents of Caesar’s will. It almost certainly came as a rude surprise to Mark Antony, Caesar’s co-consul and closest political ally, when he opened the will and discovered Caesar’s bequest to Octavian. It is likely that Antony saw himself as the primary leader of the anti-revolutionary forces up to that point, and fully intended to seize supreme power for himself in Rome, before realising that Caesar’s unexpected inheritance would force him to come to an accommodation with the late dictator’s great-nephew. Their alliance, as part of the Second Triumvirate (with Lepidus) was uneasy from the start, and Antony seems to have been responsible for rumours (probably unfounded) that Caesar had only appointed Octavian as his heir in the first place as a reward for various sexual favours. Finally, the character of Octavian we have hinted at our re-imagining is entirely consistent with the man believed responsible for the death of Caesarion (probably by strangulation) following the suicide of Mark Antony and Cleopatra.

It has been interesting to speculate on the alternative course of events had Cassius and Brutus been unsuccessful. And what if Octavian’s ascent to power had been thwarted? The history of Rome, the Empire, the world itself, might have been very different.

And as we all know, it’s the victor who writes the history books. To what extent have the motivations of Cassius, Brutus, Antony, Octavian and others been lost – or manipulated – by the likes of Plutarch and Suetonius? We shall never know.

As for our ending: would Caesar have forgiven Brutus, in the circumstances Hunter and I have outlined in The Dogs of War? Well, that’s for you - Dear Reader - to decide.

And I looked, and behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him. And power was given unto them over the fourth part of the earth, to kill with sword, and with hunger, and with death, and with the beasts of the earth. (Revelation 6:8)

‘Praised be to God, not all the members of our blessed community are as obdurate as Brother Lawrence.’

Abbot William of Pershore sighed, and shook his head sadly. ‘You’re undoubtedly correct, Brother Nathan. No one doubts the excellence of his scholarship, and the depth of his wellspring of knowledge. He’s the best translator the abbey possesses, and one of finest illuminaters in all England: south of York, at least. But his insistence on adhering to certain obsolete annalistic conventions is rather tiresome.’

‘Perhaps not entirely obsolete, I would venture,’ said the abbot’s younger colleague. ‘As I recall from my own visit to Monte Casino, the great mother house of our order still keeps to the particular conventions to which you refer, at least in part.’

‘Yes, but this is not Italy. We pride ourselves in England on a little more sophistication.’

The assistant librarian of Abbotsbury Abbey raised an eyebrow. ‘Pride, Father William?’

The abbot laughed uneasily. ‘An unfortunate turn of phrase. But come, Brother Nathan: you yourself are widely travelled and undoubtedly open to a modicum of innovation. A certain flexibility of mind is precisely what is needed in these uncertain times.’

Brother Nathan stroked his chin thoughtfully. ‘The king cannot, surely, continue to doubt the integrity of our order?’

Abbot William sipped his wine, and paused before continuing. ‘When our superiors in Avignon remain subservient to the will of the French court, we should not wonder that His Majesty King Edward distrusts us. He may have had a string of successes on the battlefield, but he fears losing the diplomatic war in Christendom, whilst this ‘Babylonian captivity’ of the Church continues. Nor is it enough to lay formal claim to the throne of France. And while his grandfather may have subdued the Welsh, and he himself now holds the king of Scotland captive, he knows that the conquest of these islands is not yet fully accomplished. And so he continues to seek alliances, both inside and outside his kingdom.’

‘Is that why, on St George’s day, he has chosen to create this new order of chivalry: this so-called Noble Order of the Garter?’

‘Aye, to bind the barons and knights of England more tightly to him. He has learnt well the mistakes of his ancestor King John. And meanwhile his daughter, Princess Joan, has set sail for the continent, under the most impregnable guard imaginable. They say she is the most protected woman in Europe. Certainly she is the greatest prize her father has to offer. I understand her betrothed, Prince Peter of Castile, is anxious to be wed to her as soon as possible. The marriage will bring both Castile and Portugal into the alliance against France. I would not be Philip of Valois when those armies march against him too.’

‘Does the king aim to see his son, the bold young prince, betrothed with similar haste?’

The abbot shrugged. ‘Prince Edward is too enamoured of battle, the joust and the tourney to have much desire for marriage, they say. There is time yet for him to sire a son to continue the royal line. But let me remind you that is not why I summoned you, Brother Nathan: though, of course, his Majesty is not the only person to concern himself with matters of succession.’

Nathan bowed his head. ‘Your pardon, Father. I am, of course, honoured that you should wish me to succeed you, Deo volente: though the other brothers will have their say, of course. But my earnest desire is that you should remain our beloved patriarch for many years to come.’

Abbot William chuckled. ‘Of course it is. And never mind the brothers having their say: my predecessor had a definite hand in my election, and the Holy Father might well have some ideas of his own, let alone Our Heavenly Father above.’ He made the sign of the cross piously. ‘Tomorrow is the feast of our abbey’s patron, Saint Peter the Blessed, Chief Apostle of Our Lord: and the tenth anniversary of my installation as abbot here. I judge that I’ve been a faithful steward. But all things must end: and I am resolved that under no circumstances must Brother Lawrence succeed me. He’s older than me, but far too spry, alas. Still, I should be able to arrange a transfer. Sherborne is in need of a new librarian, and Father John, the abbot there, owes me a favour or two. You’ll succeed Brother Lawrence as librarian, leaving you as my - well, my heir apparent, shall we say? Does all that sound agreeable?’

Before Brother Nathan could reply, there was a loud knock on the door of the abbot’s private chamber.

‘Yes?’ called the abbot, irritated. ‘Who knocks?’

The door was pushed open, and a young monk stood, breathless, in the doorway.

‘Well, Brother Obadiah? What is it?’

‘I’m so-sorry, Father,’ stuttered the young monk nervously. ‘Forgive the intrusion. Brother Damian wishes you to come to the dispensary, as a matter of urgency. Before vespers, if you please.’

Abbot William scowled. ‘Why does our brother herbalist require my presence so pressingly?’

‘He’s received reports of a strange new pestilence. A sailor aboard a ship newly arrived from Gascony at Melcombe, on the feast of St John the Baptist, was sore afflicted with it. He has since died, and many others in the port have been struck down. Brother Damian is most anxious, Father.’ He gulped. ‘One of the brothers, Brother Giles, is sick.’

‘With similar symptoms to this sailor?’ Obadiah nodded.

‘Return to Brother Damian at once, and tell him I shall be with him shortly. Speak to no one of this - no one. Do you understand?’ The abbot’s commanding tone was starkly different from the calm, measured speech he customarily employed. The young messenger nodded his assent meekly, and immediately withdrew.

The abbot turned to Brother Nathan, who had not moved, stunned by this unforeseen development. ‘And not a word to any of the other brothers from you. Especially not to Brother Jerome. You know how prone he is to read any doleful news as a sign that the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse have been unleashed. Remember how he reacted when we received news of the great earthquake in Italy on the feast of St Paul five months ago.’

‘As you direct, Father,’ replied Nathan obediently. He turned to go, then paused. ‘And what of Brother Lawrence?’

The abbot took hold of his pectoral cross firmly, as if to emphasise his authority. ‘Nothing is to be said to him.’

‘You mean about this pestilence?’

‘That: and the other matter we discussed,’ replied the abbot. ‘Leave Brother Lawrence to me.’

*

Equally oblivious to the minor matter of abbey politics, and the rather more compelling matter of the great plague that had now arrived on the southern shores of England, that would soon change the course of European history, the aged librarian of Abbotsbury Abbey continued his labours in the scriptorium.

Brother Lawrence was busily working on a copy of the great Anglo-Saxon Chronicles. He had just completed transcribing another page. Laying it to one side, he turned to a fresh sheet of vellum, and carefully noted both the current year date and the date of the next entry in the annals. As was his idiosyncratic custom, he had recalculated these dates according to his preferred calendar convention.

In the English courts of law, it was currently the 22nd regnal year of King Edward III. And for most within the Church, Lawrence knew, it was June 28th, the Eve of the feast of St Peter the Apostle, in the Year of Our Lord - Anno Domini - 1348. But as far as he was concerned, it was the 4th day before the Kalends of July in the year 2101 Ab urbe condita (‘from the founding of the City’: Eternal Rome itself). That was what mattered to Lawrence.

Forget the mendacious machinations of the papacy in Avignon, or the meticulous interwoven pattern of royal marriages between competing dynasties, or the blood of knight and peasant needlessly shed on the battlefields of France: forget all these inconsequential things.

That fool William thinks I’m an antique, an obstinate fool who lives in the past, he thought. But the past is the key to the future. This young man I’ve heard of - Petrarch of Arezzo - he understands that. And this discovery he’s made of the letters of Cicero: fascinating! The ‘new learning’ that William so readily scoffs at, is merely the old reborn. That’s the real Revelation to come. The old man chuckled to himself. So let him send me to Sherborne. He doesn’t know I know. Let him think that it’s his idea. It has a far greater library than I have access to here. I couldn’t be happier.

Though all else might fall in these dark ages before fire, flood, famine and fever, the learning of Rome and everything that it had stood for would endure.

Of that, Brother Lawrence had no doubt.

***

Commentary:

The year 2101 AUC (according to the Roman calendar, which still continued in use in the Middle Ages in some places) is the equivalent of AD 1348 - the year in which what was later known as the Black Death arrived in Western Europe. The first known outbreak in England took place on June 24th at the port of Melcombe (modern Weymouth) - close to Abbotsbury Abbey in Dorset. The Hundred Years War was raging at the time (and going fairly well for the English at this point). However, the outbreak of the Black Death soon led to a truce between the combatants. The casualties of the plague included Princess Joan, the daughter of King Edward III, who never arrived in Castile to marry Prince Peter. She was, of course, just one casualty amongst many millions. It’s estimated that between one-third and one-half of the population of Europe died during the outbreak. On a more positive note, the erudite Brother Lawrence is revealed to be an enthusiast for the endeavours of Petrach, an early Italian humanist who rediscovered previously lost letters of Cicero, and was a leading light in the early stages of the Italian Renaissance.

Strange songs, haunting utterances, echoing from another time: I strive to hear them, and to understand their meaning. Dead men tell no tales. Perhaps that is why these words speak to me now.

Am I a victim of the times? I don’t believe so. I didn’t grow up in the hopeless, hungry side of town. Rather, the particular accident of my birth afforded me with all the advantages that might be bestowed upon a member of the lesser gentry of England in the reign of George the Third. In short, I was blessed with a good education at one the finest schools in the land, Shrewsbury School, founded by royal charter in 1552. After coming of age, I had entered the sometimes esteemed and often profitable profession of the law, where I worked alongside some who had a far greater nobility of spirit than I would ever possess–as well as others whose character and instincts were every bit as base as my own.

I wear the black for the poor and beaten down, declaimed one of my more altruistic contemporaries. Though I recall his high-mindedness, I can no longer remember his name. It was my lot to find myself in chambers not with this pious soul, but with a man whose world-weary cynicism was a ready match for my own: unscrupulous and ready and bold. Yet his distrust of humanity was masked, for the most part, in a manner which I found nauseating. His smooth adroitness, glib tongue and keen perspicacity served his considerable ambition, even though he lacked any true spark of original thought: the provision of that, of course, was my function within our partnership. He was the lion, and received the lion’s share of praise for our accomplishments in court. I was merely the jackal. ‘Your way is, and always was, a lame way,’ spoke my colleague in law, critically. ‘You summon no energy and purpose.’ All true: yet he found his use of me.

I would don my own dusty black gown, and shabby wig, and take my place at the bench by his side, between copious amounts of port wine–my breakfast, luncheon and dinner. The learned profession of the law was certainly not behind any other learned profession in its Bacchanalian propensities. The poor, the beaten down, the desperate, would be paraded before us, and take their appointed place in the dock. If my companion’s eloquence, and my own lesser contributions, fell short of the mark from time to time, that was to be expected. Not all juries proved sufficiently capable of persuasion. But our successes were greater in number than our failures: and the liquid repast that followed the conclusion of each case was just as fine, regardless. It worried me not a whit when the judge would don his own scrap of black upon his scarlet robes–the cap of judgement, beneath which he would solemnly declare his doom: ‘May God have mercy upon your soul.’

Why should I be concerned? I was the idlest and most unpromising of men. I cared for no man on earth, and no man cared for me.

Until, that is, on the steps of the Old Bailey I met (for the second time) the woman who had impressed herself upon me to such an extraordinary degree in consequence of our first chance encounter. ‘Are you acquainted with our case?’ Miss M– had asked: to which I had replied, ‘I am part of your case.’ It was not every day, after all, that my companion in law and I would be called upon to defend a self-exiled French aristocrat accused of being a spy. Unto this gentle lady, who so piteously pleaded the accused’s case, I would give the solemn charge: ‘I shall be doubly industrious upon his behalf.’ I would endeavour to forget (at least for the duration of this trial) that I was a disappointed drudge.

And thus, little by little, my fate was sealed.

*

Thanks to the combined labours of the lion and the jackal, the young French aristocrat was released. In England, flawed though she might be, and sore weary though many of her instruments, such as myself, undoubtedly were, at least Lady Justice, standing aloft on the high pinnacle of the Old Bailey, still sought to be true.

The same could not be said across the Channel. The sordid iniquity and growing inequalities which bedevilled our benighted continental rival were legion. The tax for the state, the tax for the church, the tax for the lord, tax local and tax general, were to be paid here and to be paid there. ‘Repression is the only lasting philosophy,’ spoke one of the leading aristocratic minds of that day, the tyrannical uncle of the young man I had so recently defended. And yet the resentment of the lower classes against the unchecked excesses of their masters smouldered with greater intensity with each passing year. That most glorious of hours, the apex of Le Roi Soleil, had passed, and now the twilight of the French autocrats was upon them. It would conclude with a sunset drenched in blood: blood, and fire.

There were the moderate reformers who, doubtless, felt that they could steer the course of the coming storm: who felt that they could fan the flames, once lit, but still control the conflagration. They were much mistaken, as many of them would bitterly ponder on the final journey on the tumbril carrying them to their doom. Madame Guillotine, not Lady Justice, awaited them at the end of that journey.

Oh, but the fire went wild. A l’exemple de Saturne, la révolution dévore ses enfants.

Before the breaking of the storm, the young French aristocrat whom we had defended had sought to distance himself from his cruel peers. He had renounced his titles, and built a new life for himself, with Miss M–. An earnest man of liberal sensibilities, he had wanted no part in the oppressive regime in his homeland. But there were those who had sworn to send to oblivion every last member of his noble line. For these tormented souls, it was not enough that his hated uncle, Monsieur the Marquis St. E–, had been murdered in his bed.

The trap that had been set for the French emigre, to bring him back to his homeland on an errand of mercy, was cunning. Only one with the purest of hearts would have fallen into it. I would never have allowed myself to be so easily ensnared. That was one of many differences between myself and Monsieur D–, as he styled himself in his exile. Our characters were utterly opposed to one another. Our resemblances were confined to two spheres alone. First, there was no doubt (as had come to his remarkable aid during the trial at the Old Bailey) that we shared a striking similarity of build and appearance. The second was equally undoubted–at least to me. We both loved the same woman.

His second trial, in Paris, had been marked by the spirit of vengeance, not justice. One of the great heroes of the infamous Bastille, the good doctor who had suffered incarceration in that charnel house for eighteen years, had condemned the members of that family to death with his testimony. Lacking all hope for himself, he had pronounced God’s curse upon them: ‘They have no part in His mercies. And them and their descendants, to the last of their race. I denounce them to Heaven and to earth.’ But how was the doctor to know that his daughter would meet and fall in love with the last scion of that aristocratic lineage? How was he to know that his dread curse would one day imperil his own daughter and her unborn child?

Yet this is what the President of that dread court had declared: ‘If the Republic should demand of you the sacrifice of your child herself, you would have no duty but to sacrifice her.’

Oh, but the fire went wild. A l’exemple de Saturne, la révolution dévore ses enfants. And it burns, burns, burns.

The vote had been unanimous: the judgement final. ‘At heart and by descent an Aristocrat, an enemy of the Republic, a notorious oppressor of the People. Back to the Conciergerie, and Death within four-and-twenty hours!’

But as I received news of the verdict in a nearby tavern, I still had an ace to play. Before I could cash in.

*

By chance, it would seem, I had met with all the chief players within this final act of my life. That same chance that caused me to bear that vital resemblance to a doomed young aristocrat, a resemblance that had already saved his life once–and would do so once again. All chance–or, perhaps, fate–in this age of wisdom, this age of foolishness.

I had once spoken, with some bitterness, to my rival in love: ‘That’s a fair young lady to be pitied by and wept for by! How does it feel? Is it worth being tried for one’s life, to be the object of such sympathy and compassion?’ To which he had given no answer.

Now, I felt, I understood why.

Love is a burning thing

And it makes a fiery ring…

It should not have been easy, but if it was fated to be, then of course it was easy–this switching of places, this giving of one's life for the sake of another. It was a fair exchange: indeed, three lives would now be saved, of that I was certain. The sacrifice of a life up to now lived without purpose was a small payment in return.

I spoke not a word though it meant my life. Thus had Our Lord remained silent as He stood before Pontius Pilate. His silence had sealed His fate: but His death had unleashed the full force of Redemption. The Sinless One offered Salvation to all: poor sinful wretch that I am, I am content to save the lives of three, including the one whom I have come to hold most dear of all in this short life. I sit in my cell in the Conciergerie, I summon these thoughts, and it is enough. Lord, grant me courage to keep my own counsel but a little while longer.

Waiting here in my final abode, as my final night upon this earth passes, I find myself touched by all manner of strange thoughts, half-dreams and phantasms, snatches of conversation and of song. Strains of strange music float on the very edge of my imaginings: and like John of Gaunt, in these last moments I know myself a prophet new inspired. I ponder these two great cities that I have loved and hated so well, in the best and worst of times, certain in the knowledge that these ancient foes, on either side of the Channel, will strive mightily with one another in the days to come; and yet I perceive that a time will come when they will unite against a far more deadly foe than even this unhappy Revolution can summon forth. And in those far-off struggles, if I apprehend aright, the descendants of those lost to our affections now, on the far side of the wide Atlantic, will seek to renew the bonds of brotherly solicitude: the New World come to save the Old.

A new day approaches: my last day. It is always darkest before dawn. But I think I understand now the words of these strange songs, sung by the man in black, this latter-day child of the New World.

The Judge said, ’Son, what is your alibi?

If you were somewhere else, you won’t have to die’

I spoke not a word, though it meant my life…

I smile to myself. I am giving myself for the sake of Charles Darney’s wife. And this I see: an old woman, weeping for me on the anniversary of this day.

Nobody knows, nobody sees

Nobody knows but me…

There are footsteps in the corridor outside. The heavy bolt is drawn back, and the door slowly opens. A voice speaks from without, rough yet not unkindly.

‘It is time.’

Only a few leaves remained on the great oak tree which the old man had instructed should mark the site of his grave. The fever had gripped him for three nights and days: but he was comforted by the presence of his daughters, and their families, standing vigil by his bedside.

They had kept him hidden these past few years: and none had betrayed this most hunted and hated of Welshmen to the English king. His fate would not be that of Owain Lawgoch, last of the ancient line of the House of Gwynedd, assassinated in France by an English spy. Nor would it be like that of Dafydd ap Gruffydd, brother of Llywelyn the Last, who had been dragged through the streets of Shrewsbury, before becoming the first notable person to suffer that most heinous and barbaric of deaths: judicial murder by hanging, drawing and quartering.

No, this Welsh rebel would die peacefully in bed. His rebellion had been the longest and most fiery of Wales’ mediaeval wars for independence, and the one that had come closest to achieving its aim: three years had passed since it had effectively burnt itself out. A new king had come to the throne of England, one who had struck a more conciliatory tone than his perpetually insecure father. Royal pardons had been offered, and had come to the attention of the weary old rebel, but he had scoffed at them. Though his dreams had been shattered, at least he would die a free man of Wales. He would not bend the knee to the new English king, even if the news accompanying the final pardon spoke of Henry V’s great victory over the French on the field of Agincourt.

He peered at the parchment lying across his lap through weary eyes, and chuckled gently. ‘My joints are far too enfeebled to permit me to bend the knee to anyone now,’ said Sychath’s greatest son.

*

Two nights later the final chill had come upon him. On the third evening of fever, he lay abed, gazing up at his three ever-faithful daughters. His sons, alas, were lost to him. His firstborn, Gruffydd, had been taken prisoner by the English, and had died from bubonic plague in the Tower of London three years before. Three of his other four sons - Madog, Thomas, and John - were also dead, or taken captive. Of his sons, only Maredudd remained at liberty, hiding somewhere in the mountain fastness of Gwynedd, reduced to the level of meagre banditry in his continuing futile resistance to the English. None of his sons had sired heirs: the old man knew that, with his passing, the male line of descent from the royal dynasties of Wales would surely fail.

His daughters, at least, were safe. Alys, Janet and Margaret had all found English husbands amongst the gentry of Herefordshire. It was here, in the home of Alys and her husband, Sir John Scudamore, Sheriff of Herefordshire, that the wily old fox had found a final bolthole. If only the young English king knew, that one of his most faithful servants in the Marches, had secretly married the daughter of a Welshman - and the most notorious Welshmen at that! Love is a mysterious thing, pondered the old man drowsily. I’m in the last place the king would think to look for me: and I am safe. If only my beloved homeland could be so!

‘Fear not, Owain,’ spoke an unfamiliar young voice from the crowd assembled around his bedside: ‘We know of the hiraeth you feel. You can rest now. Your labours have not been in vain.’

Who was that who had spoken?

The old man struggled to raise his head - surrounded as it was by comforting pillows - and, concentrating as best he could, tried to focus his uncertain gaze upon the attentive crowd. They looked different, somehow. In place of his daughters, sons-in-law and grandchildren, a strange assembly of figures were standing there. The dress of most of them was unfamiliar, outlandish even. Most - though not all of them - were smiling at him: as if encouraging him, soothing him, by their mere presence. They seemed to be standing slightly apart from one another, as if only half-aware that they were part of a greater company. Their focus was firmly fixed upon him. One of them, he realised, was richly dressed, in a manner not entirely unlike the way he himself had once dressed, at his court at Glyndyfrdwy: though not even at his coronation had he been arrayed as splendidly as this figure was. Here before him stood the imposing figure of a great - if somewhat portly - king.

‘Hail, cousin,’ cried the king, laughing heartily. ‘Rest easy, knowing that the red rose and the white will be united, and the white dragon and the red will wage war no more. The Sons of Penmynydd will sit upon the throne of England. Camelot will rise anew.’

Next to the king, another figure, younger, much slimmer, was also dressed in princely garb, though less sumptuous than that of the merry monarch. ‘Mamma thought a crash course in y Gymraeg and a term at Aberystwyth would suffice to win over the hearts and minds of the Welsh towards their newest prince,’ the young man announced dolefully. ‘But, alas, it takes more than an investiture ceremony in an English-built castle of occupation to achieve that. I may bear the title, for a while: but you were the last true Prince of Wales, old man.’ There was a look of grave respect upon his face, but also deep sadness.

‘They drowned our valley, then stole our water,’ chimed another, bitterly, ‘But we do not forget. Cofiwch Dryweryn.’

‘We laboured in the darkest pit,’ continued a fourth figure, ‘not just us, but for many generations our children.’ His face was blacked, and he was wearing strange headgear, from which a dim but discernible light was radiating out, blending with the glow of the dozen candles flickering across the old man’s bedroom. ‘The dust blackened our lungs, the rocks scarred our bodies. Four hundred of us died beneath the earth in one day at Senghenydd alone. As for Aberfan–’ the man stopped speaking for a moment and swayed silently, as if overcome with emotion, before continuing: ‘But as we toiled underground, we also built the finest communities overground. We became a land of chapel and of song…’

‘And of rugby,’ interrupted a younger man, with a mischievous demeanour. His clothes were different, again, exposing more skin than any of the others, and he was mostly arrayed in red and white. Tucked under his right arm he held a strange elongated bladder-shaped object. But this was no court jester, despite his garb. ‘They sang Bread of Heaven in the stand, and angels wept at their rapture; we played on the pitch, and devils quaked at our determination.’

‘I was determined too,’ said the eldest individual. He had a once-impressive, now thinning head of white hair. He declaimed (somewhat imperiously): ‘I was inspired by Gandhi and King. And by you, of course. I threatened to go on hunger strike if they didn’t give us the Welsh language television channel they had promised us. They gave in. I was President of Plaid for thirty-six years, but that was the crowning moment of my life. Cymru am byth.’

‘And I walked twenty-six miles barefoot over hills and valleys to buy a book,’ said a young girl softly, clad in the traditional chequered shawl that Welsh women had worn virtually unchanged for generations. ‘But not just any book. They called me: y Gymraes fechan heb yr un Beibl. The Welsh girl without a Bible. But my story led to the foundation of societies that would take the word of God throughout the whole world.’

‘And it wasn’t just the Word that went out from Wales.’ This new voice belonged to a smiling sun-drenched brown skinned woman who spoke with a peculiar accent, neither Welsh nor English. ‘The people went too. And they built Y Wladfa, on another continent, remote and cold. But it was home. Buenas noches, dulce príncipe, descansa en paz.’

The bedridden old man could stay silent no more. ‘What manner of words are these?’ Tremulous and rasping though it might be, there was unmistakable awe and wonder in his faltering voice. ‘What portends do they present before my eyes? Visions from hell?’

‘No, not hell. Nor, indeed, of heaven - despite what Gareth Edwards might say.’ There was a languid mocking tone in this new voice. It belonged to the last of this strange crowd, a dishevelled figure with a bulbous nose, and messy hair, who was standing most markedly apart from all the others. ‘He may have been the greatest player ever to don a Welsh rugby shirt: but I’m the wordsmith, the heir to Taliesin, not him.’

‘Taliesen was never described as a roistering, drinking and doomed poet,’ said the imperious elder severely.

‘True, Gwynfor,’ said the younger man. ‘But as for you, Owain: take some small comfort, if you can, from my words. Dead men naked they shall be one / With the man in the wind and the west moon / Though lovers be lost love shall not / And death shall have no dominion.’

‘Romans chapter 6, verse 9,’ said the young girl, and the old man realised that she was the one who had first spoken to him. ‘Worry not for the future of Wales, Owain. The universities, the Senedd, the dream of a people proud and free - it will all come to pass. Because you did not give up, because you remained defiant to the end, we shall not give up either. Cymru am byth.’

‘But who will become prince in my stead?’ The weary freedom fighter gasped, straining heavily with the effort of speaking. These strange interlopers - from another time or place, he could not say - they had to hear his urgent words, even if they were to be his last. ‘The royal Houses of Gwynedd, Powys, Deheubath: I am the last of their lineage. My sons have no heirs. Though we may not not yield to the Enemy, our deepest longings remain unfulfilled. After a thousand years of striving against the invader from the East, what hope remains for the land, for the people, without their prince?’

It was the white-haired elder who responded. ‘We are Meibion Glyndŵr - the Sons of Glyndŵr. All of us. We have no need for princes now. You will never be forgotten, though we know not where lies your grave. What need is there to know where they have buried your body? You cannot bury a dream. In the hearts of your people, you will always remain alive. You will always be our Prince.’

The old man closed his eyes.

‘You will always be our father,’ sobbed Alys. He opened his eyes again, but this time it seemed to him that he was standing there, with his three daughters and their families, looking down upon himself. Of the mysterious visitors, there was neither sight nor sound. He was there, alongside Alys, Janet and Margaret. He was staring down at the body of Owain Glyndŵr, last native-born Welshman to hold the title Tywysog Cymru - Prince of Wales.

*

The next morning, they laid him to rest beneath an English oak tree - the irony of it! The precise spot that he himself had chosen. No gravestone would mark the site of the burial: though six hundred years and more might pass away, and a new millennium come, still his descendants would honour their promise to provide an inviolate sanctuary for Sychath’s greatest son. They stood in silence as the priest intoned the burial rite in Latin. As he concluded the service, a chill east wind whistled through the creaking branches of the tree, and with a sigh the last remaining leaf broke free and fluttered down into the open grave.

Unmarked by the grieving family, nine further onlookers - muses and witnesses from the future for which he had laid the foundations - watched as the final deed was done. They also said nothing for an age, waiting until the mourners had dispersed. Then at the last one of them turned his gaze heavenward. Slowly, in his deep sonorous voice, he said:

‘When their bones are picked clean and the clean bones gone / They shall have stars at elbow and foot / And death shall have no dominion.’

***

Commentary:

Owain Glyndŵr was descended (through the male line) from the Princes of Powys, and (through the female line) from the Princes of Gwynedd and Deheubath: the three main principalities of mediaeval Wales. His rebellion (1400-1415) was the most protracted and most nearly successful of all the Welsh wars of independence waged in the Middle Ages. Although it sounds extraordinary that ‘Wales’ most wanted man’ was able to spend his final years in seclusion just across the border in England, there’s good grounds for believing the story to be true. Descendants of his daughters continue to be around today (most notably the descendants of John and Alys Scudamore).

The nine characters from Owain’s future are King Henry VIII, second king of the Tudor dynasty that was distantly related to Glyndŵr; Prince Charles of Wales (now King Charles III), seen musing on the mixed response to his investiture as Prince of Wales in 1969 at Caernarfon Castle; a witness to the drowning of Tryweryn, a Welsh village destroyed to create a reservoir in 1965 to provide water for England, acting as a spur to Welsh nationalism; a coal miner who reflects on the mining disaster in Senghenydd (1913), the greatest industrial accident in British history, and the Aberfan disaster (1966), the collapse of a colliery spoil tip in Wales on a primary school; Gareth Edwards, widely acknowledged as one of Wales’ greatest rugby players in the 20th century; Gwynfor Evans, President of the nationalist party Plaid Cymru, whose threatened hunger strike was instrumental in securing the launch of a dedicated Welsh-language television channel, S4C, in the UK in 1982; Mary Evans, a 16-year-old girl whose determined quest to obtain a Bible of her own in 1800 led a few years later to the foundation of the British and Foreign Bible society; a descendant of the Welsh colonists who settled in Patagonia from 1865 onwards; and Dylan Thomas, the most famous Welsh poet of the 20th century (here speaking lines from his poem ‘And Death Shall Have No Dominion’, inspired by Romans 6:9). Why nine? Because they’re Muses, of course.

Various Welsh words and phrases are peppered throughout this piece, which functions as a companion-piece to my last effort, ‘The Dragon’s Son’. The most significant of these is ‘Hiraeth’ - a Welsh word that is difficult to translate into English, the nearest approximations being ‘longing’ or ‘homesickness’. The title here - ‘One Last Hiraeth’ is also a play on the English phrase ‘One Last Hurrah’ - which this is, of course, for Owain.

Owain Glyndŵr was born at Sycharth in North Wales in 1354. His burial site (probably in 1415) remains unknown to this day. Unless - perhaps - you’re a Scudamore.