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…’

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…

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.

The fading fire of a dream

It would seem could blaze anew

In the hearts of beaten men.

Prophets again spoke words true

Of a son of the dragon

Who would gladden and inspire

And rouse the people from sleep,

No longer sheep. Filled with ire

They sharpened sword axe and spear,

For ’twas clear the hour had come

Of the once and future king.

Bards would sing and beat the drum,

Pluck the harp and trumpet sound,

Declare found the anointed,

The one who would wear the crown,

Bringing down disappointed

The servant of the false king.

They would bring the captive lord

Before his throne. ’Hail Owain!

For ’tis plain steel’s in thy sword

My warriors thou didst route:

Without doubt you are the One

Whom God has blessed. Noble heir

Of Arthur’s chair, thou hast won!’

Thus Mortimer bent the knee

That all might see foe made friend.

Bolingbroke quaked, and fear felt:

This friendship spelt his near end.

Unless…Was hope to be found

In one who clowned with Sir John?

Could Hal a soldier become

And find wisdom yet, newborn?

Mortimer, Lord Percy too,

Henry knew, could spell his doom.

If with the Welsh they joined arms,

With what charms could England bloom?

So Shrewsbury, it was to be

Where Destiny played His part.

Hal met Hotspur, won the day,

And thus the play found its heart.

Not Cymru’s bards, but Avon’s:

The ravens, alas, are black,

And bleak the outcome for Wales,

Though the tales will e’er come back

To keep the fire of a dream

Alive. A gleam of maybe

Of a once and future king

Still we sing, yearn: to be free.

Commentary:

A slice of history… In the 13th century, Welsh independence came to an end, with the conquests of Edward I of England. Over a century later, in 1399, Henry Bolingbroke became King of England, overthrowing Richard II, and reigning as Henry IV. Bolingbroke’s claim to the throne was tenuous; and many of the English and Welsh lords regarded him, with some justification, as a usurper. In 1400, Owain Glyndŵr, a Welsh lord, a descendant of several Welsh royal dynasties, and a supporter of Richard II, quarrelled with a Bolingbroke loyalist, his neighbour Baron Grey of Ruthin. Glyndŵr’s grievances were ignored by the English parliament, and led him into open revolt, declaring himself the true Prince of Wales. The revolt spread quickly, and Welsh bards viewed him as heir to the legacy of King Arthur (the Once and Future King of prophecy) and the pre-Conquest princes of Wales.

Early Welsh successes included the Battle of Pilleth in mid-Wales in 1402, at which the English lord Edward Mortimer, one of the most powerful of the English barons, was captured. Mortimer changed allegiance, and entered into an alliance with Glyndŵr, as did Lord Percy, the Earl of Northumberland, the most powerful northern English Lord. The three allies agreed to divide England and Wales between them (the so-called Tripartite Alliance): Percy would rule in the North, Mortimer in the South, and Glyndŵr in Wales and the Welsh Marches. The political situation was grim for Henry IV. However, his son Prince Hal (the future Henry V), despite having spent his younger years as an impressionable and dissolute wastrel under the influence of Sir John Falstaff, turned out to be an excellent field commander. He defeated and killed Henry Hotspur (the son of Lord Percy) at the Battle of Shrewsbury in 1405, preventing the three opposing armies from joining up, and turning the tide against the rebellion.

Despite having lost his English allies, and having seen with the support he’d garnered from the French also coming to naught, Glyndŵr continued the rebellion for more than a decade, establishing a Welsh parliament, and making plans for the first Welsh university: but eventually the English crown regained control of Wales. An outlaw and a fugitive, Glyndŵr refused the offer of a royal pardon after the rebellion had finally collapsed. His date of death and exact burial place remained unknown: like Arthur before him, Owain Glyndŵr became a figure of legend. Yet the dream of Welsh independence he had rekindled never entirely died. Welsh nationhood, and the survival of Welsh culture and language to the present time, owes more to him than perhaps any other individual.

As for ‘the Bard of Avon’: William Shakespeare gives Glyndŵr a small role in his Henry IV: Part One. Together with Richard II, Henry IV: Part Two and Henry V, these history plays tell (from the English perspective, almost two centuries later) the story of the events leading up to and in consequence of Henry Bolingbrook’s usurpation of the English throne.

What do you get when you fall in love?

A girl with a pin to burst your bubble;

That’s what you get for all your trouble.

I’ll never fall in love again;

I’ll never fall in love again.

The wind was loud that night. As if possessed by a banshee. It was no wonder that Luke woke up; the true marvel was that his younger sisters had slept through it.

There were three of them. Katerina, at nine, was the eldest. Dark-haired, looking much like her mother, she was quiet, musically gifted, already studious, and above all serious. She seemed to live in fear of Luke; as if sensing that there was already ‘something of the night’ about him.

Then there was six-year-old Paulette. Paulette our poppet, people would say. Lighthearted, bright, full of sunshine: her father Bartie had delighted in her, and doted upon her. There was no doubt that she had been his favourite, and that she missed him most keenly. Luke abhorred her. He enjoyed tormenting her. Since his father’s death, he would often sit at the end of her bed at night-time, telling her dark, twisted stories that would leave her in floods of tears. Anything to wipe that sickening smile off her face.

Paulette loved dancing. She was forever pirouetting and prancing around in the drawing room; sometimes to Katerina playing on the piano, but more often to the tinny, tinkling tune produced by her music box. It was very well-known, apparently. Luke couldn’t remember the name of the composer - only that it was Russian - but the tune was called The Firebird. Luke couldn’t abide Paulette’s dancing: but he liked the music. Not long after their father’s death, he had stolen her music box, and hidden it in his room. Sometimes, if he woke up in the middle of the night, he would play it, before going back to sleep. He found it strangely soothing.

Finally, there was Josie. Just eighteen months old, Luke found her tedious in the extreme. Yet, even though she was little, Luke sensed there was something different about her. Not her personality: for what personality could you expect a baby to have? All it did was cry, and gurgle, and shit. No, it was her appearance. There was something about her that just looked different.

Luke was tired of people commenting on his appearance, Not so much his ginger hair: his father had been ginger too, so that wasn’t so unusual. No, it was his peculiar eyes, one green, one blue: that was the cause of their curiosity. There was a name for the condition, Bartie had once told him. Heterochromia. Just a word. A label.

‘You’re a freak, boy. Don’t forget it.’ His Uncle Harold had whispered those words into his ear three months ago, as he had stood, dry-eyed, watching the bearers lower his father’s coffin into the gaping maw in the ground.

Luke looked up at his uncle, and his eyes burned with cold anger. ‘I won’t,’ he promised himself. ‘And I won’t forget you telling me so. Ever.’

***

Luke listened to the rafters, creaking in protest as the autumnal storm howled around. It was a wild night, for sure. He threw back the covers, and slipped his feet into the slippers next to his bed. He thought about going over to his trunk of toys, where buried deep beneath the building bricks, Action Man figures and Matchbox cars, Paulette’s stolen music box was hidden.

Music...

Despite the wind, Luke fancied he could hear snatches of music from somewhere. Curious, he opened the door of his room. There was a chink of light showing from under the door at the far end of the landing. His mother’s bedroom: that was where the sound was coming from.

Luke grabbed his dressing-gown, and padded noiselessly across the landing. He recognised the melody, now; it was a song that had just reached the number one spot in the UK pop charts. His mother had been singing it, he remembered, earlier that evening.

What do you get when you kiss a girl?

You get enough germs to catch pneumonia;

After you do she’ll never phone you.

I’ll never fall in love again;

I’ll never fall in love again.

Creak-creak-creak... went the rafters, making their own music.

No! The wind had died down momentarily, amplifying to Luke’s ears not only Bobbie Gentry’s Mississippi vocals, but that other, rhythmic background noise. It wasn’t coming from rafters, or floorboards, or walls. Like the song, it was emanating from his mother’s room. As Luke drew up to the door, listening intently, he recognised what the noise was.

Not the creaking of wood, but the squeaking of bedsprings. Accompanied, he could tell now, by the sound of heavy, laboured breathing, and moaning.

The door was closed. Luke placed his hand on the doorknob, and was about to turn it, when a different sound from within made him freeze. It was a voice. A man’s voice: one that he knew well, and loathed with passionate intensity.

‘C’mon, baby - feels good, doesn’t it? I’m better than my brother, aren’t I? Go on - tell me, baby…’

What do you get when you give your heart?

You get it all broken up and battered;

That’s what you get a heart that’s shattered.

I’ll never fall in love again;

I’ll never fall in love again.

Luke’s eyes blazed with fire.

***

Harold Thomas sat up in his dead brother’s erstwhile matrimonial bed, and took a long, satisfying drag on his cigarette.

If only Bartholomew could see us now, he mused, glancing at the framed wedding photo on the chest of drawers opposite that Emily still kept on display. He looked across at the peroxide blonde form of his sister-in-law, perched on the edge of the bed. She was studying herself critically in her dressing table mirror, all the while dabbing away at her face with a pot of facial cream; almost naked save for the flimsy covering of her short, pink see-through negligee.

Harold had lusted after his sister-in-law for a long time, even before she’d married his younger brother on a particularly cold Saturday afternoon in October 1956. Seven years later (soon after the birth of Bartie and Emily’s third child, the nauseatingly sweet Paulette), Harold had sensed his opportunity. Bartie doted upon the new arrival, but couldn’t see that his wife was suffering from a severe dose of ‘baby blues’. Three kids in seven years: Emily feared she’d never regain the figure of her youth.

Is this all that I’m for now? To produce babies to the satisfaction of James Bartholomew Thomas? Emily had asked her mother. Her unsympathetic response had been to tell her daughter to stop being so silly, and to pull herself together.

That’s what we’re for, dear. That’s why women get married.

But Emily wanted to be loved for herself again. The agony aunts in the newspaper advice columns she read avidly called it the seven-year itch. Too right! If only Bartie could be kind and considerate to her needs - more like the way her brother-in-law increasingly was towards her. Maybe she’d just married the wrong Thomas...

And so, six months after Paulette’s birth, Harold finally got what he had always wanted. A cuckolded brother. The cuckoo chick herself didn’t arrive until four years later. The giveaway (for those who had eyes to see it) was precisely that. Josie’s eyes. So like those of her real father!

Bartie’s heart attack three months ago had been an entirely unexpected boon. Harold couldn’t have been happier. Up till then, the affair had perforce been carried out in ad hoc fashion, furtively, hurriedly. With Bartie’s death, things were made very much easier. The night after they’d buried him, Harold had finally made love to Emily in his brother’s very own bed. If this doesn’t make Bartholomew turn in his fresh, newly dug grave, nothing will, he’d boasted to Emily.

The only fly in the ointment was the eldest kid. His antipathy for his uncle was clear. Quiet, plain Katerina, anxious to avoid trouble, kept herself largely to herself; and Paulette was too young to be a much of a nuisance; but Luke was a different story. The way he sometimes stared at people, with those evil, queer eyes of his... Well, Harold Thomas wasn’t going to be spooked by an eleven-year-old boy. Maybe, given time, he’d work out a way of disposing of the brat.

‘You know, we should get married,’ said Emily, suddenly, turning to her lover.

Harold looked at her, dumbstruck. What had the silly cow just said?

Emily took in the look of incredulity on Harold’s face, but was determined to say her piece. She drew back the sheets, and slipped back into bed next to him. ‘For the sake of the children,’ she continued. ‘They need a father.’

‘You’re kidding… right?’

‘No, Harry.’

He frowned. He hated it when she called him that. Just because everyone had insisted on called his brother by that ridiculous shortened name...

‘No, I’m serious, darling. I know it’s not right just yet - it wouldn’t look decent - but you will think about, won’t you?’

He looked at her, unsure what response to make to her ridiculous suggestion. He opened his mouth - then paused, and sniffed the air. What was that strange smell? There was something familiar about it...

Emily reached across, took the cigarette from his nicotine-stained fingers, and stubbed it out decisively in the ashtray on the bedside table next to him. ‘I really wish you wouldn’t smoke in bed. It’s dangerous.’ She snuggled up next to Harold, resting her head on her brother-in-law’s hairy chest. ‘You know you set my heart on fire - but I’d rather you didn’t do it literally, darling.’ She giggled.

What was that smell?

The door suddenly burst open.

Emily instinctively shrieked. She sat up with a violent start, knocking the transistor radio from her bedside table. The crooning of love songs abruptly stopped as it smashed into the floor.

‘What the...?’ Harold Everett Thomas halted, as if frozen, mid-sentence. He was unable to move. The sight before him defied belief.

There, framed in the doorway, stood his nephew Luke. He was dressed in his deep blue, towelling dressing-gown, worn over pale blue pyjamas. Partially visible from beneath the boy’s gown, Harold could see that they were decorated with patchwork elephants; and the phrase Elephants don’t forget popped unbidden into his head. Next to his nephew was a tall can of petrol, taken from his own garage next door. The floorboards upon which the boy was standing looked wet. In his outstretched hand, Luke held a burning rag.

‘Yes, I’m a freak, uncle,’ said Luke. ‘And, unlike my baby sister, I don’t have your eyes.’ The rag fell to the floor.

Emily’s eyes widened in horror. She hid her face behind her hands in a futile gesture of defence from the gruesome sight, screamed - and screamed again.