Frost reserved judgment.
Appearances could be very deceptive.
Sometimes, you had to trust the universe to sort itself out, and that had been, he thought, his final position on the matter of Kristijan Pavic.
So what was the man’s daughter doing in the back seat of his car, accompanying Tony Denison, the pair of them running for their lives?
Frost turned back to his former commander. “Okay, that’s a start. Now what this is about? Pavic’s trial?”
Denison shook his head. Frost saw a hint of his earlier reticence returning. So much for cards on the table. “Nothing to do with that at all. But in terms of getting you into this mess, yes, that’s down to Lili, but only because when things got ugly, I immediately thought of you.” His gaze wandered for a moment. “Ronan, have you read my books?”
The question caught Frost by surprise, but before he could answer, Denison pushed forward. “Okay, it doesn’t matter if you haven’t, I won’t take it personally. I’m not after a review. But if you have read them, then what I’m going to tell you might not sound quite so daft.”
“I’m not much of a reader.”
Denison nodded. “Okay, but I am sure you are familiar with my position on globalization. It’s an abomination. Multinational corporations have effectively taken over the world. They have completely corrupted the democratic process, using money and influence to put their cronies in positions of power—I’m not just talking about the backwater countries of the developing world, it’s happening right here. Cultural identity is being wiped out. These corporations have completely legitimised their dominance by stripping away the local laws that might have held them in check. The New World Order has emasculated and enslaved us all.”
Frost realised he was holding his breath.
Despite Denison’s warning, the abruptness with which he launched into what amounted to a paranoid diatribe struck Frost as odd. It wasn’t him—or at least it wasn’t the man he’d served with. If it had been anyone else he’d have offered him a tinfoil hat. “And it’s this New World Order that’s after you?” he asked, carefully. He spoke slowly in an effort to conceal his scorn. “Because you’re trying to expose them in your books?”
“Oh, dear Lord, no, nothing like that.” He actually smiled, which relieved Frost. Perhaps he wasn’t suffering from paranoid delusions after all? “Those with the intelligence to see what’s going on already know, the rest of the Great Unwashed are so addicted to consumerism they don’t see the chains of their own slavery. No, Ronan, they’re not afraid of what I might say.”
“So what are they afraid of?”
“What I’m doing.”
“And what is that?”
Denison glanced at Lili, who nodded, then looked back at Frost. “The greatest threat to the New World Order is nationalism. Sovereign nations, defending their borders, imposing tariffs, putting the needs of their subjects ahead of the desires of the corporations—these are the single greatest obstacles to the institution of one world government. As I said, the democratic process has been corrupted. Are you familiar with the old saying: ‘In a democracy, people get the government they deserve’? People are inherently selfish, so it’s a simple thing to appeal to their self-interest at the polls. What good is a government of the people when the majority of the people are too selfish, or just too plain ignorant, to see past their desire for immediate gratification?”
Frost narrowed his eyes. “You want my vote?” He said. He avoided political discussions like the plague. He’d grown up in a world defined by ideological conflict—violent conflict—and knew from experience that the most seductive arguments were often the most wrongheaded. Like the song said, meet the new boss, he’s just like the old boss. Very little ever really changed. “Like it or not, Tony, that’s the way it is. We’re a democracy.”
A gleam appeared in Denison’s eye. “That’s where you’re wrong, my boy. We are, and have always been, a monarchy...the United Kingdom...the British Empire. We are not a democracy.”
“Tony, that’s ancient history and we both know it.”
“No, it isn’t.” Denison’s tone had suddenly become clipped. It was obvious he’d taken offense to Frost’s off-hand dismissal. “We have strayed from the path to be sure, but we can still find our way back.”
Frost pondered this statement and the pieces at last began to fall into place. “So that’s your game? Restore the monarchy? Convince the Queen to take back the reins and dissolve Parliament? That’d get rid of the latest bunch of inmates running the asylum, I suppose. And this New World Order? They’re so worried that you might succeed they’re willing to kill to stop you?”
“Ronan, they’ve tried. You saw it yourself.”
Frost couldn’t argue that. He wanted to though. He wanted to say that Denison had gone off the deep-end.
“I freely admit that my ambition is to put the monarchy back in charge. Not the Queen, though, as she is too old now to rule, and Charles is weak, tainted by his treatment of Diana—William is the answer. He is fundamental in restoring faith in the Crown. He is loved like his mother was. And that’s what I mean to do, and that’s what the New World Order is trying to prevent.”
Every time Denison used that phrase it sent a shiver of apprehension down Frost’s spine. When he had taken the call—scarcely more than an hour ago—his reaction had been automatic: when your mate’s in trouble, you drop everything and help. But this? New World Order conspiracy nonsense? A bid to restore the monarchy? This wasn’t him. He’d served his country for most of his adult life, unreservedly and without question. He wasn’t a Royalist though, or even fiercely patriotic. He was a modern day warrior.
And yet, someone had tried to kill Denison.
That was one unassailable truth.
Bullets didn’t lie.
So, if not agents of some mythical New World Order, then who?
And why?
He needed to know more.
“Explain it to me again, Tony. And remember, I’m just a simple Irishman. Speak slowly and use small words.”
There was the faintest hint of smile, but then Denison’s face hardened resolutely. “I will, but only if you start this car and put us on the road to Saint Albans. Deal?”
It was like a hostage negotiation—you had to give something to get what you wanted, and Frost wanted the truth. Whether or not Denison gave him a straight answer, his decision was already made. In answering his old mate’s call, he’d made a tacit commitment to see this through to the end. It didn’t matter if he was bat-shit crazy. He was in trouble, and short of outright treason he would do whatever it took to protect his friend.
With a defeated sigh, he started the car and pulled from the parking slot, only half-listening as Denison resumed speaking.
5 Swords and Stones
2042 UTC
FROST COULDN’T DECIDE if Denison sounded slightly less mad, or more mad, as he repeated his conspiracy theory, augmenting the discourse with inflammatory—and almost certainly unverifiable—vignettes about the operations of the New World Order and its primary constituent, the mysterious Bilderberg Group.
It occurred to Frost, as he steered the VW onto the M25—the original Highway to Hell—that he hadn’t heard from Lethe. That was unlike the guy. Maybe he couldn’t climb the New World Order’s wall of secrecy? He thought mordantly. Still, he couldn’t ignore the single unarguable fact: someone had tried to kill Denison.
He double-tapped his earbud, but Nonesuch didn’t answer.
He killed the call and resolved to check in as soon as they reached Saint Albans.
Speaking of which... “Okay, mate, let’s say I accept all this,” Frost said, cutting Denison short. “What’s so important about Saint bloody Albans?”
The glare of oncoming headlights briefly illuminated Denison’s face, revealing a wide, almost boyishly eager grin. “That is where we will find what we need to establish the absolute and supreme authority of the Crown.”
Frost though
t the comment sounded rehearsed. It was obviously meant to sound portentous. Instead it sounded manic. “And exactly what would that be? The Holy Grail?”
“Don’t be facetious, Ronan. There’s no such thing. No, in Saint Albans we will find the Sword,” Denison said reverently. “Remember your legends: ‘Whoso Pulleth Out the Sword of the Stone and Anvil, is Rightwise King Born of All England.’ Do you know that quote?”
“King Arthur. I had the right story.” Frost felt another straw settling onto the camel’s back, ready to break it. “You aren’t seriously trying to tell me that Excalibur is waiting for us in Saint Albans? Please. Don’t do this to me, Tony.”
“The sword in the stone was called Caliburn. Centuries of telling the tale have confused the two. And of course, some exaggerations have coloured the accounts. But make no mistake: the sword is real. It once was the symbol of the King’s right to rule. And I believe it can be again.”
Frost thought about pulling the car over and kicking the pair of them out on the hard shoulder. He felt like he’d stumbled into a Monty Python film. He shook his head. “This is a treasure hunt?”
“It is the treasure hunt, old chap,” Denison replied with that same wild intensity. “The sword is the symbol of Britain. But don’t be fooled by children’s stories: there’s nothing inherently magical about it. It is just a sword. But in the hands of the rightful king, it will send a powerful, resonant message to all Crown subjects. Rule Britannia. We’ve all wanted that for so long. Why do you think everyone still adores the royals? It’s not some misguided loyalty to the past. It is in our blood. We’re all just waiting for them to stand up, like something out of Arthurian legend, the Once and Future King will guide us out of the wilderness.”
Michael Palin’s voice echoed in Frost’s head: You can’t expect to wield supreme executive authority just because some watery tart threw a sword at you.
He took a moment, making a show of checking the mirrors as he tried to temper his disbelief. “And this sword is real? Arthur, Merlin, the Round Table, Camelot...all that was real?”
Before Denison could reply, Lili broke her long silence. “No, no. Tony is being metaphorical. There was no Arthur, so how could we be looking for his sword? We are talking about the Crocea Mors; the sword of Julius Caesar, last wielded by the Dux Britanniarum.”
Frost looked at Lili through the mirror. He was still unclear on why Denison was in the company of Kristijan Pavic’s daughter, but he recalled how Denison had introduced her: Dr. Lilijana Pavic. He guessed she wasn’t a physician.
Denison offered a guilty shrug. “Lili is the expert. She should probably explain it.”
“Expert?”
“PhD in Classical History from Sapienza. She knows what she’s talking about.”
Lili didn’t wait for further prompting. “Pay attention, Irishman, because I will not talk slowly or use small words. There is no mention of a ‘magic sword’ in Julius Caesar’s extensive account of his campaign in Gaul. This is not surprising since the Romans abhorred superstition. It is only in the Historia Regum Britanniae, the History of the Kings of Britain, written by Geoffrey of Monmouth some twelve hundred years later, that we read of Caesar’s battle with Prince Nennius. As Nennius and Caesar fought, Nennius sustained a head wound, but the sword became lodged in Nennius’ shield. The prince took the weapon and continued fighting with it, and every man he faced was mortally wounded. The sword, which allegedly shone in the sunlight, was believed by the Britons to possess supernatural powers. Geoffrey called it ‘Crocea Mors,’ which means ‘Yellow Death’ in Latin. And, as was their custom, when Nennius died from his wound a few days later, he was buried with the blade. According to Geoffrey, he was entombed in the North Gate of London.
“But Geoffrey’s account is a romance, not a history. His sources were oral traditions and legends, handed down from one generation to the next, and no doubt influenced by the eventual occupation of Britain by the Romans and countless other invading forces. Caesar himself made no mention of the battle nor of Prince Nennius, much less the loss of the sword. By itself, that is not surprising; like any victorious king, Caesar’s ego would not have permitted him to record such a defeat. However, I recently discovered a palimpsest that cast new light on this chapter of history.”
“Palimpsest?”
“A palimpsest is a document written upon a previously used piece of parchment. Vellum was expensive, so it was not uncommon in times past to scrape the ink from a scroll and reuse it. With modern X-ray technology, it is sometimes possible to recover the original document. Several months ago, a document that had at one time been in the private collection of Benito Mussolini himself, was discovered to be just such a palimpsest. The original document, at least what could be recovered of it, was a letter believed to have been in the possession of Octavian, Julius Caesar’s successor, who took the name Augustus Caesar when he became the first emperor of Rome.
“In the letter, Titus Labienus, a former tribune and one time ally of Julius Caesar, makes reference to the battle with Nennius and the loss of the sword. He furthermore identifies it as ‘the Sword of Mars’ taken by Julius Caesar from the Temple of Jupiter. Labienus offers to journey to Britain and recover the sword from the tomb of Nennius. He claims that possessing the sword would symbolise Octavian’s right to rule in Caesar’s stead; a sort of divine stamp of approval.”
“Sounds familiar,” Frost muttered. “So the Roman version of Arthur’s story?”
“Such themes are common in legends. The sentiment however is distinctly...” she paused thoughtfully. “Unusual for a Roman.”
“Did Octavian take him up on his offer?”
“It is impossible to say, and frankly irrelevant.”
“Irrelevant?”
“The palimpsest offers independent verification that the sword exists, and that it was buried in Nennius’ tomb.”
Frost checked the mirrors again, using the moment to digest what he had just been told. He was no student of history—or legend—and there was nothing particularly appealing about the thought of running down a fairy tale about a magic sword. It was hard to reconcile his memories of his former commander, a pragmatic and disciplined man, with the man in the seat beside him.
“So, Caesar’s sword then,” he said finally. “Sorry, but why would discovering an old sword shake the foundations of society? It’s not like you’re saying Jesus had a daughter.”
Denison didn’t wait for Lili to weigh in. “Geoffrey of Monmouth tells how a later king, Vortigern, in the fifth century, removed the sword from Nennius’ tomb, had it hammered into a crack in an anvil, and set atop a great stone in the town square of London as a war-memorial. The sword, anvil, stone and all, was later moved to Silchester, where Arthur was able to draw it forth, thus signifying his right to rule all England. So you see, it is both Caesar’s and ‘Arthur’s’ sword.”
Frost rubbed at his temple. He adjusted the mirror so that it was angled toward Lili’s face.
“There is reason to believe that Vortigern was an historic figure, and we now have evidence that both Nennius and the Crocea Mors really existed.” Lili drew a breath. “However, there are some problems with accepting Geoffrey’s record as entirely factual. According to his account, Nennius was buried in London’s North Gate. But in the time of Nennius, London would have been nothing more than a small tribal settlement. Nennius’ tribe, the Catuvellauni, occupied a stronghold in the ancient city of Verulamium, just north of London in modern Hertfordshire—”
“Where Saint Albans is today,” Frost said.
“I told you he was quick,” Denison said, casting a knowing glance over his shoulder.
“If Geoffrey got that detail wrong,” Lili continued, “then the account of what Vortigern did is suspect. It may be that there was a sword in an anvil, but it would not have been the Crocea Mors.”
Frost wondered if that distinction would really make any difference among those inclined to accept that an old war relic constituted divine approval;
but maybe that was the whole point. Denison didn’t linger on that detail. “Arthurian lore is something of a passion and I am intimately familiar with Historia Regum Britanniae. When I learned that there was evidence indicating that Nennius was a real historic figure, I got in touch with Lili—”
There was a subtle change in Denison’s voice and Frost sensed there was a lot more to their relationship than the man was letting on.
Another complication he didn’t need right now.
“—and then...well, let’s just say I was able to enlist a very influential patron who shares my passion for history and legend. It has been well established that Saint Albans was the site of a major Iron Age settlement predating even the Roman city of Verulamium. Trying to narrow down the location of Nennius tomb however is more problematic; what if the Romans built their city on top of it?”
Lili answered the rhetorical question. “The ancient Britons would have buried their honoured dead in a sacred place; caves in a hill, for example, away from their settlement. When the Romans built their city, they would have used the existing settlement as a foundation. We know from the historical account that in the early fourth century, a Christian resident of Verulamium—Albans—was martyred on a hill outside the city. According to folklore, his severed head rolled down the hill and a well sprang up where it came to rest. The hill upon which he was martyred is now the site of the Abbey Church and Cathedral of Saint Albans, but it is the hill itself—Holywell Hill—that is of interest to us.”
“With the help of my patron,” Denison said, “we were able to arrange for a ground penetrating geophys survey of those sites, and yesterday our efforts paid off. The survey team reported finding an extensive network of voids—tunnels—running underneath Holywell Hill, possibly even under the Abbey Church itself.”
“Underground? At the risk of raining on your parade, we’re not exactly kitted up for an excavation.”
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