The End of the World is Nigh

by Tony Moyle

  There was no explanation as to where this name came from. The mind can do strange things under pressure.

  “Papadopoulos. You’re not an Ottoman, are you?”

  “No, my lord. It’s Greek.”

  “What’s a geek?”

  “GREEK. You know, Greece, the home of modern medicine,” he said, looking for any advantage to the situation he’d landed himself in. “SHALL I EXAMINE YOU?”

  Anne nodded and lay down on the light, wooden table that had been constructed in the middle of the tent. Two factors made this examination particularly tricky. Firstly the subject was almost completely covered in metal, and secondly the man conducting it was no more a doctor than a slug was a cannon.

  “Right, if I could ask you to stay still for a moment…and close your eyes.”

  “What?”

  “CLOSE YOUR EYES.”

  “Why?”

  “Um…because…it relaxes the body. Type of meditation, it stimulates your body to release tension. Monsieur Chambard, I’m sure I can deal with the Constable, perhaps you might be of use to the other captains?” said the young man looking anxiously at him. Chambard immediately left the tent.

  Pretending to be someone you weren’t was all well and good when you were acting, but the moment you had to stop acting and start doing, you were on the slippery slope to blowing your cover.

  “Why are you touching me there?” said Anne.

  “I’m just checking your heart rate.”

  “Then why are you fondling my kneecaps.”

  “Um…the funny thing about knees is that they trap the blood flow…notorious for it. That’s why they creak.”

  “Papadopoulos, how long have you been a doctor?”

  “I’ve been studying the subject for many years, sir. There is no better teacher than Ambroise Paré.”

  “And have you ever applied your trade in the field of battle?” asked Anne, who, given his record, was almost certainly going to need some assistance from the medics in that department.

  “This would be the first time,” said Phil not wanting to receive any questions about how you stopped someone dying when they had a sword imbedded in their buttocks.

  “There’s one thing you need to know above all other things,” said Anne very seriously. “You never treat the soldiers. Only the captains. Do you understand me?”

  Phil understood perfectly. Every peasant did. It had always been that way and there was no sign of it ever changing. Phil’s people stood in petrified squadrons outside on the banks and fields of the Somme ready to die for this man in a conflict they neither understood nor agreed with. The odds suggested most of them would die and not one of them would be remembered in song or poem for their effort. Not him, though. People would know his name. It wasn’t an accident he was here.

  “Please stop touching my legs!” shouted Anne crankily. “I called you in here because I’m having trouble with my hands.”

  “What’s wrong with them?”

  “Cold and stiff.”

  Anne held out his hands in front of him. Thick veins protruded from his wrinkled skin and old wounds of knotted flesh were prominent across his knuckles. On the index finger of his right hand a bulky silver ring with an eagle motif was cutting into his flesh. It was just the sort of small memento that he and Chambard were keen on. It certainly wasn’t untraceable but it might just have more uses than generating some cash.

  “Sir. I think I see the problem,” said Phil.

  “What?”

  “YOUR RING. It’s cutting off the blood flow and making your fingers swell. It must be removed.”

  “Never.”

  “Ok. It’s up to you. I’m guessing you need your hands in the battle, though, right?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “Good luck, then. You could always kick the enemy to death.”

  “What?”

  “YOU WON’T BE ABLE TO FIGHT, SIR!”

  “Very well. Remove it for a few minutes and I’ll see if it helps.”

  The ring was well and truly stuck to its owner. It had lived in position for more than five decades, as much part of him as his long, dirty fingernails. Phil gave it a little tug. Nothing. He applied some oil of anetide from his case and tried again. Nothing. Placing his boot on the table for leverage he heaved at the ring with all his energy. Both men screamed for different reasons. Finally with an almighty heave the ring flew off and Phil was sent crashing backwards onto the grass.

  “My ring!” shouted Anne, who’d been knocked off the other side of the assessment table and was struggling like an upturned aardvark to right himself. “Where is it?”

  “I’m not sure,” said Phil. “It slipped out of my grasp as it came off your finger. Must be here on the floor somewhere.”

  “Find it!”

  Outside the tent the shrill tone of a bugle broke the otherwise pensive atmosphere amongst the troops. The result of the noise was the forward advance of the horsemen and infantry across the fields and down towards the banks of the river.

  “Where are you going?!” screamed Anne, having regained his composure and poking his head through the tent. “We’re not ready. I haven’t given the signal. Come back!”

  Ironically no one seemed to hear him. He rushed out to locate his horse but as normal couldn’t find it. After all the trouble he’d had with forgetfulness he was sure he knew where he’d tied it up this time. No time to look. The army was on the move. He shuffled off in the direction of his nearest captain like a geriatric museum exhibit, his armour rattling ferociously across the turf.

  Brimming with adrenaline, ten thousand soldiers marched towards the Somme while two figures watched the advance unfold from a safe distance.

  “I thought that went well, Dr. Papadopoulos,” said Chambard chuckling. “What did you get?”

  Philibert took the ring from his oily pocket where it had been since the moment it flew off the old man’s finger.

  “It’s funny,” said Philibert, “they never can locate the queen of hearts.”

  “Is that it?” said Chambard disappointed. “After all the work we’ve put in; pretending to be doctors, enlisting in the Army, marching for hundred of miles, all that for some tatty, old ring.”

  “It’s not any old ring.”

  “Who was that old dude, then?”

  “Montmorency something or other,” replied Phil. “But I do know who he is. This ring is from the finger of a general.”

  “Oh. Bloody hell. That’s different, then. Might be very useful.”

  “That’s what I was thinking.”

  “I think it might be time to work on a new routine, Monsieur Montmorency!”

  “Anything is better than being a doctor. Good work on the diversion, by the way,” said Phil.

  “What diversion?” replied Chambard.

  “You blew the bugle to signal the advance.”

  “Nah. Not me. The captains must have just got impatient.”

  “What were you doing, then?”

  “I was busy stealing that horse,” he said, pointing out a magnificently elegant equine specimen tied up to a nearby tree. It was snorting violently in Chambard’s direction.

  From their vantage point they could see the French Army at the banks of the river on the left side of Saint Quentin and as far as they could make out there was no resistance yet from the Spanish.

  “How do you think its going?” asked Chambard whose eyesight was not quite as keen as Phil’s.

  “Not great. I think it would have been better if they’d put the boats at the front of the advancing troops rather than at the back!”

  - Chapter 13 -

  All the Stars in the Sky

  The Battle of St. Quentin had been a disaster for almost everyone. Thousands of French soldiers lost their lives when the Spanish troops encircled their position on the edge of the city. They’d stood no chance as they struggled through the thick marshes waiting for the boats to be carried down to the soldiers at the front. Many of the captains w
ere slain as they defended their positions and Anne, true to form, was captured and held prisoner. The King conceded defeat and was forced to pay the costs of war, plunging the French Exchequer into further strife. The only participants, if you could call them that, who thought the campaign had been a huge success were Philibert and Chambard.

  Not only had they acquired a genuinely unique piece of aristocratic memorabilia, they could also use it to build a new identity aided by the original owner being in the protection of the enemy and unlikely to rumble their plans. Philibert played the character of Montmorency for longer than any other alias. In total he assumed the role for more than four years, moving through the upper echelons of the country’s elite like a silent assassin. Possession of the ring opened doors they’d never dreamt of knocking on. The role had its challenges. It still needed to be played with conviction and skill, but the ring gave the whole persona an authenticity they’d never possessed before.

  Now that the ring was back in Phil’s possession no one could return it to its rightful owner and reveal the truth. Even though Anne de Montmorency had long since been released as part of the peace treaty there was no way he’d have identified the exact spot on the fields of the Somme where it had left his finger. The only clue to the ring’s whereabouts would be Phil, and he had no intention of dropping in on Anne for afternoon tea.

  But the role was getting more dangerous to play. People were starting to suspect he was not who he said he was. A time would soon come when a change was needed. He couldn’t jettison his alter ego yet because Claude knew him as Philibert Montmorency, and it was Philibert Montmorency who would have to find a way to trick them into releasing him.

  His options seemed limited.

  Chambard was the real master of the con. A wealth of information lived inside that balding head of his, chronicling every ruse, hoax and scheme ever played on a fellow human being. But he wasn’t here to suggest the best solution. It was up to Phil. After more than a decade in his company, Phil had learnt many of the tactics and tricks of the game. But which one would work for him in these difficult circumstances? He was stumped. Only one idea came to mind and it certainly wasn’t one of the schemes from Chambard’s playbook. It was something new that he’d invented and for it to work he’d need the help of one man.

  “Michel, how did you learn to write prophecies?” Phil asked Nostradamus as he sat scribbling away at his desk, a position he maintained most evenings after the sun gave way to the night’s starlit sky.

  “You don’t just learn how to do it. You can either do it or you can’t,” mumbled Michel, failing to move his head from its close proximity to the page.

  “There must be some skill or knowledge to it, though?”

  “Certainly. You need a detailed understanding of astrology, theology and history to have any chance. But just knowing those subjects doesn’t guarantee you’ll be good with predictions.”

  “What’s history got to do with the future?” asked Phil inquisitively.

  “Whatever is has already been and shall be in future, and God recalls each event in its turn.”

  “I don’t get you.”

  “It’s a quote from Ecclesiastes, apparently attributed to King Solomon. It’s an apt response to your question. You see, Phil, the future is predictable because everything in the past repeats itself. Wars, famine, drought, pestilence, invasions, Acts of God, mad Kings, dodgy fashion trends, they all come round again. It’s just a matter of working out when.”

  “And how do you do that?” asked Philibert.

  “Cosmic energy.”

  “You mean you read the stars.”

  “No. You don’t just read them, you feel them. You allow them to penetrate deep inside your anatomy and connect to your spirit. You see everything around us is made from the same four elements; water, fire, earth and wind. The stars are no different. It’s all linked, all part of the heavens that surround us and bind us. That’s the cosmic energy. It’s a power that runs through all living things.”

  Phil got up and walked to the small window. He peered into the night sky where a clear evening had empowered the stars to twinkle like sunlight skipping across rippled waves. In Chambard’s mentorship, Phil had learnt much over the past decade. Much more than the average commoner could expect to learn in a lifetime.

  He could read and write a decent amount of French. He knew a vast amount about social etiquette across all layers of society, and the differences from country to country. Practical skills such as woodwork, metalwork and the care of animals were all highly developed. But what he knew about the stars he could etch on the side of a miniature candle. Other than overhearing people refer to the really famous ones, he knew they were bright, plentiful, always in the sky and that was about it.

  “There are just so many. How do you remember them all?”

  “Oh, it’s easy really. Just a couple of decades of intense study,” said Michel sarcastically.

  “What’s that one?” asked Phil, pointing into the sky through the iron bars that acted as a barrier to limit the escape of anything larger than a limb.

  Michel moved over to the window to see what he was pointing at. “Which one?”

  “That group of stars over there. What’s that?” Phil was indicating a group of eight or nine stars that seemed to him to be in a pattern.

  “That’s a constellation. They tell stories of famous legends from history.”

  “I know that. I meant which constellation is it?”

  “That one is Isabella the Fierce.”

  “Really? What’s the story behind that one?”

  “Isabella was a Greek warrior who slayed the mighty nine-toed giant, Colin of Byzantine. Not many scholars are aware of her story.”

  “A female warrior! I didn’t know the Greeks were so progressive.”

  “That’s because you’ve never been to school,” said Michel insultingly.

  “And that one?” asked Phil like an excited infant.

  “That’s Giles the temporarily annoyed.”

  “What?”

  “He was a famous mythical figure from Sparta who, as the story goes, was known for an inconsistent level of attitude. One minute he’d fly off the handle and the next, good as gold.”

  “And they named a constellation after him?!”

  “Don’t look at me as if it’s my fault. I just remember them, someone else names them.”

  “And that one?”

  “Erastus. Half-man, half-dolphin. See that line of stars, that’s meant to depict his waist, and the few stars below that, those are his flippers,” said Michel confidently as he pointed out all his descriptions.

  “That’s strange. I don’t know much about stars but I could swear someone told me that was Orion?”

  “Oh. That one. Yes, that one is Orion. I thought you were pointing to the one next to it.”

  Michel reeled off the names of constellations without so much as a pause for thought. Each one came with a detailed yet implausible backstory. At least they seemed implausible in today’s context. Back in Greek times everything sounded plausible. A god transforming into a swan, a woman whose eyes could turn you to stone, and a man who was so incredibly hungry he apparently ate himself to death. It was laughable to think how stupid the old times were.

  How could the Greeks be so gullible? It would be the equivalent of people in the Middle Ages believing that three hundred rose petals would cure the plague, or saying ‘God bless you’ after sneezing prevented the Devil crawling up your nose, or that the best way to identify witches was to see if they could float. No one was that stupid surely.

  “So what has Colin the nine-toed giant or Stacy the one-legged eunuch got to do with writing prophecies?”

  “Alignment. We observe the patterns of stars and the movement of planets through the constellations. When certain planets move into certain star signs they indicate, and influence, the present. The cosmic energy interferes with the Earth and brings about a repeat. If we know when Saturn moves into the
constellation of Jerome the Midget a great storm devastates Germany, then there’s a good chance of it happening next time.”

  “Jerome the Midget!”

  “That one…there,” said Michel scanning the sky.

  “How do I know you’re telling me the truth?”

  “You don’t. But I can justify it by saying I’m Nostradamus.”

  He unfurled his now familiar pose.

  “Can you teach me to write them?” asked Philibert.

  “No,” he replied sternly.

  “Why not?”

  “The real question is why you’d want to?” he said, interrogating him with piercing blue eyes that went in through Phil’s irises and penetrated his soul.

  “I’m not exactly busy right now,” said Philibert. “And I thought you might want to?”

  “Why would I want to do that?”

  “Because Annabelle said so.”

  If Michel hadn’t been aware of Annabelle’s passing remarks as she’d left the prison, Phil had certainly registered them. It appeared to him at least that Annabelle was goading Michel into helping Phil, a character flaw he might be able to use to manipulate Nostradamus’s vast ego. He was dead right, too.

  “Annabelle?” said Michel quizzically.

  “Yes. She told you that ‘perhaps it might aid your own release’ if someone were to assist me.”

  “Someone doesn’t mean me, though, does it?”

  “Who else did she mean? The jailor would struggle to remember his own name if it wasn’t written on his hand.”

  “I’m too busy.”

  “Yeah, because there’s so much to do here! Let’s play another game of spot the cockroach.”

  “You’re too old to learn everything you’d need to know.”

  “Well, if you don’t think you can do it, I promise I won’t tell anyone,” added Phil with an untrustworthy expression.

  “Of course I can do it. I’m Nostrada…”

  “Yes, I know you are. There’s no need to repeat yourself.”

  “Look, Philibert, I like you. You have spirit. You’ve achieved more than most who start with your background. You’re a good storyteller, even if I’m not convinced all of them are strictly true. I want you to succeed, I really do. But you have to understand my abilities have taken decades to perfect and I have a reputation amongst my clients which I’m unwilling to damage.”