by Unknown
And the most frightening. He had known fear on the battlefield, and he knew fear now. This, though, was a different kind of fear, the fear that he was being led down the wrong path. Merlin had spoken the truth. To be more powerful than your enemies was not enough. You had to be better than they were. But if he fought fire with fire, would he be any different from his enemies? Would not his face become the monster’s face?
Without knowing he was doing it he touched the scar on his left cheek where the eagle scratched him when he was a boy. ‘Let me go, magus. Find someone else.’
‘There is no one else – you are the one. It is your destiny. Listen to me, Arthur. In the long history of the world there have been many times when mankind was in mortal danger. By some quirk of fate, or if you like, by divine intervention, a saviour was always there to pull us back from the brink – a soldier or a saint, a humble peasant, or a supernatural being. But in whatever guise the saviours came, they all had one thing in common. They believed in themselves. That belief was what gave them the courage to confront the wicked.’
For a moment Arthur was almost convinced. ‘Help me, magus. Help me to believe.’
‘Only you can do that,’ said Merlin.
That night Arthur slept fitfully. In the small hours he was suddenly wide awake; he got up, opened the window and looked out into the night. A soft breeze touched his face bringing music the like of which he had never heard before, played on instruments fashioned in an age long gone. In the distance he could hear the muffled beat of a solitary drum. Here and there in the darkness, as if the countryside were rousing itself from sleep, sparks flashed and flared to fires, filling his nostrils with the acrid smell of burning wood.
He could hear voices now, at first a confused murmur, growing more distinct the nearer they approached, until they slipped through the window into his head, and it seemed that every man and woman in the world was repeating over and over again, “Arthur! Arthur! Arthur!”
In the darkness appeared a great castle with towering turrets and buttressed walls, lit by a forest of torches. On the ramparts soldiers stood by great pyramids of rocks and steaming vats of hot oil, preparing to repel the enemy. In the courtyards below, horses neighed, shifting nervously on the cobblestones, held on tight reign by squires, as a hundred and fifty knights, their armour winking red and gold in the torchlight, assembled to do battle. On the battlements there was a sudden agitation of soldiers, swords drawn for battle, or no, swords drawn not for battle, but in salute. A knight appeared, his golden armour shining so brightly that for an instant Arthur was dazzled; and in that instant, the hubbub of noise ceased.
In the silence the knight turned his head in Arthur’s direction. Something about him seemed familiar. A moment later and he had turned away again. Drawing his sword he raised it high, and from the walls and ramparts, from the courtyards and corridors and stairways, from every door and window of the castle, cheer upon cheer erupted, every cheer answered and overwhelmed by a defiant and much louder cheer from the huge army drawn up a few hundred yards beyond the castle. For as the first light of dawn appeared, there, silhouetted against the sky, were a thousand knights on horseback and fifteen thousand or more foot soldiers. The enemy outnumbered the small band of knights in the castle’s courtyard by more than a hundred to one.
As the sun touched the horizon, the drums of the two opposing armies tapped in dreadful counterpoint. The portcullis was raised, and the knight in golden armour clattered through the castle gates and across the drawbridge followed by his men. Signalling them to halt, he bowed his head, and after a few moments of silent prayer, kissed the hilt of his sword and lowered the visor of his helmet. Then spurring his horse, he galloped directly at the enemy. In seconds he and his men were surrounded.
The breeze brought to Arthur the grim clang of steel on steel. Many a knight crashed to the hard ground, mortally wounded by sword or lance; many more, thrown by their mounts, lay helpless, unable to move, weighed down by their armour, waiting to be trampled to death or skewered through the visor. Horses reared up to the sky, dripping saliva and blood, screaming their agony. Thousands of footsoldiers were slaughtered; those who survived scattered and ran in terror from the battlefield.
Through all the chaos and confusion of battle the knight in golden armour galloped back and forth on his white horse, and no man could withstand him. At the day’s end, when only the faint cries of the dying disturbed the silence, he rode up and down the field of battle, his sword flashing red in the light of the setting sun.
Around him lay thousands of the dead and dying, both knights and footsoldiers. From the far corners of the field his men galloped to him, having suffered miraculously few casualties. Removing his helmet, he bowed his head and thanked God for the victory. Then brandishing his sword in triumph, he led his knights back to the castle. Reigning in his horse as he approached the drawbridge, he looked back at the battlefield strewn with bodies, and on his face was a look of such profound sadness that Arthur was moved to tears.
There had to be another way, a better way than Merlin’s.
Fourteen
2024
As the weeks and months passed, Uther’s malicious leak to the Press was gradually forgotten, and Arthur’s star was once more on the rise. A man of integrity and principle had appeared on the political horizon, an excellent performer in the House, respected by his own Party on both back and front benches, popular with the British public, indeed everything a
politician ought to be.
In the spring of 2024 Leo Grant finally stood down as leader of United Labour. Arthur Pendragon offered himself as the new leader and was elected by unanimous vote.
The following day the Prime Minister, his father, Uther Pendragon, rose in the House of Commons. ‘We have not always seen eye to eye,’ he began, ‘however I would be failing in my duty as Prime Minister if I did not wish the right honourable gentleman otherwise known as my son, much luck and success as leader of the opposition.’ A pause for effect, and he added, to laughter and applause, ‘Long may he continue to hold that office.’
Arthur responded gracefully. ‘I thank the gentleman whose name I bear for his kind words, and can only assure him that I intend to pay him the greatest compliment a son can pay his father – by stepping into his shoes at the earliest opportunity.’ Members, many on the government benches, appreciated the joke. Uther did not. After the debate he caught up with Arthur in a Westminster corridor. ‘Stepping into my shoes,’ he hissed scornfully. ‘Stepping into my shoes!’ he repeated loudly, his voice trembling with anger.
‘Let me tell you, Arthur, these shoes are a few sizes too big for you. You know your trouble? You are so blinded by your own arrogance and conceit, you think yourself a match for me. Stepping into my shoes! Think again. Without me you were nothing, you are nothing, you always will be nothing.’ And with that final insult, Uther stalked off.
For a moment or two Arthur stood there, shaking his head like a boxer who has walked into a heavy punch. Such venom, and voiced in public. What on earth had got into his father? He and Uther were political opponents but this was something else; this was personal. He could only think Uther must feel seriously threatened by him to react so furiously to such a routine exchange of banter in the House.
As it happened it was the last time laughter was heard in the House for a long time. The remainder of the year saw a dramatic increase in the number of terrorist incidents across the globe. May saw the hijacking of an American passenger liner in the Caribbean. The release of nearly a hundred convicted and suspected terrorists was demanded, and although about half that number of prisoners were quickly released, the liner was blown up by suicide bombers with the loss of almost all passengers and crew. In early June huge bombs were exploded at both ends of the Eurotunnel, and simultaneously on a train under the English Channel, causing massive destruction and the loss of many lives. The Eurotunnel link was closed indefinitely. In the same month a missile struck a nuclear power station in Illinois
resulting in substantial damage and loss of life. The resulting radiation, experts predicted, would take several years to clean up, creating severe health problems for many thousands of people. On the 22nd July a tanker anchored off an East Coast UK refinery exploded with a full cargo of LNG – Liquid Natural Gas – destroying not only the port and the refinery but a large part of the adjoining town. An east wind carried the cloud of contamination over the city and the adjoining countryside. By the time the wind dropped the next day at least fifty square miles of the country had been affected.
It was immediately confirmed that the explosion had not been an accident but a terrorist act.
In the House of Commons, Uther Pendragon expressed his deepest condolences to the victims, promising that all those affected would receive every possible assistance the government could provide, both now and in the future. He also gave his word that ‘the perpetrators of this vile act will be hunted down and brought to justice.’
At such a time, criticism of the government over its inadequate handling of the terrorist problem would, Arthur felt, be inappropriate. He therefore contented himself with adding his and his Party’s condolences to those of the Prime Minister and assuring him of his full support in difficult times. In private, however, it was a different story. For Arthur this was a terrorist incident too far and he was determined to have a showdown with his father. An attack of this kind had long been predicted by experts, despite which very little had been done by the government either to protect ‘high-profile’ targets such as nuclear power plants and refineries, or to safeguard people living in adjoining areas. Another fiery confrontation in Number 10 between Arthur and Uther spilled over yet again into ill-tempered exchanges in the corridors of Westminster.
There was no doubt that the New Millennium Party had been damaged by this latest terrorist incident. The media and the public were asking why more was not being done to hunt down and destroy terrorist cells who, it seemed, continued to carry out such attacks with relative impunity. The increasing audacity, ruthlessness and efficiency of Islamist and other terrorist groups, and the failure of the security services and politicians to deal with them, created a sense of instability and foreboding, not just in the United Kingdom but throughout the world.
On the Fourteenth of July, 2024 – the anniversary of Bastille day – a French terrorist group calling itself the Children of the Revolution kidnapped the French President, killing three policemen and two bodyguards in the process, and demanded a ransom of ten billion Euros. No one, not even the French security services, had ever heard of the Children of the Revolution. It was surmised that the group might be a front for a Middle Eastern country, possibly the Kingdom of the Euphrates. That this outrage was perpetrated on Bastille Day was regarded as a sick joke, an insult to a nation that embraced the ideals of Liberty, Equality and Fraternity, a blow at the very heart of French pride and self-esteem. When the French government refused to negotiate with the terrorists, they sent them the little finger of the President’s left hand, threatening to cut off one finger a day until the ransom was paid. A deal was swiftly struck – for approximately half the amount demanded, it was widely rumoured – and the French President was duly released.
As Leader of the Opposition, Arthur spoke up for punitive action. Terrorism, he argued, was not a national but an international problem, and as such had to be dealt with by joint international action. Only a united free world could defeat the terrorists. If this government could not do the job, let it resign and leave it to those who could.
Uther insisted, and many in the House agreed with him, that this was an internal French matter. ‘France, some might say regrettably, has not been ruled by this country for several centuries.’ This sally was greeted with cries of ‘hear, hear!’ and much laughter on both sides of the House. ‘France is a sovereign state, and must deal with terrorist acts as it sees fit.’
Later father and son met in an ante-room. ‘You may have won the debate, father,’ said Arthur, ‘but you lost the argument.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Uther, ‘you’re a bad loser.’
‘Kidnapping the French President is not just a national issue,’ said Arthur, ignoring the dig, ‘it is one that affects every democratic country in the world. It could happen here. It could happen to you.’
‘If it does,’ said Uther dryly, ‘I count on you to pay the ransom.’
‘For God’s sake, father, be serious. You can’t make the problem go away by pretending it doesn’t exist.’
‘Let’s assume for a moment that you might have a point,’ said Uther. ‘Mind you,’ he added hastily, ‘I’m not saying you have. What would you do in my place?’
‘Persuade the French to join an international task force to hunt down the Children of the Revolution and bring them to justice. It’s essential we show the terrorists we mean business. If we don’t, we shall live to regret it.’
‘I don’t share your pessimism, Arthur,’ said Uther. ‘Terrorist incidents are unpleasant, certainly, but don’t let’s exaggerate their significance. Throw your microscope away. Take the macrocosmic view. From time to time there are earthquakes, the tectonic plates move. This is one of those times. We have to expect a few tremors now and then.’
‘These tremors, as you call them,’ said Arthur, ‘could be the precursors of a cataclysmic upheaval that one day will tear the planet apart.’
‘Relax,’ said Uther, flashing an ingratiating beam of a smile at Arthur, ‘let’s not quarrel about this, my boy. Fighting terrorism ought not to be a political issue.’ Uther’s expression changed abruptly from amiable to funereal. ‘You think my heart doesn’t bleed when innocent people are killed and maimed by these bastards? Of course it does. I’m a feeling man, as everyone knows.’ Uther struck his breast to emphasise how feeling he was. ‘Make no mistake, Arthur, the fight against terrorism is at the top of my agenda. I eat it, breathe it, sleep it.’ Sensing perhaps that he had overstated his case, and that Arthur was far from convinced, Uther offered what sounded like a truce. ‘Look here,’ he said, with an abrupt display of geniality, ‘why don’t you and I sit down with the boys from MI6 and the anti- terror branch and discuss tactics. Put a bomb under them.’ An apologetic grin. ‘Metaphorically speaking, of course.’ His brows arched. ‘How would that be?’
‘I’d like that,’ said Arthur.
‘Then we’ll do it. Mind you,’ said Uther, ‘I’m not committing myself to any change in government policy, or anything like that.’ A genial smile. ‘You wouldn’t expect that, now would you?’
No change meant no progress. His father had thrown him nothing more than a sop. ‘Is it still government policy to do deals with terrorists?’
‘I don’t mind telling you what government policy is, Arthur. Between ourselves, that is. Of course if you quote me, I’ll deny it.’ Uther lowered his voice to a conspiratorial blur. ‘The way I look at it, the bad guys – terrorists to you – they are bound to notch up a success or two here and there. Let’s face it, we can’t stop them every time. They’ll win a few battles, but there’s no way they’re going to win the war. Whenever they get seriously out of line, we give them a bloody nose, just to let them know who’s boss. But if we over-react, they might get the idea we’re afraid of them. They might even start to believe they’re the ones running the world.’
Arthur shook his head despairingly. To think that this man was Prime Minister of the United Kingdom. He wondered how many world leaders like him there were out there. ‘That may have been true thirty years ago but it certainly isn’t now. The bad guys are not satisfied with pickings any more. They don’t want our left-over scraps. They want everything. And if we’re not careful they’ll get it. The world has never been such a dangerous place. These days you can make weapons of mass destruction in a bath tub, or on a kitchen table – a nuclear bomb, deadly biological agents like anthrax and botulism, gangrene and cancer and plague, not to speak of chemical killers like sarin and nerve gas. Today it’s the French President. Tomorrow? Who k
nows? It could be a city. Or a country. My God, they could hold the world to ransom.’
Uther clapped his hands in ironic applause. ‘Great stuff, Arthur. Apocalyptic talk. Whatever next? Doomsday?
Ragnarok? Twilight of the Gods?’
In his heart Arthur knew he was wasting his time. Still he refused to give up. Somehow or other there had to be a way of making his father see reason. ‘You can mock, but is it really so fantastic? Think, father, think. The terrorists have the weapons and the technology to destroy us. They also have the will, which is more than we seem to have.’
Arthur gave his son a patronising pat on the arm. ‘You worry too much. Everything is going to be alright. Trust me.’
Within a few days of this latest confrontation between father and son, rumours about Arthur began to circulate in Westminster and the news media, rumours that were difficult to scotch because they had no substance, and appeared to be mere expressions of opinion. Where they originated no one would or could say. When the Downing Street Press Office came under suspicion, they issued a vehement denial. The essence of the rumours was simple. Arthur, it was said, could not be trusted, either by his colleagues or by the electorate – not because he was not a man of principle, but because he was a man of too many principles – in other words a zealot, one of those passionately dedicated idealogues who start wars without meaning to. Principles blindly adhered to were dangerous things. Terrorists murdered people in the name of principles. The sad truth was that Arthur Pendragon was misplaced in politics. He should take the cloth, or become a professor of some abstrusely theoretical subject at some remote place of learning. Practical matters like running the country should be left to others.
The final, and perhaps most damaging rumour of all, insinuated that Arthur’s motives were suspect. What did he really mean when he spoke of uniting the free world? Such arrogance! Such presumption! Who was going to lead this united world of his? Why, Arthur Pendragon of course! Was the leader of the opposition a would-be dictator parading in a freedom fighter’s clothes, a latter-day fascist, posing as the planet’s saviour?
