Akropolis Page 11

  “He must be out the back,” said Norika, heading towards the rear of the shop.

  “No, wait!” said Nat, “Something’s wrong.”

  Alert and cautious, he led the way through the front area. They stopped in dismay when they entered the back room. Broken pottery lay in shards all over the floor. Leontios was nowhere to be seen.

  “Nike!” cried Nat, racing outside to the yard. Norika followed close behind and they stood together, looking at the wreckage.

  The coop was destroyed. Timber was strewn everywhere, the trellis smashed. Leontios lay near it, surrounded by dead pigeons. Norika rushed forward to him but Nat knew he was long dead.

  “Nike!” he called again, frantically moving from one bloodied bird to another. Sharp slivers of timber caught his clothes and pierced his hands but he hardly noticed.

  None of the dead birds was Nike‌—‌he would know her. She had escaped.

  There was nothing more they could do. Nat became aware of the rock faintly humming in his pocket. He didn’t need to check it to know it would be glowing. They had to get out of there.

  They ran.

  Any other time, their route would have caused them to gaze in wonder at the city built by Perikles. But now they ran‌—‌along gravel streets, across the marketplace, towards the road leading to the top of the hill overlooking the city. Once on the road, Athens lay below them, and although they could not yet see the plateau above, they knew they were climbing the Akropolis.

  They dropped their pace, confident that anyone following them could be easily seen from the road. Eventually, beyond the fortification wall constructed on the edge of the escarpment, they looked up at a small temple, and a short distance further they found themselves on the wide paved pathway to what they guessed was the gateway to the sacred site.

  A long stairway constructed of white marble led to the front of the building. They waited until the stairway was clear of people, then started to climb it, reaching the top without incident. They were about to enter the building when they heard someone shout, “You two! Stop there!” Too late to retreat, they froze and waited.

  An official came over and regarded them suspiciously. “This is the entrance to the Akropolis. What is your business here?” Nat closed his eyes briefly and turned to face the guard.

  “We’re here to worship at the temple of Athena. We have come from the house of our friend, the aristocrat Zenon.”

  The official looked at them closely, noting their unusual clothing. He had always thought aristocrats strange in their ways, but Zenon was one of the good ones.

  “I know Zenon,” he said, and stood aside. “The sacred way to the Parthenon is straight through the Propylaia and out the eastern porch.”

  They walked slowly past him, holding their breath. When they were in the building Norika whispered, “That was close.” Nat gave a quick smile but his heart was still loud in his ears.

  Colonnades lined both sides of the central passageway leading to the eastern section. Once through a gate in the far wall they stopped in amazement. Above them the high ceiling was coffered in carved marble and painted deep blue. Set into it were hundreds of gold stars which caught the shifting light and shone as if real.

  They had no time to stop and gape. They made their way through the eastern porch to the outside. Ahead of them stood a colossal bronze statue of the goddess Athena as a warrior armed with spear and shield. To the right, the Parthenon filled their view.

  Norika had once seen a documentary on the famous temple to Athena. She remembered a building in ruins, a pillaged temple built more than two millennia before her time. Now she was seeing the Parthenon at the height of its glory, with its frieze freshly painted in bright colours and its white marble columns polished and gleaming.

  They entered the building through an immense bronze door and walked through to the inner room, where a massive gold and ivory statue of Athena towered from a carved marble platform, its reflection mirrored in the shallow rectangular pool before it. Even in the half-light they caught their breath at the sight.

  Norika stood looking up at the statue. “It’s beautiful but I can’t enjoy it. I keep thinking of Korinna and Leontios. What are we doing here, Nat? What would happen if we just stopped? Went home.”

  “We can never go back to the way it was,” He took her hand. “We can’t stop until we’ve overwritten Seb’s code, you know that.”

  Her throat tight, she turned from the statue.

  Nat said, “I think we’re safe here for the moment. Let’s get some rest and study the diagram again. Then we can leave.”

  They found a sheltered corner near the entrance and removed their packs to use as pillows. Nat lay awake, watching Norika as she slept and blaming himself for their situation. They were stranded on the Akropolis, far above Athens, with only one route down. In their escape from the city he’d been drawn to the rocky plateau as if the greatness of it would somehow save them. Now it might destroy them. He was glad when night fell and hid his tears.

  When they woke, it was dark. Outside the moon was high and there was enough light to see their way. It was a warm night and they sat on the edge of the east steps of the Parthenon while below them Athens lay in darkness.

  Nat opened the second diagram. Apart from the glow of the phone’s display, there was no light other than moonlight, no sound except for the occasional call of an owl. He peered into the night, wondering if they had been tracked. He found he was trembling and lowered the phone so Norika wouldn’t notice.

  She waited until he was still and moved closer to look at the screen over his shoulder. Her voice was calm and steady. “Go to the symbols.”

  He breathed easy. The letters were recognisable and the Roman numerals easy to transcribe. “It looks like a year, 1911, followed by a set of letters and numbers.”

  “The set has a full point like the first diagram,” said Norika, “try it as a URL.”

  As Nat entered the transcription a site bar opened and then a website. “It’s the homepage of a museum. The Edwardian Arts & Crafts Museum.”

  Norika frowned. “Edwardian? With Roman numerals?”

  “Roman numerals were used at that time to write dates and the numbers on clocks and in books. It could be the number of an exhibit.” Nat read out the menu options. “Pottery & Ceramics, Needlework & Embroidery, Textiles, Woodwork, Furniture, Toys, Decorative Design.”

  “Try Furniture,” said Norika.

  They watched as the page loaded and a series of thumbnails came up.

  “No chairs there,” Nat said. “Woodwork?”

  Images of a collection of inlaid boxes and decorative carvings filled the screen. Disappointed, Nat returned to the main menu.

  “What about Toys?” Norika suggested.

  “What sort of toy would use a miniature chair?”

  Norika leaned forward, her eyes bright. “A dolls house would! There, in the sub-menu‌—‌Dolls Houses. The chair is in a dolls house! Quick, open the page.”

  The main image showed a large, antique dolls house, its hinged façade opened to reveal the interior on two levels. The roof was lifted to show the rooms on the second level, from which a finely carved staircase led to the ground floor. The rooms were fully furnished in Edwardian style, with tiny paintings mounted on the wallpapered walls and woven carpets covering the floor.

  Nat felt a soft breeze rise from the south and remembered where they were. He glanced behind them at the colonnade in deep shadows. Nothing. He took a deep breath, and concentrated on the image.

  An inset image showed the rear of the dolls house opened to allow access to the back section. In a large corner drawing room they could see the chair from the diagram, one of a pair placed on either side of a sofa in front of a fireplace.

  “There’s a description under the image,” said Norika.

  Nat read it aloud:

  Edwardian Dolls House, circa 1908. This finely crafted dolls house is a faithful reproduction of an actual residence in Warwickshir
e. The manor house Halston Hall was built in 1886 and was the home of Sir Hugo Wincroft and his wife, a well-known American stage actress before her marriage. Their two sons, Frederick and Edward, and daughter Emmeline were born and raised there. Frederick left England before the war to make his fortune overseas, Emmeline died in childhood and Edward lost his life at the Western Front.

  As a Member of Parliament, Sir Hugo spent much of his time in London. Lady Wincroft lived alone in the house with two or three servants until her death in a fire which destroyed the property.

  The dolls house is the only record remaining of Halston Hall and its collection of fine furniture and artworks, many of which were reproduced in miniature to furnish the rooms of the dolls house and decorate the walls. The dolls house is the work of the master craftsman John Willard of Warwickshire, and reflects the changing way of life during the Edwardian era, the period from the death of Queen Victoria in 1901 to the death of her son King Edward VII in 1910.

  This was a time heralding great social and political upheaval in England, where the class system had become increasingly rigid. The catastrophe of the First World War exposed the injustices of this period and hastened its decline.

  Nat lowered the phone. “So what do you think?” he said. “Is it one of the original sites?”

  Norika watched as a faint dawn light tinged the sky over the city. Light slowly spread along the Parthenon, reaching into the rows of columns and throwing shadows the length of the colonnades. “If it leads to the map segment,” she said, “what does it matter?”

  Nat raised the phone and clicked on the image of the chair.

  Behind them, from the columns, someone watched them disappear.

  The Age of Akropolis is upon us.

  17

  NGC-1097, from the Dome

  The sound increased. Seb couldn’t find words for such a sound, such thin, elusive chords. He could see it in the air‌—‌the light, the vibrations, the colour.

  He sat next to Demokritos and waited. A voice rose above the sound‌—‌not like any he’d heard. He understood it without effort, as if the voice were in his head.

  “Sebastian, your actions have been noted, with approval. You are here before the Committee because you are about to be repositioned, for your own safety and the safety of others, and you need to understand the importance of your cooperation.”

  Seb took his time. “Do I have a choice?”

  “When you are out of danger, you will be free to go wherever you want. To live without fear of discovery. To live simply.”

  Seb gave a harsh laugh. “To live simply? In return for what?”

  “There is another choice you can make, one we believe you will make.”

  Seb waited.

  “You can help us.”

  A long pause.

  The voice continued. “As a Descendant you have access to all timespaces. All portals are open to you. You will soon be without a Guide. It makes things easier.”

  “What things?” asked Seb.

  “Your identity must be kept secret, even from those who become close to you. You will be embedded, to continue your work undetected.”

  “My work. What is my work?”

  Silence. Seb waited.

  “You will be in a position to ensure history unfolds as it was meant to, uncontaminated by those who would design an alternative future.”

  “Why me?”

  “Sometimes, there is no one else.” No further explanation was offered.

  Seb considered a moment. “Who murdered Kleitos?”

  “We don’t know.” Another silence.

  Seb stood and paced slowly in front of the platform. Who are these people? He said, “What is your Committee? What does it do?”

  “We are the Committee of the First Transition, formed by Survivors but now consisting of Descendants. We are no longer peaceful like our forebears. We are activists determined to prevent the Second Transition, led by Ascendants, from taking control.”

  “What gives you the right?”

  “We are leaders. Leaders impose order. So it is in any civilisation.”

  “Who would lead a world dominated by conflict?”

  “We live in that world now, Sebastian. We want a different one.”

  “Different?”

  “Better.”

  “Whatever the cost?”

  “Sacrifices are made by those who believe in a cause.”

  Seb stopped pacing. “I reject it. I can’t help you. Find someone else.”

  Demokritos leaned forward, arms on his knees, listening intently.

  The voice flowed back, intense and penetrating. “Your brother is in danger.”

  Seb felt a jolt of fear. “How is my brother involved in this?”

  “Nathaniel has the best chance of securing your freedom. But he needs your cooperation in order to succeed.”

  “Where is he now?”

  Silence.

  “This Committee,” Seb said, “who are your members? Where are they from?”

  A slight pause. “Our ancestors came from elsewhere.”

  “Elsewhere? I don’t believe in flying saucers.”

  “There are no flying saucers, Sebastian. Look up.”

  Seb turned to view the sky above him. He had grown up where the southern skies were far removed from the pollution of cities, where he would find due south by tracing the midpoint in an imaginary line from the Southern Cross down to Achernar. In Athens, he had become familiar with the northern skies as no one in his timespace had seen them. He had looked up at the blazing constellations, free from city lights, free from smog, and seen the stars of two millennia past.

  This was a different sky. Here there was no Southern Cross, no Alpha Centauri, no Jupiter or Mars. A large planet half in shadow appeared closer than the moon to Earth. Across the dome he saw a luminous fusion of gaseous matter.

  “Where are we?” he asked.

  “The supernova you see is the destruction of a star, millions of light years from Earth. The nearby planet is Zelos, the home of our ancestors. Gamma rays from the explosion will eventually destroy it. The only way our people can avoid annihilation is to leave. Most already have.”

  Seb had heard enough. “I need to see my brother.”

  A pause. “Unfortunately, a barrier prevents this. Until we discover who activated it, you and Nathaniel will be unable to communicate with each other.”

  “Find out who did it then,” Seb said, “or I will.”

  “You are not free to do so. Demokritos will continue as your Guide until we meet again.”

  “Who are you?”

  “My name is Nike.”

  * * *

  Warwickshire, England, 1911

  It was a fine summer’s day when Edward returned home for the holidays, and Lady Wincroft decided to set up lunch in the garden. Mrs Macgregor prepared some cold cuts and she and Maggie carried the food and lemon cordial out to the table. Lady Wincroft’s parents had arrived from America only the day before, and Mrs Macgregor wanted to serve a particularly good spread, with Edward and Emmeline both home and Master Frederick driving up from London. Sir Hugo had driven up only the week before, after his recent election to Parliament, so there was extra cause for celebration.

  Mrs Macgregor had baked their favourite cakes and knew they would go down well over the weekend. Her husband Bert had voted for Sir Hugo himself after hearing him speak in the town. Very impressed, Bert was. These were troubled times and Sir Hugo was a good man, very appreciative of how Bert had kept the grounds looking so good. Ten years she and Bert had been here. Right after the death of the Queen they’d come and they didn’t plan to leave anytime soon.

  The family was at lunch when Mrs Macgregor heard a soft knock at the kitchen door leading to the herb garden. She opened it and gazed in surprise at a pair of scruffy young people standing on the doorstep, a tall, angular boy and an exotic-looking girl. Gypsies, no doubt, selling game they’d poached. Mrs Macgregor didn’t take well to interruption
s. She and Maggie had been cooking all morning in preparation for the weekend house guests and they’d just started on the hors d’oeuvres for dinner.

  “We don’t want any,” she said briskly, hoping they would wander off before she had to call Mr Wilson to deal with them. “And you’re trespassing. Get on now.”

  “We’re not selling anything,” Norika said, in as confident an upper-class tone as she could manage. A short time before, she and Nat had walked out of the forest below the manor house, across the lawn and onto the wide carriageway at the back. They’d immediately recognised the house as Halston Hall and headed for the kitchen door.

  “Well, what do you want, then?” Mrs Macgregor asked, slightly appeased. “We’re very busy today, as you can see.”

  “Is this Halston Hall?” Nat asked politely. “My aunt, the Marchioness of Slovakia, asked me to call on her friend Lady Wincroft and convey her best wishes. They were on the stage together some years ago.”

  Norika looked at him, startled. Marchioness of Slovakia? Was Nat crazy? Who would believe that?

  Mrs Macgregor wavered, remembering Lady Wincroft had been an actress before she married and knew all sorts of strange people. She was thinking the boy’s tale could be true and wondered whether she had spoken too hastily.

  She said doubtfully, “Oh. Well, I suppose you’ll have to come in and wait. I’ll get Mr Wilson to inform Lady Wincroft.” She opened the door wide. When she saw how tired Norika looked, her voice softened. “My goodness, you both look as if you could do with a feed! You’re welcome to some food in the kitchen, if you like. Maggie will set it out for you.”

  “Thank you,” said Norika with enthusiasm. “We haven’t eaten for a while.”

  “Sit yourselves down then and tuck in. Mr Wilson won’t be too long.” Mrs Macgregor hurried off towards a massive oven.

  A surly young girl of about fifteen set out some sliced ham and bread on the table for them. “I’ll be watching the cutlery,” she warned, before leaving to help the cook.

  Nat was already regretting his subterfuge. It had seemed inspired at the time, but he doubted it would stand up to Lady Wincroft’s questioning. Too late. He was thinking he should confess when Wilson arrived in the kitchen. Mrs Macgregor took the butler aside and appeared to be repeating Nat’s story.