The Unhappy Medium 3: Wretched Things: A Supernatural Comedy, page 37
The purple glow that had taken them had faded away. Now they began to rise, awkwardly at first, then with greater confidence as the newly arrived souls fully connected with muscle, bone and sinew. Back from Purgatory after three thousand years, their expressions contorted with a crazed elation and wild, ancient anger.
What had been the Minister for Defence leapt suddenly to his feet, clenching his fists like a prize boxer, ready to smash in the face of anyone foolish enough to call him a sissy.
‘Raaaaaaaaarrrggghhhhh!’
‘Vot have you done?’ screamed the uncomprehending Helen. ‘Who are they? Who have you brought here? This isn’t our Lord!’
What had been the deputy defence minister looked slowly over at Helena, eyes burning with five thousand years of pent-up anger, the most sinister of smiles leaking onto his distorted features.
Understandably, she began backing away.
Helena wasn’t fast enough; the possessed defence minister stepped over another recovering spirit and grabbed her by the throat, lifting her up to his snarling face with horrifying ease.
‘Shut up … girl,’ snarled the newcomer. ‘Or I’ll gut you like a fish.’
‘Leave her!’ ordered the blind man. ‘Get your men together; we have more important things to attend to.’
Reluctantly, the former deputy defence minister dropped the gasping Helena. Bewildered, she scuttled backwards, seeking safety behind the conference table, unable to grasp what she was facing. The spirits, now all safely behind the wheel of their host bodies, gathered together, striking a series of heroic poses as they looked to the blind man for instruction.’
‘Men!’ began the ex-deputy defence minister. ‘This frail man you see before you … he deserves our eternal gratitude!’
‘Oh shhh,’ said the blind man, suddenly a little coy. ‘You’re embarrassing me.’
‘Take this just praise, Great Bard, we beseech thee,’ insisted the junior defence minister, now clearly the leader of the newly arrived spirits. ‘You who have done so much to keep our memory alive these past millennia. Through ages, dark and light, as we hung like slaughtered game in that cruel underworld, you spread our memory with your majestic words. Thus, through the tongues of others, your words and our memories … lived on! For thousands of years, you kept our glory ablaze in the hearts of mortal men, burning like an eternal flame in poetry, the written word, audiobook, movie, DVD and now … online streaming services!’ What used to be the junior defence minister then sank onto one knee, head bowed, hand gripping his heart through the no-iron shirt. ‘Hail to thee, Great Bard. Hail to thee, Teller of Tales.’
With that, the defence minister stood, placed his hand upon the blind man’s shoulder and kissed him once on each cheek in holy reverence.
‘Hail to thee … sweet Homer.’
The blind man lifted a shaking hand, touching the warrior upon his face as a single tear fell from his dead eye, down his cheek and into his yellowed beard.
‘Hail to thee … mighty Achilles.’
*****
Not wanting to attract attention, the trireme carrying the Purgatorians avoided the teeming port of Piraeus altogether. They anchored instead off Kalamaki beach to the south where the minibus ordered by Vasilakis was waiting.
Twenty minutes later, the Purgatorians pulled up beside the busy waterfront.
‘No heroics,’ insisted Newton, as Gabby and Viv climbed out beside the ferry terminal. ‘Find Nahrapov’s yacht, then settle down in a café. Watch from a distance, ok?’
‘Aye, aye,’ replied Viv. ‘I’ve been kidnapped too often to let that happen again.’
‘Yeah, well, when I say at a distance, I mean at a distance,’ insisted Newton. ‘Here, take the binoculars. The further away you are, the better.’
‘Don’t fuss, Dad,’ said Gabby, taking the glasses. ‘They won’t even know we’re here.’
‘Let’s hope not,’ replied Newton. ‘Any trouble, you find a priest, ok? No heroics.’
‘We’re fine,’ Viv reassured him. ‘Now get going. Give ’em hell.’
Pushing down the familiar foreboding, Newton wound up the window as Vasilakis eased the minibus out into the evening traffic, leaving Gabby and Viv looking way too small for his liking in the side mirror.
‘Our men tracked them to the Archaeological Museum,’ said Vasilakis as they began their tortuous journey into town. ‘Word is, Dr Kraakenhausen is spilling his guts about the Labyrinth at some event. This could be very bad.’
‘When is this event?’ asked Bennet. ‘Are we too late?’
‘Maybe,’ replied the grim-faced Vasilakis. ‘They are in there now. All we can do is try, no?’
Ignoring Athens’ slapdash traffic controls, the van shot through the early evening traffic. Breaking half of the rules in Greece’s highway code as they surged ahead, the van triggered a fanfare of angry horns along the length of the feeder road as they pushed from the busy port to the city centre. Rocking back and forth as it barrelled through the red lights, Newton and Bennet were thrown from side to side like peas in a whistle as Vasilakis charged the minibus towards the museum.
‘Bloody hell!’ yelled Newton, fighting to stay upright. ‘I thought I was a bad driver.’
‘You think you do better, English?’ shouted Vasilakis, as he slammed them onto two wheels around a tight corner. ‘You welcome to come up here and have try.’
‘No, no. You’re good,’ replied Newton, tumbling back into the opposite wall.
‘Aren’t we going in circles?’ asked Bennet, as the van took another corner.
‘Is one-way system,’ answered Vasilakis. ‘Athens … Christós. This town is worse than Labyrinth.’
*****
‘Oh, cunning Odysseus,’ proclaimed Homer. ‘His Trojan horse scam has worked again. I thought it was great the first time, but twice?!’
‘A simple sliver of wood,’ said Achilles, lifting up the fateful fragment. ‘To have survived from the original horse and to have come down through the ages, ready to free us once again, it is amazing. Destiny has indeed spoken.’
‘Not wanting to blow my own trumpet,’ lied Homer, ‘but it took some proper cunning on my part. I disguised it as something from their lamentable, unheroic cult of Christianity. They preserved it for me … the fools! These gullible Christians would revere anything if they thought it was linked to their Jesus. Talk about no questions asked. Hilarious. Then I had the idiot Purgatorians keep it safe for me for a thousand years, safe until it came time to restore you, mighty Achilles.’
‘Truly you have done well, sweet poet of Greece,’ replied Achilles. ‘Immortal as I was in your epic poems, it comes a poor second to being here … in person. Here, I can really mess shit up.’
‘You can … mighty Achilles,’ nodded Homer. ‘You really can.’
‘Now tell me, sweet Homer,’ asked Achilles. ‘Where exactly are we?’
‘Athens,’ answered Homer. ‘Though it’s not the Athens you’ll remember. They’ve cocked it up a fair bit, according to my friend here.’
‘Hello!’ said Andronicus, desperate to be noticed by his childhood hero.
‘And who might you be?’ asked Achilles, walking over to the former emperor. He leant forward to stare him untrustingly in his eyes.
‘Oh, brave and noble Achilles,’ fawned Andronicus the Terrible, reaching both arms out to hug the Bronze Age warrior. ‘I am Andronicus I Comnenus, the Emperor of Constantinople.’
‘Touch me,’ growled Achilles, quietly. ‘And you die.’
‘Whoops, yes … sorry …,’ apologised Andronicus, withdrawing his hands. ‘Sorry. I’m a huge fan.’
‘Whatever,’ sneered Achilles, inspecting his fingernails.
‘He has been helping me,’ explained Homer. ‘He’s an absolute rotter.’
‘Well, that’s something,’ said Achilles. ‘There’s no room for the weak. You’ll find no weakness or compassion in my ranks.’ He gestured to his heroic followers, all still standing with hands on hips, legs spread, behind him. ‘Behold my warriors: brave, loyal Eudoros, noble, mighty Alcimedon, and Pisander, Menesthius, Bathycles.’
‘And me,’ called Patroclus from the body of the culture minister.
‘Ah yes,’ sighed Achilles. ‘Sweet, attractive, fabulous … Patroclus.
‘I’m fierce too,’ protested Patroclus defensively.
‘Of course you are,’ replied Achilles. ‘Fabulously fierce.’
‘I’ve always wanted to meet you,’ gushed Andronicus. ‘I loved you in the Iliad.’
‘Oh, that,’ snorted Achilles. ‘That’s just ancient history. Now is what counts. I don’t want to rest on my laurels. I, Achilles, am ready for new battles. I crave fresh slaughter and as much mindless violence as I can fit in my diary.’ He turned back to the poet. ‘I hope there is a new war for me, dear Homer. A new bloody conflict for me and my mighty, murdering Myrmidons.’
There was a cheer.
‘Papa!’ gasped Helena, looking at the slowly rising body of her father. ‘Not you, oh please … not you too!’
‘You, girl,’ said the body of Dr Kraakenhausen, ‘are addressing Ajax, Ajax … the Great!’
‘Noooooo,’ wailed Helena. ‘Vot have you done to my poor Papa?’
‘Ha!’ exclaimed Homer triumphantly. ‘Papa … has gone. Ajax has arrived. Our army grows! Now that I have released brave Achilles, Ajax and the Myrmidons, we can start working through these museum galleries, bringing back every hero we can get our hands on. Now begins our takeover.’
‘Takeover?’ asked Helena, standing. ‘Takeover vot?’
‘Why, everything, of course,’ replied Homer. ‘We begin here, with Greece. We take over the government, one soul after another, spreading the spirits of the Heroic Age as we go. Hercules, Odysseus … even the Trojans. I’m not picky. A hero is a hero.’
‘I welcome them all,’ added Achilles. ‘Paris, Hector and Priam, are they not brothers in arms?’
‘You’re mad!’ exclaimed Helena. ‘This isn’t the Bronze Age!’
‘It will be pretty Bronze by the time we’ve finished with it.’ snorted Achilles.
‘Our new world will be a world fit for heroes,’ declared Homer. ‘And if you’re not heroic, to Hades with you. You deserve nothing but slavery and, or, death.’
‘You’ll never get away vith it!’ insisted Helena. ‘This modern vorld vill eat you alive. You don’t know how to use a phone or drive a car, let alone fight tanks and combat helicopters.’
‘Who is this mouthy girl?’ asked Achilles. ‘Shall I strangle her?’
‘I’m Helena Kraakenhausen,’ she replied, pointing at the former archaeologist. ‘And that … that was mein Papa!’
‘Wait, brave Achilles,’ said Homer, holding back the warrior. ‘We will have need of modern minds. Tell me, girl, can you use these computer things?’
‘Of course,’ replied Helena. ‘I’m a thirty-two-year-old voman.’
‘Yeah, we should keep her,’ declared Homer. ‘We will need a website. Even heroes will need to be able to send and receive emails.’
‘You think I’m gonna do anything for you bastards after vot you did to mein Papa?’ snarled Helena. ‘Go screw yourselves.’
‘Everyone will work for us,’ replied Homer. ‘If they want to live.’
‘Yeah? Well to hell vith you,’ snapped Helena. ‘Fuck you and your Bronze Age bullshit.’
‘She has spirit, this one,’ observed Achilles admiringly. ‘I shall enjoy smashing it out of her.’
‘In time, brave Achilles,’ advised Homer. ‘But, for now, let us explore this museum, see who else we can liberate from their relics. There are probably a thousand heroic souls languishing here. Hercules Agamemnon, Perseus, and a host of other mighty warriors … all may be trapped waiting within these walls. So let us away. Post your men at the entrances, noble Achilles. We must not be disturbed.’
*****
‘Ok. We’re here!’ yelled Vasilakis, as the van screeched to a halt outside the Greek Archaeological Museum.
There was a Purgatorian agent waiting for them on the steps. ‘They’re inside,’ he said. ‘The guests arrived about thirty minutes ago. Kraakenhausen and the Russians were there already. No one in or out since then.’
‘What’s going on in there?’ asked Newton. ‘What do we know?’
‘Seems to be a presentation about some new archaeological discovery,’ continued the agent. ‘At least that’s what the receptionist told me as she left. The director invited a bunch of government ministers and a journalist to hear Kraakenhausen speak. I saw them arrive. The deputy defence minister was one, and there was someone from culture. Sorry, I do not know the names; these politicians come and go like swallows.’
‘Oh crikey,’ exclaimed Bennet despairingly. ‘The Labyrinth! Kraakenhausen is going to spill the beans. We may be too late for the party.’
‘I dunno. We can still discredit Kraakenhausen if we’re quick,’ suggested Newton. ‘Fancy a bit of gatecrashing?’
‘You know what?’ replied Bennet, raising an eyebrow. ‘I rather think I do.’
‘With me, then,’ said Vasilakis, leading them through the marble columns flanking the entrance. ‘We end this … now!’
The Myrmidon on the other side of the entrance door had other ideas. As soon as the large oak door began to swing, the newly possessed body of the tourism minister slammed back at it, sending Vasilakis sprawling away down the steps.
‘Bástardos!’
‘Look out!’ said Bennet. ‘It appears we have some resistance.’ Defiantly, Newton and Bennet ran at the door, joined a second later by Vasilakis. Overwhelmed, the door burst open, catapulting the Myrmidon away like a shuffle puck across the polished marble floor.
‘Myrmidons!’ he bellowed. ‘Intruders!’
Escorting Homer towards the Mycenaean gallery, Andronicus and Achilles stopped dead.
‘Uh oh,’ warned Andronicus, turning around. ‘We have company!’
‘Purgatorians,’ snarled Homer indignantly. ‘They must have followed us here.’
‘Warriors!’ shouted Achilles, running back towards the lobby. ‘Form a defence.’
‘But we have no swords,’ yelled Ajax.
‘Improvise,’ ordered Achilles. ‘Use whatever you can find.’ A command that was followed immediately by a symphony of crashing glass as the Myrmidons looted the displays.
Newton, Bennet and Vasilakis were cautiously edging forward into the lobby. Bennet, the only one armed, was pointing his Beretta meaningfully at the fallen Myrmidon. Grinning defiantly back at him, the suited and possessed minister began to raise himself.
‘Hands up, if you please,’ ordered the vicar, waving his pistol about for effect. ‘Let’s not do anything silly now.’
‘Ha! What kind of warrior are you?’ replied the Myrmidon derisively. Laughing, he pointed contemptuously at the Reverend Bennet. ‘Why you … you have the muscles … of a girl.’
‘I say, there’s no call for that,’ replied Bennet.
‘You’re too late,’ announced Achilles, appearing from a side gallery. As the Purgatorians turned, the warrior sent a plate from the buffet whizzing discus style through the air, crumbs from the meze spinning off it as it shot across the lobby. The bone china projectile smashed into Bennet’s wrist, sending his sidearm clattering away across the floor.
‘Flippin’ heck!’ proclaimed the vicar, whipping it straight into his armpit. ‘My hand!’
Myrmidons were now appearing from every side. Edging towards them with an assortment of ancient rusted swords, lances and daggers, they began to form a ring around the beleaguered and out-weaponed Purgatorians.
‘This …,’ observed Newton, ‘isn’t going very well. Do you think that’s a fair assessment?’
‘It is,’ concurred Bennet, looking around the hostile circle of Myrmidons. 'I tell you this much, though. I don’t know who these people are possessed by, but I’m pretty confident it’s not the Son of God.’
‘Most likely no,’ agreed Newton. ‘I think someone’s had us all for fools.’
‘Ok …,’ shouted Newton as the Myrmidons closed in. ‘Who’s in charge here? And where’s Kraakenhausen and the Russian?’
‘The German and the Russian work for us now,’ declared Homer, as he was led into the auditorium. ‘As do all those petty bureaucrats. All transformed by me from useless pen-pushers to something a little more … heroic.’
‘Transformed by who?’ demanded Newton. ‘Who are you people?’
‘We are not common “people”,’ answered Homer, waving away the idea. ‘We are heroes.’
‘That True Cross wasn’t anything of the sort,’ said Bennet, ‘was it?’
‘Goodness me, no!’ replied Homer. ‘It was a Trojan Horse.’
‘I’m sorry?’ said Newton.
‘A Trojan Horse,’ explained Homer proudly. ‘In fact, it was literally the Trojan Horse, or at least, a small part of it. And, like the complete horse, it was a vessel, a ruse by which I would carry the host of heroes back to the living Earth. It is the tool by which I could liberate the heroes after their long captivity within your Purgatorian cells.’
‘You mean ….’
‘That’s right,’ exclaimed Homer. ‘These are the actual heroes of the Iliad. Achilles, Ajax, Patroclus … and me, Homer … The Bard. You should be on your knees!’
‘Hold on,’ said Newton. ‘Aren’t heroes supposed to be good people?’
‘Good people? What in the name of the Gods does that mean?’ snorted Homer. ‘Heroes are in the eye of the beholder. History has made them noble, the movies even more so, trying to impose your stupid modern morality upon another time. That’s your modern world all over, isn’t it? Rewriting and cancelling, neutering the heroic past to suit the whims of your flaccid present. Well, these heroes are the real deal, not some Brad Pitt confection. They are not the sanitised and nullified heroes of your liberal imaginings. These are proper bastards, the sort of hero who’d rape an entire city before he’d even finished his breakfast. I mean, look at Achilles here. The real Achilles was no flower-waving philosopher in a fancy brass basque, were you Achilles?’
‘Er … no,’ replied Achilles. ‘Not often. Mostly, I just killed people.’
