The Holy Lance - Chapter 2

My dearest Simon,

Multas per gentes and all that jazz. Although that soppy fool Catullus only managed to cross a couple of countries and, if you are reading this, I will have achieved something far more impressive..

Typical bloody Jonathan thought Simon, lying on the now-righted sofa, a tumbler of whiskey in one hand (not his first of the afternoon), and a saucer of miscellaneous painkillers by his side. The mixture of classical allusion, bombastic comment and showmanship could only be one person. He returned to the spidery green scrawl in from of him.

If you are, however, reading this, it will mean that someone has achieved something far, far worse, something I and countless others before me have worked for years, centuries to avoid.
I know you always saw me as the last of the hippies, don’t deny it, but even this child of the Sixties recognised ,when asked, the call of necessity. Sometimes the old ways really are the best, even I came to understand that, not through thought, but through the evidence of my own eyes.

It is a burden I place on you, old friend, and not one to be borne lightly, but one I know you can bear. That is why I chose you, just as, years ago, I too was chosen. So few these days can understand, really understand, but that you can I have no doubt. My only regret is that you will have to start this journey alone. I wish that I could have helped you, but I have every confidence that you have the worth to complete it.

Oh lord, what was he on about? Simon’s last meeting with Jonathan had been perfectly normal, no sign that the older man was in the advanced grip of a nervous breakdown, but how to explain this mumbo-jumbo. Maybe he had gone back on the weed?

At the golden bottle in London, you will find my third Caesarian hero.

Ave atque vale.

Jonathan.

Dropping the letter to the floor, Simon rubbed his tender head, exhaled loudly, and started to swear. The day, which had started relatively promisingly, had now detoured irreparably into pain, broken possessions and borderline insanity. One, possibly two he could cope with, but not all three. Bloody Jonathan and his magical mystery tour. Remembering his early wish for excitement, Simon was reminded of the old adage about being careful what you wish for.

And what of the last riddle? That made no sense, Julius Caesar was waiting for him at some London pub? But Jonathan had hated Caesar, and his descendents. “Self-aggrandizing psychotics” was a favourite description. Come to think of it, for a historian of Rome, Jonathan had always had a decidedly ambivalent view of it. The Vietnam protester in him could never quite cope with their unabashed militarism and glorification of conquest and slaughter. A man who considered rugby a sport of borderline civility was always going to struggle with gladiatorial combat and throwing Christians (or followers of any other religion for that matter) to the lions.

Picking himself up gingerly, Simon started to tidy his room, starting with the pile of unsold books. For some reason, this seemed the final insult. The bastard could at least have been decent enough to steal one. Grumpy now, he picked up his coat and headed for the pub.