So I’m writing up the first chapter of my novel to be handed in on Thursday for assessment. Thought I might as well post the draft here for people to gawk and whisper about.

Enjoy!

I, Apostle

Chapter 1

Glaring red LEDs marked out letters and numbers, stenciling 7.47 AM into his brain. Reaching out from under the quilt he hit at the snooze button, missing it and smacking his fingers onto the glass top of the bedside table. He cursed, pressed the button and turned over, the quilt and blankets dragged with him as he curled up under the bedclothes. “I’ve got to get up,” he murmured, his fingers clenching at the linen, then with a tug at the material he threw the sheets back and swung his legs over the edge of the bed, left hand flicking the alarm switch to ‘off’. His neck cricked into place as he scavenged for a pair of socks in a bedside drawer, then with one hand on the bedside table he stood, feet easing into dark blue slippers. Walking around the bed, he pulled back the curtain and peered out of the window, squinting in the sunlight that beat against the glass. The yard was patterned by shadows formed by rose bushes standing in a military line on the edges of the grass square. The line broke in one place, where a pair of brick pillars stood, guarding the path to the curb. Hanging from the left-hand pillar, casting another shadow onto the neatly trimmed grass were two envelopes, the paper swaying in the slight breeze that made the shadows on the lawn sway in a gentle motion. The man smiled, and let the curtain drop from his hand. He went out into the kitchen, and stopped next to an expresso machine that blinked with a slow green light, flashing the word ‘done’. Beneath the twin spouts were a pair of mugs; one speckled ceramic mug three quarters full with steaming black liquid, the other empty. The man picked up the full cup and sipped as he walked over to the door, slid back the bolts and stepped onto the porch. He raised one hand to shield his face from the glaring light and walked down onto the path. He moved to the mailbox set into the brick pillar, and removed the two letters from the slot beneath the number 67. The man flipped them over and looked at the sender addresses, then shrugged. The espresso maker had just clicked off; the second cup of coffee prepared when the man came back into the kitchen and tossed the letters onto the table. He put his empty mug beside the sink, then picked up the freshly brewed coffee, added a spoon of sugar and stirred for a moment. Raising the mug to his lips, he flipped the expresso machine off, and sat down beside the letters. The name written upon the envelopes glared up at him, almost accusing, but he didn’t open them. A small logo adorning the upper left corner of the top letter caught his eye for a moment, and he ran his tongue over his teeth, then drank more coffee. “Take what you want and pay for it,” he mused, watching the letters as if he expected them to move of their own accord. “I’ve often wondered, what happens if I don’t feel like paying?”

rnWith a solid thunk the knife was embedded in the door, the blade sticking through the thin wood. The knocking stopped for a moment, then resumed as a diffident tap. “Come,” the boy called. The door swung inwards, and a court messenger bowed low as he entered the room. “Your mother requests your presence, Highness,” he said. “She awaits you in the Eastern Garden.”rn The boy waved his hand. “Very well. Dismissed.”rn The messenger bowed again, then left, closing the door behind him. The boy moved across the room and pulled his dagger from the door, his fingers tracing the inlaid letter ‘M’ on the pommel. He spun on his heel and threw again, the blade flashing at the wall opposite. It scored a mark on the grey stone then fell to the stone below, clanking as it bounced once and then lay still. The boy ran over to the wall and ran his finger along the edge of the score, then ran his fingers over other marks within several inches of the first. He smiled, and picked up his knife from the floor. Pulling on a pair of calfskin boots the boy hurried from the chamber, black leather whispering over dressed granite. He raced down a curving stairwell, his hand brushing the left-hand wall, tracing a downward spiral of cracks until he reached the base of the staircase and entered the hall beyond. He spied the messenger at the other end of the corridor, and with a grin, drew his knife and shouted, “Duck!” as he threw the blade. The messenger dropped, his shoulders closing up and his hands covering the back of his head, as the knife slammed into the door he had been about to open. The messenger stayed motionless for several moments, then rose, and pulled the knife from the door. Turning, he saw the boy walking towards him, and with a bow handed the blade back over. “Now then, Highness. Your mother,” the messenger said, his voice firmer. The boy grinned. “Very fast, Argraves.” The boy’s eyes flickered, the corners narrowing and then relaxing. “Maybe a later warning next time?”rnArgraves inclined his head. “As you wish, Prince Mordred. Now,” he paused, and opened the door. With another grin, Mordred stepped outside, and stood for a moment, breathing the morning air as the Argraves closed the door behind him. With a skip, he started down the path into the Eastern Garden, towards the arbour where his mother waited.

rn* * *

rn“It is as I say,” Socrates gesticulated, his fingers stabbing upwards to point at the sky. “The gods are not the arbiters of the Athenian conscience, the Athenian himself must take that social responsibility. He is culpable for his own actions, regardless of their effects and his afterthoughts. How else can we operate as a group without a sense of personal responsibility?”rn The man walking with him shook his head. “Cousin, I have never doubted that we bear responsibility for our own actions. But to deny the gods any role whatsoever is to deny the truth of fate. Can you honestly say that what is preordained is wholly subordinated to-” the man stopped as his foot encountered air where it had expected stone, and he stumbled feet first into a muddy puddle. Socrates laughed, and held out a hand, helping his kinsman out of the hole. “See, cousin? Was that preordained? Or was it simply my fault for not telling you to watch where you step?” His cousin shook his head as he took Socrates’ hand. “Your sense of humour, cousin. If it doesn’t get you in further trouble with the authorities here, it will be the death of those closest to you.”rn “Aristes, you admit that it is humourous. Where then is the problem?” Socrates asked, then waved his hand as Aristes began to answer. “No, save that knotty problem for the morrow. I must leave you now, as I have an appointment with the Archon tomorrow, and I must ensure my wits are fully sharpened. I shall see you soon, cousin.”rn “Be well, Socrates,” Aristes replied, as he watched the philosopher walk down a side street. After a moment Aristes continued on, his mud-smeared robe drawing streaks of dirt on his whitewashed legs. He approached a restaurant set into the side of the boulevard, where he stopped and spoke to the proprietor for a moment, then waited. After several minutes the man reappeared, carrying a covered bundle, which Aristes accepted, handing the man five drachmas. “A moment of your time, sir,” a voice came from behind him as he stepped back out into the street. Aristes stopped and turned, his mouth closing as he saw the insignia and armour of a Council guardsman. The guardsman nodded at him, his face courteous, and indicated the side of the street with his hand. Aristes followed him and sat on a public bench, the guardsman remaining standing before himrn “With what can I assist you?” Aristes asked, his eyes fixed upon a mole on the guardsman’s forehead. The mole twitched, as the guardsman opened his mouth. “I have come on behalf of one who is related to me. This is a personal matter” he said, staring above Aristes’ head. “My uncle, the statesman Alcibiades, has bid me carry a message to an old friend and tutor.”rn Aristes leaned forward. “And what does you uncle wish his old friend to know,” he asked, his voice soft. The guard’s mole twitched. “Tell him this. Tell him that until now, voices on high have issued reasoning arguments in his favour. Tell him that until now, the unseen hands have sheltered him. Tell him … tell him that it is no longer possible to accord him the same level of protection, if he continues as he does. He has gone too far in his accusations against the men and women of this city. Tell him he must cease.” rn Aristes stood. Looking into the guard’s eyes, he nodded once. “Your message shall be delivered,” he said, and turning, walked away. After several moments he glanced back to the bench. The guard had gone. Aristes continued onwards, heading towards his lodgings. “Oh, Socrates,” he sighed. “I can only wish you will heed this message.”

rn* * *

rnThe bell tolled three times, its copper tone filling the nave of the church. The trio of men kneeling before the altar stood at the third tone, and crossed themselves. “In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti,” the man at the centre intoned, his voice somnolent. “Gloria Patri, et Filio, et Spiritui Sancto. Sicut erat in principio, et nunc, et semper, et in saecula saeculorum.” his two companions said. The first man looked up at the crucifix, the bearded Christ gazing down upon him in tortured benediction. “Amen.”rn The men turned and began to walk along the purple carpet to the front of the church, their footsteps measured. As they exited the church, each man crossed himself again, then stepped forward briskly. “Tomorrow, brothers,” the first man said, his voice carrying a firm tone as he stepped onto the granite of the corridor, his path leading left. “Certamente Cardinale,” his companions acquiesced, and followed the corridor away from the Cardinal. He nodded once at their retreating robes, then turned down his own pathway. As he approached his temporary cell, he heard a voice calling out to him from the path he had just trodden. “Cardinale!” it called, “I must speak with you a moment. Cardinale Luciani, please!”rnLuciani halted, keeping his back to the speaker. “Under what authority do you call me so impiously in a house of God,” he asked, his voice soft. “I am sorry, Cardinale, but I carry a message from His Holiness’ office. About the Sistina,” the voice came again, its volume reduced. Luciani heard the messenger’s breath inhale and exhale rapidly, and he turned to see a red-faced young monk holding a vellum scroll. Luciani held out his hand, and the monk placed the scroll on the Cardinal’s upturned palm. “Thank you, my son,” Luciani said in an unruffled voice. “Please return to your quarters and pray.” The monk bowed once and retreated, as Luciani unwound the scroll to reveal the brief missive it contained. “Maria,” he hissed, as his eyes read the arrogant note. “Michelangelo thinks he can speak thus to a Prince of the Church?” His hand curled into a fist, the cream vellum crushed under the band of his amethyst-studded golden ring. The colour of the light through the gemstone shone on the scroll and Luciani grimaced. “No doubt it would be art as well,” he muttered, and began to retrace his steps along the corridor. “This farce must not be allowed to continue. I must make His Holiness see reason.”

rn* * *

rn The water swirled down the green-coated grating as the man turned both taps sharply clockwise, and stepped onto the small grey mat beyond the shower curtain. He picked up the towel hanging over a rack near the sink and dried his hair, unshaven chin grinding into the softness of the Egyptian cotton. “Shave? Yes,” he murmured, and picked up a Gillette electric razor, then clicked it on. Keeping his face still he ran the triple-headed machine over his cheeks and neck, then ran it lightly over his chin, his lower lip pursed as he stared at his reflection. The razor clicked off and he placed it back in its cradle, then left the bathroom, the towel wrapped around his waist. In his bedroom the man dressed, flinging the towel onto the unmade bed as he pulled on his jeans. The monogram on the corner of the towel caught his eye and he laughed aloud at the irony. “Eye sea. Ah, she had a good sense of humour,” he said, pulling his arms through his black jacket. Picking up the towel he returned to the bathroom and hung it neatly over the rack, and then walked out into the kitchen. The two mugs and cereal bowl were sitting on the sink, and he paused as he saw them. Shrugging, he opened his dishwasher and placed the crockery on the top shelf, then closed the machine. “Worry about it later,” he mused, and picked up one of the letters off the table. “But this, I’ll worry about now.”rnPicking up his keys off the kitchen table, the man walked out the front door and locked it behind him, then stepped down onto the path and walked to the front gate. He glanced at the letter in his hand, and folded it, then placed it within his jacket pocket. “For people who know full well that you can’t draw a leviathan out with a hook, they seem to be trying quite hard to achieve the impossible,” the man thought, as he walked into the street. “Perhaps they require a brief reminder of what they are attempting.”

rnInteresting?

rnAlcata’riel.

-Andiyar