apart by the mob, so high was the esteem in which the late king was held. The presence of guards was a mere formality.
Rounding his shoulders and lowering his head, Charles affected a stoop and, for good measure, a slight limp, smiling obsequiously as he approached. The guards at the door gave him a cursory glance as he hobbled into view. Nodding and smiling, he bowed once, twice, three times—as one would to his betters—and stepped to the tomb entrance. As he mounted the steps, he heard one of the guards behind him speak out—a single word of command. He did not know what was said, but he halted nonetheless.
The soldier rose from his stool and moved unsteadily towards him. Charles turned as the guardsman confronted him; he raised a hand to his ear and touched it lightly with his finger as a deaf man might. The soldier spoke again and Charles, still smiling, shook his head. One of the standing guards spoke a word to his comrade and gestured with his lance for the visitor to enter. Charles stepped to the threshold, but the other soldier put a hand on his shoulder, turned him back around, and then, as if to assert his authority, took the bunch of grapes from his hand. Then, with a lift of his chin, he directed the old man to do what he had come to do.
Charles paused just inside the chamber as his eyes adjusted to the darkness. The little light that entered the tomb came from the torches outside, and that was not much. Although every instinct screamed at him to hurry, he forced himself to wait until he could make out the mound of gifts and tributes heaped on and around the stone sarcophagus of King Turms. The marble casing itself was fairly plain: a large box with a slightly domed lid, the sides decorated with the name and title of the resident within and an oval lozenge containing a relief depicting a figure on a throne attended by winged figures in flowing robes. That was all.
Garlands of flowers had been draped over the sarcophagus, creating the fragrant atmosphere of a garden. Grave goods filled the corners and were heaped round about: plates and bowls and chalices in decorated ceramic and hammered silver, sealed amphorae filled with wine and beer, elaborately fashioned loaves of bread, baskets of grain, an olive tree in a pot, cured meat, figs in sweet liquor, spiced honey in jars, and other delicacies a hungry soul might fancy.
Charles stepped to the great white stone coffin, removing the short iron bar from the bundle he carried. With an efficiency born of practice, he jammed the tapered end of the tool into the crack where the lid joined base. He paused, listening to the half-drunk guards talking outside; when he was certain their attention was elsewhere, he leaned all his weight on the iron bar and succeeded in raising the heavy lid sufficiently to slip a second tool into the crack. Working quickly, he levered up the coffin top. The stone was heavy, and it took all his strength, but he managed to force a tiny gap—just enough to slide in the last item from his bundle: a thin scrap of parchment sealed between two flat pieces of olive wood.
He would have preferred better tools and more time to hide the item properly, but neither luxury was possible in the circumstance. He felt the placket drop into the coffin and, with a sigh of relief, gently lowered the lid back down and removed the tools, which he swiftly hid—one beneath a sack of barley, and the other in a basket of persimmons. Then, with a bow of respect to the dead occupant, the visitor exited the tomb.
As he emerged, one of the soldiers at the door insisted on giving him a perfunctory pat-down, although anyone could see well enough that he was not hiding anything stolen from the tomb in his thin tunic. The guard sent him on his way with a nod. He bowed again and hurried away, threading back along the sunken road.
“Three down,” Charles said to himself as he flitted like a shadow along the Sacred Way. “Two more to go.”
Just two more. He prayed for time—a little more time to complete his mission. Then let his enemies plot and rage. Come what may, Charles could face the future unafraid.
Quantum Physics and Me
Thomas Young (1773–1829), who has a significant role in this story, was one of