The Bronze Box

Hi everyone,

I've finally finished the first draft of my first novel and here is the first chapter.  The working title of the book is 'The Bronze Box' and it's a mystery / adventure / action story.  I like to think of it as ‘Indiana Jones meets The Bourne Identity’.  Comments and feedback welcome.  I hope you enjoy it

1998 - An ancient artefact is stolen, an archaeologist is killed. 

2011 - Dr Sasha Blake is recruited by a covert organisation, The Agency, to find the truth about the Bronze Box before it falls into the hands of an international criminal known only as ‘the Libyan’. She is partnered with an ex-SAS spook with a history, Tom Sheridan – but can he be trusted?

Determined to clear the name of her former mentor and lover she is swept into a world of secrets, lies and an ancient brotherhood. 

What is in the box that men will kill or die for and will Sheridan and Blake be able to stop it?

The Past

Byzantium - 350 BC

‘Our sins are more easily remembered than our good deeds.’

Democritus

“I have the package.”

He spoke in Greek – a language they both understood.

“Shhh, keep your voice down!  Come here!”  Democritus tugged at the wide woollen sleeve of the Arab’s kaftan, hauling him into the shady alleyway.

“Careful!”  he hissed, stumbling on the dirt track.  Democritus chuckled at his protests, a nervous laugh perhaps, as he turned his attention to everything but the young man.

“And my passage to Odessus - is it arranged?”  he asked, something Democritus had paid handsomely to ensure.

“You’re sailing on the Majestic, it leaves the harbour at dusk.”  Confirmed the Arab.

“Good, good.” mumbled Democritus, satisfied the terms of their agreement were met. 

He pulled the hessian-wrapped package from the younger man’s arms.  It was heavier than it appeared.  The young merchant was strong, and Democritus, an increasingly old man who felt himself getting frailer by the day, lost his balance and staggered back on his wizened legs to take the weight of the box.  An amused smile tugged at the Arab’s lips when Democritus cursed the burden.

He humped the package up under his arm, and rested it on his hip, then slipped back out of the alleyway and into the crowded bazaar.  The air was thick with dust and the smell of incense mingled with spice.  Voices reverberated around the honeycomb of mud brick - Greek, Latin and Arabic voices.  Democritus found himself unnaturally aware of every nuance of sound and the movements of traders bustling backwards and forwards, and hurried through the labyrinthine corridors, dodging hustlers and beggars.

The Slavic snarl of a Thracian merchant caught his attention.  The heavyset man, cloaked in layers of wool trimmed with animal pelt, bounded down the alley towards him, angrily grunting in a barely familiar tongue.  Democritus clutched the package into his body, feeling it’s hard, cold weight in his gut.  He whipped his eyes back and forth, sweat beading on his face and trickling down his neck, sending a chill through his body, then picked up his pace, hurrying as fast as his tired old legs would carry him and sidestepped into another alleyway, looking around for the Thracian.

He ducked under a crudely carved archway into a small courtyard, hoping he hadn’t been cornered in this unfamiliar place, caught red-handed with the priceless package. 

The locals were notorious for exacting harsh punishment on thieves.  He felt sick at the thought of losing his hands and the humiliation of his life’s work being exposed as a sham because of this package.  These things terrified him more than death.

His heart crashed against his ribs, breath rasping.  To calm himself, he closed his eyes and for the first time in years, prayed to Zeus for protection.  The discovery of the box had shaken the very foundations of his beliefs.  Democritus was not a pious man but, if the box was real, the power of the Gods that he had spent his life trying to deny, could be true as well.  Seventy years without the need of Zeus and this day, he questioned his lack of faith. 

It seemed that the King of the Gods was with him, he thought, as the Thracian bounded past and faded out of earshot, carrying the smell of sweat and animals with him.  He could barely admit that he was from the same region, they were both of Thrace but were completely different, to Democritus, the man seemed so wild and uncivilised.  Democritus smiled to himself as he thought about how the man wouldn’t have lasted a day in the pit of vipers that was Athens.  The frailty of humanity always amused Democritus, it earned him the rather undignified nickname of ‘The Laughing Philosopher’.

Peering back around the archway, he checked the street for threats before stepping back out into the dust and continuing his journey.  He passed the Thracian again, and glanced back warily.  The bear of a man was shaking the wits out of a servant boy.  Democritus was no pacifist but did believe that unnecessary violence was inexcusable.  Normally he would have spoken up against the ill-treatment of the boy, or perhaps even bought the handsome young man from his tormentor - he would have been a pleasing addition to the household.  But on that day, Democritus was simply relieved that the Thracian had not been after him.

His whole life he had defended the truth of science and sought to demystify the fog of myth and legend that seemed to cripple the Greek people.  He was a proud student of Leucippus, and had been denounced by Plato, who spoke of burning his books.  He tirelessly strove to find and prove the logic in the inexplicable world, without feeling the need to resort to tired superstitions and excuses. 

It was his conviction that everything existing in the Universe is the fruit of chance and necessity and he had fought ridicule and scorn for such radical ideas.  His response had been to laugh off such criticism, believing that so many of his fellow philosophers took themselves far too seriously.  He would say that he saw no evidence to support the assumption that life is serious and he sincerely believed that the work he and Leucippus had done on atomic theory would one day be vindicated. 

Democritus was the most travelled of all of his contemporaries, having extended his field of enquiry wider than anybody else, and then this – the box.  A myth made true.  In all his endeavours he had never encountered such a paradox. 

What unholy arrangement of atoms could harbour such power?  he thought, And what truth is this?  The senses hold one knowledge, the intellect another.  Though this cannot be reasoned though intellect and I dare not use bastard senses to unleash the contents of this box on the world?

He followed the ideas around in his mind.  Though worlds are unlimited, being made up of nothing but atoms and empty space, surely only some higher power could bastardise atoms in such a terrifying way that all empty space around them becomes filled with the essence of death itself. 

Democritus almost despised himself for wanting to hide this terrible truth.  He had considered destroying the box, but told himself that mighty Zeus alone knew what a terrible curse may befall humanity if he did.  He chose to hide the box.  To hide it in a place of death, where it belonged, and somewhere it would never be disturbed.  He told himself it was for the good of mankind, that to hide the box would keep it safe from dangerous hands.  The fact that concealing its existence would also protect his work, was of additional benefit.  He was a pragmatic man, but for the first time in his long life, he found himself wondering what the point of it all was.  To Democritus, a man of science, a seeker of truth, that is the worst feeling of all - to feel so invalidated.  He asked himself what was left for him to do when he had only this one purpose: To keep this evil out of our world.  Hades can keep it with him in the underworld, he thought, until the day I meet it there once again, when I am judged and punished by the Gods for turning away from them.