Dreams of a Hero Read online

  “Author’s licence. Miss Renault’s, or more correctly, Plutarch’s.”

  “Author’s licence, oh yes.” Miles couldn’t help smiling. Roger had used that licence once or twice and got himself into a bit of hot water from purists who’d insisted his historical interpretation had been less than accurate. “So tell me what you think happened.”

  “When they excavated the Lion of Chaeronea they found the wrong number of skeletons. Not the three hundred skeletons that should have been interred if the entire Band had been killed.”

  “How many were missing?” Miles felt warmer now, the faint hope that a handful of those extraordinary men had survived eliminating some of the chill.

  “Forty odd.”

  “That’s more than you could easily explain away.” A handful might be simply a matter of bodies too mutilated to be rounded up, like the dispersed remains of pilots whose Spitfires had disintegrated over Kent. “We’d call that forty a highly significant portion.” We were accountants, Miles’s contribution to the household coffers coming from a steady job in the City. If the book sales ever plummeted and something on the scale of Iceland’s financial implosion happened to Roger’s trust funds, they’d still be able to keep the wolf from the door, even if the door itself had to be downsized.

  “I suppose they might have been individuals who died of wounds, back home, but I’ve always hoped at least one pair survived. To nurse each other back to health and maybe stay together into old age.” Roger sighed. “Although I suppose the prosaic reality was that many of them had married and settled down by that point in their lives, only reuniting side by side in battle.”

  “That’s why the fable’s remained. Much better story to say they all died together, shoulder to shoulder, rather than returning home in dribs and drabs, living long enough to scare their grandchildren with their scars.” What did they say? Print the legend?

  “Just one pair still living, devoted to each other, would be enough for me.” Roger’s voice was sleepy again, as if the Theban band were calling him into sleep and sweet dreams of nothing more violent than a bout of wrestling, sport or pleasure.

  “That should be enough for any man. His partner at his side through time and then eternity.” Miles thought he could manage a doze himself. If his dream returned, then he might force it to come with the promise of survival, now that he had the facts straight.

  “Whatever else that dream has done, it’s left you unusually poetic. I could settle for you having a few nightmares if you wake up in such a frame of mind.” Roger snuggled closer, breath slowing as sleep began to creep over him again. Not far from their window, an owl sounded as the first light slid over the horizon. Maybe Athena had sent it to voice her approval.

  Chapter Two

  Epsom, Dreams Without End

  The fruit on the vine hung heavy. It had been a good year and, so long as they could beat the birds to the harvest, it would be a fine crop. “Can you reach?” Miles shaded his eyes against the sun. “Those top branches always elude me.”

  “If you learned to prune your vines, you’d not have this problem.” Roger’s voice implied his vines never grew out of line, as regimented as troops, even though he’d not the use of his left arm to help keep them under control.

  “You could prune all of them and leave me to jobs I’m better suited for.” Miles smiled. “But you always insist we work side by side.”

  “Old habits die hard.”

  “May they take a long time to die.”

  Old soldiers, they could laugh now at victories and defeats, scaring the neighbours’ children with tales of Alexander. The questions they’d had to answer. Had they really seen him? Was he the son of Zeus? Did he have horns? How had they survived when so many of the Sacred Band had been slaughtered?

  “Good fortune and mercy” was Miles’s standard reply, while Roger would regale their listeners with the rest of the tale. How they’d both been injured, how Miles had covered Roger’s body with his own, how he’d staggered to his feet and challenged Alexander himself to finish them both with one blow and let them cross the Styx together. He always included an elaborate and emotional bit about Alexander’s tears, the prince’s own hands tending their wounds, although only the first part was true.

  “Miles! Miles!” Roger’s voice cut into the dream, dispersing the vineyard and the sunshine and ushering in an unusually cool English July morning. “Are you all right?”

  “Fine. It was just another one of the dreams.”

  “I know. I could tell.” Roger smoothed his lover’s hair. “Was it bad?”

  “Not tonight—it was the survival dream this time.” Miles rubbed his forehead. “That’s never quite so unsettling. At least I don’t feel so helpless afterwards.”

  “I’ll let you sleep on next time.” Roger picked up the clock, pressing the dial to illuminate the face. “Five o’bloody clock. Sorry.”

  “Don’t worry. We’ll grab another couple of hours’ kip.” Miles snuggled down, shutting his eyes even though he knew there was no chance he’d get back to sleep. Maybe that was as well. Survival dreams didn’t tend to come consecutively.

  Chapter Three

  America, the Battlefield

  “We’ve come three thousand bloody miles and ended up in Devon.” Roger fanned himself with the handsome straw hat he’d picked up in Epsom, especially chosen for his journey across the Atlantic. There was no way he’d be sporting a baseball cap here, thank you, even if it almost seemed to be part of the national costume. Both he and Miles habitually chose headgear looking like it came from the nineteen thirties, and neither of them cared if it made them stick out like sore thumbs. Almost as much as their accents made them stick out.

  Everywhere they’d been, girls had almost swooned at their voices, admiring the way they said even the simplest of things, “Thank you” evidently as impressive as the soliloquy from Hamlet. One of them had been brash enough to insist they say “Harry Potter” and kept squealing every time Miles had obliged.

  Brashness and baseball caps, they were some of the fruits of the journey westwards of which Roger didn’t approve, alongside fast-food chains and words like gotten. No one in the stories he wrote would ever have said gotten unless it was preceded by be or sandwiched between ill and gains.

  At least the surroundings felt comfortingly familiar. “Look at this coastline.” Roger swept his hand across the bay.

  “I think you’ve got a point.” Miles shaded his eyes against the sun. Standing by the lighthouse, admiring its immaculate white stone glowing in the early morning light—very early given that their bodies weren’t quite shifted from European time—and looking towards the little town, who could fail to see the resemblance? “If I squint, I could be reminded of family holidays along the South Hams. Having said that, you seem to think everywhere looks like Devon.”

  “That’s because Devon’s a foretaste of heaven. It’s got a bit of everything good there.” That was an excellent line; he’d have to use it in his next book.

  “I’ll believe you. I certainly remember it having a lot of weather.” Miles stretched and yawned. “If we take a leisurely stroll around the bay, we’ll hit civilisation just in time to grab a coffee and one of those bagel things you took a shine to yesterday.”

  “Ah, yes.” It was always a sensible idea to appeal to Roger’s stomach.

  “Thought that would motivate you. I’ll just check the car’s locked and we can hit the road.”

  Roger took a stream of pictures—more pictures than you could shake a fist at. He’d already filled the memory card twice in his enthusiasm and had to upload them to the laptop. He basked in the sun while his partner locked the car, remembered with a volley of swear words that they needed sun cream, unlocked it again, fussed about and finally got ready to be on the move.

  “Got enough snaps of Devon?” Miles grinned as he locked the car for a third time. “Do you remember when we went to Honfleur?”

  “Of course I do.” Roger wasn’t sure th
at he liked the way the conversation was heading.

  “The first thing you said when we parked up was, ‘Did I dream the journey over the Channel?’ Even when we were tucking into moules frites and a carafe of house white. I seem to recall that Devon got a mention then, as well.”

  “Moules frites notwithstanding, the place was a dead ringer for Dartmouth, no matter how hard you’d like to argue that it wasn’t. Now change the subject, I’m not opening that can of worms again.” Roger squirmed in memory of their first holiday together, how the planned romantic trip to Normandy—sun, sand, sightseeing and hopefully a lot of sex—had nearly ended in disagreement that first afternoon. “Not even after four years.”

  “If you want. Although I still can’t understand how anybody could get so grouchy simply over having to use a public toilet.”

  “It was a bit too public, thank you.” Roger recalled his embarrassment, the great argument he and Miles had indulged in all the way from toilet to restaurant. If it hadn’t been for the infuriatingly naïve behaviour of the English tourists at the table next to theirs, at whom they could share exasperated looks, a snide comment or two and at last a smile in shared adversity, the trip might have seen the end of a promising relationship. “End of topic.”

  The view over Burgh Harbor gradually opened out as they rounded the great curved road, past the houses by the beach, houses which were probably deserted outside of holidays and weekends. It might be idyllic now, but the long tongue of land that jutted out to sea had to be an awful place to live when the storms swept through or the snow hit. Worse even than being up on Epsom Downs.

  “Four years.” Roger smiled in fond remembrance of the happiest period of his life. “And many more to come, God willing. During one of which I’ll get you down to the South Hams again.”

  “As long as you can promise me good weather I won’t complain.” Miles had a point. Devon had never been this warm at half past eight of a morning, nor as humid.

  “You might like to know that it’s raining in Dartmouth.”

  “I wondered what you were doing getting up at five-thirty and not attempting to fight the jet lag with an extra hour of dozing. Surfing the net for the cricket scores and couldn’t resist a digression to gloat at the weather report?” Roger flexed his shoulders, stretching like a great cat in the sunshine. “All right, it’s not really Devon. But I can see why so many local place names ended up being reminiscent of the West Country. Plymouth, Barnstaple. Those people who came here originally must have been reminded of home.”

  It seemed almost inconceivable, men and women crossing the vast stretches of the Atlantic in a little wooden ship, at the mercy of wind and wave, to make a new home here in a land which must have seemed strangely familiar at times.

  “I wonder if your Alexander thought of home every time he crested another ridge or forded an unfamiliar river?” Miles stopped, borrowing the camera to capture a passing Monarch butterfly.

  “He’s not my Alexander, more’s the pity. And I think he was looking for new worlds to conquer, new wonders to see, rather than being reminded of what he’d left behind in Macedonia.” Roger shivered, despite the mugginess of the air, although he wasn’t sure why. Memories of Miles and his vivid dreams? “I don’t think he ever wanted to go home.”

  “I’m not surprised, if his mother was waiting for him. She makes my great-aunt—the one with the hair growing out of her nostrils and the voice like Concorde going supersonic—look like a simpering maiden.” Miles put his arm around his lover’s shoulder, a brief contact given that they weren’t in Provincetown yet and you couldn’t be too sure what people might think, even in as broad-minded a place as Massachusetts. “The best part of travelling’s always coming home, or so I feel. It makes you appreciate all the more what you have.”

  “I’ll never stop appreciating what I’ve got.” Roger squeezed his partner’s arm. “I wouldn’t want any new worlds to conquer if you weren’t at my side.”

  “Daft beggar,” said Miles, but he was grinning like the cat that’d got the cream.

  As the sun climbed the sky, the temperature rose with it, only tempered by a fresh sea breeze. They left the path, with its merciless lack of shade, and opted for walking the shoreline, shoes discarded in favour of the effect of waves on feet, and the cooler air over the water.

  “How does this compare to Tolon?” Miles splashed among the shallows, sending spinning hermit crabs the size of old half crowns.

  “Quieter for one thing, if lacking in historic grandeur.” Roger launched a kick at a shell, the spray of water drenching both of them up to the thighs. As well they’d opted for shorts—tailored ones, of course, as suitable for a golf course or anywhere else you had to dress in a civilised fashion.

  “Historic grandeur? That old chestnut again? We hardly came here for the ancient and noble.” Miles looked rueful. “I get enough of that in my dreams.”

  “Another one last night? I thought you were restless.” Roger laid his hand on his partner’s shoulder. To hell with it if anyone saw and made a fuss. “Bad?” Maybe that had been the real cause of Miles leaving their bed so early.

  “In the greater scheme of things, not particularly.” Miles patted his partner’s hand. “It was yet another replay of the one where we’re among the survivors.”

  “Grey-haired and living in Athens? Or was it on the olive farm this time?” He’d heard every variation on the theme, Miles reporting, in great detail, every dream he’d had. And they’d come with frightening regularity, particularly this last month or so.

  “The olive farm. Rather nice, actually. Carousing and reliving in song our exploits among the Sacred Band.” Miles smiled again, looking more at ease. “You could sing beautifully, which proved it had to be a dream.”

  “Oh, ha bloody ha.” Better that than the usual plotline, Alexander’s sword and a curtain of blood. “At least we didn’t die this time.”

  “Oh, no. Just got badly knocked around.”

  “I suppose that’s a euphemism for a leg or two gone missing.” Roger shrugged. “Right, we’ll forget the history and all that it brings to mind. Remind me what we did come here for, if it wasn’t to see an American version of my favourite county.”

  “Whales. Humpback. You don’t get them in the Black Sea. Boston in the morning light, seen from the ferry.” Miles eyes lit up. “Provincetown, for the carnival, and the freedom to link arms in public.”

  “Ah, yes.” Put like that, who could argue with the appeal of the place? “Case proven then, mi’lud, I will plead no more.”

  Something drove them to pick one particular coffee shop. Maybe it was just their noses, aroused by the delicious smell, but Miles always alleged afterwards it had been a ping of the gaydar. Certainly the first glance through the window seemed to bear the second theory out and the name—Laurel Wreath Café—clinched the deal for Roger. A neat place, awash with subtle colours of flowers and crockery, more East Sussex than Eastern Seaboard, Saturday morning busy.

  The first odd note was struck as they entered, an atmosphere of tension quickly subsiding. As if those present had been expecting someone, somebody who wasn’t welcome, and Miles and Roger didn’t fit the bill. From then on the proprietor was as friendly as any they’d met on holiday so far.

  “Bit strange, that.” Roger spoke in hushed tones when they’d settled into the corner with two steaming mugs and a couple of bagels. “You could have cut the atmosphere with this knife.” He used the object in question to attack his food.

  “I didn’t think it possible, not getting a cheery welcome.” Cheery and wearying it had proved the last few days, facing the constant pleasantries, people in shops or bars or anywhere being so unfailingly nice, so seemingly concerned for their visitors’ welfare. It had made Miles’s reserved English hackles rise, the constant litany of “You’re welcome” and “Have a nice day” slowly, or so he swore, driving him insane.

  They’d not come across an ambience as initially chilly as this, nor one to turn so quick
ly from ice to warmth. “They thought someone else was going to walk through the door, I’m sure of it.” Roger produced a smile for the man at the table two along.

  He smiled back. Nice-looking bloke, old-fashioned air about him, just like them. And clearly quite brazenly listening in on their conversation. “Couldn’t help noticing the accents. Just passing through?”

  “Day trip.” Miles nodded. “We’re here on holiday.”

  “I guessed that already.” The man picked up his coffee and moved nearer, plonking himself and his cup down at the next door table. Miles hoped he wasn’t going to do the “Say Harry Potter” bit. “I overheard what you were talking about.” The man’s tones were cultured, his clothes elegant and there was something about him which spoke of traditional values. Immaculate manners, old-school-tie sort, exactly the type of bloke of whom both Roger’s and Miles’s fathers would have approved.

  “No offence taken, I hope?” Miles felt the need to explain. “It just felt a bit peculiar when we came in. Like we’d walked in on something we didn’t quite get the hang of.” He looked at Roger, who might just be able to put it better.

  “I don’t think we were who you thought we’d be.” Roger smiled again, the sort of smile which would have melted the frostiest of atmospheres.

  “No offence taken at all. You’re right, of course. We were expecting trouble and instead we got a breath of Old England.” The man’s handsome face lit up, his eyes full of warmth. His smile could have matched Roger’s for sheer charisma.

  “Not so much of the old.” Roger laughed. “We don’t all walk around wearing bowler hats and carrying umbrellas. We’ve even discovered electricity.”

  “And here I was thinking life over there was like an episode of Hercule Poirot.” The man thrust out his hand for Roger to shake. “Excuse my lack of manners. Ian Strauss. I live here even though I work up in Boston. Lawyer.”