Heart of Gold

Aubrey was on the verge of saying 'Anything', but he managed to bite his tongue. 'Yes?'

'Your presence tonight.'

'I beg your pardon?'

'At rehearsal. Claude tells me that the players haven't seen you for an age.'

'Ah. I see.' He paused. 'Duval has been to see you?'

Caroline ignored this. 'It's not like you to renege on a commitment like this. Besides, it tarnishes the reputation of Albion.'

'Can't have that, old man,' George said mischievously. 'Tarnish in these tricky times? Unthinkable.'

Aubrey thought George was enjoying this entirely too much. 'I'll be there. With George, of course.'

'Naturally,' George said. 'Wouldn't miss it.'

'Tonight, then. At Tontine Hall. I'll meet you there.'

It was with decidedly mixed feelings that Aubrey watched Caroline walk off. As always, he liked watching her move with such economy and grace, but he knew that the rehearsal was something he didn't need, not on top of everything else.

'Ready to go, George?'

'With a song in my heart and a smile on my lips.'

Aubrey groaned.

Fifteen

THE METRO TRAIN TOOK THEM TO THE CORNER OF Perseverance and Equality Streets. They stood across the street from the gates of the Liberty Gardens and studied the flamboyant ironwork. Aubrey thought Monsieur Ronin's gate was a masterpiece, with its intertwining fronds reaching for the sky before bending over to interlock and form the arch that was the entrance to the park.

'That gate puts me in mind of a salad,' George said. 'Makes me hungry.'

'We can eat after we've done our reconnoitring.' Aubrey knew that an eatery was never far away in Lutetia.

He also knew that the Lutetians loved a park. Any green space in the city was alive with couples, families, artists, balloon vendors, dog walkers or simple admirers of nature. Park benches were much sought after. Each pond sported enough model boats to start a navy – handy, should any diminutive enemies attack.

Which is why Aubrey was struck by the emptiness of the Liberty Gardens, particularly on a Sunday. In the first ten minutes walking along the main path, he spied a solitary lad trying to fly a kite without much success. The only other person he saw was an artist near the ornamental lake, sitting on a camp stool and weeping in front of a blank canvas.

George shivered as they passed. 'I wouldn't put that up on my wall.'

Aubrey glanced over his shoulder and saw the artist throwing the canvas into the water, then his easel and palette. He stood on the shore, amid the reeds, tearing at his hair. 'Neither would he.'

The flower beds lining the paths were jaded, but sagging marigolds and snapdragons assaulted the eye with garish colours. Aubrey was glad when the path led down an avenue of plane trees.

'What are we looking for?' George asked.

Aubrey put his hand in his jacket pocket and pulled out a handful of brick fragments. He held them in his palm and they moved, restlessly, like a nest of beetles. 'That way.' He pointed and carefully put the brick pieces back.

The path reached an intersection and Aubrey took the right-hand way. They passed a deep pit in a garden bed, almost a shaft, that looked as if it had recently opened, raw earth around its mouth. A rank smell came from it.

The path took them to a denser section of woodland that soon opened out into a circular expanse of lawn surrounded by bushy thickets. The lawn sloped in from the rim to the centre, making a virtual bowl about a hundred yards or so in diameter.

Aubrey and George stood at the edge of the lawn, staring at the building in the middle of the grass.

'Is that as old as it looks?' George asked.

'No. It's not an real pagan temple. It's a re-creation, made to look old.'

'They've done a good job.'

Aubrey had to agree. It seemed like the ideal of a classical shrine: round, with pillars supporting a dome. Five steps led up to the arched entrance, which was surmounted by a frieze.

'A hundred years ago, this was very fashionable,' Aubrey explained. 'Rich people wanted to show their classical roots. They threw up these things wherever they could find an empty patch of soil. Then they'd retire to them and try to write poetry. It rarely worked.'

All was quiet. Aubrey fidgeted. Something was missing.

'Birds,' George said.

'Birds?'

'No birds. I saw you looking around and wondering what was amiss. There should be blackbirds, sparrows, even pigeons. Perfect place for 'em.'

'I knew a country lad like you would be useful one day.'

'Country lad, Renaissance man, much the same thing.'

Aubrey snorted and set off down the path toward the temple. George fell in beside him. 'You think this is wise, old man, a direct frontal assault like this?'

'It's not an assault of any kind. We're simply sightseers out for a day's strolling. We're being covert by being open. Much better than trying to sneak around the place. We'd be easily spotted by anyone inside the temple, so we may as well pretend we're harmless. If we approach casually, a doubt must remain in the mind of any observer.'

When they reached the arched portico, they stopped and stared at the frieze.

'What are they up to?' George asked after a time.

'Cavorting. Those pagan gods did a lot of cavorting.'

George was silent for a moment. 'They'd be nymphs, then, with the goaty god?'

'Nymphs. Dryads. Assorted naiads. And the goaty god is Pan.'

'Pan, eh? Looks like he's having a good time.'

'Those gods did, George. It was their job.'

'Lucky devils.'

Aubrey's jacket pocket was tugging, moved by the insistence of the brick fragments. He had to place his hand on his jacket to keep them from bursting through the fabric.

Inside, the temple was a round open space. Light filtered in through circular windows in the base of the dome. The floor was tessellated, an array of tiles in an intricate geometric arrangement, black, white and red.

Aubrey stood just inside and flexed his fingers. He felt the unmistakeable traces of magic in the place, both old and new, signs that magicians had been at work. Underneath that he felt a rhythmical surge of different magic, low and powerful, thick with potency. It was like standing in a river with a strong current, one that changed direction every few seconds, tugging, then pushing, tugging then pushing.

It had the hallmarks of the Heart of Gold.

'No-one here,' George whispered.

'I can see that,' Aubrey whispered in return. Despite being alone, the marble space seemed to demand hushed tones.

George looked over his shoulder. 'But someone's coming.'

'Furtive or otherwise?'

'Furtive. Very furtive.'

'Excellent.

They took up positions on either side of the entrance, hidden by marble pillars that were wrapped in stone grapevines. Footsteps approached, slowly, stealthily.