Eritopia

A Slice of Luck

Beetle handled it so well they were soon marched to the Palace dungeons. No amount of protesting helped. Beetle cajoled, insisted he was a person of importance. The guards were having none of it.

'If you just ask yer King, let us wait 'ere. And Melos. 'e's the man I've bin talking to.'

One of the guards sniggered. 'Melos? He wouldn't give the time of day to someone like you.'

Barnabas the First built the Eritopian Palace on solid foundations. It was one of the few original buildings that remained. The stone was the best, mined from the quarries in the days when there were still animals to help haul it back to the city. And he built it for a purpose, as a seat of power, obviously, to house himself and his staff. But also, as a prison, which was why scores of dungeons and holding cells were part of its design.

That King was ruthless, more so than his successors. After the loss of animal labour, every process that made a city important declined. The dungeons filled up with dissidents and others protesting the new hardships. At one stage the cells were a temporary barracks. Later, fallen masonry and broken furniture were stored there as the building fell into disrepair.

In short, the lower levels of the Palace were a mess. Beyond the dungeons, at the far eastern end and on the same level, were the kitchens. As they shuffled along the edge of the great conservatory and down the narrow steps into the dark, Martin knew exactly where they were.

'This could work out for us,' he whispered to his father as the guards hustled them along.

'Quiet there!'

Through lamp-lit corridors, they went. Beetle's head was bowed. The energy had been sucked from him as the grand life he'd envisaged in the Palace disappeared. If only he could see Melos and explain what had happened.

'In here.'

The guards bundled them into a large room. It looked to Martin like one of the old kitchen storerooms. A pile of pallets lay heaped in the corner. The smell of rotting fruit was overpowering.

'Look,' said Beetle as the guard pushed him inside and started to close the door. 'Please tell him, tell Melos, Beetle is 'ere. Beetle and 'is son, Martin. I've got news about the Brotherhood for 'im!'

A key turned in the lock. The next thing he knew his son had grabbed him by the throat and slammed him against the wall.

'I knew it, Dad, you rat, I knew you couldn't change. What were you going to do, sell our secrets for some coins?' He squeezed Beetle's throat with both hands.

''Old on, son,' Beetle choked. 'You've got it wrong, I only meant–' The words were strangled in his throat. Then Martin released his grip and Beetle slumped to the floor.

'You're pathetic.'

'Son!'

'Don't talk to me,' Martin snapped and moved to the other side of the room. Beetle massaged his throat, muttered a few things under his breath. Then he looked around. The only light in the room came from a lamp placed on a small table near the door. Its dim glare cast shadows on the bare stone walls.

'Yer young, you don't understand, I was doing it for us – for you...'

'Rubbish.' Martin had begun poking around in some boxes by the back of the room.

'If you 'ad a better job, like yer brother, with some influence, we wouldn't be in this mess.'

'Fool. How do you figure that?'

'Well, with more coin I would 'ave had less to do on the allotment. We could 'ave bought food instead of growing it. You wouldn't 'ave met Tom Tall. I wouldn't 'ave had to rescue you.'