BY STEWART SLATER

Part I is available here.

---

Part II:

The American election of 2024 had been close. Too close. It had all come down to Michigan and when the initial count was completed, merely twenty votes separated incumbent from challenger. America being America, lawyers got involved, half arguing for a recount, half against.

The situation might have been salvageable had it not been for two unexpected events. A badly bruised thumb proved sufficient evidence of incapacitation that the cabinet invoked the 25th Amendment and elevated the Vice President to the White House. With the nation’s eyes on Washington, a court in Georgia convicted the challenger of crimes related to the previous election and, after an unusually swift sentencing process, he was given a term of seven years, pardon being impossible under the state’s law until the time had been served.

An already febrile situation boiled over on Inauguration Day when news emerged that the former challenger had died after an unfortunate accident with a rusty pipe in the prison showers. Whether it was the news itself or the heavy-handed tactics employed by the police against those protesting the new President, enough turned out to be enough for several Southern governors. Declaring the election invalid, and the government illegitimate, they announced the creation of the Confederation of America.

This was a challenge Washington could not duck, and so the Second Civil War (also known as the Righteous War or the War of February) started. In truth, it was much shorter than the first. The rebels may have believed they had God on their side, but the government had Apache helicopters and in the Battle of Disneyworld, the only engagement of the conflict, they proved decisive.

Determined not to repeat the mistakes of the past, the government rounded up, tried and executed the rebel governors. But history taught it was not enough to defeat the secessionists, it was vital to defeat their ideas. There could be no myth of a romantic “lost cause” nor could toxic whiteness and toxic masculinity be allowed to fester, ready to turn into a new version of “Jim Crow”.

The solution came from two unexpected sources.

Early in 2024, the Chinese Academy of Sciences had issued a report into the theories of the heterodox academic Prof. Huang Heqing, who argued that the Pyramids, Parthenon etc. were 19th century constructions, hastily erected by Europeans embarrassed, after their initial contact with China, by their ancestors’ inability to match the achievements of the Middle Kingdom.

The professor was, the report concluded, not strictly correct but he pointed towards an important truth. For, DNA analysis proved conclusively that modern Westerners were the descendants of an isolated group from South West China who had fled the country around 1840 to escape the turmoil then engulfing it. Moving to Europe and North America, they had inherited the fruits of the indigenous civilisation, then dying out from an unrecorded plague. Shamed by their failure to match the achievements of this Indo-African society, they had embarked on a wholesale project of revisionism, inserting themselves into every part of history, if not always, to expert eyes, seamlessly. What had been termed the Revolutions of 1848 were now thought to reflect the initial conflict between the peoples while the German Army’s march along the Champs-Elysees at the conclusion of the Franco-Prussian War was now thought to be a partially suppressed echo of the interlopers’ final triumph.

Many were content to shrug the report off before Google released its translation of a cache of burnt papyri discovered in Pompeii. Long expected to revolutionise modern understanding of the ancient world, no-one was quite prepared for the extent of the change. Written, according to the company, in Sanskrit rather than Latin or Greek, they contained poetry, philosophy and most importantly, the history of a hitherto unsuspected, matriarchal empire which had risen in the Indus valley and come to dominate Europe and North Africa. Similarities between East and West such as a fondness for multi-coloured temples which previous scholars had written off as coincidence were now shown to be due to the West being part of the East. And a subservient part at that.

That no evidence of this civilisation had ever been found was evidence of how thorough the interlopers had been in their process of revision, no painting or statue left unaltered, languages and belief systems invented out of whole cloth. They had even gone to the effort of burying fake artefacts for their descendants to find (some scholars preferred to see new archaeological sites as evidence that their predecessors had done archaeology of their own, altering their discoveries before burying them again). And they would have got away with it, had it not been for the invention of technologies they had not foreseen.

Armed with this new understanding of the past, the government undertook a rapid and sweeping programme of re-education. “America” was dropped from the country’s name since there was now no reason to believe that Amerigo Vespucci had ever existed. Likewise Washington D.C., renamed Sakagawea. A monthly Day of Repentance was instituted when Westerners would issue public apologies for the guilt of their ancestors in laying claim to land and achievements they had nothing to do with, their erasure of those who did and their mistreatment of the descendants of those to whom they owed so much. A reparations tax was instituted to transfer the benefits of wrongly acquired property and status to those to whom they rightly belonged.

What starts in the U.S rarely stays in the U.S., so barely a decade after the Civil War, all parts of the Western World had adopted the country’s new civil religion.

“Cabin crew. Thirty minutes to landing.”

The announcement jolted John out of his reverie. Only thirty minutes to go.

He was excited. Like most Britons, he had never been abroad. Due to the environmental damage caused, the government discouraged flying by adding a 100% carbon surcharge to ticket prices. Travel by sailing ship was possible but took so long that no-one with a job had the time to undertake it. In truth, there was little need. Business could be conducted electronically and the South Coast with its temperatures of 45°C was rather more attractive than the Med with its 60°C.

But Morgana was clear this was important, so a passport had been issued, his first, valid for a week and a seat booked on the weekly flight to Athens. Now, a mere six hours after the Airbus had pushed out of the hangar, here he was, just half an hour away from his destination.

It was not just the prospect of being abroad which excited him, it was the idea of being in the impossibly glamorous Athens, very much the boom town of Europe.

No-one in the early 2020’s would have picked Greece as one of the winners of climate change and, as far as their argument went, they would have been right. Soaring temperatures had crushed the tourist trade and proven too much even for the hardy olives and grapes which formed the basis of its agriculture. But such forecasts ignored the discovery in the middle of the decade of the world’s largest deposits of lithium and cadmium (augmented after victory in the Greco-Albanian War of 2028), the two indispensable commodities of the new industrial revolution. Taking a leaf out of the petro-states’ book, Greece had slashed taxes to zero and sat back as business flowed in from across the continent. Idle hotels had been repurposed as swanky apartment blocks for expats while farms had re-opened as wellness resorts offering the Ayurvedic treatments of the country’s original inhabitants to those with the time for travel on their hands. Other nations had grumbled, and Turkey had greedily eyed the minerals, but the acquisition of a nuclear weapon (from North Korea some thought, Russia concluded others) had kept threats to the level of rhetoric, not action.

“Best buckle up, mate. It gets a bit bumpy coming into Athens.”

John smiled at his seatmate. He had been trying to ignore him for several hours now. He knew the type Athens attracted, of course, and while he was excited, he couldn’t help being slightly appalled. His initial conversational gambit, a summary of all the bars he knew, suggested the sort who just didn’t care about his health record and the burden his habits would no doubt impose on the state. As for his attempt to bribe the steward not to record his request for a second glass of wine, well, John had heard of such things but never expected to see them himself. Sensing his disapproval, his neighbour had spent the bulk of the flight texting someone. He wasn’t prying, but John couldn’t help but notice the use of the term “babe” in several of the messages, the sort of outdated, infantilizing language he thought had long been consigned to history. He hadn’t even seen him send a “Permission to Contact” form before launching in.

The plane completed its long, lazy arc and made its final approach, the wheels touching down right on time before the agonisingly slow trip to the hangar. By law, all passengers had to exit the plane undercover to minimise exposure to UV. It was thus merely 45 minutes after touchdown that he received his first, breath-taking sample of the baking Athenian air.

Hurrying to the terminal, and its air-conditioned thirty five degrees, he took in his surroundings. Everything looked new and shiny. The people looked new and shiny. The new, UV-protecting tee-shirt and sarong he had bought for the trip looked, well, they looked cheap in comparison to his companions. Compared to the quiet of Heathrow, he was shocked at the hordes waiting for the passport app on their phones to be scanned. Having never travelled, John had never thought his country poor but after a few minutes in Athens airport, he started to.

John Burns, the sign said, held by a swarthy man in a silver poncho.

“Yes, that’s me” John said, formalities of immigration and baggage reclaim now complete.

“Welcome, welcome. Babis Papchristou” a bear-like hand grasped John’s own. “I’m from the Ministry. I’m here to take you to your hotel. Let me take your bag. Oh, please put this on, I had to park outside. It’s for your own safety. We can’t have an honoured guest exposed to the sun.” A hooded, silver poncho was offered which, it transpired, reached down to John’s ankles.

The broiling air once more took John’s breath and it was a relief the black Medcar was only metres away.

“Hot, yes?”

“Yes,” John panted.

“I’ll put the AC on. Is 20° ok?”

“20°? Is that allowed? British cars are limited to 35°.”

“It’s a Ministry car. Everything is allowed in here.”

“That would be lovely, thank you. Your English is excellent.”

“Thank you but it’s not much of a boast. All Greeks speak English.” Now he thought of it, John hadn’t heard any other languages in the airport. “The old language was gendered and when we decided that was inappropriate, we could either change it or change to English and the latter just seemed easier. If you don’t mind” Babis unzipped his poncho revealing a tee-shirt with “Excel” emblazoned on it.

“Hotel Indus” he said and the car nosed out of the parking space. Hitting what appeared to be the main road, John was struck by the number of cars and, as a Londoner, by the lack of buses.

“You’re in a rich country now, John.” Babis seemed to have picked up on his thoughts. “We have more cars than buses.”

John felt his hackles rise at the sheer waste of resources that implied.

“You know,” Babis said, perhaps sensing he had made a faux pas. “I came across a book in the Ministry about something called the Grand Tour. Rich people from your country would come to my poor country to look at the ruins left by my ancestors. It’s as if the tables have turned.”

“That’s all made up.” John spluttered.

“Of course it is. There never were rich Britons and poor Greeks. There never was a Grand Tour. You know, it never ceases to amaze me the lengths they went to to hide the past. All those books forged, all those statues changed to look Caucasian. All those belief systems invented just to be rejected. A whole history just created out of nothing. Even burying things for their descendants to find. It’s wrong, obviously, and I hate them for it. But part of me can’t help being impressed.”

In truth, John couldn’t help being impressed either. He had been on too many digs not to be. How had these interlopers, in such a short space of time, so completely altered the material culture they inherited that its original creators were nowhere to be seen? How had they done so and left no trace of their actions? How had they made everything look so natural, so right?

But if John could not help being impressed, he did not want to be. It was uncomfortable, praising these interlopers who had created nothing and destroyed almost everything, imposing their barbarity on the peaceful sophistication fate had offered them on a plate. So to avoid his thoughts heading in a direction he would prefer they did not, he pointed out of the window at the city’s iconic, hill-top temple and asked, “Is that it?”

“Yes,” Babis replied. “That’s it. That’s the temple of Saraswati.”

---

    

Part III

The Hotel Indus was on Athens’ main square, just across from the neo-Indo/African headquarters of the Mediterranean Union, formed when the then European Union had collapsed after the refusal of Southern countries to participate in the Second German Bailout.

Check-in had been easy. Babis, it transpired, knew the door person. He also knew the desk clerk. As he did the bell-youth who took John’s bag. There were, John suspected, few people Babis did not know.

“Why don’t you get some rest and I’ll pick you up and we can have dinner. I know the best place.”

This last did not surprise John but he was grateful. He was finding the whole experience slightly disorientating. It was not a linguistic problem – everyone spoke English and all the signs were in English – more an unusual feeling of being somewhere he did not know. For, he realised, never travelling, he never went anywhere he had not been before. He was not used to the sensation of not being used to his surroundings, his entire life circumscribed by a few square miles of London. It had to be that way, of course, the requirements of the environment demanded no less, but it had left him slightly off balance.

“That would be lovely. What time?”

“Would eleven be ok?”

“Eleven? That’s a bit late isn’t it?” In Britain, to ensure citizens got the seven hours sleep recommended by doctors, all lights dimmed by law at 9:30 and switched off completely at 10.

“My friend, we could have an early dinner at nine if you prefer, but I must warn you, it will still be very hot, over 50°. If we wait till eleven, it will be down to 40°. Why not head up to your room and have a sleep? One reason we Greeks have adapted so well is that we’ve always taken naps in the middle of the day. All climate change meant to us was that they became longer.”

Truth be told, John was feeling tired and, brief though it had been, the few steps from car to hotel had been enough daytime Athenian weather for him for one day.

“Good point. I’ll see you at eleven. In the lobby?”

“Yes, I’ll see you here.” Babis turned on his heel and raised a meaty hand.

The suite was palatial, several times the size of his multi-million Meghan flat in London. John wondered how many Medcoins had changed hands to secure it. To his surprise, he discovered that the air conditioning went down to 25°, so he stripped off and slid into bed, luxuriating in feeling cool for the first time he could remember.

Sleep coming more slowly than would have been ideal, John picked up his phone and logged into Tweeter. Inquiries into the origins of the Second Civil War had revealed the pivotal role of social media companies in spreading the toxic ideas which had caused it, so to prevent a recurrence, governments across the world had nationalised them. Control of the platforms, however, proved insufficient. No matter how many resources were thrown at the problem, moderating all potentially offensive comments off the sites was beyond even the most sophisticated A.I.. Regrettable though it may have been, the only way for public safety to be guaranteed was for a two-tier system to be implemented. Government-approved organisations could post content and, on their eighteenth birthdays, regular citizens were given access to read it.

The news was the same as always. Ukraine’s forces were preparing their annual Summer Offensive, seeking to take back the kilometre gained by President Putina’s forces in their annual Spring Offensive. A Civil Servant was on trial for selling building permits. At the bottom of the feed was footage from the Barack Day Service. He was about to click on it in the hopes of seeing Morgana in her formal tee-shirt and sarong, the pink, black and brown of her CBE ribbon offsetting her hair but he remembered that his health information would be uploaded as soon as his watch was within range of the servers and thought the better of it.

Sleep did eventually come and it was a surprisingly refreshed John who hit the lobby just before 11pm. It was a still refreshed John who greeted Babis at twelve, the latter’s lack of apology suggesting that in these parts, an hour late was on time.

They left the hotel and entered Athens’ bustling streets. The last time John had seen so many people was when a fault with the algorithm had brought London’s buses to a halt, but here, instead of hurrying to work, the throng seemed intent on enjoying itself, heading to the bars, clubs and restaurants which had given the city its reputation as Europe’s party capital. Feeling a slight twinge of envy at the luxuries available in the still-open shops, John rediscovered his sense of superiority as he noticed the amount of graffiti which covered the buildings. Much of it seemed football-related, partisans of Olympiakos and Panathinaikos taking their rivalry from the terraces to the city’s walls, but a plain “X” also seemed a popular device, few structures appearing to lack one.

After a few minutes, the street opened into a broad square, the top ended dominated by the Nana Mouskouri Centre for Spiritual Well Being. On the far side were shops and, in the middle, a small close which opened out into a terrace, covered with tables. Above glistened the lights of the Temple of Saraswati.

It was no great shock that the owner greeted Babis like a long-lost cousin, particularly when the latter explained that he actually was a cousin. After a round of hugs and back-slaps, they were led to a secluded table in the corner.

“What would you like to drink?” Babis asked.

“I’d better stick to water.” John replied. “I’ve had my unit for the week.”

“Ah! You’re worried about your health record, aren’t you?”

John nodded sheepishly.

“Is that an Orange Watch?”

“Yes” John replied, proud of the timepiece that had cost him so many Meghans.

“You know, you can fix those. If you let me take a look, I’ll sort it out for you. No-one will ever know. A cousin showed me what to do. ”

John was at once impressed at the range of skills possessed by Babis’ family and slightly discomfitted. In truth, he would like a drink but he knew he would regret it. Not for the reasons that so many people have regretted alcohol for so many years, but because he knew one unit was the maximum recommended by the government’s doctors. His whole life and education had given him a terror of ignoring their advice and potentially placing a burden on the state.

“It’s alright. Better not to. I’ll need a clear head for tomorrow. Alcohol always goes for me when it’s hot.”

Babis smiled and ordered a bottle of water. “If I can’t get you a drink, at least I can give you a good meal. I’ve ordered the lamb. You like lamb, yes?”

John nodded. That was more like it. He had been worried about having to eat something unusual like  and, of all the meats, lamb was his favourite.

“You’ve never had lamb like this. It’s from Parnassus.”

“Parnassus? Is that a new company? I’ve never heard of it.”

Babis tried to be polite but in the struggle between his manners and his amusement, the latter won, a huge guffaw erupting from his side of the table.

“Company? No! It’s a mountain. When the interlopers invented the Muses, they made it their home. In the real world, it was where Greeks used to ski but now that climate change has melted the snow, the springs mean it’s a beautifully rich pasture. The best lamb in the world comes from there.”

“Oh. Lovely.” It had been over a decade since eating meat had been legal in Britain and longer since it had been socially acceptable, concerns over animal welfare and carbon footprints have long turned responsible members of society toward the array of artificial alternatives science had created. John could not remember the last time he had eaten meat which had not been grown in a vat. But, at one level he was curious and at another, he was conscious that, having turned down most of Babis’ suggestions so far, he risked looking a little stand-offish. Besides, the lamb was already dead. It would be an insult not to derive some benefit from its sacrifice.

John’s first bite led him to two immediate conclusions. One, he liked lamb. He really, really liked lamb. Two, whoever had invented the substitute had obviously never tasted it – each mouthful treating his taste buds to new and delightful sensations.

The two ate in a companionable silence until their plates were emptied. Shortly after, a tray of pastries arrived, each sweeter than the least, each bringing his watch closer to shocking him to warn of a prospect of an insulin spike. Eventually there was nothing left, his blood sugar levels miraculously remaining within tolerance.

The business of eating over, John decided to broach the other business of the evening.

“So, can you tell me a bit about the problem?”

Babis looked around, but there was no-one in earshot.

“What have you been told?”

“Someone was building a house and dug up a statue of Alexander the Great.”

“That’s right.”

“But, I don’t understand why you need our help. You must have plenty of archeologists.”

“We do but there’s a problem.” Babis looked around and lowered his voice. “Muskites”

“Muskites?”

Babis nodded. He looked around again and continued. “The Minister is worried that some of them have infiltrated our team. There was an audit, you see, and several sites which had been marked as destroyed had just been covered over, all the “artefacts” left to be rediscovered. As you know, in the before times, Alexander the Great was Greece’s biggest hero and the Minister is worried that if the statue is not destroyed, it could re-emerge. It could become a symbol. And none of us want that.

“Greeks, you see,” Babis continued, “ are a proud people. Many liked the old version of history. The one in which our ancestors thought great thoughts and accomplished great deeds. They like to think they are the basis for the world’s culture, inventors of democracy, drama, philosophy and all that. It was a shock to find out it was all a lie and many didn’t want to believe it. Many still don’t want to believe it. You might have seen the graffiti as we walked over here. The “X”, that’s their symbol.”

“As you can imagine, it’s a sensitive situation. And embarrassing if it got out. So the minister decided to ask for help. In a delicate way, of course.”

John understood. Even though the evidence presented by the Chinese and Google had been incontrovertible, not all had accepted it. There were too many signs to the contrary, all the texts, statues and paintings. No-one could fake all that to implant themselves into the historical record and, if by some miracle they had, they would have left behind evidence. Before his arrest and execution as an accessory to the rebellion, one of the loudest voices for the so-called “realist” (more accurately “racist”) position had been a tech billionaire. But if he had died, his ideas had not, dissident right-wing groups taking his name as a tribute to their martyr.

Britain had been like Greece, many reluctant to believe that their ancestors had not invented Parliamentary democracy, had not started the scientific, agricultural and industrial revolutions, had not ended slavery.

The government, to its credit, had been swift to act. The statues to fictitious imperial heroes which littered the country’s squares and streets had been destroyed. The nation’s art conservators had been deployed to restore the artefacts in the collections back to what must have been their original state, removing the alterations made to them by the interlopers. It had been ahead of the curve and had developed a profitable line in exporting its services to those who needed them, the country once reviled for taking objects from other countries ironically becoming the acknowledged expert in returning them to their intended condition.

But conservators can only deal with what has already been discovered and the interlopers had been tricky people, leaving fake artefacts to be found by digger, plough and spade. To avoid a game of archaeological whack-a-mole, a decision had been taken. From now on, whenever a new site was discovered, it would be destroyed. There was no point in giving succour to the ravings of the fringes. And so, a mandatory course in demolition had been added to all archaeology degrees, the study of C-4 replacing that of Arthur Evans.

“Given what you did with the Temple, the Minister thought you were the obvious people to ask.”

John smiled, his colleagues’ restoration of the figures on the Temple of Saraswati to their original, Indo/African features had been a triumph.

“Don’t worry about it. It won’t be a problem. Did you get the list of supplies I asked for?”

“Yes, it’s all at the site waiting for you.”

“When do you want to do it?”

“Tomorrow? Will that be possible?”

“Should be. I’ll need to take a look at it before I can be definite. We want to be sure we get everything.”

“Ok. That will be perfect.” Babis looked at his watch. “Shall we go?” One advantage of eating at a cousin’s restaurant seemed to be the lack of any need to pay a bill.

“Tomorrow will be a big day. Tomorrow you will meet Alexander.”

---

Part IV

The first thing John realised when he woke up was that he had not slept enough, certainly far less than the recommended seven hours, even including yesterday’s nap. The next thing was that he really needed to get up. Babis would be arriving soon.

There was only one thing for it. He reached for his phone, opened the room service app, filled in the consent form and ordered a black sachet. He knew it would go on his health form and he knew he would be questioned about it when he got back to London, but he needed it. He was, after all, on government business. Surely they would understand.

When it arrived, it was not a pleasant sight. Nor, to be accurate, was it a pleasant taste, but it worked. Lord how it worked. Merely minutes after his first sip, John felt awake in a way he rarely had before, bounding down the stairs to the lobby. It was, he assumed, a sign of how serious the matter was that it was a mere thirty minutes after the scheduled time that Babis strode into the hotel.

Greetings offered and poncho donned, they scurried to the waiting car.

“20?” Babis asked.

“Please,” John replied, his brief exposure to the Athenian heat undoing much of the good of his black sachet.

The car instantly started to cool down, Babis said something, the address of the site, John imagined, and they started to move, inching into the snarling traffic of the city.

How he was going to cope with working in the heat, John was unsure, but Babis seemed to read his mind, not for the first time.

“Don’t worry. The site is in Ekali, up in the hills to the North of the city. It will be cooler up there. Rich Athenians used to have summer houses in the area to escape the heat, just like your colonials used to move to Simla.”

John winced. Not content with taking over the civilisation they discovered in Europe, the interlopers had proceeded to attack its sources, an act of such ignominy that no modern Westerner could ever believe herself free of hereditary sin. Rightly so.

“There used to be beautiful forests there but not any more of course. Anyway, we’ve placed a tent over the site to keep the sun off and rigged up a generator to run AC.”

John started. A generator? They had been outlawed in Britain for years. How had Babis? He stopped himself. Firstly, he did not really want to know and secondly, he suspected he already did know. There was, no doubt, a cousin involved.

Babis unzipped his poncho, today’s tee-shirt emblazoned with “Exceed”. “Have you been to India?”

“No. I haven’t been anywhere.”

“I went last year, amazing place. The museums are unbelievable.”

“How did you manage that? In Britain it’s really hard to get a passport.”

“My cousin works for the Ministry of Foreign Affairs.” John hadn’t really needed to ask.

Not for the first time, he was jealous of Babis. If bucket lists had still been a thing in his time, a trip to India would have been at the top of his. Particularly now.

Once Britain had restored the art in its national collections to what must have been its original condition, all evidence of the interlopers removed, it had returned it to the descendants of its original creators. And it had not been alone. The great galleries of the West had given back the works in their possession. Their recipients had been grateful, building palatial museums to house their new acquisitions, Delhi, Lahore and Lagos replacing Paris, New York and London as the capitals of the art world. It was just a shame, John thought, that the names of their creators were lost to history, the traditional attributions obviously being part of the interlopers’ campaign of fakery. Clearly not everything could be returned, monumental architecture, for example, but where it was not possible, restoration work had been done and the sites renamed to something more appropriate.

“There seems to be a lot of building work going on,” John offered as the car passed yet another construction site.

“Yes. The government is quite relaxed about building. Well, it’s relaxed about building on existing foundations. Digging? It’s a bit less relaxed. As you understand.”

John nodded.

“In truth, it causes problems.”

“Really?”

“Yes, all the workers are migrants. Germans. That makes some people uncomfortable.”

The failure of the country’s economy had prompted a wave of emigration and Greece had not been the only destination. Most European cities had substantial communities, usually undertaking low-paid service sector jobs.

“I don’t have a problem myself, of course. If they are willing to do the jobs Greeks won’t, let them, is my view. But they keep themselves to themselves. They don’t really integrate, many people say.”

John nodded again. He knew Babis was right. Whenever he went to the office, all the cleaners were German. As were most of the waiters in restaurants. He didn’t mind. He liked diversity, he liked what it did for his life. But he knew not everyone was as big a fan of the sauerkraut restaurants which had popped up all over the city. There were even whispers that Richmond, where so many lived, near the old German school, had become a no go area.

The road was getting steeper now, traffic thinning out. John sensed that the temperature outside was dropping. The car passed through a town, an affluent one from the look of the shops. At a crossroads, they turned right, then left and stopped at the cordon. Recognising Babis, the policeman raised the tape which crossed the road and the car nosed forward, turning through the gate in the hastily constructed panel wall.

When Babis had said the site had been covered with a tent, he had not been lying, but he had not been strictly accurate either. It was more of a marquee, every inch under its protection, not just from above, but from the sides also.

“We’re here.” Babis said, smiling and opened the door.

The expected assault from the temperature never came. It was warmer than the car certainly, but not hot. Just pleasant. Presumably the throaty hum of the generator explained that. There was a funny smell though which John could not quite place.

“Are you cleaning the site?” He asked.

“No. Why would we?”

“The smell. What is it?”

“Oh, that. It’s petrol. For the generator. Don’t worry, you’ll get used to it.”

John was about to ask but through the better of it. He hoped Babis was right, another reason now added to his list of why he was grateful to live in the modern world.

“Come, I’ll introduce you to the guys.”

“Guys!” Babis shouted and the three men on the site headed over.

All were wearing sarong and tee-shirts, one reading “Exult”, another “Exist” and the last “Experience”. It was obviously some brand which had escaped his notice. Clothes had never really been his thing. Unless they were worn by Morgana.

Hugs and backslaps were exchanged and then the introductions were made. Giorgos, Kosta and Ianni.

“They’re the best guys. You can trust them.” Babis said.

“Cousins?” John asked, confident that, if any offence were taken, he could pass it off as a bad joke.

“Cousins? No!” Babis roared. “They’re my brothers!” which seemed all the excuse necessary for another round of backslapping.

The plot was square, about 30m in each direction. On one side, a row of cement bags, material for the foundations that would no longer be built. On the other, a table, covered with computers, cups and food wrappers. Next to it, what would, had it been dirtier and had fewer buttons, have looked to the untrained eye like the device used to paint lines on football pitches. Holes had been dug at irregular locations across the site, the largest in the centre.

“Where would you like to start?” Babis asked.

“Have you done a scan?”

“Of course.”

“Can I see it?”

Babis gestured to Giorgos who went over to the table and turned on a laptop. The men huddled around it, staring intently at the image on the screen which bore more than a little similarity to a lost game of Tetris.

“How big is the margin here?” John pointed to the sides of the screen, all the same colour.

“Five metres” Kosta replied.

“All around?”

“Yes.”

“Hmm. Bit tight. I prefer ten. Is that going to be possible?”

Babis grimaced. “Not really. The minister was clear we have to stick to this site. How should I put it? The neighbours have friends. Important friends.”

“Ah.” John understood, the houses they had passed near the site had been the type of large, expensive properties owned by the type of people who had friends. As a government employee himself, he had learned that those friends often worked for the government. And he had learned it was best not to upset them.

“Ok. That’ll have to do then. You’ll have to make it clear to the Minister that we can’t be completely certain we’ve got the whole site.” He looked at the screen again.

“It certainly looks quite isolated, so it might be fine. It’s unusual for a statue to be on its own, but it does happen.” He pointed to some dots on the screen. “What are those?”

“It’s ok, we dug them up.” Kosta said. “They’re modern – cans, coins, that sort of thing.”

“How far down did you go?”

“Ten metres.” John was impressed. His scanner only reached five. On a good day.

“Alright. We’ll assume it’s on its own. Can I have a look?”

“Of course.”

The five men crossed the ground and looked into the hole. It was about a metre deep. Still partly submerged was the statue. Life sized. Even in its current condition, John could tell it was a magnificent piece of work. Someone had tried to clean it, revealing marble of the purest white. They had obviously used a brush, sweeping some of the soil into the gullies between its stony muscles, highlighting the contours the sculptor had laboured to create, evidence of its abandonment paradoxically providing evidence of his skill. Its white eyes looked at him and seemed to look into him, in a gaze which would have been insolent on anyone who did not rule the known world.

“It’s amazing, isn’t it.” Babis said, his voice dropped as if in awe. “It is.” John agreed. “If I had to depict a mythical hero who conquered the world, that’s the way I would sculpt him too. Not that I would, of course. Nor that I could. Now, where’s the C4?”

---

Part V

John was neither surprised nor particularly comforted when Babis popped open the boot of the Medcar and started to unload the bricks of explosive.

He got his computer and headed over to the table. Opening it up, he downloaded the scan of the site and fed it into the software. He was proud of it since he had built it himself and, to be honest, he was slightly disappointed that it had not brought him wider recognition. Taking the data from the LIDAR, it produced a three-dimensional map of the area and calculated the optimum spots to place explosives to ensure the complete destruction of the artefacts found while causing as little damage as possible to the surrounding area. It even made adjustments based on the specific type of explosive used.

“It is C-4, isn’t it?”

“Yes. Straight from America.” Once more, John was impressed. The Greeks seemed much more reluctant than the British to spare any expense.

It was probably less than a second before the screen changed, red dots imposed on the scan. Each point had a letter attached and down the side of the screen, each letter was paired with a number, representing the depth at which the explosive was to be placed. Most of the dots were clustered around the large hole with the statue, with a few scattered further away to guarantee complete destruction.

“How does it look?” Babis had appeared over his shoulder.

“Not too bad. Should be reasonably easy.”

“How long?”

“Couple of hours? I’ve seen more complicated sites.”

“Good. It would be best if we could do it before the neighbours get back from work.”

John understood. The type of people who lived in the type of houses round here liked a world they could tell themselves they controlled. They didn’t like surprises, least of all noisy surprises.

“We’d better get started then.”

“How do you want to do it?”

“We’ll start at the statue and work outwards. Are you certified?”

“No,” Babis shook his head ruefully.

“The guys?”

Another rueful shake.

“OK. I’ll do it. If you guys can bring six blocks over to the hole, I’ll put them in place. Oh, can I get a trowel as well.”

“Will you need det. cord?”

“Obviously.” John was surprised. How was he going to set off the explosive without it? Any archaeologist would know that. The last thing he wanted was to be working with amateurs.

“OK. I’ll get it from the car.”

John picked up his computer and clambered down into the hole. He took the time to look at the statue. He touched it, surprised at the smoothness of the marble. It truly was magnificent. Oh well, it had to be done. The guys seemed to be gathering around the excavation, so he turned back to look at Babis.

What he saw surprised him. The meaty hand outstretched towards him held not the expected block of explosive, but a gun.

At least, that’s what John thought it was. He couldn’t remember the last time he had seen one. Possession had been outlawed years ago, punishable by a life sentence, and the AI’s which provided entertainment were specifically designed to be unable to depict them. Now he thought about it, he could remember. It was a showing of the classic film Jewel of the Nile on the BFI’s channel, the audience carefully pre-screened and the trigger warnings an hour long, slightly longer than the movie itself.

“What?”

“I’m sorry, John. I can’t let you do this.”

He looked around, from unfriendly face to unfriendly face and, as they have an unfortunate habit of doing, a realisation struck him, just a bit later than would have been ideal.

Exceed. Exult. Exist. Experience. Their tee-shirts. What was it Babis had said? “X” is the symbol used by the Muskites.

“Are you?” John hadn’t finished the question before Babis interrupted him.

“Muskites? Yes, John, we are. I’m sorry. I truly am.”

“The group who infiltrated the Ministry?”

“Yes, that’s us. And others of course. There are more of us than you might imagine.”

“But, why?”

“Why? Why?” Babis’ voice was rising now. “Because it’s the right thing to do.”

“You can’t believe that, surely.”

“Of course, I do. I’m not going to live by the lie anymore. We’re not going to live by the lie. That’s what all this is.” Babis wafted his hand in the air. “A lie.

“There never was an Indo/African civilisation which ruled Europe. There never were interlopers. There were Greeks and Romans, Franks and Italians, Spaniards and British. Each of them made their contribution. Each of them built on the legacy of the others, slowly, steadily raising the condition of humanity. They made mistakes, we all make mistakes but we should be proud of them, not seek to erase them by pretending they erased others.”

“And look where that got us. Injustice, racism, war, suffering. Look at the environment. We can’t go back to that.”

“You think we won’t? You think we haven’t? You can change people’s history, John, but you can’t change people. Look at your English Channel, all those German migrants dying in their small boats.”

“You can’t change people, but you can control them. You need to control them. You can’t trust them. They’re stupid. They’re greedy. They’re out for themselves. We tried that. You know what happened.”

“I know what happened but at least it was true. Not these lies. Skulking around, inventing history, overpainting art, resculpting statues. Look at that statue John. Look at it. It’s beautiful. Who knows how long it took to make. It was probably the high point of its maker’s career. It probably made him famous. And you want to destroy it John? For a lie?”

“I have to destroy it. There is no other way.”

“That’s not going to happen, John.”

“So what, then? You’re going to dig it up? Then what? No museum will display it. No scholar will study it. As soon as news gets out, someone will destroy it. Obviously not you. Maybe not me, but someone. Because it has to be done. You know it has to be done. There’s too much at stake.”

“Who said anything about digging it up?”

“What do you mean?”

“I am an archaeologist, John. A real archaeologist. All I want to do is preserve the past the best I can. You’re right, the minute the statue leaves here, someone will destroy it. So here it will stay. For now, until the time is right.

“I know how the winds are blowing, John but my ancestors were sailors, I know the winds change. This won’t go on forever. So Alexander will be reburied, a record will be taken and, when the time is right, he’ll be rediscovered. Think of it, it will be like a second Renaissance, all that knowledge magically reappearing.”

“There was no Renaissance,” John screamed. “There were no Greeks and Romans, there was no Medieval Italy.” He was frustrated now, close to tears.

“You know,” Babis said. “I don’t know if you really believe that or you just can’t bear not believing it. And all that would entail. Which is it, John? Are you lying or is your life a lie?”

John did not know what to say. He had made choices, he knew that but they had seemed the right choices, made for the greater good. He couldn’t have been wrong, could he?

“So what happens now?”

“We will fill in the holes, set off a small explosion for the sake of appearances and return to the Ministry to write our report. In a funny way, you’ve been quite helpful. By showing you where to place your explosives to destroy the statue, your software has told us where to put them to preserve it.”

“But that won’t work. When the building work starts over, it will be found again. And you’ll be back to square one.”

Babis smiled. “You know, it’s funny. When people talk about WWII, they never remember the Germans’ chemical weapons programme. It’s funny how often on these sites we come across abandoned canisters of gas. We destroy them, of course, but they pollute the ground. No-one can build on it for decades. For public health, of course.” Babis smiled. “Don’t worry about the owners. They’re fully compensated. Greece is a rich country.”

“So,” John smirked. “You talk about lying and yet you lie yourself.”

“I never said we were pure, John. But we lie to preserve the truth. You lie to destroy it. What is worse? Inventing a few gas canisters or erasing an entire civilisation?”

“You know that as soon as I get back to London, I’ll tell my boss. And she’ll tell your boss. The Minister will come down on you like a tonne of bricks. If that statue isn’t blown up today, it will be by the end of next week.”

“No. It won’t. Explosives are dangerous, John. Computers make mistakes. You know what irony is, don’t you? A term invented, by the way, by my Greek ancestors.”

John nodded, not liking in the least where this was heading.

“Well, I’m sorry about this, John, truly I am but the irony of your situation is that, having dedicated your life to destroying history, you’re going to have to become part of it…”

---

THE END

---

^{Author’s Note: The foregoing is a work of speculative fiction. All locations are based on actual places but some names have been changed, better to represent the mores of the society depicted. All characters are the product of the author’s imagination, with the exception of members of the Royal Family and Professor Huang Heqing, a summary of whose ideas can be found here.}

Stewart Slater works in Finance. He invites you to join him at his website.