Ring of Fire III

“I demand to be let out of here. There is no reason for you to keep me in this prison! I demand-” Milton’s loud protestation was cut short. He didn’t see the guard’s fist streaking toward him in the half-light of the prison cell. The blow caught him in the side of the face, squarely on his cheek. The guard laughed as Milton fell back into the cell, stunned.

He lay sprawled half aware and bleeding on the floor. The floor smelled like a sewer, and was slippery under the rancid straw. It was the smell, combined with the surprise and the pain that nearly caused him to pass out. He was brought back to his senses by a kick in the ribs.

“Wake up, John Milton! Ye be here by royal order!” Milton half rolled on his side as the guard was flexing his fingers inside his weighted leather glove. The guard smiled down at him “Any more questions?”

Milton blinked a couple of times, and tried to stand. “On what grounds am I being held? Why am I here? Why was I grabbed on the road, minding my own business, and trussed off to this godforsaken Gatehouse Prison?” He used the wall as his support until he was standing, leaning against the back wall of the cell while he fought the dizziness from the blow.

The guard smiled at him again. “Why indeed? Why was ye caught makin’ your way t’ Kent, t’ the sea? Per’aps to ’scape t’ the continent? Carryin’ your traitorous messages back to your masters? And don’t disparage me prison. Gatehouse Prison ha’ seen many a fine lord, finer than you. We not be as fancy as the Tower, but we be close to Whitehall.”

Struggling to regain his equilibrium, Milton spoke quietly. “I have done nothing since I left Cambridge except study. This is ridiculous. You are an imbecile.” He could no longer contain his temper, and he began to shout again. “Will someone with the ability to reason at a level above that of a dog come here soon to relieve you? You are tedious. Now be off and bring me some answers.”

The guard swept Milton’s feet out from under him, and he landed hard on the stone floor, crying out in pain and surprise. “Fer someone who’ s’posed t’ be so bloody smart, ye are one slow learner, ain’t ye?”

“Why in the name of all that is holy are you doing this to me? By what right-” His words were cut off by another boot to the ribs. This time there was an audible crack as boot broke bone. Milton shrieked, clutched his right side, and rolled in the filth towards the wall, curling into a ball, whimpering.

“Ye got no such thing as a ‘right,’ you traitorous bastard. And soon ye will join the other ‘fine lords’ we have sent to the block already.” Milton winced as he saw the guard pull his leg back to deliver another kick, when a command was shouted from the corridor. John risked a small turn of his head.

“Wilson! Hold! Wha’ are you doing?”

The guard’s head snapped around, and he smiled. “Jus’ teachin’ ’im some rules. Manners as it were, sir. That’s all.”

“They want to talk to this one.” A squat man who looked like a bulldog, with a large square jaw and jowls to match, lumbered into the cell. “I ’ave ’eard the minister his own self is comin’ down to talk to this one. So go a bit easy, Wilson. We want ’im a bit presentable, now don’t we?”

“The minist’r?”

“Aye.”

Wilson turned to the whimpering form on the ground. “I guess you is special, Mr. John Milton. And you’re no’ even a lordship like some of the others.” Wilson knelt down to whisper. “I got nothi’ fer traitorous bastards like ye. Just as soon see their heads roll. So be quiet, and behave yerself, so I don’t have to teach ye any more manners. Do ye understand me?”

Milton managed a small nod.

“That’s better.” The guard straightened, and mockingly extended his right hand, and spoke a bit louder. “I don’ think we have been properly introduced. Me name is John Wilson, and I be a guard in this part o’ Gatehouse Prison. I will be expectin’ proper payment from ye by tomorrow. Prisoners are expected to pay for their upkeep and treatment ’ere. It’s clear to me that you never been in this sort of a situation before, so I am ’splaining it to ye all special and quiet like.” Wilson looked at his still extended hand, then glanced at his supervisor with a half smile. “Not very p’lite. Didn’t even shake me ’and.”

The bulldog supervisor laughed. “Roll over and pay attention. This is simple. Who in London can pay for your keep ’ere? Give us an address where someone lives who can pay for you. Otherwise the conditions go downhill. D’ye understand, John Milton? This is one of our best cells.” The men grinned at each other.

Wincing in pain, Milton gasped, “I understand. Bread Street. My father is a scrivener in Bread Street. He can pay.” He gritted his teeth against the pain.

“Thank ye, sir. I will send me son round on the morrow.”

“I had silver.” Milton tried to talk without inhaling or exhaling.

The bulldog face changed, and added the smile of an insincere shark. “I’m sure you did. But you see, by the time you arrived here, there was none to be found. The soldiers that captured you in Kent must have taken some-for expenses, you understand. And then there was the wagon to bring ye here, and then the bridge tolls, hay for the horses-it adds up quickly, and there is never any left for us when the prisoner arrives. Sad, but it always seems t’ work out that way.”

“But don’t worry,” Wilson said. “Ye probably won’t be ’ere long. None of the others were ’ere long…before they was beheaded.” Wilson and the shark-toothed bulldog laughed loudly, and clanged the door shut behind them.

“John, can you hear me?”

John Milton was stirred from a light sleep by his father’s voice, and tried to inhale. The pain in his right side wrenched him awake, and he moaned. He felt hands turning him and gritted his teeth against the pain.

“What have they done to you, John?”

John gasped. The pain of simply trying to breathe was tremendous.

“Father, what have they done to him?” John recognized the voice of his younger brother Christopher, who had recently begun studies for the bar. “Is he injured?”

“John, can you hear me? Son, what did they do to you? Tell me.”

“Kicked…Ribs…ohhhh…” His hands clutched his side.

“Dammit. Christopher, he has broken ribs. We must get him vertical. He’ll die of congestion of the chest if he’s allowed to lie here like this. Help me get him up.”

Christopher and the senior Milton picked up John as gently as possible, pushed insect ridden straw into another corner, and used it to prop him in a sitting position. Both visitors retched at the smell of the floor.

“You have got to stay vertical, John. Otherwise you might catch a disease of the lungs and die. Do you understand me? You must sit upright!”

John managed a slight nod, but a wave of nausea came over him. He moaned slightly.

“Bastards!” Christopher exclaimed. “You’ve done nothing to deserve this. No crime has been committed. This is injustice at the highest level, total disregard of the law-”

“Shush! None of that here. Be quiet, boy. There is a time and a place for such talk. And this is neither. We’re here for your brother. No sense in all of us being locked up. Hush, or return home.”

Christopher glanced over his shoulder at the closed door of the cell, looking for signs of an eavesdropping guard. “I’m sorry, Father. I shouldn’t let my feelings get in the way of our immediate needs.”

The elder Milton nodded grimly. “And those needs are great, if we are to save your brother’s life. The beatings should stop now we have paid the guards, but what remains? That concerns me, Christopher.”

John finally produced a rasping voice. “Will somebody please tell me what the fuck is going on? Wh-” He stopped and licked his lips. “Why am I here?”

“Give him some brandy, Christopher. Then some bread,” his father said.

Christopher nodded and began digging into the knapsack he was carrying, brushing a semi-clean area on the floor where he could sit in front of his brother. His father lowered his voice. “You got our letter in time at the cottage in Hammersmith, I assume?”

Milton nodded.

“We understand they caught you in Kent?”

Milton nodded again. Christopher gave him some brandy to drink, and he sipped it carefully so as not to cough.

His father sighed. “We have learned some things since that time. This all goes back to that accursed Grantville, landed in the Germanies. Apparently the king, in that history, was beheaded. The whole thing was there in the books of the town. There were lists of who was on what side in the revolution-who was a royalist, and who was not. Most of what would have occurred would have happened in a few years. So, in truth, nobody has done anything yet. Except the king, who is having nearly everyone on that list brought in for questioning. And anyone who signed his death warrant is put to death.”

Christopher jumped in, fuming. “Have you heard of John Bradshaw? He was a fine legal mind, and mayor of Congleton in Cheshire. The rumors say that he was taken from his home and executed in front of his young wife. No trial, no hearing, just summary execution. Outrageous.”

Father continued. “He was apparently the Chief Justice at the trial where they found Charles guilty.” He paused and shook his head. “To kill a man in front of his family for something he has not done, nor likely will ever do! It makes me ill to think of it. Once we heard of what was going on, we were afraid-everyone was afraid, but we did not appear on any lists, at least so far.”

John blinked at them in disbelief, and then became thoughtful. “Am I on that list? Is that why I am here?”

“Thank God, no.”

Milton steeled himself to speak, softly. “I am a student. A poet. That is what I do. There is no secret to that.” He paused, and tested a deeper breath, and winced. “You’re right, Father, it’s better if I am upright.”

“John, you have always been a proud and strong willed young man. Brilliant, yes. But contrary. You know what happened at Cambridge. You were nearly thrown out-”

“That man was an imbecile.” Milton’s outburst sent him into a painful cough. When his coughing stopped, Christopher offered him more brandy, and a small chunk of bread. John nodded gratefully.

“Nonetheless,” his father continued, “you jeopardized your academic career because of pride and stubbornness. You are a man of principle, John, but not always the greatest of judgment. When we heard that you were involved with this government that killed Charles, we believed it. It sounds like something you would do, quite frankly. With so many legal minds being taken-did you ever meet Oliver Cromwell? He was the leader of the rebellion. He is in the Tower, awaiting what fate I do not know. Others have disappeared. And many of them are young. Thomas Grey, son of the earl of Stamford, only eleven years old, was dragged away from his mother by soldiers. We do not know what has happened to him. A ship’s chandler by the name of Okey here in London…simply disappeared. We think he’s dead. There are many others. Sir John Danvers, MP for Oxford. Did you know John Hutchinson at Cambridge? Many others. We just don’t know.”

Christopher said, “I was able to get some word out to you because I heard of it- you — at Lincoln’s Inn. We occasionally handle paperwork for Whitehall, and thank God for serendipity. I tell you John, this was a grave mistake on the part of the king. To kill men who have done nothing, and up to now were either innocent children or loyal subjects…I tell you it has set the courts on their collective heads. And several of the men taken were practicing before the bar, or were sons of Lords, or were members of Parliament-if it ever meets again. ’Tis tyranny, simple and pure. I have never seen so many learned and respectable men so angry. It’s infuriating to anyone with a sense of justice. I truly do not know what will come of this.”

“But what of me,” John whispered. “Where do I fit into this insanity?”

His father looked worried. “We truly do not know, John. Apparently you were known for your poetry in the future world. That is comforting, I am sure. But why would a poet be the object of this sort of persecution? We are still hoping to find out. Perhaps the Americans in the Tower would help us, if we can speak to them somehow. You must take care until we understand what is happening. We will do our best to discover why, and get you out of this. There are many who will help us.”

“What should I do?”

“Stay alive, John Milton. Stay alive until we can do something.”

He had no Plato, no Homer, no quill, ink or paper. It was the boredom, killing him a little each day. Once a week, his father or brother were allowed to visit, briefly. This week, it was his brother.

“I’m sorry, John. They found them-”

“My mind has been honed sharp for the last five years! To be imprisoned here, held here with no stimuli, no challenge worthy of my mind, is-is maddening! I feel as if I am falling into atrophy. Do you understand, Chris? Atrophy! I can feel my brains and heart and soul shriveling like dried fruit. I may as well be dead.”

They were sitting next to each other in the small cell, on a recently acquired pallet for a bed. Christopher looked down at the floor, embarrassed. “I was too ambitious, and they found the papers on me, John. I was trying to bring you more than last time. I–I am sorry, John. Sorry.”

John stood and began pacing around the small cell, frustrated. “I have been here nearly two months with not much news, and even less to read. I must have stimulation, Chris, or I shall go mad, surely as I stand here. Stark-raving-foaming-at-the-mouth mad.” He quieted and turned to his brother. “I tell you, I have never felt so dark a time such as these. I want to write about it. Yet I am unable to write about it. That makes things darker still.”

Christopher looked up, nodding in agreement. “I do not have your mind, brother. I cannot profess to know what it is like for you. Some can survive this sort of thing better than others.” He smiled, with a bit of mischief in his eyes. “But. I have brought you something. Something that is quite legal.” He opened a cloth and pulled several small pieces of chalk from the folds. “You cannot have pen and paper, but there was no order against chalk. You have the walls and floors to write upon. It is an advantage to have a lawyer in the family now and again. Parsing rules is our specialty.”

John could feel himself stepping back from the abyss, where his mind had dwelled of late. He could not hold back the tears.

“Norton. Sir Gregory Norton. Looks as if we are to be cell mates for a while. Pleased to meet you. And you are?” The tall gangly man with an affable face extended his hand.

“John Milton.” John shook hands, standing up from his pallet, still wincing a little.

“Quite a nice cell, I suppose. Nicer than where I was at the Tower. Odd decorations though. Are these your writings all about?” Sir Gregory squinted at the tiny writing, in Latin and Greek, on the walls. One wall was completely covered, each stone a page.

“It is my way of remaining sane. At least as sane as one can be in this place.”

Sir Gregory coughed a little. “I had no such problems, Milton. I’m a patient man by nature. Not too bad a thing for a man to bear, if you are strong. How long have you been here?”

“Two months, Sir Gregory.”

“What have you heard?”

John eyed Sir Gregory carefully. His father’s voice sounded in his mind. Trust no one. “Almost nothing.”

“Damn. I was hoping you knew something. I’ve been locked away and not able to hear any word from the outside. I do know there are all sorts of men missing from across the country, and it has something to do with some plot against the king. Quite extraordinary. I was taken prisoner on the first day, and have been in the Tower since. Then they moved me here… Quite disconcerting. I know nothing of my family. Nothing of what is happening. Do you know why I have been moved here? Placed with you?”

“No idea.” John regarded the man. He had a subtle Irish lilt to his speech, and what seemed to be a genuinely sunny disposition, despite his recent hardships.

“Not much of a talker, are you, Milton? Please excuse, I have been talking to myself for almost two months, and I am quite ready to talk to someone who will return my conversation. Talking to one’s self becomes rather predictable after a while.”

John looked at the man with a small smile, hiding his suspicions. “You don’t appear to have been beaten, Sir Gregory.” John turned his face so Sir Gregory could see the scar, cut into the side of his face the first day at Gatehouse.

Gregory looked startled. “I say, sir. That looks nasty. They did that to you in here?”

“That’s not the half of it. Three broken ribs too. Fortunately, my family is allowed to visit.”

Sir Gregory stepped closer, and looked at his face in the only light that came into the room, through a small slit near the stone ceiling. “Oh, my.”

“The guard Wilson did it. I have since learned he welcomes nearly everyone like that, especially if the new guest has money. You may want to be ready.”

“Certainly that would not apply to me. I’m a baronet of Nova Scotia. I can’t imagine a man like that treating a man like me in that manner. I was well liked at court before this idiocy occurred. I think it is a test of my loyalty, an obscene joke of some sort.”

For the entire world, Sir Gregory seemed sincere. Not too bright, true, but sincere. Milton’s narrowed his eyes. “Are you aware that Nova Scotia, or New Scotland as some call it, has been given to the French?”

Sir Gregory’s eyebrows knitted into a single bundle on his forehead for a moment, as if in deep thought. The eyebrows then went up to the top of his forehead, and he started laughing. “That is a good one, Milton. Very funny. You had me going for a moment. Ha!”

“Very well, Sir Gregory.” Milton sat on his pallet. “There’s some clean straw. It’s changed every other day for an outrageous sum, but does keep the lice down a bit. Sleep on it for tonight. You’ll need to make some arrangements soon, for your own comforts.”

“Very good of you, Milton. Very good. Thank you.”

“You are welcome, Sir Gregory.”

John watched this new man. Was he here to spy on him for some reason? John had never seen him before. The man seemed so unconcerned. So innocent. And not the sharpest quill on the table. John shrugged, then lay back. He would watch the man carefully, listen carefully, and tell him as little as possible. He didn’t want to let his captors know of the effort being quietly put forth by the London legal community in the investigation of what was now called Charles’ Purge.

The next morning they were awakened before sunrise by Wilson and his bulldog supervisor, along with another man and a priest. They came into the room, motioned for Sir Gregory to come with them.

Wilson stayed behind and grinned. “ ’Tis his turn.”

John was puzzled. “Turn for what?”

Wilson drew his finger across his throat and made a slicing sound. “Off with his ’ead. And you’re the guest of ’onor. Come along.”

He grabbed John’s arm and steered him down a narrow corridor that opened onto an enclosed courtyard. There was just enough light to see in the gray predawn. The guards and the bulldog supervisor tied Sir Gregory’s hands behind his back, and were leading him to the chopping block that stood in the corner of the yard. Sir Gregory had just started to figure out what was going to happen, and he began to struggle.

“This is ridiculous. There must be some kind of mistake. I am Sir Gregory Norton. You can’t do this. There has been no trial. Is this a test of my loyalty? Is that it? Some kind of a test? Certainly there can be no doubt? I have done nothing. Nothing!”

The priest began his low prayer, and another two guards came to hold Sir Gregory, and force his head to the block.

“I don’t understand! Why are you doing this? Why? ” He began to sob hysterically. “Please tell me why…please?”

The executioner came from behind a door in the courtyard, tugging at his black hood, and carrying his axe. As he drew closer, Sir Gregory began to scream. “ No! This is not happening! No-no-no-no!” The executioner knelt in front of the priest for a moment, and received a blessing. He then rose, and knelt on one knee before Sir Gregory. Gregory stopped sobbing, as the executioner quietly spoke to him. Milton could barely hear the executioner, who was a skinny and wiry man.

“…Keep still, sir. This is inevitable ’tis, sir. You don’t wa’ me t’miss and ’ave to take two or three swings, now do you? Let’s jus’ do this quick and get it o’er wit. Ye needs t’be brave now, sir…”

The calm speech of the black-hooded man seemed to quiet Sir Gregory. The executioner swiftly stood, then stepped back to swing. As the heavy ax came down, Gregory flinched with surprising strength against the men holding him, and the axe hit the top of his head, glancing off and taking a lot of scalp with it. Milton could see the gleaming white of his skull. Gregory fell back on the block, stunned, and the executioner swung again. That swing was rushed, and only half of the neck was severed. Sir Gregory gave a gurgling shriek. The executioner took his time with the last swing, ignoring the pitiful sounds of Gregory, and chopped the head off clean. It rolled to the ground and toward Milton. When it stopped, Milton saw the eyes flick back and forth and the jaw seemed to be gasping for breath. Then it was still.

“You must excuse me for being so late. I have been extraordinarily busy these past months, and I have not had the time to visit you as I hoped. I trust your accommodations are satisfactory?” Thomas Wentworth, the earl of Stafford, was smooth, professional, mature and polite as he spoke.

John smiled coolly. “We got off to a rather poor start, but things have improved.”

“Good.” Wentworth stood with his back to the door, and Milton stood in the corner. Wentworth had a small book under his arm. “It is odd, but I thought you would be older. I know when you were born, of course. After reading so much of your work I just assumed I would be talking to an older man. You are quite famous, you know, in the future. We found out a lot about you, what you wrote, your biographies, analysis of your work, criticisms. Fascinating, really. There was more information on you than on many of the vastly more important people of our era.” Wentworth let the last phrase hang in the air for a moment.

John ignored the jibe. “I’ve heard that’s the case, although I have not been allowed any books or paper during my imprisonment.”

Wentworth’s eyes began to travel slowly around the walls of the cell, now nearly covered with chalk writings, and he smiled bemusedly. “I will be more specific in my orders next time. You came from a family of lawyers.” He squinted at a couple of writings. “Nothing treasonous I assume.”

“Of course not, milord.” John tried to guess the man’s motives. His several month imprisonment had given him time to think, to guess what it was that Wentworth was going to do. John had several ideas, and he discussed many with his father. But now, it looked like Wentworth was about to start putting him into play. It was time to discover the game.

“It is curious,” said Wentworth, “one of the most famous poems ever written was written in this very prison, in the shadow of Westminster Abbey. And not by you, I might add. In that other future, when Cromwell became a king in everything but the name, many royalists were imprisoned. One who was imprisoned here wrote a poem:

Stone walls do not a prison make,

Nor iron bars a cage;

Minds innocent and quiet take

That for an hermitage.

“Of course, the man who wrote that is only a lad of fourteen or fifteen today, so it is unlikely he will ever write such a verse. I wonder how that will make him feel? What do you think, John?”

“I cannot say. I have not yet read anything I have written from the future.”

“I have brought something for you to read.”

John desired the book under Wentworth’s arm. His eyes flicked quickly to it, then back to Wentworth’s smiling face. Wentworth’s smile went a little larger. John was determined not to speak first.

“Aren’t you curious about what I have?” Wentworth asked after a pause.

“It is something of mine, something a future version of myself wrote in that other world.”

“Indeed, yes. It is something I personally picked out for you, although it is not poetry. Some of your poetry I have read, by the way. Overrated, I thought, but then I am not a poet. I am a practical man, above all else.” Wentworth held up the book. “This is a political tract. This I understand.” He looked briefly at the small book, changed his grip, and held it in front of him, looking at the binding. “It argues first against prelacy, and then a second article is written as an apologist tract, defending the regicidal government of Oliver Cromwell.”

Milton waited patiently once again for Wentworth to continue.

Wentworth smiled again, and nodded. “Very well, John. Since you appear to show no curiosity, I will simply tell you what I wish. But first, I want you to understand the futility of the wrong course of action, so something terrible does not happen to you.” Wentworth tucked the book back under his arm.

“Is that why you put Sir Gregory in my cell for a night? So I can see firsthand these consequences?”

Wentworth shrugged. “No sense in letting an inevitable execution go to waste without being instructive to someone. Otherwise, what has it done except to kill one man?”

“That man had done nothing!” Milton spat in anger. “Nothing!”

Wentworth casually held up the book in front of him. “Exactly, John. He had done nothing. You have done much. These books precede you, and are overwhelming evidence of treason. And yet a man who had done nothing, as much as it grieves me personally, was put to death by order of the king. Where does that put you, John Milton?”

Milton’s mouth went dry. Fear and anger surged in his gut. He fought to regain his emotions. He was surprised how quickly Wentworth had drawn out his fear. He swallowed and tried to remain calm.

“In a very precarious position, Milton. Very. Sir Gregory could do nothing for himself. He had no special influence or talents. The king’s orders sealed his fate, and his best use was to serve as an example. You have done greater injury to the monarchy, yet are still alive. The difference between you and Sir Gregory is you are famous, and the ‘greatest English poet,’ at least according to the history books. Sir Gregory was a minor baronet, of a land that now belongs to France. That is not to say that there haven’t been calls for your head. There have been several, including suggestions by the king. But so far, I have been able to convince others you can be more help to us alive on our side than dead and a martyr. Martyrs can sometimes become a problem.”

“I have no side. I have done nothing. Not that it matters any longer.”

“Well then. It is answered. You will refute these tracts. In exchange for that, you may escape the axe.”

Astonished, John looked at Wentworth. The man was smiling as if he had just asked a simple favor, not served up a life or death decision.

John swallowed, trying to keep his voice calm. “I–I will consider it. I need reading and writing materials, obviously. I will need to do research.”

Wentworth smiled broadly. “That can be arranged. As a matter of fact, I will allow you full access to materials, even your own writings.”

“Why would you do that?”

Wentworth’s face became polite, officious, and an unreadable mask. “Do not look a gift horse in the mouth, Milton.” He extended his arm, showing the book.

John reached for it, and at midpoint hesitated, then drew back his hand. “Odd,” he said. “Since I have been in this cell, and learned about the existence of my work in the future, I have been struggling with what I would do when faced with it. Would I read it? Or would I not? Would I reject the old works, and create new works? Fresh words, rooted in fresh soil? Pride is a very strong thing, Wentworth.” He sighed. “I think I would have read them eventually. I would like to think not, that I could go on with my life and become a poet without comparing myself, but I am not so strong as that. I’m a poet, not a God.”

He held out his hand and Wentworth gave him the book. John took it and let the hand holding the book fall to his side.

“ ’Tis better you get started now, rather than later,” Wentworth said. “Now, if you will excuse me, I have another meeting.” He turned and rapped on the door, and one of the guards opened it. He turned back. “Is a month sufficient time for you?”

John nodded.

Wentworth smiled. “Very well.” He pointed to a few of the stones on the wall. “You may want to wipe some of those away before someone else visits here, John. You are in enough trouble as it is.” He nodded a slight bow, and turned.

The cell door closed behind him, leaving John with the book in his hand. He stood for quite a long while, staring at the closed door. Eventually, he turned and sat on his pallet, opened the book, and began to read his own writings.

For three weeks, he paced back and forth in his cell, reading in his own voice words that were familiar, yet not. His “collected works.” Some of the poems written in college he considered sophomoric. He remembered writing those but never imagined they would be reprinted three centuries later.

There was a selection of criticisms that accompanied his writings. When the embargo of paper and writing materials was lifted, he finally had access to the library his father and brother accumulated during his incarceration. The library of materials was impressive. The books from Grantville were meticulously reprinted, then smuggled with great risk to England. Milton’s writings were outlawed, on pain of death, by order of the king.

He especially enjoyed his essay on censorship “Areopagitica” in light of the present situation.

John understood one thing almost immediately. He had succeeded. His life’s goal was to become a… No. Not “become a,” as in one of many, but to become the master of the English language. His desire was to write the most important works ever written, for the glory of God and England. For as long as he remembered, that was his goal. Lofty, to be sure. But he always believed. To meet that goal, he had sequestered himself away for as long as it took, cultivating his mind for the task ahead. From the looks of the publication dates, he had stayed in his father’s house for several more years, doing little else except study. So much so that his eyesight began to fail. Study. Study more. Study until he was ready. Ready to write. To write the definitive poems of the English language.

He achieved his life’s goals.

He looked at the thin book with the original two articles Wentworth gave him. He did not want to refute them. They were right. A tyrant is not a worthy leader, whether it be Charles or Cromwell. To recall a tyrant from power is a right all thinking men should have. He sat with a blank pad of paper in his lap, and tried to write a refutation to his articles. He tried sketching notes. He tried to outline his arguments. He tried writing them in Latin, then German, then French. He tried to argue them through in his head, but he always came back to the same conclusion. After some hours of this inaction, he tossed the book aside.

There was a rattling of keys in the hallway, and the door opened. Wentworth entered, smiling. John rose and bowed stiffly to his captor, who bowed in return. Wentworth’s eyes flicked to the book lying on Milton’s pallet, then quickly to the walls and their writings, and then back to Milton. “How is your refutation coming, John? Well, I hope.”

“It’s coming along. It is difficult to refute oneself, especially when one has been so eloquent. It presents unique challenges.”

Wentworth nodded and began to look at the other books collected in the cell. “You have everything? All of your works?”

“Near as I can ascertain. I am frankly embarrassed by some of the early works. But there they are, for the entire world to read.”

“One should be cautious about what one writes, John. You never know how it can be interpreted in the future.” Wentworth pulled one of the books from a makeshift shelf and looked at it with a wry smile. “Or the past, for that matter.” He slid the book back, and turned to Milton, looking him directly in the eyes. “Do you know why you are still alive, John?”

“To refute these two articles.”

“More than that, John. I want you on my side. The king’s side.”

Milton’s face remained impassive. “Go on.”

“I would rather have your powers of persuasion and writing on my side, than have them wasted by removing your head. It would seem such a loss. A manageable loss, yes. But still a loss.” Wentworth paused, his focus burning into Milton’s brain.

Milton was quiet for a moment. He looked past Wentworth, staring at the lock on the cell door. He had come to the conclusion that he had achieved his goals. He had written the definitive poems of the English language. He had said all that needed to be said. He had soared to heights unimagined, even by him, with his poetry. What other works could he possibly write? What else could he do?

It was grossly unfair, he felt.

On the other hand, how many men know their work will live for hundreds of years? He sighed a long heavy sigh, and finally made his decision. His father would not be pleased, nor would his mother. But he was his own man, and understood the consequences. He took a deep breath, broke his stare at the lock, and looked Wentworth in the eye. “I–I cannot refute them. I will not refute them. My life is already written.” He broke eye contact and laughed. “What a dilemma, eh, Wentworth? A real Calvinist dilemma. It will have theologians arguing for centuries as to what predestination really means.” He stopped his laughing, and a smile lingered as he again looked at Wentworth. “I strove for great things, and I achieved them. That was my destiny. The proof is all around you, in these volumes. But what am I to do now? My destiny is achieved. Should I continue to live? Am I an anomaly of God? And you ask me to go against everything I have done, every word I have written, and every argument I made? You want me to ignore my life’s work, as if nothing had happened? How can you-”

“You are a coward, Milton. More of a coward than I thought. Disgusting.” Wentworth turned to the door and raised his hand to knock.

“What do you mean, a coward? I am not a-”

“But you are, Milton. Why did you think I gave you all of your works to read?”

John stopped for a moment to think. He shook his head as if to clear a fog. “I thought it a mistake on your part; you were being over generous to me for some reason.”

Wentworth’s mask broke slightly and he looked exasperated. “You must give me more credit than that, Milton. Really.”

“Then why?”

“If you just refuted this book…” He picked up the first volume of the arguments and waved. “…then what would have happened when you were allowed out into the world, and discovered the presence of all of this writing?” He swept his hand around the small cell. “It is simple, Milton. You would have failed me. Publicly.” His tone changed from that of a chastising father, to a seemingly loving one. “I need all of you, John, not just part of you. I need a tower of literary strength.” He shrugged and continued. “I am not that sort of a man. I am efficient, I serve my king well, I have my mind-a political mind, that keeps me in power. But I lack-what do the Americans call it? Ah, yes. P.R. I lack P.R., Public Relations. Good press.”

John looked at the older man incredulously. “I will not do it. I cannot do it.”

“You disappoint me with your cowardice.”

“Cowardice! How can you call me a coward, I have just walked into certain death in an act of defiance. How can that be cowardice? You are a fool, old man.”

“No, John Milton. You are fleeing from your future. You think you cannot match these works. So you choose to become a martyr. A coward. You cannot face what you might become. A mediocre poet.”

There was a pause as John stared. Wentworth met his gaze with unfathomable confidence.

John’s eyes wavered under the fierce stare, hesitated, and finally looked at the ground. “Get out,” he whispered. “Just get out.”

Wentworth changed to a softer tone. “You have three days until the deadline, John. Use your time wisely. You have a choice. What will it be? Cowardice?” Wentworth gestured with the original volume towards the bookcase. “Or will you be a Milton who achieves more than this one dreamed of?” He paused a moment then spoke softly. “The Puritans tend to look at the world in two colors, John, like their clothing. Black and white. Right and wrong. Our earthly existence is not that simple. The world has many shades and colors to it. Messy. Unpredictable. Marvelous.” He turned and rapped on the cell door, and then looked back. “I hope you do not choose to be a coward, John. It would sadden me.” Wentworth tossed the volume onto the end of the pallet. The door creaked open, Wilson ushered Wentworth into the passage, and the cell door closed.

John slept little that night. He finally nodded off for what seemed like a short blink of the eyes, before waking again. Faint light streamed into the slit near the stone ceiling. He lay on his pallet and looked around, staring at the volumes on the makeshift bookcases. The work in the volumes was impressive. The poetry soaring. His pride at what he had done filled him with tears in the semi-darkness. The books around him told of a life, a life of unhappiness, pain, self satisfaction, insight, brilliant radical thought, deep religious beliefs, blindness, and marriages. What a life it was- would have been- might have been- could have been- should have been. He buried his face in his hands and mumbled to himself.

“The question is: can you do better, John?”

He rolled over and sat up, feet on the floor. The dry straw rustled beneath him. “This man was a giant,” he whispered. “Do you really believe you could do better? Is it possible?” He spent the next hours praying, hoping that God would give him some sign. Point him in a direction.

But God was silent that morning, as He had been since the Ring of Fire. There was no message from Him, other than the miracle itself. The miracle that put a young man in this place, with this knowledge. He looked at the books again, and felt empty inside. Blank, like an unwritten story.

His eyes then fell on the book from Wentworth. Impulsively, he picked it up. He held it closed, between the palms of his hands, as if praying. He set it down on the floor in front of him, stood, and walked away from it, nervously. He turned toward it, took a step, and then stopped. “You are a man whose heart Anubis is weighing, only you are alive,” he whispered. “What an amazing thing.” He crouched down closer to the book. “Alive. There is the heart of the matter. Refute this, and you live. Live to become…someone.” John continued to look at the book.

“Are you afraid of death, John Milton? Are you as afraid as poor Sir Gregory? Is that why you are even considering writing for Wentworth?” He slowly eased his hand forward, as if the thin book were a poisonous snake. He snatched it up suddenly. Standing, he opened it to he first page, started to read, and then quickly slammed it shut. “Damn that man!

“That John Milton will never live! No matter what I choose, he is dead!” He used the book in his hands to point to others in succession. “I am a different person than this one. Different from this one too. At each age, I wrote in a different tone, a different timbre, with a different mind.”

He sat heavily onto the pallet. “The second question is: can you live with who you may become? Who you will become. What you will become.” Bile rose in his throat. “Traitor.” He coughed the word, and his throat burned. He swallowed and cursed silently to himself for a while.

He then stood and looked defiantly at the bookshelf, as if it were another man in the room. “Will I be a traitor to you? To me?” He paused as if listening to the answer from the shelves. “You cannot judge me, old man. Not now, not ever. Great works. Epic works. Can I do it again?”

He stopped, puzzled. “What was it that Wentworth said? Shades. Colors. A man who can see different colors?” He noticed he was still holding the book and had an impulse to throw the cheaply bound folio against the wall with all his might. He could almost see it splashing against the stone, pages flying.

But something held him back, stayed his arm.

His frustration flowed out of him like a river, leaving him dry.

He eased himself to a seat on his pallet.

Perhaps, one day he would be able to define what it was that stayed his hand. Define the moment when he decided he should live. Perhaps he could write a great work, discussing the nuances of human thought and rationality, fear of death. Yes. He would do that, some day, when he was older.

But for now, with his quill in hand, John Milton began to write.