Chapter Two

As Essex rose from bed, he only wanted to return to bed.

I shouldn’t feel so tired, so defeated, he thought. I am too young to be tired. He was only twenty-one. He thought he should have boundless energy. Why is my body at war with my will? Why is my body betraying me?

He smelled something bad—Is that vomit? Did I get sick on myself? Or was it someone else? He half-remembered seeing Leicester sick last night. Or was it the night before last? He could not remember what he saw, when he saw it, or whether it was a dream or real.

He had another very distressing dream again, worse than the night before. He had never had such upsetting dreams, and they were getting worse. He began to fear that he might never wake up from these new and darker dreams, and that he might even die in his bed.

He remembered how the Greeks considered sleep and death—Hypnos and Thanatos—to be related, like brothers. He often wanted to ignore his dreams altogether, and give them no thought. But despite his best efforts to ignore Morpheus and the other gods of dreams, it seemed as if they were not going to be ignored.

He heard the voice of Leicester in his memory, “My boy, often my greatest struggle is plucking up the courage to pull myself out of bed.”

Pieces of his dream floated in his mind—blood, ship hulls, fresh wounds, pounding horse hooves, endless muddy fields, shadows at dusk, booming cannon fire, burnt trees, men laughing, dense smoke, flowers, the open mouths of the dead, clashing swords.

He quickly tried to hold onto them, but they were like many small slippery fish that tumbled from his fingers. He thought it was odd that as disturbing as some of the images were, he was not all that disturbed. Images and thoughts of war both repulsed him, and often fascinated him.

A strange music hummed in his mind. It is like some kind of insistent and eerie song to remind me of my purpose, and to spur me on.

He did not like thinking of his purpose. But his purpose was so important, it was unavoidable. It was often the only thing he thought about. He went to sleep thinking of it, and he usually thought about it as soon as he rose in the morning. His purpose was to become a soldier so successful in war that the Queen would have no choice but to make him her greatest general—and then he had to become a general so successful in war, and in the affairs of the state, that the Queen would have no choice but to make him the heir to her own throne.

With a purpose as great as this, he had to succeed. Failure was not an option. For the Queen, for England, and for Almighty God, he could not rest until he had achieved his life's purpose. But right at this moment, half in and half out of bed, he was so exhausted. He could not think straight. All he saw were the images of war.

He firmly believed that war would make him a great soldier, a great general, and then a great king. Since such greatness would be found only through war, he had to understand war, in all of its facets. He had to admire it and assess it as if were the greatest jewel of all.

He sometimes thought that his very existence as a man was solely for the purpose of war—and that whatever else he achieved was less important. He thought, Even the English crown would mean little to me, I suppose. It would be a mere trinket, a bauble.

He sighed, as he begin to think of what was expected from him, by so many people. Many of whom I don’t even know, he thought sourly, and who don’t even know me. They think they know me. They talk about me as if they know me. They bandy my name about like it is some sort of sport. But no one, aside from Leicester and my mother, knows me or my mind.

The idea of being so well known--but completely misunderstood--horrified him. He wondered how many books were written by people about people whom they did not understand. He sometimes wished to himself that he was an ordinary man, living an ordinary life. But that was made impossible, from the moment he was born.

He was Robert Devereux, 2nd Earl of Essex. Everything about him was fraught with great historical significance.

He heard Leicester’s voice—as he once spoke to him, his voice urgent and firm—“There have only been few young men like you, my dear young Robert, whose life is so heavily loaded or weighed down, whose life is of such consequence, in the entire history of England. And I should know—because when I was young--I was once one of them!”

He heard the echo of Leicester’s laughter in his mind. Essex still could not tell if Leicester had laughed with him, or at him. Leicester had a terrible habit of saying the most important things to him when they were both incredibly drunk.

He hated when Leicester told Essex how he was the single most consequential young Englishman of the day, or that he could become the most consequential Englishman of all of England’s history. Leicester once even said to him, deep into the night, when he was rip-roaring drunk, and caught in the middle of three scantily-clad prostitutes, who were pawing at him—“If you are given the opportunity, and if you seize the opportunity that is given to you, my dearest young Robert, you might even be one of the most consequential men in the history of the whole world.”

With his eyes closed, Essex could see the moment in his memory, and he could see how Leicester threw back his head, to laugh, like a lion—right before he allowed the prostitutes to smother him for the rest of the night in a series of bouts of loud lovemaking.

Essex was pretty sure that Leicester said those words to mock him. Leicester said lots of things that he did not mean, or did mean. Essex could never be quite sure. He knew that much of it was like a game. He even once told Leicester that he should stop playing games. Leicester replied—“Ah, yes—but what game am I playing at? I shall give you a hint—you must figure out whether the words I say are to tease you or to tempt you or to test you!”

Essex knew that much of what Leicester said about his future was indeed true. But he never wanted to think of it. He hated such talk. He took no pride in his royal blood, nor his royal pedigree. I have done nothing to earn any of that, he thought.

He was of course rightly proud of his late father, Walter Devereux, the 1st Earl of Essex—who was a celebrated and high-ranking general, and who gave his life for his country.

Essex was proud to serve under Leicester, who was his step-father. Leicester was the most powerful man in England, and he was the highest ranking general in command of the Queen’s armed forces. But Essex thought it was his duty to serve Leicester and the Queen. I may not have earned my place under Leicester, but I must work very hard to keep my place. There is a war being waged, and I must do all that I can to fight it.

He thought of the brutal war that was being fought against Spain, in the German Electorate of Cologne, and in the Netherlands. It quickly made him dizzy to think of Spain, which was the most powerful nation. It made him sick to his stomach to think of the might and the wealth of King Philip of Spain. Essex hated to think of how inferior every other nation was in relation to Spain, especially England. Essex knew that if England had any hope against Spain, it would fall to him, and men like him, to fight to defend England.

Leicester spoke often about how England could fall, and how it might fall very soon. “It could be a matter of months, or even days—and not a matter of years,” Leicester once said. “I urge you to take it very seriously. You must never allow yourself to think that England can not be conquered. You must not dismiss that idea as folly. It is folly to think that England can and will endure. England has always been, and always will be, a target for conquerors like King Philip.”

Essex had an unpleasant churning in his stomach. He knew that he had to hurry, but he could not remember what he had to do, or where to go. Is it Monday? No, it is Tuesday.

He didn’t know for sure. The days were blurring together. He had so much work to do, and he tried to remember what was expected of him today. He looked among his papers, near his bed, scattered among the many books he read—Xenophon, Thucydides, Arrian, Plutarch, Josephus, Machiavelli, Herodotus, and many others. Just seeing the books was a sore reminder of how much work he had yet to do. He was very far behind in his studies.

He was quickly being groomed to be a general. He was expected to read everything about history and war and statecraft. He spent endless hours devoted to learning about famous battles, and the greatest conquerors in history. Leicester once said, “If you are going to be remembered as a great general—another Alexander, another Scipio Africanus, another Julius Caesar—then you should know everything there is to know about them.”

Like any other nobleman who fought for his nation, almost every day Essex had endless duties and responsibilities. He often practiced riding horses, and practice fencing—with and without armor.

Is today the Royal Stables?

Horses always cheered him up, even though he still struggled to ride them. He hoped that he could steal an hour or two to ride just outside of London, just far enough to escape the stink and the filth of the city. When he was free to ride, he had little trouble in the saddle. It was when he was under the watchful eyes of all the other men, and especially Leicester, the Queen’s Master of the Horse, that he rode poorly. Leicester often smirked as he watched Essex ride. It infuriated Essex, and it infuriated him even more because he knew that Leicester did it precisely to infuriate him.

He could not remember if he had to rehearse battle maneuvers today, or to train soldiers. He could not bring himself to enjoy such training. He knew that it was of paramount importance, but most of the soldiers provided to him were not just inadequate, they were almost worthless.

He kissed his teeth in disgust, If only someone could explain to me why, since soldiers are so essential in fighting a war, that the soldiers I am given are the men and boys who are the least suited to fight a war!

How do I inspire and encourage soldiers who do not want to be soldiers, who don’t know the first thing about being soldiers—and who have no business being soldiers! The men and boys are all too often no more than skin-and-bones paupers! Their greatest desire is not to serve Queen and country, and God. Their desire for drink and revelry far exceeds any other desire.

He was becoming increasingly impatient with the soldiers. He found himself despising them almost as much as the Spanish soldiers he had to fight. I know that it is wrong of me. I should want to kill my Spanish enemies. My own soldiers—I should whip them, and often. Not to hurt them, or to break their spirit—but to make them proper soldiers, and better Englishmen. Perhaps if I fight them, I can put a fight in them, so they know how to fight!

He sighed, But how am I ever going to accomplish anything with such a tag and rag army? How can England survive when the least able and most unwilling among us are the only line of defense? Most of the boys I am given to train are whinging weaklings, soft and shrinking. They are as useless as the older men, those stubborn churls, who never shut their mouths. How is it possible to turn any of them into a fighting force as great as those who fought for Alexander, Achilles, or Scipio? Hamilcar raised his son Hannibal to be a great warrior, and leader of men. How do I inspire such greatness in the men of England? He laughed bitterly, I could sooner turn dross into gold! I could sooner turn those belching drunkards, those dregs of society, into fire-breathing dragons!

Essex did not hate the men and boys. He could never hate them—especially since so many of them had died in wars where they did not belong. They don’t know how to fight, and they all too often die without even fighting! How many of them must die before this war is over?

He shut his eyes, and he saw faces of many men and boys, who had recently died in the Netherlands. It hurt Essex to see their faces, knowing that they should not have been on any battlefield.

With his eyes closed, he became dizzy, as if he was adrift at sea, floating on a boat, all alone. He tried to remind himself of who he was, and what had inspired him to become the man that he was now. From the time he was young, more than anything else, Essex wanted to be the ideal soldier and the Queen’s noblest knight.

More recently, since the time he entered the royal court, and joined the army under Leicester, Essex had worked himself to exhaustion—Like the great Aeneas, I can feel the sting of the harassing whip of Juno, the queen of heaven, on my back—as she drives me to self-perfection.

He knew it was all worth it. He tried to convince himself that the whipping was blissful, and the scars were blessings. He did not enjoy any day unless the whip was on his back.

From the time he was a boy, he filled his head with stories from history to motivate himself. He often thought of Marcus Claudius Marcellus, the legendary Roman general who won his immortality when he defeated the Gallic king, Viridomarus, in single combat. After Marcellus killed the king, by thrusting his spear into the king’s breast, he took possession of the fallen king’s priceless personal armor. It was known as the spolia opima—the “best spoils.”

Such a story made Essex often dream of killing the leader of an opposing army in single combat. He grew dizzy with pleasure at the idea of claiming not only the best spoils—but also his eternal place in history. Any man who picks up a sword and fights should dream of such an opportunity—to stand alone to fight for their nation, and be triumphant! All soldiers must have such a dream.

Marcellus was given the highest honor by his countrymen—they called him the “Sword of Rome.” It inspired Essex to swear an oath to himself, I want to become the Sword of England—the greatest single weapon in the Queen’s arsenal. As such, I would gladly cut the head from King Philip’s body!

He laughed now, amused at the headstrong boy he had been—and how he used to have fantasies of successful charges on horseback on a battlefield, and daring duels against the most vicious villains. He even saw himself decorated for his courage by the Queen herself. Like many other boys, he steeped himself in history. Essex pictured himself as a Roman general. He saw himself saving an entire legion or the whole army, and being rewarded with one of Rome’s highest honors, the Grass Crown. He imagined such a crown on his head—made of grass, plants and flowers from the very battlefield upon which the soldiers had fought.

He also dreamed of receiving the Civic Crown of Rome—the second highest honor. Any citizen could receive it, if they defended a fellow citizen from attack, or rescued a fellow Roman. The great general, Scipio Africanus, received the Grass Crown. But he became even more popular, when he humbly declined the honor of the Civic Crown, after he saved his own wounded father in battle. Such humility fascinated Essex. But it did not surprise him. Scipio did what any good son would do, he thought. He clearly did not think that he needed any reward. Saving his father was reward enough.

Essex remembered how, in his youthful dreams, he even imagined being turned into a god, like Aeneas. There was a time when he often saw the radiant goddess Venus anointing him with ambrosia and nectar, as she had anointed Aeneas, when she made him immortal. According to Ovid, only four mortal people had ever been made immortal—Aeneas, Hercules, Romulus, and Julius Caesar. For many years, Essex had dreamed of being the fifth.

Essex now did not believe that he would become a god, but he did dream of leaving a legacy that would never die. He did want his name—and especially his heroic accomplishments—to echo through the ages. He sometimes reminded himself to put aside such childish fantasies. But he did not know how much of these youthful dreams he should carry with him, and what to leave behind.

When I led my first horse charge I could not help but sense that the invisible spirit of Aeneas filled me with a courage that I otherwise did not know I possessed—and when I was given a decoration for that charge, I thought that it was an honor that I had to share with him.

He laughed at himself now, even though he was not sure that it was a laughing matter.

He turned his mind away from Aeneas to Achilles. He believed that he had more to learn from Achilles than from any other figure in history—especially since Achilles was such a mystery to him. Essex admired the story of how Aeneas and his band of wanderers escaped from the fall of Troy, and migrated to Latium—the land that would become Rome. But the story of Achilles made Essex’s heart beat faster. When he read about Achilles, on the scorched and ravaged battlefield of Troy, he could see himself through Achilles—as if they were one single person. He could turn his head in every direction, to see the allied Greek armies, that had laid siege to Troy for ten long and brutal years. When Achilles looked at his supreme Greek commander, Essex could see the face of King Agamemnon, of the accursed House of Atreus. The voice of Achilles became Essex’s voice.

When Essex read about the massive Greek army at the gates of Troy, in their long effort to make King Priam surrender, he saw all the blood that had been splattered on the gates from over the years.

For as long as Essex had read about Achilles, and thought about Achilles, he did not come any closer to understanding him, and he did not believe that any person could understand Achilles—as a soldier, and as a man. But it only made Essex want to spend even more time in his company. Everything that Essex did to make himself a great soldier, he did with Achilles in mind. He trained himself to live up to the legacy of Achilles. He wanted to stand by his side, in the hopes that Achilles would stand by him—and offer Essex his approval.

Essex often thought, Achilles was a man who seemed to be without pity. Achilles seemed to be a man who was apart—a man who was both of this world, but also outside or beyond the physical world. Because he was greater than this world. The world was too small to contain and control him. And yet he shaped this world as much as any man. Achilles was many men in one man. He was so much more than any single man. He lived a life that seems so much larger than any other life.

Essex had read the books of The Iliad by Homer when he was eleven--a gift from Leicester. At first, he had enjoyed reading it for the battle scenes, and the details of combat. But he did not give it much thought. Later, when Essex became a soldier, Leicester urged him to read the history again. He was the first person to tell him to pay particular attention to Achilles.

Leicester also said at the time, “The Iliad reminds us that heroes such as Achilles absolutely must arise—that every nation, and each age needs such heroes. Without such heroes—and the heroic women who give birth to them and raise them, and the heroic women whose love often forges them into heroes—we are all doomed. Study Achilles closely. He has much to teach you, if you have the eyes to see, and the ears to hear. To know that Achilles lived at all is a comfort—since his life can inspire us today, in our lives. But I warn you—never assume that his lessons will comfort you. Never think that you know more about him than you really know. He is like a broken vase that can never be unbroken. He is a vessel that can never be mended. He is too hurt to heal. He is too wounded to be made whole. But rather than discarding those pieces of him, you should study them. You should never stop trying to understand him. To truly understand Achilles would be a victory for us all.”

Essex did not know what he meant. He scratched his head even now, I still don’t know what Leicester meant.

But Leicester was often too busy to explain anything. The more Essex pestered him with questions, the more books Leicester heaped on him. He insisted that Essex had to sharpen his mind even more than he sharpened his sword. Essex did what Leicester urged, and in the days leading up to their deployment to the Netherlands, he began to read The Iliad once again. He read it more slowly. He had even taken to carrying the books with him, wherever he went. He travelled with Sir Philip Sidney—who was always brilliant and always witty, and who had so much to say about it. He taught Essex that Alexander the Great always carried the books of The Iliad—given to him by Aristotle, his teacher. Sidney said, “Perhaps much of the greatness of Alexander came from his great understanding of the great Achilles.”

At first, Essex only saw Achilles as a hero, the unstoppable soldier and the most skillful of warriors. Essex often thought that he came so close to knowing that side of Achilles, that he thought he could feel the blood of Achilles course through his own veins. He was fascinated that Achilles’s presence in battle determined whether his army won or lost. If Achilles marched into battle, no enemy could stop him and his forces. If he was hesitant and withdrew from battle, his men would fail, and die.

Even though he knew how unlikely it was to come true, Essex wanted to be just such an invaluable and indispensable hero—whose mere presence in a battle guaranteed success.

But the more Essex read the books again, he began to understand the other bloodier side to Achilles—the Achilles who could kill with so much skill, and how he cut men open with such ease. He saw a new Achilles, who was drenched in blood, and whose greatness was built on death.

Essex wanted to achieve victory. He did not really want to know the grisly truth of death and of killing. He did not want to think that in order to earn a place in that single hall of heroes—where feats are celebrated forever—he would have to wade through many fields of gore, and cut men down.

Essex was especially uncomfortable when it came to the quality for which Achilles was most known—the famous rage of Achilles.

Rage. Do I really know what the word means? Who does? Who truly wants to know how furious an emotion true rage can be? Every person wants love, but no person really ever dares to even contemplate something as foul and as painful and as poisonous and as explosive as rage.

As Essex read The Iliad again, no matter how close he came to understanding Achilles, he could not understand his rage. He also could not fully understand what made Achilles seethe with so much burning anger—when Achilles laid down his weapons, stayed in his tent, and was unwilling to fight another battle.

Then Essex arrived in the Netherlands, where he saw war for the first time.

Sitting in his room now, and still unable to get out of bed, the memories of the Netherlands swept into his mind—his head was light, and he became short of breath and excited. He gasped for air, exhilarated and repulsed by all that he witnessed and what he did and did not do there.

The sky and clouds as they boarded ships were breathtaking. Even his sea-sickness did not spoil his excitement, and he could not take his eyes off of the English ships as they plowed through the choppy waters. On their long march inland, even the quaint farms and green forests fascinated him. His excitement grew the closer they marched towards the front line of battle, and as they heard the thundering noises of war.

But nothing could prepare him for the rapturous beauty of the field of battle with thousands of men on horses, in their martial splendor, fighting for their lives. Nothing could prepare him for the intensely moving spectacle of so many soldiers at war—men and boys who were part of a history that was so much larger than any of them could possibly comprehend.

Essex ached with eagerness to join them, and to prove himself their worthy brother in arms, to express himself openly and freely, through force of arms, against their enemy. As soon as he saw that battlefield, he was convinced that it was where he most belonged. He never wanted to leave, even if he was there for ten long and brutal years. He was convinced that he could never be the man he knew he had the potential to be, as long as he was condemned to serve the Queen, in the courts of her royal palaces, where everyone had to be careful what they said. He hated being so muzzled, in the closed and confining court. He hated having to keep all of his thoughts and ideas bottled up. On the battlefield, he was free to speak what he felt, and not what he ought to say.

As soon as he saw that battlefield, he wanted nothing more than to stay on a battlefield. He wanted nothing more than to be known as a good and brave soldier, and to earn the respect of other soldiers. His fear of his Spanish enemies almost entirely vanished. He was more afraid of having to give up the fight, and returning to England. Essex was impatient to join the men, and join the battle. As young as he was, he knew that the greatest moments in history can occur at war. He knew that sometimes in a fierce conflict between two opposing armies that the fate of nations can rest in the hands of a solitary man, in a single fleeting moment. He wanted to be that man, in that moment, who risks his life, and sacrifices himself for England and for all Englishmen.

It was the first time that Essex had left the comfort of his home, and the security of his homeland. He had traveled overseas to the battlefields in the Netherlands to help the Protestant Dutch in their rebellion against Catholic Spain.

Queen Elizabeth had little choice but to help the Dutch—because England’s economy depended on trade with Antwerp, and because the Dutch were fellow Protestants.

Essex was shocked to see the devastation there, and to see the faces of the Dutch people who had been fighting Spain for almost twenty years. He saw battle-scarred towns and cities of their Dutch brothers—and he couldn’t stop seeing them even now, in his mind’s eye, haunting him, and never letting him go.

He saw something very troubling there—I don’t believe that Spain means to win a war against the Dutch—they mean to exterminate them. If ever Spain launches this kind of military effort on English soil, it might be the end of England forever. No one will ever know that England existed, if King Philip has his way.

He could still see the faces of the defiant Dutch soldiers in his memory, and how such strong and resilient people had been beaten down year after year. He heard their heartbreaking stories, including the time when Spanish forces mercilessly killed every man, woman and child in Zutphen—in November 1572. The same forces then murdered every citizen of Naarden in December.

Some of the Dutch people told Essex that the “new star” in the sky had a terrible effect on the Spanish soldiers. They said the star brought out the worst in them. They said that it turned them into something less than human.

Essex also heard their many stories of hope. He heard about how, over the next few years, they slowly repopulated Zutphen, and the other towns that were ravaged by the war. He could still hear the voices now, in his memory, the voices of the people who begged him and his soldiers to drive Spain from their nation, once and for all. They looked at us like we were sent from Heaven. They looked at us like we were their saviors.

He would never forget his first taste of fighting, where he achieved great success, at the Battle of Zutphen. He could still feel how soft the dirt was under his boots. He could still see the misty battlefield ahead of him. His heart beat faster, sitting in his bed, and remembering the excitement of being on his horse. His fists closed, as he remembered how his hands gripped the reins so tightly with nervous energy, right before he gave the order to lead a charge against Spanish cavalry, protecting their supply convoy.

As Essex spurred his horse, to lead the charge, he had such a rush of spirit, he thought his heart would burst. He had forgotten to breathe—and when he did finally take a breath, he gasped loudly. It was a chaotic and brief melee, it was such a blur of too many things happening all at once—but he and his cavalry won the day.

Leicester even knighted several men who displayed great bravery. But Leicester beamed with a special pride as he rewarded Essex the highest rank of knighthood that could be conferred on the battlefield, and made him Knight Banneret—for his very first engagement with the enemy. Essex smiled now, still feeling that pride, which was the greatest and most pure joy he had ever known.

But then Essex frowned, in his bed, and looked at the sticky sweat of his body, soaking his nightshirt—which looked so much like Philip Sidney’s blood, as it pumped from his open wound, as Essex cradled the great man in his arms, and as they looked deep into each others’ eyes, and as Essex saw the light go out in the eyes of the man he loved more than almost any other man he had ever known.

Essex closed his eyes now, to forget the unforgettable moment when Sidney died in his arms. He did not want to see Sidney’s death again and again—back in the Netherlands, kneeling in the slimy and impossibly sticky mud, holding out his hands, covered in blood, fresh and hot and reeking, the earth all around him running with blood—as if they were stuck in time, forever captive to the battlefield at Zutphen.

Essex did not want the words to echo in his ears, words which were seared on his memory, words he heard over and over, and often at the most unusual moments—words that were Philip Sidney’s very last words—as he smiled up at Essex—“Don’t worry, Robert. Like the fierce god Ares, I am no mortal. Zeus will command Paeon, the god of healing, to spread painkilling herbs upon my wound—wild-fig sap added to milk…”

Essex hung his head even now, and wept openly—crying tears that he could not stop. Ever since the battle of Zutphen, he had never cried so many tears. He did not know that such a river of sorrow could spring from within. And Essex suffered from a great shame, because he had said nothing to Sidney—and he had nothing to say to Sidney, there was nothing he could offer to the great man. He had no words of healing, and no such medicine to heal Sidney’s fatal wound.

He wept more. And he spoke now as loudly and as firmly as he could, but it was no more than a whisper—“Sidney… you were the bravest… and noblest… and most sublimely virtuous of men…”

Essex began to see Sidney’s face, his head cradled in his arms, their faces almost touching, and their eyes frozen on each other. Suddenly—Essex collapsed into the mud, which dissolved into a vast body of water without land in sight. He was adrift, sea-borne. Alone. Sudden waves of water full of foam crashed over him without warning, as the midnight moon shone over him. He was drowning—and the huge sudden waves, like sword-blades, were cutting him apart—with the most excruciatingly painful pleasure.

Essex fell out of his bed, onto the floor. Weak and scared, he took a deep gulp of air, and snapped out of his delirium.

He saw red rain everywhere, as if it was pouring over him from above, but when he blinked it was gone.

He thought of how the rain looked like blood.

Where was I?

Where was I drowning?

The Hellespont surfaced in his mind.

The… Hellespont?

Why would I be drowning there?

He didn’t know what the Hellespont, also known as the Sea of Helle, had to do with anything. He did remember that it was near where the lost ancient city of Troy once stood.

Suddenly the room around him vanished--and he found himself staring at the blood-stained gates of Troy. He saw the rage-filled Greek soldiers. He turned his head, only to see Sidney face to face with him, their eyes frozen on each other. Essex closed his eyes to stop seeing the past in the present—and to stop seeing so much death come to life.

His hands trembled as he reached for the sword by his bed, and gripped it tight, hoping that it would protect him. It was the sword that Sidney bestowed on Essex mere moments before his death. Essex had a sudden strange notion that it would connect him with Sidney, to help Sidney find some rest in death.

He opened his eyes.

Sidney was gone.

Troy was gone.

He was back in his room again.

Essex calmed down, as he thought of the sword. To him, it was a talisman—to protect him from evil, and ward off any danger—even if it was imaginary, or illusory. He scrutinized the sword, and thought of how he planned to use the sword in the future, to honor the gift it was, and to avenge Sidney’s death. He wanted to redeem himself and the English army, since the rest of that military operation had been such a mess. They had defended Zutphen, only to lose it. Essex could still see, with the sting of tears in his eyes, the sight of the Spanish, as they recaptured the town they had almost wiped out in 1572.

This humiliating defeat was made worse by their defeat at Doesburg—and by the fact that some of Essex’s own soldiers had become criminals. They took to looting the already poor and homeless Dutch. I did not think that my fellow Englishmen could be so base, like mad dogs. Some of them were indeed less than human.

But worst of all, there was the disastrous betrayal at Deventer—where some Englishmen renounced their allegiance to the Queen, and turned traitor.

Thinking of those treasonous men made Essex wretch now. He spat out the bile. Every single one of those Englishmen was a brother-murdering Cain, as wicked as Judas! How could they swear allegiance to King Philip, and join Spain’s army—to fight against England!

Essex could not figure out what would make any Englishman hate England so much that he would fight against England and his fellow Englishmen. No true Englishman could do such a thing! But who is a true Englishman? How can they be seen for who and what they are—before it is too late?

It was a problem that he did not know how to solve. But he knew that if England had any hope of surviving, the true Englishmen would have to root out the false Englishmen among them.

These losses and humiliations had scarred him—like large and deep lashes on his back from a whip. Even now, weeks later, after his return to England, this pain had not diminished. Essex knew that he was not solely to blame for the loss of Zutphen, nor for losing the war against Spain, but the weight of those losses weighed heavily on him. He glanced at his books, which made him now feel small and insignificant, compared to men like Alexander the Great, and Scipio Africanus—generals who were famous for never having lost a battle.

At twenty-one, Essex feared that he was already quite old, and that his opportunities would diminish soon. By the time he was my age, Scipio was a general, fighting in the First Punic War. Alexander was one year younger than I am now when he succeeded his father, and was crowned as King of Macedon.

He thought of how Alexander had conquered much of the known world by the time he died, at the age of thirty-three. Essex had no dreams of conquering the world, but he did sometimes dream of making England a much greater nation than it was. Leicester had challenged Essex to dream of such a future for England. Leicester often said to him, “Can England become a stronger nation, a better nation, a bolder nation? Of course it can! Can England ever become a nation as great and as important as Spain is now? Perhaps. It might take many long years, a decade, or even many decades—or it might just take a single year or two! We will never know unless we sally forth and bloody well try!”

Essex laughed sadly at those dreams now. The England he saw now was a very small and weak nation. It was hard for him to see how it could ever become a better nation, let alone a great nation—or an empire.

Whenever Essex became so gloom-ridden, Leicester often encouraged him to see things for what they could be, rather than how they appeared. He often reminded Essex about how Scipio claimed to possess a power called “second sight”—which enabled him to see his future in his dreams. Leicester said, “We should all pay heed to what we see in our dreams and visions. Perhaps we will find more than we think. Dreams and visions might guide us to the success we seek.”

Essex wanted to believe that Leicester was correct—but the thought of seeing Sidney again in his dreams, sent a chill down his spine. Essex looked at the books of The Iliad, by his bed. Upon his return from the Netherlands, he was inspired to read it again. As he read it, he had the feeling of meeting Achilles for the first time. Man to man. Soldier to soldier. Face to face. It was like Essex was seeing through the mists of the centuries and across time to see Achilles as he truly was, and not how he had wanted him to be. This was an Achilles who was no longer a figment of his imagination—but rather a flesh and blood man. There was something hostile about him now, now that Achilles was truly alive and unleashed, untethered from the past.

Achilles did not say anything to him, at least not yet. But Essex believed that Achilles was demanding to be heard, as if he was going to insist on receiving the justice he deserved, that was centuries overdue.

Essex suddenly heard a noise!—He reflexively reached for his sword.

But there was no one there. His heart beat hard in his chest. He had a strange idea that Achilles would step into his room right now, and appear in his world. He fearfully turned his head slowly. He had to admit to himself that this Achilles gave him doubts, and even caused him some very real fear.

He did not want to suspect Achilles, or question his motives. He admired him so much, but he did begin to have doubts about whether Achilles was a man to admire. What if he is no hero—and only a butcher of men? What if his only greatness is in slaying and slaughtering men without emotion, just as easily as a meat seller cuts apart a goat or a lamb?

What if he has come like some sort of shadowy spirit, to hurt and haunt me to my death and lead me to my destruction? What if he is some sort of Fury—unleashed into the world to wreak havoc?

What if the only lesson he has come to teach is murder, and his only message is a malevolent one?

As Essex continued to turn his head, he wondered what else he would see, and who else might appear to him now. And if Achilles has come, will he bring others? Will he open the door for other Furies? Will he bring demons and monsters with him?

Will Alexander reveal himself to me—an Alexander whose greatness was in how fiendish he was?

He remembered reading about how Alexander the Great was as famous for being a ruthless murderer, as he was for his astonishing conquests. Not long after Alexander became King of Macedon, his cousins were killed, along with two other princes, one of his best officers, two step-siblings, and their mother. After Alexander’s difficult siege of Tyre, most of the men were killed, while the women and children were sold as slaves. Alexander let his soldiers loot Persepolis, and they burned the city.

Essex hated doubting Alexander—it made his head hurt, as if it was being split in half. But he could not stop asking such questions—If Alexander comes, will he come as a hero or as a villain? Or is it impossible to separate the two? Or is that a lesson for me—that in order to become a great general, I must cut out my own heart, eliminate my emotions, and thus lose my soul?

Is that what war means?

Is that what I am to become—a butcher?

Is that what I must become if I am to achieve greatness?

He clutched at one of the books of The Iliad, still opened to the page where he stopped reading it the night before. He knew he should not read it now, but he did not know where else to look for the answer he needed. He thought that Achilles demanded to be heard today—right now, this instant. The answer is somewhere in here, and I must find it. The solution will present itself to me eventually—like the Gordian Knot which Alexander solved by cutting.

He thought of how Alexander the Great crossed the Hellespont to conquer all of the Persian Empire in 334 BC. The Hellespont again. What does the Hellespont mean, and why am I thinking of it?

Why am I thinking of Alexander as I read about Achilles?

Essex remembered how Alexander had visited the tomb of Achilles at Troy, and laid garlands on it. Alexander believed that Achilles was his ancestor. As hard as he tried now, Essex could not see that moment in his mind. He could not summon the image of Alexander at the tomb of Achilles at Troy.

Essex never imagined that he would ever travel to Troy, in search of the tomb of Achilles. Is it still there? Does it still stand? Should I find it? The only way to know for certain is to go in search of it. Should I make a journey, even if I do not find any sign of Achilles or the war that raged there so many centuries ago? Should I lay garlands, as Alexander once did? Or is there something more I should offer? What do you give to men so great—and whose greatness is such a mystery to me?

Essex had no answers. He still could not see Alexander at the tomb of his beloved ancestor, but the mere idea of a great conqueror like Alexander paying homage to Achilles touched Essex’s heart. He suddenly had a moment of clarity—he did not understand Achilles nor Alexander—but asking the questions gave him some comfort.

He thought of the famous Island of Achilles, on the Black Sea. It was also known as Snake Island. According to some writers, the tomb of Achilles was on that island. Some wrote of a temple there. Perhaps I should look for the tomb of Achilles on this island instead, he thought—or perhaps I should go to Troy first, and then to this island.

He remembered how there were accounts of people who saw Achilles in their dreams. Also, some people saw Achilles as if he were still alive, as a ghostlike apparition—when they approached the island. There were times some mornings when Essex thought that he was on that island, with Achilles—somewhere between the real world, and some other world in which he wandered.

He sometimes saw glimpses of the island, and in these dreams he often saw slithering snakes that so terrified him, they turned his dreams into nightmares.

He knew that he had much work to do today, and that he had to hurry somewhere. He could not wallow in his bed, in a wretched state, worrying about the past. He had to get on with his career as a soldier, in the service of Queen Elizabeth. He had a destiny to fulfill. He had to become a general, like his father, and the sooner the better. And he had to become a great general.

He thought of the great hero Epaminondas, the famous Theban general. Some historians ranked him as the third greatest military tactician in history—after Philip of Macedon, and Philip’s son, Alexander the Great.

Epaminondas defied mighty Sparta, liberated his fellow Thebans, and set the Messenian helots free, after 230 years of enslavement. Epaminondas also simultaneously weakened Thebes so much that Alexander later easily sacked the famed city once and for all. The irony made Essex almost laugh—Epaminondas had saved his nation, only to doom his nation. He was a great hero who turned out to be a great villain.

The confusing and difficult problem of Epaminondas deeply troubled Essex. How could he not have known how much he was destroying Thebes—the very city he was trying to save?

I guess the greater question is--how can you win something and never lose it? How can you know for sure that you are winning and will win for good—rather than fool yourself before ultimately losing? Is there such a thing as a victory that is permanent, rather than temporary?

Such questions made him sick to his stomach. Epaminondas was a cautionary tale he did not want to contemplate so early in the morning, before he had something to eat.

Or is it past noon?

He began to remember how he had been up all night again with Leicester, drinking and celebrating. What were we celebrating? he wondered. He could not remember what the special occasion was. He just saw Leicester’s face, red and sweating, full of life and eager to drink more, to eat more, and to kiss and to fondle as many prostitutes as he could. Essex loved that face, and the sound of Leicester’s booming voice as he spoke with such certainty about anything and everything. He can speak about the most trivial and small matters as if they are the largest and most important matters of life and death, Essex thought with a laugh.

He loved Leicester more than any man he knew, more than he could express—and there were even times when he wanted to believe the rumors that Leicester was his real father. But he tried not to give any thought to them at all. If he believed those rumors, he was afraid that he might then begin to believe the other widespread rumors that Leicester may have murdered Walter Devereux, the 1st Earl of Essex—who may or may not have been Essex’s real father.

Essex did not want to believe those rumors. He wanted to believe that the coroner’s conclusion was correct—that his father had died of natural causes.

Essex groaned loudly, to drown out the torrent of thoughts that flooded in his mind. It was too much for him to take. It was enough to make anyone mad. He had no desire to be a madman. But then he realized that he was now groaning precisely how a madman would. He fell silent.

He winced. A dull ache crept into his chest. He tried to ignore it. He finally got up and out of bed, to get dressed for the day.

Before he finished, he thought of how Zeus twice made it rain blood over the battlefield of Troy. His brain skipped to something he once read, about how King Lothere of Kent died soon after blood rained from the sky. Essex’s mind then skipped to something he read, about a “marvelous flood” of blood rain, which lasted three days, right before King Rivallo died.

Why am I thinking of this—this blood rain? Why did I see it in my vision? Is this some sort of prophecy, or premonition? About whom? About me? Leicester?

He did not even want to think that it was a prophetic vision of the Queen’s death—because he never wanted to even consider her death. But as he tried to avoid thinking of her death, he began to think about her death. He knew that she would not live forever, but he feared what would befall England as soon as she died. He feared that her death would likely ignite a civil war between all the claimants to the throne.

Leicester had never said this to him, in so many words, but Leicester often said, “I can not stress enough to you the importance and the necessity of having a large and well-armed political faction.”

Essex feared Leicester’s faction, and what it could do to England. Such a faction, even a good and well-intentioned faction could destroy England—the very nation it tries to save.

But Essex also knew that he would have to create and lead such a faction—and the sooner the better.

The image of blood rain was so clear in his mind, he didn’t know what to make of it. He suddenly lost all sense of where and who he was. He touched his face, to make sure he was wide awake, and not still asleep in the arms of Hypnos, and not still dreaming in the arms of Morpheus—or worse, in the clutches of Thanatos, and near death.

He thought of Leicester. There were times when they were so drunk that Leicester made unguarded comments. He remembered how Leicester recently said—“There will come a time, and it will come soon, when you must become King Robert of England. You will be known as King Robert the First. You must take the crown. And if it is not offered to you—you must seize it!”

Essex said nothing to him, not just because it was illegal even to speak about the matter of royal succession—but also because he thought it was a ridiculous idea.

Leicester then laughed at him for being silent—“What did you expect to be called—Robert the Great? Or Essex Africanus?”

In the moment, Essex was confused, because he did not know if anything Leicester said was serious.

But now, standing in his room alone, with the sensation of red blood washing him clean, Essex did not think that it was a ridiculous idea any longer. He could feel his destiny arriving soon, far sooner than he had ever thought possible.

He could feel the weight of history on his shoulders, and he could almost sense the weight of the crown on his head, where it rightfully belonged.

He said aloud to himself, his voice rising from a whisper, “I would not accept any crown because of the royal blood in my body. The blood of my Plantagenet ancestors should not matter. If I am to wear any crown, it must be one I earn—like the Grass Crown or the Civic Crown of Rome.”

He tried to hold himself erect, and stand with conviction, but then he found himself too weak and too dizzy to stand.

He sat on his bed again. He laughed bitterly at himself, “Who am I to preen like this? Who am I to plume myself so proudly, when I can’t even pluck up the courage to pull myself out of bed?”