hadn't bothered to dress yet.
Of course he didn't hear the knocks but he did notice the handle turning ineffectually. He went over to investigate and immediately seven young men filed into the room and drew themselves up in a row. They didn't seem surprised by his nakedness but the leader of the group spoke his classical Greek in a confused tone of voice.
Your door was locked.
That's right.
But it's midnight on the winter solstice.
Correct. And so?
But don't you know what happens on this special night?
I know we have more night than any other night, but who are you anyway? Amateur astronomers?
You mean you don't
No.
The Secret Seven, announced the leader in a hushed voice.
My God man, thundered Strongbow, I can see you're seven but what's your infernal secret?
You mean you've never even heard of us?
No.
But we're the most ancient and honored secret society in England.
Well what's your secret? What kind of a society is it?
A masturbation society, said the leader with dignity.
Strongbow roared with laughter.
Masturbation? Is that all? What's so secret about that? And why in God's name are we speaking Greek?
I am? To what?
Our society. The Seven Immortals.
Immortal you say? Because you masturbate?
The Seven were stunned. There had never been any question of explaining their society to anyone, let alone justifying its purpose. They stood in line speechless. Strongbow smiled.
The Seven Sages of Greece, are you? How often do you meet to exchange your wisdom?
Two evenings a week.
Not enough, said Strongbow. Am I to confine myself to masturbating only two evenings a week?
Ridiculous.
No one's confined. That's just when we meet formally.
But why be formal about it at all? A ludicrous notion.
The leader began talking about charity and fraternity. He even mentioned kings and archbishops and famous statesmen who had been members of the society, but all these impressive names Strongbow waved aside with a long sweep of his arm.
Listen, o wise men. Masturbation is certainly relaxing, but why have a society for it and one that is secret at that? Nonsense. Pure farce.
You don't mean you're refusing election, stammered the leader.
Of course that's what I mean. What an absurdity.
But no one has refused election in five hundred years.
Distinctly odd. Now I've cooled down from my bath and I think I should dress and get along with my duties. The chapter I'm reading has to do with
The door opened. The seven young men slinked away into the longest night of 1836. Midnight had come and gone and in refusing to accept immortality Strongbow had insufferably affronted over three hundred of the most powerful Englishmen of his day, not to mention the memories of another three thousand dead heroes of his race, an insult that would be well remembered nearly half a century later when he published his monumental thirty-three- volume study entitled
Nor was it merely his intellectual ferocity, his savage fighting skills or his insolent disregard for tradition that caused him to be viewed as dangerous at Cambridge. There was also his unfathomable manner.
For of course no one realized Strongbow was deaf and that he could only understand others by reading their lips. Therefore anyone outside his field of vision was ignored as if nonexistent, just as any event occurring behind his back was ignored as if nonexistent.
There was the disturbing occasion in the spring, for example, when a heavy downpour caused half the botanical laboratory at Cambridge to collapse at dawn. The laboratory was thought to be empty but the thunderous crash was so great the entire university rushed to the spot within minutes.
What they saw standing on what had once been the third floor, the precipice only a few inches behind his feet, was Strongbow bent over a microscope studying the lines of a new spring leaf, oblivious to the destruction that had jolted everyone from their beds.
Strongbow's concentration, in sum, was frighteningly aloof and apart. Because of his unnatural height he bore only a distorted resemblance to a man and the only voices he seemed to hear were those of plants.
In other eras he might have been burned at the stake as the Antichrist, and undoubtedly it was only because his nineteenth-century world was so rational that he was merely regarded as exceptionally perverse, maniacal and un-English.
But significantly, it was this very rationality that Strongbow would one day assault with such devastating results.
His career at Cambridge culminated in an episode both brilliant and typical, yet so extravagant it was considered intolerable by many, including the Archbishop of Canterbury and possibly the new monarch then awaiting her coronation, Queen Victoria.
Strongbow stood for his tripos examinations at the end of one year rather than the customary three, and his achievement was such that he had to be awarded a triple first, the only time that ever happened in an English university. As a parting gift to English scholarship he proceeded to announce he had discovered a new species of rose on the banks of the Cam.
Even if proposed quietly the discovery would have been shocking. In a land devoted to roses it seemed unthinkable that six centuries of British scholars could have gone punting on the Cam and entirely overlooked a species.
But the proposal wasn't made quietly. Instead Strongbow noisily nailed it to the chapel door one Sunday morning just as the service ended and the faculty began to appear.
The uproar throughout the nation was immediate. An official board of experts was convened, to be chaired by the Archbishop of Canterbury, who would cast a deciding vote should that ultimate resort to fair play become necessary.
Strongbow's evidence, arranged in ninety-five theses, was removed from the chapel door and studied in full by the board. The Latin was impeccable and to their dismay they found there was nothing to consider or vote on. The discovery was genuine. There was simply no way to assign the rose to any of the existing species.
And as its discoverer Strongbow had the inalienable right to name it.
The archbishop led a select delegation to Strongbow's rooms. After congratulating him warmly the archbishop eased into a persuasive discourse. A new rose had been found for England, a new monarch was soon to be crowned from the House of Hanover. How magnanimous it was of God, working through a brilliant young scholar and nobleman, to bless the land and Her Britannic Majesty at this time, in this manner.
While the archbishop spoke Strongbow remained bent over his workbench examining a blade of grass with his enormous magnifying glass. When the archbishop finished Strongbow straightened to his full height, still holding the glass in place, and stared down at the delegation.
Behind the powerful lens of the magnifying glass his unblinking eye was two inches wide.
During his year at Cambridge Strongbow's disgust with his family's history had fully matured. He could no longer abide the memory of the silly accidents that had killed twenty-eight successive Dukes of Dorset, the silly aunts and uncles who had been returning to the manor for centuries to raise its orphans, the silly family mystery
