Michael White - Equinox

Of course, that meant leaving Isaac Newton. Wickins and Newton had had a very odd relationship. They had met during their first term, each of them miserable and less than enamoured with the majority of the other students. Each had arrived expecting to fall into a challenging whirlpool of learning, but instead they had found that very few students cared for anything but drinking, gambling and whoring. He and Newton had similar backgrounds: each had been raised within the lower gentry. Wickins's father had been a schoolmaster, Newton's father had died before Newton was born and his mother had married a local vicar. Neither of them had the slightest thing in common with most of the young men who had gone up in their year. Many of these had been the sons of wealthy landowners and successful merchants; but even those clots had been better than the laziest and stupidest of all students — the vile offspring of the nobility whose families paid for the academic success of their sons.

Wickins crossed the quad of Trinity College and entered under the archway leading to his staircase. He was walking slowly, almost as though he was trying to put off the inevitable. He had experienced some good times here in this great city. He could admit that most of his life had been a mundane routine comprised of study, then his theological researches. But these had been interspersed with times helping Newton with his scientific work, copying texts for him, assisting whenever he could. During those periods, he could tell himself with confidence that he had come closer to the great Isaac Newton than any other man had ever come. Then there had been times when physical need had brought them a unique intimacy, actions about which they never spoke and kept locked away from the world. And, of course, there was always the real purpose to his living in such close proximity to the man, the reason he had first been encouraged to meet Newton and befriend him. Newton, he had grown to understand, was the most dangerous man alive.

Wickins reached the door to their rooms, fished his key from the pocket of his tunic and turned it in the lock. The hallway and the rooms leading off to left and right were cast in gloom. Warm air blew through an opened window at the end of the hall. The door to his bedchamber was closed, but the one to the right, leading into Newton's room and beyond that to his laboratory, stood ajar. It was unusually quiet. The only sound came from a pair of thrushes nesting in an elm tree just beyond the opened window.

Now that he was there, Wickins suddenly experienced a great swell of uncertainty about his plans. This was his home. He felt secure here. Was he doing the right thing by throwing it all away and chasing after a new life in Oxford?

He felt sure that his mission in Cambridge was now over. The work had been of great importance and he could not have left any sooner. So, about this at least, he felt no guilt. The conjunction of the planets was due the following night, 11 August, and it was clear that no one was about to try the experiment. If Newton was not preparing for it, then nobody else would have the ability, the knowledge or the ambition to do so. Wickins's friends in Oxford had been watching for tell-tale signs, but there appeared to have been nothing suspicious going on there. They had learned of one murder the previous week, but it was clear to them that the girl had died at the hands of her lover who had then killed himself. Or, at least, that was all they had managed to ascertain. But even his friends had to admit that many crimes could be easily covered up and that they could never know for sure. Most crucially, though, Wickins thought as he removed his shoulder bag, jacket and hat and placed them on the hooks in the hall, the ruby sphere was almost certainly safe in its repository. And no alchemical genius had emerged with the ancient codes and Hermetic knowledge to acquire the precious thing.

Wickins was surprised to see that the door leading into Newton's laboratory was open. The bedlinen lay in a crumbled heap. Plates of food had been left ignored on the floor. The window was open and on the wide windowsill stood a bowl of water. It was clean, untouched. Wickins edged his way over to the laboratory. His heart was pounding. A sudden irrational fear had shot through him. Newton was always so careful to maintain his privacy.

His friend had not heard him. Newton was standing with his back to the laboratory door, the glow from the fire lighting up one side of his face. He was cradling something in his palms. It was a thing that Wickins had never before seen in the waking world, a thing of mythology, but something he also knew to be real, sacred beyond words, the nexus of all meaning: the ruby sphere.

Wickins thought he was going to scream, but thankfully no sound came. Yet still the horror would not dissipate. With an almost supernatural effort he managed to raise his hand to his face and grip the skin of his cheeks with his fingernails. It was an almost involuntary act, as though he was trying to convince himself that he was still alive, that what he was witnessing was wholly real.

One of the thrushes landed on the windowsill and tapped at the water bowl. Newton spun round.

During the two seconds that followed, a million clashing thoughts ran through Wickins's mind, but he was really only aware of two. One told him to flee, to race to Oxford and to warn his friends. The other impulse screamed at him to rush into the room to grab the sphere.

In the time it took him to cover the distance to where Newton sat, the scientist had raised himself out of his chair and braced himself for the onslaught.

For a man of almost fifty who had spent his entire life in study, Newton was surprisingly agile. Wickins made a grab for him, but Newton shifted to one side; he lost his balance but managed to break his fall by gripping the table by the fireplace. He spun round and saw Newton grasping at a sheaf of papers that lay on a table close by.

'Isaac, you cannot do this thing,' Wickins screamed. 'Please. . you know not. .'

But Newton seemed oblivious to him. A sudden fury seized Wickins when he realised in an instant that he was wasting his breath. He sprang forward and grabbed Newton by the shoulder. The scientist twisted. Wickins lost his grip and whirled around. He could see the sphere cupped in his room-mate's right hand, and then Newton's fist encasing the sphere came rushing towards his face. He just managed to sidestep the blow, and as he swerved to one side he brought his hand across Newton's face, scratching his cheek. Newton yelped and with blind fury lashed out at Wickins, catching him squarely on the jaw. "Tis mine,' he yelled, his eyes ablaze.

Wickins fell backwards and landed heavily against the shelves, his head smashing against the wood and causing several jars and bottles to wobble and fall. They crashed to the floor except for a bottle of yellowish liquid labelled 'Oil of Vitriol' which landed squarely on Wickins's shoulder, popped its cork and spilled its contents across his arm. He screamed but, almost before the sound had left his mouth, Newton, a look of manic fury etched into his features, took one step forward and kicked him squarely in the face. Wickins slammed back against the floor, unconscious.

When Wickins awoke, it was completely dark. The fire had dwindled to nothing, it was chilly and the smells that reached him were almost overwhelming.

Most disturbing was the unmistakable odour of corroded flesh.

Wickins pulled himself to his feet. The pain in his head almost made him fall to his knees, and his arm throbbed. Stumbling into the next room he saw that there was a little more light. The moon had risen and a silver haze hung over everything. He looked at his arm. The fabric of his shirt had burned away and his flesh was red and blistered. He strode over to the bowl of water on the sill and, soaking a shirt that lay nearby, he dabbed the wet cloth on his arm.