28. NAPOLEON’S DICK.

‘Mower,’ Professor Delphi declared, ‘you are simply the best candidate out there for the job. Historians to a man, or woman, love their subject. History is akin to the Mona Lisa. It is perfection. To change a single brushstroke would be anathema to them.’

‘That’s a good analogy,’ piped Willard Dunsten, Head of The Observation Corps, that included The Statue Watchers.

‘They simply would not cope with meddling with history,’ Professor Delphi continued after placing a hand on his colleague’s shoulder to show his appreciation for the comment. ‘It would go against the very essence of what had drawn them with such passion to the subject. But having read your biography of Napoleon, Mister Mower, I can categorically state that you exhibited none of the traits resident in all other Historians. An unequivocal love and respect for your subject is absent. You displayed no guilt, whatsoever, in distorting or even conflating events to suit your agenda. That being to produce a work of entertainment that didn’t let facts spoil the story.’

‘There’s even Hollywood producers who show more guilt for messing with history’s narrative than this guy,’ Willard Dunsten chirped in again. Mower rather wished he would just can it and return to overseeing those who watched statues. His biography of Napoleon surely hadn’t taken that many liberties?

‘That bit about Napoleon’s dick,’ Professor Delphi recalled, ‘yes, it was sold at auction after death. But there was no fifty percent reduction in the sale price, as you implied, because he’d had erectile dysfunction problems after Josephine’s death.’

‘Just send in the Goddam holograms,’ the General hollered again, stamping his fist on the table. ‘Don’t rely on this clown.’

Glen tried to match his adversary’s glare but lost on a TKO.

‘Observe how we deal with the holograms in tackling the Florence Nightingale threat,’ Professor Delphi advised. The attention of those at the table was then drawn to a flurry of activity alongside them as the women with paddles slid and prodded their models along the history board with greater purpose. A clerk almost apologetically appeared from one of the adjacent rooms with a report he handed straight to Willard Dunsten who digested it like blanched veg before handing it to Professor Delphi. The smile on his face evaporated.

‘It’s from the Statue Watchers,’ he announced. ‘Boudicca’s statue in Westminster. Her two daughters have disappeared in the chariot Boudicca is driving and been replaced by two bags of road salt. As we have feared, someone has got it into Boudicca not to be the Queen of the Ancient Brits, but to be Queen of the Ancient Grits instead. Servicing Roman roads in winter instead of the grievances of her people.’