Yes, it is a nod of respect to the current issues in Nepal. It is also because if they were real, we all know that's exactly where they'd be, and exactly what they'd be doing.
Episode 1: For the Thief's Chalice, chapter 2
Ezekiel looked down at the maps ancient and modern that lay scattered across Jenkins' desk. In the centre was a hand-drawn version that accumulated the information of all the others. Several areas in northern Denmark and the areas of southern Sweden, just across the water from them, had been highlighted. The town of Uppsala had been circled and an arrow pointed to a spot marked Gamla Uppsala.
"I know it is quite far from Götaland," said Jenkins, waving an hand at the general area on the map, "the area the Geats would have inhabited. Gamla Uppsala is technically in what would have been the territory of the Swedes at that time, but please do remember that Beowulf had travelled to fight a dragon, and had died because of that fight. His men would have burned his body there: travelling then was neither as fast nor as easy as it is today. The poem tells us that they used the treasures from the dragon's cave to place on the king's funeral pyre. He would have been burned with them, then a tumulus raised around the remains. Cobblestones, gravel then earth. Most of the items would have melted in the heat of the pyre, but not the chalice. It's power would protect it. I think the tumulus is the first place we should try. If it isn't there, then we can try the dragon's cave."
"And this tumulus is in Gamla Uppsala?" Jones asked, scanning the map.
"Yes."
"Okay, how do I get in?" Jones looked up. "Is there a door or something?"
"Two of the barrows have been excavated," Jenkins replied. "The third, and most likely, has not. Nothing of great interest to ourselves was found in either tumulus during excavation, that only leaves us with the unexcavated one: the middle one."
"So, how do I get in?" Jones repeated.
"Well, as it happens," sighed Jenkins, turning away from the young man, "I do have some specialist equipment that might help." He turned back to Jones holding a shovel. "I trust you can fake your own credentials?"
"There is no way they'll buy a single archaeologist doing a dig all by themselves!" Jones complained.
"So?" Jenkins shrugged. "You're a thief, aren't you? Go steal an archaeology team."
XXXX
The age of the dilettante archaeologist had passed by long ago, but Jones found that some carefully redirected funds, a fake aristocrat with a personal interest and the persona of a youthful personal secretary to oversee the work suited his purpose well. He hacked the government files in Sweden to obtain a permit, engaged the services of a notable professor interested in the particular area of history they would be excavating and supplied funds for a full, if streamlined, dig team. The team found themselves at the dig site within two days, postgraduate students setting up markers and geophysicists moving steadily over the tumulus with ground penetrating radar. From his chair in the tech tent, the translation of Beowulf open in his lap, Ezekiel Jones surveyed the results of his genius.
Having procured experts to do the hard work for him, he had found himself left with three tasks: research, which included reading the entire poem; exploring the area around the site of the tumulus for clues, and the area Jenkins had identified as the site of the dragon's lair; and trying to find out what had happened to the thief and where he might have been buried. He had been working through the book all morning. He was getting bored. Time for a change.
Closing the book and placing it carefully in his satchel - not Flynn's satchel, but one Jenkins had provided for him for the mission - Jones got up and headed over to the professor in charge of the dig. He was a short, balding man who showed signs of having spent too long sitting at a desk or standing over a dig giving out orders. He peered over his small round glasses at the young man approaching him, dragging his attention away from the readout on the geophysics monitor.
"Ah, Mr Smith! Come have a look at the GPR findings! There's definitely a grave down there, and much more besides, by the look of it!"
Ezekiel smiled brightly at the professor's innocent use of his alias. He had crossed paths with the archaeological world before and there was no way he was going to use his own name here. "That sounds promising, Professor Wilkins," he enthused, glancing over at the screen but making neither head nor tail of what it showed. "I'm afraid you'll have to forgive my ignorance. Archaeology is my employer's hobby, not mine. I thought I might go for a wander. See a bit of the countryside. Only assuming you have everything you need here, of course. You have everything under control, don't you?"
"Everything is up and running, ship shape and Bristol fashion, Mr Smith," replied the professor with a wave of his hand. "I know how you young people like to explore. Go do some sightseeing. We're fine here. We won't be budging until the light goes. I'll call you if anything crops up."
With a slight bow of thanks to Wilkins, Jones turned and made his way out of the tent. The car he had hired was parked on the road nearby. He would need it to reach the site of the dragon's lair. Throwing his satchel into the passenger seat, he turned the key and pulled away from the side of the road. An almost instantaneous buzzing brought him to a halt. He pulled out his smart phone and hit answer.
"Jenkins, what is it?" Jones asked with a sigh. "The dig is set up and I'm heading off to the lair now."
"Not what I was calling for," said the voice on the other end of the line, "but thank you for the update. Actually I was calling with a request. Can you look for any signs of a grave near the dragon's lair. It will be millennia old, if it is there at all, so it will be difficult to spot."
"You're thinking the thief was buried at the lair?"
"Yes," the verbal nod was emphatic. "The thief caused the trouble with the dragon to begin with. I remember stories, when I was young, of murderers being forced to carry their victims to the king, or queen, for judgement. Punishment was harsh in those days. It's possible a similar punishment was forced on the thief: buried with the remainder of the hoard he had tried to steal."
"I see," said Ezekiel, pulling a face. "They wouldn't have been buried alive, would they?"
"Hmm," the equivocation in the old man's voice brought the image of him bobbing his head back and forth into Ezekiel's mind. "I suppose it depends on how much damage the dragon did. Technically, the thief, by enraging the dragon and forcing Beowulf to engage it in battle, would be seen as being responsible for the death of the king, and a beloved, heroic king at that. I don't really see that king's army as being particularly forgiving for that crime. He may well have been buried alive. Forced to feel the full terror of his predicament, and to endure an agonising, slow death. All the while knowing that there was no way his spirit would now be able to enter the halls of Valhalla, or the meadow of Folkvangr."
"Folk what now?"
"Folkvangr: the meadow ruled over by Freyja, where half the heroes who die in battle go to be trained for the final battle of Ragnarok. The other half go to Valhalla, the hall ruled over by Odin, for the same purpose."
"Alrighty then," Jones pulled a face of dubious incomprehension. "I'll do my best. I might have picked up one or two gadgets from the dig site that would help."
"Picked up?"
"It's a reflex!"
"Hmm."
The line went dead and Ezekiel tucked the phone away again. It would take him at least an hour to get to the site of the dragon's lair, near a lake south of Uppsala, and east of Stockholm. He put the car in gear and drove off again, this time with considerably more on his mind. There were many things he could complain about on this mission: the food, the bed, the temperature, the weather. Somehow, he didn't think that 'being too easy' was going to be among them.
XXXX
Jenkins put the phone down and tapped his chin thoughtfully. He should be out there, he thought. This was his white whale, not the boy's. But he wasn't as fast or as agile as he used to be, and the world had moved on without him. He was of more use following up any new information that Jones managed to unearth and providing advice and possibly magical gadgets from a distance. With one's own personal wormhole at one's beck and call, at least it would be easy to get there quickly if necessary.
The back door clattered to admit it's other users in a dusty heap.
"How goes the search?" Jenkins asked from his desk.
"It's so nice to be able to actually use all this stuff to make a difference," gasped Cassandra between deep breaths of clean, dust-free air.
"Hey, we make a difference every time we go out there," Flynn chided.
"You know what I mean," she sighed. "A more immediately obvious difference. We were there only a few days before..."
"I just wish we could have got up that mountain," Flynn conceded.
"I kept trying," said Jenkins. "There were no doors left to use. You helped where you could, just as every decent human being tries to, even if only in prayer."
"We saved lives today," nodded Baird.
"Not enough," grumbled Stone.
"We were never going to be able to save everyone," said Jenkins, handing out bottles of water to each of the group. "Earthquakes are called natural disasters for a reason. They are also called tragedies for a reason. You did the best you could. Better than most."
"We just had a few advantages most people don't," Flynn waved a hand at Jenkins, then turned to Stone, "and we used them to the best of our ability. It's not your fault..."
"Do not finish that sentence," Stone growled. In the resulting silence, he turned and stalked off out of the room.
"I take it he lost someone?" Jenkins asked, looking back to the sobered group.
"Internal injuries," Baird replied gravely. "They were dead before Stone ever got to them. The only thing keeping them alive was the beam across them pinning them down."
"And he blames himself for moving it," Jenkins finished with a nod of comprehension.
"Didn't matter how many people he helped save after that, it was never going to be enough," Baird grimaced. "So many were gone before we got to them too. So many. We're only back because it was the only way to stop him working himself into an early grave. We'll head back out first thing tomorrow morning, their time. Right now, we need food, water, sleep and very definitely showers!"
Jenkins watched them go, heading for the living quarters the library had provided for them, where they could keep their body clocks in the right time zone for the task in hand. He turned back to his work. Little was known about the thief who originally stole the chalice. When he had seen it, it had been in the possession of the rich man he had originally assumed paid the thief to take it. Or at least, to take it back. They had been a slave, so some sources said. He was trying to expand on that. He picked up a leather-bound journal and carried it over to a chair. Maybe he was getting old. He was certainly much wearier than he had ever been before.