Reading a novel by Arthur Phillips is, for me, always an intellectual treat. Although his books purport to be about one thing, subject, or time, it turns out that while one may be set in Victorian England or among Egyptologists hunting for ancient tombs, the plot is merely the lens through which Phillips asks the more important questions: What is true? When does ambition become madness? Why did it happen this way, or did it? In other words, Phillips' novels are deeper than they first appear, and if you're reading them for straight historical fiction, you're missing a lot.
The King at the Edge of the World is the story of Mahmud Ezzadine, a Turk, a physician, and a member of a diplomatic delegation sent to Queen Elizabeth's England in 1601. Elizabeth is aging and without an heir to the throne, the various contenders are lining up and jockeying for position. As the Catholic/Protestant wars still simmerthroughout society, the world's spies are very, very busy.
Although he wishes to be done with diplomacy and return home to his wife and young son, Ezzadine makes a mistake trading quips with Kit Marlowe and is blackmailed into staying in England, and is "gifted" to the Queen, caught in the whorls and shifting tides of diplomacy. For a decade, he goes where directed, converts to Protestant Christianity, and busies himself learning England's plants and their medicinal uses. Eventually, he is recruited by Geoffrey Belloc to spy on the leading contender to the throne - James VI of Scotland - to determine whether James is, in his heart, truly a Protestant, or if he secretly still worships in his dastardly mother's Catholic ways.
Those are the nuts and bolts, and if Phillips had left it there, the book would have been entertaining enough, with its spycraft and plant lore and allusions to the plays and players of the era, Shakespeare and Marlowe included. But no, Phillips pushes it further: We know the outcome, or think we do, but of all possible outcomes, which pivot points and plans got us there? Questions of identity and character arise as well: Who are we and how do we know?Are we the masks we put on or the parts we play, and at which point does one become the other? What is in one's Secret Heart, and does it matter?
Reading an Arthur Phillips novel is like working a puzzle - there are a damn lot of pieces which fit together in myriad ways, and the picture that results is seldom the one you thought you were working on when you bought the thing. The view at the end, however, is worth the work.
(I received a free electronic ARC of this book from the publisher via NetGalley for review, in exchange for an honest review.)