I belong to a secret society called ‘The Network’, a club so secret that it’s never appeared in print at any time during its history. I’ve spent many hours over the years in and out of old libraries, trying to discover more about its founders and its year of inception, alas to no avail. We members are known as ‘Legionnaires’, the club taking its structure from that of a Roman Legion. Our close-knit unit or gang of ten is called a ‘Decuria’, and is headed up by an elected Decanus. Tristan, my banker friend, and the only Centurion that I’m in regular contact with, tells me that the Network can trace its roots all the way back to the fall of the old empire, around 400AD.
That’s quite some hidden history.
The Network exists primarily as a business club, with the intention of providing, in return for a pound of flesh, a fast-track to great wealth. I’ve certainly done very well out of it, perhaps too well. That in itself is part of the problem – there’s a massive disconnect between what I’m worth and what I earn, and being a bit of an idiot, I’ve not done a great job of hiding it, either in the house I own or the car I drive. Perhaps that’s why the Financial Services chaps have taken a keen interest in me. Not to worry though – what’s the point in being a member of a secret organisation that has no influence? I’m sure those pesky insider trading charges will go away soon.
During my adventures, I encouter a number of characters who know considerably more about the history of The Network than I. Phillip has done a sterling job of documenting what I discovered, in the Ferret Files. He seems to think that I belong to an organisation that’s more comedy Mafia than Illuminati.
It’s not my place to comment.
Our sworn enemies are the Old Boys of the establishment, who have a particular loathing for secret clubs that they don’t run. Occasionally they unmask a Legionnaire, and when they do this is followed by a period of turbulence and strife, with a display of great unpleasantness.