by Jodi Taylor
‘I’m having a bad night,’ I said, and that was true enough. Historians have more than their fair share of nightmares. ‘And Mr Markham is apparently roaming the building on the off-chance of a little casual sex.’
‘There’s nothing casual about the way I do sex,’ he said, offended. ‘I have – what’s that word? Begins with testi – testi something?’
‘Dear God, please tell me you don’t mean testicles?’
‘No! Well, yes, obviously, but I meant the other things.’
My mind boggled. What other things?
‘Testimonials,’ said Peterson, enlightened.
‘I’d like to see those sometime. The testimonials, I mean,’ I said, as they both opened their mouths. ‘Will you two clean up your act, please?’
Silence fell. The building creaked around us. I played with my empty mug.
‘Tell me,’ I said to Markham. ‘How long have you worked here?’
‘At St Mary’s? About ten years now. Just over.’
‘You knew Elspeth Grey, then?’
There was a long pause.
‘A little.’
Tim was rotating my data stack. ‘What are you doing?’
More silence.
‘Max?’
‘OK,’ I said. ‘Cards on the table. I’ve pulled the records from Number Four. The one that was stolen. I’ve had an idea. I thought maybe I could –’ I stopped.
‘What?’ said Tim? ‘What did you think you could do?’
‘I thought I could find Grey’s jump to twelfth-century Jerusalem and maybe – I don’t know.’
‘We searched for ages afterwards,’ said Markham quietly. ‘Months. We never found either of them. Not the slightest trace. We took tag readers and combed the city. There was nothing.’
Interesting. Even if they were dead, they should have found the tags.
‘Maybe,’ I said slowly, testing my idea as I went along, ‘maybe that’s because they weren’t there at all. I was just thinking. Maybe they were seized along with the pod and instead of killing them there and then, that bastard Ronan jumped again – to somewhere else – and just pitched them out. That’s just the sort of thing that would appeal to him. He tried it with me, once. Suppose he took a couple of historians who were geared up for the Crusades and dropped them in, say, a prehistoric Russian winter, or right slap bang in the middle of something nasty, such as Paris during the St Bartholomew’s Day massacre.’
‘Yes, but how would we ever know?’ asked Markham.
‘We wouldn’t,’ I said. ‘But the pod might.’
‘That’s what you’re looking at, isn’t it?’ said Tim, stirring the data again.
I nodded. ‘This is the jump history from Number Four. There are two sets of coordinates for each jump. In and then out again. If I can find the jump after Jerusalem – that just might be where Ronan abandoned them. If that’s what happened then I think … I think I might be able to find them.
‘You keep saying “I”’, said Peterson. ‘Is this off the books?’
‘Yes, I think so.’
‘Why? Why not go to Dr Bairstow with this? He surely wouldn’t refuse to try.’
I hesitated, remembering my dream. ‘Dr Bairstow’s not here.’
‘Well, that doesn’t matter. He’s back for Christmas lunch tomorrow. Speak to him then.’
Now what did I say? Ian Guthrie was an old and valued friend who had saved my life on more than one occasion. I wasn’t going to give him away if I could help it. He deserved my loyalty.
I know it’s hard to believe, but here at St Mary’s, we do undergo regular psychological monitoring. I believe Dr Bairstow once discussed taking on an additional member of the medical team for very that purpose, until Dr Foster told him there weren’t enough mental health professionals in the entire world to sort out the staff at St Mary’s, and the plan came to nothing. While I’m prepared to concede the possibility that there might, occasionally, be outbursts of slightly odd behaviour that might lead the uninitiated to believe there’s something seriously the matter with most of us, there was no way someone in Ian Guthrie’s position could afford even the slightest hint that all might not be well. He was Head of Security – the rock on which we all leaned. I owed it to him to make every effort to safeguard his reputation. And if we could find them and bring them back safely, then no one would ever have to know how close he came.
I said, awkwardly, ‘I don’t want to raise hopes I might not be able to fulfil.’
‘Sorry, I’m not with you.’
I looked at Markham, who said nothing. If he’d been here ten years then he wasn’t as young as he looked. And I knew he wasn’t as scatter-brained as he would have everyone believe. And he obviously wasn’t going to gossip about his boss, Ian Guthrie. I saw again that face in the flickering light of the TV and felt again the icy hand that stopped my heart. I said carefully, ‘I have some concerns.’
I waited, but Markham still said nothing.
Peterson looked from one to the other of us. ‘What don’t I know?’
Markham wouldn’t say it.
‘It was before our time, Tim, but Guthrie and Grey were …’ I hesitated.
‘He never saw anyone else if she was in the room,’ said Markham, quietly, and I’m not sure who he was talking to. ‘They didn’t make a big thing of it, but it was special. And then, that Christmas, she didn’t come back. He nearly drove himself into the ground. He barely spoke. He barely ate. He would have gone on every search party if he could. We searched and searched but the day came when the Boss had to call a halt.’ He sighed. ‘I suppose we all thought the Major had finally accepted she’d gone. He never said anything. Not to anyone. Not even to Chief Farrell. He was just as he was before and I suppose, after a while, people just forgot that they’d been …’
‘It’s ten years tonight,’ I said. And there would be that empty chair at the Christmas lunch tomorrow.
Unless …
More silence.
‘So that’s the three of us then,’ said Markham, briskly. ‘Are we going to steal Chief Farrell’s pod and get ourselves into trouble again?’
‘I certainly hope so,’ said Peterson. ‘Max, you and I will do the coordinates. Mr Markham – you’re in charge of refreshments.’
I hesitated.
‘What’s the matter?’ said Peterson. ‘You’re not thinking of going without us, are you?’
‘This is more than off the books, guys. If this goes wrong there will be hell to pay.’
Peterson shook his head. ‘There isn’t anyone at St Mary’s who doesn’t owe Major Guthrie in one form or another. I know I do. Count me in.’
‘And me,’ said Markham.
I smiled sadly. ‘Guys, even if it all goes right, Dr Bairstow will still come down on me like a ton of bricks. You should be aware.’
‘We’ll wear hard hats,’ said Peterson.
‘Yes,’ said Markham, cheerfully. ‘I’ve still got mine.’
‘What?’ said Peterson. ‘Why have you … oh, never mind.’
The task went much more quickly with two of us and we found the twelfth-century coordinates easily enough. The computer identified the next set as AD60. Camulodunum. Roman Colchester.
‘Bastard,’ said Peterson, softly.
Markham swallowed the last of his bacon roll. ‘Why?’
‘Boudicca’s revolt,’ I said. ‘She levelled the town and slaughtered the inhabitants. Hardly anyone got out alive. He dropped them in the middle of a massacre.’
‘OK,’ said Peterson. ‘This needs careful planning. ‘We’ll need to go in early, so we’re already in place when Ronan turns up. Number Four will appear. The door will open. He’ll throw them out. If they’re still alive.’
‘They’ll be alive,’ said Markham. ‘No point chucking them out dead. They might not be in good condition, but they’ll be alive.’
‘True,’ said Peterson. ‘This all works in our favour. He won’t want to hang around with anything up to a hundred thousand enra
ged Britons bearing down on him, so he’ll push them out and jump away as quickly as possible. We grab them and get out ourselves.’
I didn’t say anything, but our window of opportunity would be tiny. We had a lot to do and not much time to do it in. Two historians to rescue from a vengeful Clive Ronan on one side, and Boudicca and her hordes to avoid on the other.
‘Are we taking him with us?’
I came back to earth with a jolt. ‘Who?’
‘Guthrie.’
Peterson looked at me. ‘Are we?’
It was tempting. What a Christmas present that would be for him. But no. I shook my head. ‘If we get it wrong and he sees her die … or if she’s already dead … We’ve no idea how this will pan out. We don’t want to make things any worse for him.’
Markham nodded. ‘All right. Can we go now?’
‘A quick stop for some gear first,’ said Peterson, getting up. ‘Why, what’s the rush?’
‘He’s meeting Nurse Hunter later on,’ I said. ‘He’s under the impression this will be a treat for the poor girl.’
‘Hey,’ he said, wounded. ‘It was her idea. She sent me a note telling me what she has planned. Incidentally, do you know where I can get a tin of Swarfega and a wetsuit?’
I sent them on ahead to gather what was needed, while I scribbled a few words for Leon. I folded the paper, and shoved it in his pigeonhole. Just in case …
I met Peterson and Markham outside Hawking. They had a flatbed loaded with equipment. We checked no one was around and let ourselves into the paint store where Leon kept his pod. We made our way to the back corner. I called for the door, and we entered Leon’s pod. Here was the familiar smell of hot electrics, damp carpet, an overworked toilet, stale people, and cabbage. Our pod smell.
Pods are small, flat-roofed, apparently stone-built shacks in which we jump to whichever time period we’ve been assigned. We live and work in them. They’re cramped, squalid, and thanks to the heroic efforts of the Technical section, they never, ever let us down. There’s no need to tell them I said that. The official attitude of the Technical section is that the pods function despite the heroic efforts of historians. Leon and I have passed many a happy hour shamelessly slandering each other’s departments.
We unloaded our gear. We weren’t even considering trying to blend in with the local population. There was absolutely no point in looking wonderfully authentic if we were sprawled in a Colchester gutter with our throats cut. Or worse. So Markham had liberated body armour and helmets, and three big blasters. We couldn’t shoot anyone, but we could put the blasters on a low charge and lightly singe everyone within range. And let’s face it, no one was going to notice a few extra burns in a city already in flames. As a concession to historical accuracy, however, and to keep me quiet, Peterson had acquired three dark grey woollen cloaks in which we could envelop our anomalous selves.
‘Right,’ I said. ‘We’re on the clock from this moment.’ By which I meant that time was ticking inexorably closer to the moment when Ian decided nothing was worth it any longer. Suppose we rescued the love of his life and returned to St Mary’s to find Guthrie already dead? How much of a tragedy would that be?
I crossed my fingers for Leon.
‘We jump now. Tim, lay in the coordinates. We’ll change and discuss tactics once we’re on site.’
‘Understood,’ he said calmly and two minutes later, we were ready to go.
The world went white.
I have no idea what time of day it was. This was England. Heavy grey clouds obscured the sun. It could have been any time from nine in the morning to nine at night. On this jump, however, the time and the weather would be the least of our problems. For safety’s sake, we usually land in a quiet back alley somewhere. In fact, should you ever find yourself in a quiet back alley somewhere, it’s well worth checking around. There’s bound to be a pod and two bickering historians nearby. Wave, if you like.
In this case, however, we’d landed at the far edge of a large, wide-open space, the centre of which was occupied by a huge building with an imposing portico. I knew where we were. If I was right, then that was the Temple of Claudius and, with our usual luck, we’d landed right where the battle would be fiercest.
Having said that, the place was deserted. Tim angled the cameras, and apart from a small group of men standing on the Temple steps, there was no one around.
‘Odd,’ said Tim.
‘Perhaps the Brits have been and gone,’ said Markham, hopefully.
I looked at Tim, who made a ‘you tell him’ gesture.
So I told him.
‘This is Roman Colchester. Camulodunum. AD60.’
‘Yes?’
‘This is a Roman town, inhabited mainly by army veterans and their families. It’s unfortified because apparently, they thought they wouldn’t need walls. So at the moment, the only thing encircling the town is about a hundred thousand enraged Iceni and Trinovantes tribesmen for whom Camulodunum encapsulates everything they’ve come to hate. Such is their loathing for everything Roman that Boudicca’s army consists of not only every warrior she could lay her hands on, but women and children as well. I wouldn’t be surprised if they’ve even brought their chickens along to fight. If they’d been and gone, there would be no town left. Trust me.’
Markham nodded and then got his own back. ‘In that case, just a small correction to the original plan. We form a two-man snatch squad and one of us – Max – will stay with the pod to provide cover and get the door open.
‘No,’ he said, as I opened my mouth. ‘Peterson will back me up on this. We’ll need you – on the roof, probably – to give us an overview. We’re either going to be up to our necks in hysterically fleeing citizens or invading hordes of madmen and their chickens. Either way, we’re going to need someone up high, to provide covering fire, tell us what’s going on, and open the door for us. You don’t need me to tell you that the few seconds it takes to get the door open could make all the difference. And if you don’t like it then you shouldn’t have brought me along.’
There was a small silence. Peterson was suddenly very busy doing something to the console and no help at all.
I swallowed. ‘OK.’
We geared up and then turned our attention to what was going on outside.
‘What’s that big thing over there?’ said Markham, pointing to the screen and displaying the Security section’s typical attitude towards the wonders of the past.
‘That’s the Temple of Claudius. Built with local forced labour. Symbol of everything they resent. The inhabitants thought they would be safe inside, but with hindsight, it’s not the best place for them to take refuge.’
Which was true, but they didn’t have a lot of choice. It was easily the biggest and most substantial building around, set high above the ground with flights of steps leading to a magnificent portico. And yes, it would be successfully defended for two days, which was probably just long enough to give those cowering inside the hope that they might be rescued after all. Except that the legions would never come …
‘How long before Ronan and Number Four turn up?’ I said to Peterson.
‘About fifteen minutes, I think.’
‘Let’s get onto the roof. See what we’re dealing with.’
We scrambled up on top of the pod and stared around us.
The two parts of the city were clearly delineated. It’s hard to tart-up thatched wattle and daub roundhouses, so the British part of the city was basically mud-coloured – with accents of mud thrown in.
The Romans, whether deliberately or not, had brought the colours and shapes of their homeland with them. Bath-houses, public buildings, temples, all were rectangular in shape, with terracotta roof tiles and whitewashed walls. Sadly, of course, this was Britain, so these white walls were generously splashed with mud rather than sunshine. I know the grey day was sucking the colour out of everything, but the overall effect was dingy and dull. Still, give it an hour or so and we’d have lovely yellow and orange
flames leaping merrily from one building to another, interspersed with those always cheerful puddles of red blood.
From the accounts I’d read, I’d always assumed that the Iceni swooped down on a comparatively unaware Colchester, slaughtering everything in their path, but looking around us now, I could see some defensive measures had been implemented. Of course they had. This was Colonia Victricensis, whose inhabitants were mainly army veterans and their families. Of course they would fight. Houses were bolted and barred. Barricades and other obstacles had been erected across the streets to hamper the Iceni chariots. Those who hadn’t fled were taking refuge in the Temple.
More men hurried across the square. None of them was young. In fact, the youngest of them was middle-aged. Some were missing limbs or eyes. They were all grizzled and scarred. These were the Roman ex-legionaries and they were preparing to do what they did best. They all carried weapons of some kind. Some had obviously kept their short stabbing swords from their army days. Some had spears. Some had axes. Those who had no military gear had armed themselves with pitchforks or even heavy cudgels with vicious-looking nails protruding.
I turned my attention away from the Temple. Who would turn up first? Ronan or Boudicca? Would he literally throw them into the path of the oncoming army? To be trampled to death? Or worse? Or did he intend to drop them an hour or so beforehand? It would amuse him to have a pair of obvious foreigners – spies, possibly – running around Colchester, and in as much danger from the Romans as the Iceni. Yes, that would appeal to Clive Ronan. And that, of course, was the weakness in his plan. If you want someone dead then do it. I keep saying this. Don’t gloat – just shoot.
I said to Peterson, ‘How much longer?’
‘Now. It should be any moment now.’
‘Then go. Good luck to both of you.’
‘And you too, Max. Stay safe.’
They jumped down.
I lay on the flat roof and kept watch.
A broad avenue led to the Temple. At a mid-point between the gates and the Temple itself, it split around some kind of ornate, four-sided public fountain that gave the illusion of cover, and there they crouched, waiting.
