Another Time, Another Place

by Jodi Taylor

  ‘Shadowing me?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘For what purpose?’

  ‘As I said, to learn the job, Dr Maxwell.’

  I took him down to Hawking. I’d selected pods Eight and Five, two of our larger pods. I’d talked about the advantages of having two pods because I didn’t want him asking about the whereabouts of our big one. Which was out there somewhere safeguarding our Archive. About which Treadwell had not yet enquired.

  He paused just inside the door and looked around. Two rows of pods ran down the hangar, all nestling safely on their plinths. Thick black umbilicals snaked across the floor to the massive power outlets on the walls. Trays and trolleys of equipment stood everywhere. It looked chaotic but it wasn’t. Everything was in its place. Leon runs a tidy ship.

  ‘Where is the pod designated TB2?’

  Bugger. ‘Out on an extensive field test. Inside, it’s much the same as the two we’ll be using, just bigger and with the addition of a mezzanine which can be used as living accommodation when we’re on a Big Job. The downstairs is our working area. For instance, when we rescued bits and pieces from the Library of Alexandria, we packed some of the scrolls and sealed the urns in there. It’s useful to have a large working area out of the sun and rain, and the ramp is useful access, as we discovered when we took normal pods to Florence during the Bonfire of the Vanities and had some difficulties getting the big Botticellis through the door.’

  ‘And where are they now?’ he asked eagerly.

  ‘Retrieved, to world acclaim.’

  ‘You didn’t think to keep even one?’

  Somewhat frostily I told him we weren’t art thieves.

  There was no denying Treadwell was very keen on the search and rescue aspect of our activities though, and it occurred to me that, if we camouflaged our own historical activities within his own differently prioritised initiatives then this might not be so bad. As long as we gave him what he wanted we could probably continue more or less as before.

  He was watching me. ‘Yes, I wondered when that might occur to you,’ and once again I had the impression I was amusing him. It’s not a nice feeling.

  I sought to change the subject but he did it for me.

  ‘Chief Farrell is still absent?’

  I looked up from frowning over my pod schedule. ‘Yes, as I said. Field-testing TB2.’

  ‘For how much longer?’

  ‘I’m not sure. There are a variety of trials and scenarios to work through before a pod passes its field test. Of course, given your recently expressed desire to get everything done as quickly and cheaply as possible, we could easily cut a few corners. I think you’ll experience enormous difficulty getting any real St Mary’s people into an untried pod, but by all means do invite Hyssop and her team to have at it.’

  He ignored all that, which was probably just as well. I made a real effort to rein myself in and scowled back at my schedule.

  ‘Is he alone?’

  I shook my head. ‘No. We never jump alone.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You need at least one more person to bring back the body.’

  I indicated we should move off down the hangar.

  ‘So who is accompanying Chief Officer Farrell?’

  ‘Matthew Farrell, and Amelia and Adrian Meiklejohn.’

  ‘Your son, Matthew Farrell.’

  ‘That’s the one, yes.’

  ‘The one being educated here?’

  ‘Again, yes. But before you suffer shooting pains in your spreadsheets, the cost of his education is being borne by his father and by me. As is his board and lodging. In fact, the costs of everyone’s board and lodging is deducted from their wages.’

  Again, he ignored that. He’d know it, anyway.

  ‘And these two Meiklejohn people? What do they do?’

  ‘One works in R&D and the other in the Technical Section.’

  ‘But who are they? Their files are almost empty.’

  ‘They’re part of a deal with the Time Police. Those are the people you don’t want to know anything about.’

  ‘They’re Time Police personnel?’

  ‘Good heavens, no.’

  ‘And they are here why, I wonder?’

  ‘As I said – part of the treaty between us and them. And before they also fall victim to your value-for-money drive, they’re both geniuses who contribute a great deal to this organisation. You can, of course, save a few pounds and cut them loose, but trust me, you don’t want those two being snapped up by a foreign power. Although it’s up to you, of course.’

  ‘Hmm.’ He looked around the hangar. ‘Which pods will you be requesting my permission to use?’

  We were seriously winding each other up.

  ‘The two most suited to our purposes,’ I said.

  We’d been walking down Hawking, dodging techies as we went, and he stopped suddenly and turned to face me. ‘Dr Maxwell, I am aware these tactics of yours were tolerated by Dr Bairstow. They will not be tolerated by me. If I ask a question it is because I genuinely want an answer. Not the answer you consider appropriate. Or the answer that doesn’t actually tell me anything at all. I want a straightforward response to a straightforward question. If you will please talk me through the mechanics of this assignment, give me an insight into your thinking and how you put things together, I shall be perfectly happy to let you get on with things. But acquire this insight I will. If not from you then someone else. Are we both clear about this?’

  I shifted my weight. ‘If you expect me to make it easy for you to dismiss St Mary’s personnel and replace them with your own, then you will be disappointed.’

  ‘I have no intention of doing any such thing at this moment and I am endeavouring to remain neutral at all times. However, in view of your intransigence I may have no option but to return to my employers and report that St Mary’s is unmanageable and needs a clean sweep from top to bottom. I don’t want to do so – that course of action will set us back some months and seriously impede our plans for this organisation – but if I have to then I will. Now I understand your anxiety, but if you don’t begin to cooperate then your misgivings will actually come to pass. A self-fulfilling prophecy, in fact.’

  His voice echoed around Hawking. I suddenly realised everything had gone very quiet. I looked around. All the techies were staring at us. All of IT were watching through their office window. A moment frozen in time.

  He lowered his voice. ‘Please do not think I don’t appreciate the value and uniqueness of St Mary’s. I was honoured beyond words to be given this position. I want to do my best for you – all of you – and St Mary’s, but I can’t do it without your cooperation and if you’re not going to give it, Dr Maxwell, then get out of my way.’

  The gloves were off. ‘This unit is politically neutral. It is built into our charter. No one attempts to influence our findings. And yet, here you are, no historical qualifications, a military man who is an employee of the state, filling the place up with more unqualified military personnel. Tell me again how neutral you are.’

  I swear I could actually feel the air vibrate between us.

  ‘Enough,’ said a new voice, and Peterson was at my shoulder. I had no idea where he’d sprung from. ‘Max, your strong opinions are beginning to compromise the politeness with which we deal with each other here, and Commander Treadwell might possibly be underestimating the apprehension people feel about the future of this organisation.’

  He was right but I was buggered if I was going to let Treadwell claim the moral high ground so I said, ‘Of course, Dr Peterson. With your permission, I shall confer with Mr Dieter on pod availability for the Babylon jump.’

  ‘A very good idea,’ said Treadwell, more difficult to shift than red wine on a white carpet.

  Peterson shot me a look and walked off. He doesn’t throw his weight about very o
ften. I should listen – before both Treadwell and I said something I would regret – so I gestured Treadwell ahead of me and took him into Number Eight where Dieter and I walked him through everything. The questions he asked were intelligent ones and it did occur to me that if he hadn’t replaced Dr Bairstow then I might have quite liked him. Which reminded me . . . as we walked back down the Long Corridor towards Wardrobe, I asked about Dr Bairstow’s funeral.

  ‘I had word this morning,’ he said. ‘There will be a post-mortem and then the body will be released. I’ll let everyone know when that happens and we can arrange something. It will be a big affair. There will be people from London, from Thirsk . . .’

  ‘The Parish Council,’ I said gloomily, ‘even if only to make sure he actually stays in his coffin.’

  He said quite seriously, ‘I am sorry for your loss, Dr Maxwell. And I wish I’d known him better.’

  I honestly couldn’t work out if he was a genuinely nice bloke in the wrong job or a smiling knife saying what he thought I wanted to hear. I nodded, not wanting to talk about it, and changed the subject, asking him if he’d yet met the Parish Council personally.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, smiling. ‘Delightful people, aren’t they? I flatter myself that Mrs Huntley-Palmer and I really hit it off.’

  I stared at him suspiciously. Not for the first time, I had the impression he was enjoying a private joke, somehow. With very nearly completely concealed misgivings, I politely enquired if he intended to accompany us on this jump.

  Equally politely, he said, ‘Not on this jump. I feel it’s rather early to leave St Mary’s to its own devices, but one day soon, yes.’

  And then we arrived at Wardrobe for our meeting with Mrs Enderby.

  ‘We are going for the average-citizen look,’ she said. ‘In the words of St Mary’s: too poor to rob – too posh to kick.’ She gestured to a work table piled high with sumptuous fabrics. A whole spectrum of colour on this dull morning.

  ‘Costumes for both men and women are basically similar,’ she said. ‘We’ll start with the usual undertunic – for modesty and to provide pockets – covered with shawls of various colours and designs. You and your people will need to put in some practice, Max – the way a shawl is wound around the body denotes status and can sometimes send a subtle message. You will need to make sure any messages you do send are the right ones. Did you say something, Commander?’

  ‘No, no,’ he said quickly. ‘Just slightly amused at your use of the words “Max” and “subtle” together in one sentence. Do please continue.’

  ‘Well, there will be headdresses for the women and caps for the men. Everything will be ornate and overdecorated. We’ll pare things back for ease of movement, Max, but you’ll all need to remember to move smoothly and gracefully.’

  We both peered suspiciously at Treadwell who appeared to be examining one of the rolls of material. ‘This looks . . .’

  ‘Expensive?’ I suggested.

  ‘Authentic, I was going to say.’

  ‘Oh, thank you,’ she said. ‘It’s not real silk, of course. A man-made material, Max, but that does not mean that you or your people are free to get it wet, or cover it in manure, dust, blood, or vomit.’

  Everyone looked at me. ‘Of course not,’ I said.

  ‘And a warning – the tunics are narrow so we’ll give you kick pleats and the headdresses are heavy so you probably won’t be able to do much running. Come back with your headdress or entangled in it, Max, but make sure you bring it back.’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Enderby.’

  We showed Treadwell the costumes completed so far. The last Big Job we’d done was Bronze Age Crete when, just for once, we women had worn the good stuff and the men wore hardly anything at all. Babylon was a little more sartorially forgiving to the allegedly stronger sex. Men’s tunics were belted and with a hemline that began above the knees then slanted to mid-calf at the back. Over this, they could throw a couple of fringed shawls – one around the shoulders and the other around the waist. Low-status men wore waist strings or tiny loincloths, but none of us would be low status, for which I thanked the heavens. Markham in a Cretan woman’s apron and nothing else was something I still saw in my nightmares.

  As Mrs Enderby had said, women’s costumes were very similar except the tunics were ankle-length. And we would all wear sandals.

  ‘All the fabrics are elaborately decorated,’ she said, pulling out a roll of fabulous cloth and unrolling it for our benefit. ‘Closely woven linen and cotton, silks and so on. Gorgeous applique, embroidery, beads and so on. Favourite colours are red, blue, gold and white. Not so much of the terracota shades here. The favourite, of course, is Tyrian purple.’ She looked at me. ‘Do not argue with anyone wearing purple, Max.’

  As if . . .

  ‘As to how our people will look,’ she continued. ‘Men’s hair is long and waved. Full beards and moustaches.’ She frowned. ‘Some of them will have to start now.’

  She was right. Glass, Hyssop’s youngest Half-Wit, had come to us with a massive shaving rash. Hyssop had ordered him to stop shaving but there’d been no corresponding growth. If he couldn’t produce the required length and bushiness in time, we might have to glue something on. Hair was important in this era. As I pointed out to Treadwell. Certain hairstyles denoted certain professions. Get it wrong and we’d be in trouble. As I pointed out to Treadwell.

  Female headdresses were intricate – obviously. I wasn’t going to get away with just a linen headcloth here. My long hair would be elaborately plaited and pinned around my head, which would make it look darker and keep it under control, as well. Bed hair was probably not fashionable in Babylon.

  The list of all those going was pinned on the wall – along with the usual photos and measurements.

  I stared at the Security Section’s photos and sighed. I had no idea how any of Hyssop’s people would perform. This was never going to end well.

  Since there were so many of us, I held the briefing in a corner of the Hall. To be fair to Treadwell, he made no attempt to impose himself, sitting quietly at the back.

  People fussed around with chairs and scratchpads. As I started to lay out my files and notes I could hear Sands and Sykes settling themselves in the front row.

  ‘Hey,’ said Sands chattily. ‘Did you know I work for Cunard?’

  Well, even I could have told him that was a mistake.

  With the air of Eowyn whipping off her helmet and declaring she was no man, Sykes moved on to the offensive. ‘No, you don’t.’

  ‘No, I know I don’t, but . . .’

  Sykes likes to get her facts straight. ‘You work for St Mary’s.’

  ‘Yes, but for the purposes of . . .’

  ‘We all do,’ she said firmly, just in case there was any doubt.

  ‘No, when I say I work for Cunard . . .’

  She put her hands on her hips. ‘Which you don’t . . .’

  Sands appeared somewhat frayed around the edges. ‘No, I know, but . . . you know what? Bloody forget it. I work for St Mary’s and you’re all a bunch of half-witted, humourless wazzocks with the razor-sharp intelligence of a whelk. No, not you, Mrs Midgley . . . I didn’t mean . . . Bollocks.’

  He shot off to placate our housekeeper.

  We have a tried-and-tested briefing formula and I didn’t deviate even for a second. I started by naming the teams – which took about fifteen seconds and in no way represented the hours of discussion, negotiating and shouting that it had taken to get to that point – and outlined their main areas of responsibility.

  ‘Team One will consist of Mr Keller, Mr Glass and Mr Harper. Team Two will be Mr Clerk, Miss Prentiss, Captain Hyssop and Mr Scarfe. Team Three will consist of Mr Sands, Mr Evans and me.’

  I didn’t want to leave any time for argument, so moving swiftly on, I brought up large-scale maps of Babylon.

  ‘A big city,’
I said. ‘Walled and gated. Ten gates – that we know of – and bisected by the Euphrates, north to south. Mr Keller’s team will undertake the mapping of the town. The usual stuff – street plans, major landmarks, canals and so forth. There isn’t much of Babylon left these days. Mud bricks tend to return to their original components after a while, so this should prove to be very useful.’

  I turned to Hyssop. ‘I’m assuming your people all have basic mapping skills.’

  She looked surprised. ‘Of course, but . . .’

  ‘Good.’ I moved on while she was still thinking about it. ‘Mr Clerk and Miss Prentiss, Captain Hyssop and Mr Scarfe will check out the Ishtar Gate and then move on to the many temples and religious shrines with which Babylon is so well endowed. I’d like you to pay particular attention to Ishtar in her dual aspect of goddess of both fertility and war. Do not underestimate her importance – Nebuchadnezzar has built this fabulous gate in her honour. She’s an important figure and will remain so until the rise of Christianity and Islam.’

  They nodded, fingers flying over their scratchpads. Hyssop’s people sat ominously quiet and still. People who don’t take notes worry me.

  I swallowed down my misgivings and pushed on. ‘Mr Sands and I, accompanied by Mr Evans, will be looking at Etemenanki . . .’

  ‘Enty . . . what?’ said Keller.

  ‘Etemenanki,’ I said, the syllables rolling off my tongue but only because I’d spent all last night practising. ‘Or, if you like, the Tower of Babel.’

  Keller grinned at Evans. ‘Rather you than me, mate.’

  I continued. ‘Should time permit, and after fulfilling our primary tasks, Teams Two and Three will then move on to the south-west area of the city – the poorer quarter. Miss Prentiss, I’d like you and Mr Clerk to check out the artisans’ quarter, between Nabopolassar’s Bridge and the Adad Gate. We suspect many of the tile works will be sited along the banks of the canal there. I’d like you to look at the method of making the blue tiles for which the city is famous.

  ‘When we’ve finished at the Tower of Babel, Mr Sands and I will be looking at the commercial aspects – markets, merchants, shops and so forth – and if we have any spare time, the canal and irrigation systems and their impact on commercial life. Are there any questions?’