An Argumentation of Historians

by Jodi Taylor

  ‘Well,’ he said, fending me off with one hand and reaching for his tea with the other. ‘This is very nice. Don’t think I’m not appreciative, but why?’

  ‘Don’t get excited. I do the same to every man who brings me tea.’

  ‘Well, thank God for that. I wouldn’t want to think I was a special case.’

  I laughed, even though I really wanted to cry for him. I could see he needed to close his eyes and rest, so I told him I’d see him later and pushed off, taking my tea with me.

  I headed for my office. Rosie Lee wasn’t there, which never surprised me. She was obviously off savaging someone else.

  I sat at my desk, cradled my mug of tea, put my feet up and had a bit of a think. It took a while. I had to hit on something that would be a perfectly legitimate assignment – something that would win the approval of both Dr Bairstow and the Chancellor, produce a tangible result, and still give me the freedom to go off and be bait.

  I pulled up the outstanding assignments list. Once a year, I lay everything out over about four tables and plan the coming year’s assignments. There’s the stuff that comes down from Thirsk, which takes priority, obviously, since they’re paying. Then there’s any uncompleted assignments from the previous year – there aren’t usually many of those. Then there’s anything we, St Mary’s, feel warrants further investigation and, finally, there are people’s personal wish-lists. I felt a momentary pang for Ian Guthrie. He was never going to get to Bannockburn now.

  I laid it all out chronologically and sifted through, picking up one assignment, discarding it in favour of another, whittling them down until, at last, I thought I had exactly what I was looking for.

  I took the file back to my desk, topped up my tea and put my feet up again, assuming the traditional St Mary’s thinking position.

  Persepolis.

  Originally known as Parsa, City of the Persians, Persepolis was the ancient capital of Persia, built in 518BC by Darius the Great to house his greatest treasures. And not just gold. There were literary works by the foremost scholars of the day and fabulous art, collected from all around the Persian Empire. The city and palaces had been greatly enhanced by Xerxes the Great – yes, that Xerxes! – the one who invaded Greece, overcame the Spartans at Thermopylae, and was eventually defeated at Salamis, but not before he had burned much of Greece, including the Parthenon at Athens. Something for which he was never forgiven and would have dire repercussions for Persepolis.

  Anyway, that was the city, light, bright and lovely until Alexander the Great – another ‘Great’; although to be fair, he did deserve the name – turned up in 330BC, conquered the place and then, for reasons never clearly understood, set fire to it. The most magnificent city in all of Persia became known as The Place of the Forty Columns, those forty columns being all that is left standing.

  There’s some dispute as to why Alexander, usually a fairly benevolent conqueror as long as no one gave him any trouble, should choose to burn this magnificent city to the ground. Diodorus Siculus says he and his men were all as pissed as newts at a party, and the courtesan, Thaïs, suggested burning the city as revenge for the Persians burning Athens. A fitting humiliation, she said, to have their finest city destroyed by women. Plutarch and the Roman, Quintus Curtius Rufus more or less agree with this account. Arrian of Nicomedia however, maintains Alexander was sober at the time and it was a deliberate act of revenge.

  No one disagrees that Alexander did burn Persepolis, the debate has always been about why. This was something we might be able to settle.

  And – and this would appeal to our overlords at Thirsk – there was always the chance we’d be able to rescue something valuable from the wreckage. By valuable I don’t necessarily mean gold and silver. Alexander stripped the Treasury long before he burned it. Apparently, it took twenty thousand mules and five thousand pack camels to carry it all away, but there are other treasures besides silver and gold. It’s very possible that records, scrolls, tablets, anything not intrinsically valuable would be left behind as too much trouble to shift, but to us – and to Thirsk – that sort of thing was far more valuable than gold.

  We can’t remove anything from its own time – neither people nor objects, but some time ago, I’d inadvertently brought back a fir cone from the Cretaceous Period. I hadn’t noticed at time because I was being chased by a T.rex – as you frequently are in the Cretaceous, let me tell you. Anyway, when I eventually got back, there was this poor little fir cone, burned and damaged and caught in the lining of my jacket. It seemed that if an object was about to be destroyed – if it wasn’t in a position to influence the future timeline in any way – it could be safely removed without jeopardising time, History, or the universe in general. A very useful piece of information that has allowed us to rescue a small part of the library at Alexandria from the Christians, a couple of Botticellis – also from the Christians, now I come to think of it – King John’s lost treasure, and one or two other things along the way as well. Anything like that always makes us very popular with Thirsk and doesn’t do our funding any harm either. From what I remembered, Persepolis’ archive was famous for holding copies of the Zoroastrian Avesta – beautifully written on goatskin in golden ink. If even a smallest fragment of that could be rescued, then it would be priceless.

  So, on the plus side we’d get:

  A glimpse of the magnificent city of Persepolis before it burned, although hopefully only in our rear-view mirror as we made another successful getaway.

  Possibly a sight of Alexander, his Companions, Thaïs, and all that merry crew as they danced about setting fire to everything in sight.

  The opportunity to rescue fabulous documents before they were toast.

  Really, I couldn’t see a downside anywhere. And it ticked so many boxes.

  Dr Bairstow would like it because the Chancellor would like it and the Chancellor would be ecstatic at the thought of all those goatskin scrolls. We’d love it because we might get the opportunity to solve one of the greatest mysteries of the ancient world. What made Alexander do it? The chance to find out would keep St Mary’s happy. So, as I said – no downside. It was perfect.

  I sat and stared for a while, my brain devising and discarding all sorts of scenarios, and then I telephoned Kalinda Black at Thirsk and talked at her for ten minutes or so.

  At the end of it she said faintly, ‘Why are you telling me this?’

  ‘You’re our liaison officer. I’m liaising.’

  ‘You’re giving me a bloody heart attack.’

  ‘Rubbish. Nothing gives you heart attacks. You’re a cause of them in others. What do you think?’

  ‘Safe in the knowledge you’ll never get it past Dr Bairstow, I think it’s a great idea.’

  That was all I needed.

  I spent the rest of the day on the phone to various people.

  I chucked Rosie Lee out of the office and, would you believe it, she took offence and said she had a lot on at the moment, moving subtly to hide her almost empty ‘In’ tray. ‘And who will make your tea?’

  I snarled, ‘The same person who always makes my tea,’ picked up her ‘In’ tray, thrust it at her and told her to make herself scarce. I’ve no idea where she went.

  I couldn’t have done it without Kal. If you’re ever planning something outrageous and risky and borderline illegal then, trust me, Kal’s your man. Or whatever. We mounted a two-pronged attack and eventually, grudgingly, the permissions came through.

  Only for forty-eight hours, though, was the warning. Not a second longer.

  Forty-eight hours was fine. If my scheme worked then forty-eight minutes should be enough.

  I read my mission plan through again – I don’t know why; it wasn’t as if I didn’t know it off by heart – and then I bundled everything together and went to see Dr Bairstow.

  He took his time, reading through my Persepolis notes twice, scanning the pod and staffing lists, the equipment requisitions, twirling my data stacks – that’s nowhere near as impr
oper as it sounds – before finally closing everything down, folding his hands and staring at me across his desk.

  I grinned at him because I knew what he was going to say.

  ‘Well planned,’ he said. ‘Detailed, do-able and …’

  ‘Dull?’ I suggested. ‘Unimaginative? Unoriginal?’

  ‘Forgive me, Dr Maxwell, but I do detect a certain lack of … originality in your scheme?’

  I grinned again. ‘I hope so, sir.’

  He twirled the data stack. ‘You appear to be setting up a scenario in which you almost invite Clive Ronan to swoop in and shoot you.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘You don’t think that’s a little – obvious?’

  I can’t help it. I’m a showman, too.

  I brought up the second part of my plan.

  He read it through. And read it through again. And read it through for a final time. I waited patiently because every reading was a step nearer acceptance. Finally, he looked over his desk at me.

  ‘I might find it quite difficult to apply the word “unoriginal” to this part of your proposed plan.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘That wasn’t a compliment.’

  Well, there’s no pleasing some people, but it was probably best not to mention that.

  ‘If you could give me the entire scenario, please.’

  ‘From beginning to end, sir?’

  ‘If it’s not too much trouble.’

  ‘We strip St Mary’s of personnel and send everyone off to Persepolis.’

  ‘Leaving St Mary’s virtually unguarded.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And in the meantime …?’

  ‘In the meantime, while we’re away, you take delivery of the Crown of the Empress Mathilda.’

  ‘Which just happens to be passing at the time?’

  ‘Not exactly, sir. It’s on its way to be exhibited at the British Museum.’

  He blinked. ‘Why would it pause here?’

  ‘For us to study, photograph, to make a holo – the usual things we do, sir.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘We have dibs on it, sir. We discovered it. On our land. We generously donated it to the University of Thirsk. This is a gesture to demonstrate their goodwill and gratitude towards us.’

  A word of explanation here. A little while ago, seeking to rehabilitate ourselves in the hypercritical eyes of our paymasters, we’d discovered a small number of items supposedly ‘lost’ by King John in the Wash and turned the whole lot over to them. Part of the hoard was the supposed Crown of the Empress Mathilda.

  Dr Bairstow frowned. ‘Is the Chancellor aware of the extent of their goodwill and gratitude?’

  ‘I believe Dr Black is apprising her of it now, sir.’

  ‘And while the crown is lodging here?’

  ‘Clive Ronan swoops down and steals it from us, sir.’

  He blinked. ‘Forgive my asking, Dr Maxwell – are you insane?’

  ‘Certainly not, sir. Dr Stone had me tested.’

  He sighed. ‘Explain to me again, how this scenario will play out.’

  ‘The crown is here, sir, virtually unguarded because everyone is at Persepolis, but actually the building will be riddled with Time Police officers, sir, who will arrest him as soon as he sets foot outside of his pod.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Do please forgive my denseness, but is it likely I would have the Crown of the Empress Mathilda here without an adequate security presence?’

  ‘Not at all, sir. Your detailed and meticulous plans are based on the crown arriving here after the security section returns from Persepolis. Unfortunately, the crown will arrive two days early. While we’re all still away.’

  ‘Why?’

  I must admit, even my ingenuity had failed me over this one. I struck out at random.

  ‘An administrative cock-up, sir. Happens all the time.’

  He blinked. ‘I look forward to being present when you attempt to explain to Mrs Partridge that everything is about to be her fault.’

  ‘If you don’t mind, sir, I’ll take my chances with a burning city collapsing around me and leave the more hazardous side of the assignment to you.’

  ‘You don’t intend to remain at St Mary’s then?’

  ‘Well, I was tempted, sir, but it would rather give the game away don’t you agree? Is it likely I’d stay behind and miss this important assignment to Persepolis? And remember – the crown isn’t supposed to show up until after our return.’

  He nodded. ‘An attitude of self-preservation I never thought to witness in an historian.’

  ‘Persepolis will be a far less dangerous environment, sir. And, hopefully, well outside the blast zone of Mrs Partridge’s professional indignation.’

  He sighed. ‘Max …’

  ‘I know, sir, but I really think it might tempt him. It’s just the sort of thing he would go for. A deserted St Mary’s and a fabulous crown – his for the taking. It will make us look the most complete incompetents. We’ll be in no end of trouble with Thirsk. Our credibility will be blown. All at comparatively little risk to himself. I don’t think he’ll be able to resist.’

  ‘And we do have to use the real crown?’

  ‘Oh, I think so, sir, don’t you?’

  ‘Well … no.’

  ‘Sir …’

  ‘We could not, for example, use something slightly less valuable and irreplaceable?’

  ‘It’s the bait, sir. I don’t think he’d turn up for a ledger of 16th-century household accounts.’

  ‘I mean, Dr Maxwell, must we use the crown itself as bait? Could we not simply place a large rock in a suitable container, clearly mark it “Crown of the Empress Mathilda – Do Not Touch” and let events take their course without in any way imperilling one of the most valuable artefacts in the country?’

  ‘I think we have to use the real thing, sir. We need to make it as realistic as possible. Everyone will see it setting off from Thirsk on its journey to London. It’s going to be on TV.’

  He looked alarmed. ‘And will everyone see it arriving here?’

  ‘No, sir. Just leaving Thirsk and arriving in London.’

  ‘So how will Ronan know of its overnight stay here?’

  ‘I have no idea, sir, but I’m sure he will. Especially when you vigorously deny every rumour that it would break its journey here.’

  ‘You want me to lie to the press?’

  ‘Well, it’s not as if they don’t lie to us, sir.’

  ‘But …’

  ‘Actually, I want you to lie to everyone, sir. If you don’t mind, of course.’

  ‘And where am I supposed to keep this priceless artefact while we wait for it to be stolen from under our noses?’

  ‘I thought we could shove it in a bin labelled “Kitchen Waste” and leave it near the kitchen door ready for collection. No one’s going to find it there and then we substitute your large rock, sir. We wouldn’t want to take any chances with one of the most valuable artefacts in the country, would we?’

  He appeared to be temporarily lost for words. I think he suspected me of sarcasm.

  I took pity on him. ‘And then, sir, you very ostentatiously place the imposter crown in Hawking.’

  ‘Hawking?’

  ‘The safest place. Hawking in lockdown is almost impregnable.’

  ‘Not to Clive Ronan and his pod.’

  ‘Exactly, sir,’ I said, beaming. ‘We set up a token guard – remember we won’t have many security guards because they’ll all be at Persepolis because the crown turns up two days early. The Time Police set down one of their big pods – probably where TB2 parks, although that’s really up to you and Captain Ellis, sir. They engage their camouflage device and sit and wait. Their pod signature will be invisible amongst our own pods.’

  ‘As will Ronan’s.’

  ‘That’s true, sir, but if he wants the crown then he’s going to have to leave his pod and come and get it and that’s when we’ve got him. You’v
e got him. They’ve got him. Whatever. I’m certain the Clive Ronan apprehending part of the plan can be safely left to the Time Police. They depart with a chained and manacled Ronan, the crown continues its way to London, and – and this is the beauty of my plan, sir – we return from Persepolis with footage of a burning city and Alexander himself. And, with luck, we’ll be able to pick up some good stuff before the fire gets it. It’s all good, sir.’

  ‘Apart from the city being destroyed around you.’

  I waved aside these normal hazards of an historian’s working day and waited hopefully.

  Finally, he leaned forwards, picked up the data stacks and files and locked everything away in his filing cabinet.

  ‘Who else knows of this?’

  ‘At the moment, sir, only Dr Black knows of part of the scheme. As per your instructions, I haven’t mentioned anything to anyone else.’

  ‘Not even Leon?’

  Especially not Leon was the answer to that one. I sought for a non-committal answer. ‘As soon as you give me the go-ahead to do so, sir.’

  ‘Very well, Dr Maxwell, you may do so, but it must remain between the four of us for the time being. I don’t want to take any chances with this one. I shall speak to the Chancellor and then contact the Time Police to present your proposal. We shall take things from there.’

  Which reminded me – this was something I’d wanted to ask him and now seemed an excellent opportunity to do so. I inched forwards on my chair.

  ‘Excuse me, sir, I have to ask. How exactly do you contact the Time Police?’

  I think I imagined information-laden data streams stabbing their way into the future by means far too complex for my tiny historian brain.

  ‘I write them a letter,’ he said, calmly.

  I blinked. ‘I beg your pardon, sir.’

  ‘I write to them,’ he said again. ‘By means of the method known these days, I believe, as snail mail. How exactly did you think it worked?’

  I said, ‘Well, sir …’ and described the whole data-stream fantasy thing which he seemed to find quite amusing.

  ‘Let us assume, Dr Maxwell, that you wish to assassinate me.’