An Argumentation of Historians

by Jodi Taylor

  Well, that was true, but I had no idea what he was talking about.

  He thumped me on the arm, unlocked the door and clattered off down the corridor.

  The memo came round that afternoon. To all Heads of Departments. Peterson called me up and we had a good laugh over it. He’d changed the Security Section’s call sign from ‘Hawthorn’ to ‘Horse’s Arse.’

  We weren’t getting things all our own way, however. We might have escaped having the idiot Halcombe foisted upon us, but Thirsk were still muttering about a presence on the jump, which meant Miss Dottle.

  ‘It’s a burning city,’ she said faintly, obviously having done her homework.

  ‘No, it’s not.’ I said, trying to reassure her. ‘Well, not to begin with.’

  ‘It bloody soon will be after St Mary’s turn up,’ said Sykes, which didn’t help at all.

  ‘Actually,’ said Peterson kindly. ‘I wondered if it would it be possible for Miss Dottle to remain here and assist me with the preparations for safe storage of the crown. I could certainly do with an extra pair of hands here. Miss Dottle, I know you’re probably itching to be out there with the rest of them, but I really would be grateful …’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ she said quickly. ‘I’m happy to help.’

  ‘Excellent,’ he said, beaming at her. ‘The more the merrier.’

  I flashed him a grateful glance. Problem solved.

  I stood up. ‘Right, everyone. The purpose of this assignment is twofold. To catch a sight of Alexander and his famous Companions as they burn the city of Persepolis, and to rescue anything we possibly can from said conflagration. This assignment will be considerably less structured than our previous jump to rescue the contents of the Library at Alexandria, because we don’t know what the Treasury will contain, or if it will even be possible to get anywhere near it. We are, therefore, going in without a fixed plan of action but the capacity to adapt to any situation in which we might find ourselves.

  ‘Being optimistic, we have already despatched Mr Atherton and Professor Rapson to identify a suitable burial site for anything we do manage to lay our hands on. If you could update us please, Professor.’

  ‘Thank you, Max. Well, we’ve sourced appropriate containers and material with which to manufacture pitch and we’ve located a safe refuge in which to bury anything we do manage to rescue. The whole thing is very similar to our jaunt to Alexandria. Goodness me, what a long time ago that seems now.’

  He paused, presumably rummaging through his memories, but since a good number of those would involve Clive Ronan and a homemade flame thrower, I thought it best to move him on.

  He was pulling up maps and diagrams. I looked at the absorbed faces around me and I too couldn’t help remembering our very first search-and-rescue assignment. I suddenly realised how few of us were still left. People had died there. Good people. I remembered Big Dave Murdoch, the gentle giant, and young Jamie Cameron with his shock of dark hair. I don’t visit their graves as often as I should because there’s one out there for Madeleine Maxwell and it’s not an easy sight to see. And one for Helen Foster and that’s even worse.

  Evans was lolling back in his chair and banging away on his scratchpad. Without looking at Markham, he said, ‘Do you want five-minute position checks?’

  Silence fell. Everyone looked at Markham who didn’t answer. The silence lengthened, almost to the point where it became uncomfortable. People stirred and still Markham said nothing. I held my breath. The situation needed the very lightest of touches. Evans wasn’t a bad lad. None of them were. They just needed to realise this new Markham wasn’t the old Markham.

  Becoming aware of the long silence, Evans looked up and gazed around the table. It took a moment or two and then the penny dropped. Flushing, he sat up straight and said, ‘Sorry. Do you want five-minute position checks, sir?’

  Markham nodded as though nothing had happened. ‘A good thought. Yes, five-minute position checks initially. Once the place is on fire, increase to two minutes, I think.’

  All the tension went out of the room. People nodded.

  Just to reinforce the point, I said, ‘Mr Markham is the one who will call “time” on this assignment. We will take our instructions from him. Is that clear to everyone?’

  People nodded, and the briefing continued without a hitch.

  ‘Mr Dieter, I understand work on TB2 is completed.’

  Dieter nodded. ‘There are still one or two minor tests to complete but I guarantee it will be ready on time.’ He sighed heavily. ‘Try not to break it.’

  ‘As if,’ said Sykes, indignantly.

  And he sighed again. The sigh of a man who has been dealing with the History Department for longer than could reasonably be expected.

  I coughed and continued.

  ‘The medical team will have their base in our newly rebuilt TB2, along with Professor Rapson, Dr Dowson, Miss Lingoss, and Miss North. Mr Keller will be there to keep order.

  ‘Mr Clerk’s team – that’s me, Mr Markham, Mr Atherton and Mr Evans, will be in Number Eight. Our priority is Alexander, obviously, but anyone else we can get as well.

  ‘Mr Bashford, Miss Sykes, Mr Dieter and Mr Cox – you’re in Number Six. Make your way to the Treasury and wait for any opportunities that may arise. No one is to take any unnecessary risks …’ I was wasting my time there. All risks are necessary according to St Mary’s.

  I paused, because the next bit was important. ‘From the moment the first fires are lit, Mr Markham will have overall control of the assignment. I will say this only once – when he says to move out you will move out. No arguments. We will remain in constant contact. All coms open at all times. No one leaves their group. If anyone is injured then the entire team returns to their pod. No ifs or buts. Doctor Stone will then assess the situation and only if he deems it safe for them to continue will that team return to their assignment.’

  I could see Peterson tapping away at his scratchpad. He didn’t look very happy. I flashed him a grin of almost manic optimism. He rolled his eyes.

  We drew our kit. Fire suits and breathing apparatus for those in Number Six, and loose Persian robes for everyone else. My chiton was a long, loose linen tunic in a dull, browny colour that almost certainly marked me out as a member of the servant class. Over that I would wind a silk stole in vivid reds and greens that almost certainly marked me out as a member of the servant-owning class. According to Mrs Enderby, I could move between the two worlds simply by wearing or not wearing the stole. Nor was I wearing the traditional Persian ladies’ light and elegant footwear, settling instead for sturdy leather shoes. Not what a Persian lady would wear at all, but I would be able to run, climb and possibly kick, should the situation call for such measures.

  Outside Number Eight, Peterson, who’d come down to ensure we were safely off the premises, surveyed my multi-purpose costume.

  ‘So as usual everyone else will be doing the work and you’ll be … doing what, exactly?’

  ‘Oh you know, wafting about the place, bringing colour and excitement to everyone’s day.’

  ‘For God’s sake, take care, Max. I shan’t be around to look after you on this one.’

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ I said. ‘You just keep an eye on that crown. If anything happens to that then burning alive at Alexandria will be the least of my problems.’

  We shook hands and he took himself off to the gantry to watch our departure.

  I climbed into the pod where the others were already waiting. Leon was giving the console a final check. He turned as I entered and blinked at my costume.

  I put my hands on my hips. ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing,’ he said, in that voice that actually means ‘everything’.

  ‘It’s functional,’ I said defensively.

  ‘It’s bright.’

  ‘Says the man wearing orange,’ said Markham unwisely.

  Markham had gone for practical in a loose robe which could easily be discarded for the short tunic underneath. Leon turned
and looked him up and down. ‘Were you on your way to bed?’

  ‘I don’t wear anything in bed,’ said Markham, affronted.

  Leon grinned. ‘Not even a hopeful expression?’

  ‘There’s a lot of leg on show,’ I said. ‘I’m not sure Persepolis is ready for your nether limbs. And I’m certain it’s not historically accurate.’

  ‘That’s me,’ said Markham proudly. ‘Always going outside the box.’

  ‘Like a badly house-trained kitten,’ said Leon.

  Markham turned to me. ‘I tell you what, Max, next time you find a bloke lying under a wall in Constantinople, just bloody well leave him there, will you.’

  Leon looked him up and down again. ‘Says the man held together by staples.’

  Checks complete, he picked up his gear and headed for the door.

  Everyone tactfully looked somewhere else as we shook hands.

  ‘Take care.’

  ‘I always do,’ I said, affronted.

  Someone, somewhere, snorted.

  ‘And for God’s sake, look after that crown. It’ll be a bit of a bugger if we get back only to find someone from the Technical Department has accidentally built it into Number Four.’

  ‘What do you mean, accidentally?’ muttered Markham.

  Leon sighed. ‘Just go, will you?’ He smiled for me alone and then the door closed behind him.

  ‘Right, you lot,’ I said. ‘Everyone set? Computer, initiate jump.’

  ‘Jump initiated.’

  And the world went white.

  Persepolis is often described as a city, but it was a city in two parts. The main part – the bit we were concerned with – was the ceremonial area; the complex of official buildings such as palaces, throne rooms, audience halls, civic buildings, the harem, the treasury and so on, all set on a massive artificial terrace some fifty or sixty feet high.

  Unfortunately, even the most fabulous city in the world needs working bits and pieces to keep it going and, in contrast to the pomp and splendour of the palaces on the terrace, the surrounding plain was smothered in a disorganised and very motley collection of mostly mudbrick, wood and animal-hide structures that provided housing and working areas for all the people who actually made the place work – the masons, metalworkers, carpenters, goldsmiths, artists, sculptors, butchers, bakers, leather workers, grooms, recreational ladies and so on. All the thousands of people necessary to keep the Great King in the luxury he obviously felt he deserved.

  Sadly, Alexander’s army had been through the place like a plague of locusts. He’d promised his men the city to loot, while keeping the contents of the Treasury for himself, and they’d taken full advantage of the opportunity. That was why they followed him, after all. Alexander might dream of conquering the world, but it was the promise of rich pickings that interested his soldiers.

  The structures nearest the palaces had been razed to the ground. Broken, blackened walls stuck up like jagged teeth. The buildings on the outskirts had fared better, however. Whether this was because the poorer quarter had little to offer in the way of hidden loot, I don’t know, but about two thirds of the city remained untouched and people, men and women, seemed to be moving around as usual. The presence of Alexander’s army with its tents and campfires encircling the city did not appear to be impeding commercial life in any way. The streets weren’t thronged with people, but they certainly weren’t empty. People still moved around, a lot of them staggering under heavy loads because Alexander had commandeered nearly every pack animal in the northern hemisphere to transport his stolen loot to Susa.

  Soldiers stood at every street corner, most of them leaning against the walls and staring at the women. Their spears leaned with them so they obviously weren’t expecting any trouble. These were professional soldiers who would fight their way from Macedonia to northern India and there was no showing off in glittering armour or ornate helmets. They were competent-looking men and, in the way of soldiers everywhere, not looking for any trouble unless it came looking for them.

  Water cisterns stood at regular intervals, presumably for use by the public and their animals. Periodically, slaves would emerge to damp down the streets with water in an unsuccessful attempt to combat the clouds of dust enveloping everything in sight. A surprisingly considerate idea, although it was likely the slaves’ priority was to protect the gorgeous palaces and their even more gorgeous occupants from the thick clouds of red dust mixing with the smoke from innumerable small fires.

  Everyone seemed quite calm. There were no bodies swinging from gallows or heads impaled on spikes. No one was being executed or dragged off to prison. In the less gorgeous part of the city at least, life seemed to be much as normal. Alexander was, in the main, a benevolent conqueror. As long as you submitted to his rule, behaved yourself and paid your taxes, then life would continue pretty much as before. He’d help himself to any treasure knocking around, install a puppet government and then push off to conquer someone else. He’d recently returned from an expedition to subdue the mountain tribes, all of whom had surrendered with flattering rapidity, so everyone was in a good mood.

  We spent an hour getting our bearings, working out where everyone was in relation to everyone else and just watching Persepolian life. I’d split the screen and we had all the cameras going.

  Number Eight was outside the palace complex on the north-west side, about four hundred yards from the Great Stairway and the Gate of All Nations. Yes, it was the main entrance and very grand and very public, and I’m sure there would be other gates as well, but the mudbrick walls surrounding the palace were over sixty feet high with regular towers and look-out posts, all heavily manned, and we didn’t want to draw attention to ourselves by going out and poking around for more discreet entrances. Just because no one was actually being publicly executed at this exact moment didn’t mean that couldn’t change in a heartbeat. No, we’d take our chances at the Gate.

  Number Six was – we hoped – safely lost in the maze of miscellaneous outbuildings between the Throne Hall of Xerxes and the outside wall. We had spread out as much as we were able to, just in case of trouble. One pod inside the complex, one outside and one, TB2, down in the town. Hope for the best, plan for the worst, as they say, and no matter where anyone found themselves in difficulty, there should be a pod not too far away.

  As I said, the much larger and harder to conceal TB2 was parked about a quarter of a mile away, all ready to do duty as safe haven, hospital, treasure repository, tea station and so forth. Keller and Lingoss, under the direction of Professor Rapson, would be disguising it with stuff carefully selected from the piles of old rubbish lying around – leaning lengths of charred timber against one side, and scattering around a few broken pots, a rickety old ladder, and a two-legged stool. The real find – a dead dog – had been laid carefully across the threshold, despite the hygiene-based protests of Dr Stone.

  ‘We won’t move until just before dusk,’ I said. ‘Easier for everyone. They’re not going to start carousing at half past four in the afternoon. And everyone agrees they were all well and truly pissed when they set fire to the place. Is everyone clear on where and when they should be?’

  They were, of course, but it never does any harm to remind people occasionally.

  My team were to shadow Alexander, getting as much footage of him they could. There are very few images of Alexander and no one knows for sure what he looked like so anything we could get would be worth its weight in gold to Thirsk.

  The other team was to ignore everything going on around them – drunken soldiers, wild carousing, panicking people, leaping flames, stampedes, falling buildings – the little things, as Bashford had said – and get themselves to the Treasury to wait and see. I’d given them the freedom to make their own decisions and act as they saw fit until Markham gave the word to evacuate. I’d spoken sternly about not taking unnecessary risks but to historians there’s no such thing.

  The sun was a red ball of fire, sinking slowly into the dusty horizon. Street
life continued at full pace. I’d wondered if there would be a curfew, but apparently not. If anything, there seemed to be even more people on the streets than when we arrived. Dark shadows crept across the landscape. There’s very little twilight in these latitudes. And now it was time to go.

  I spared a moment to wonder how things were going at St Mary’s and then put it firmly out of my mind. Everyone had a job to do and should focus only on that. Dr Bairstow, Peterson and Captain Ellis were all far more capable than me. They would have everything well in hand there and I should be getting on with things here. I felt my heart lift a little. A chance to see Alexander …

  We all wished each other luck and slipped out into the gathering dark.

  The air smelled of sweet perfumes, incense, spices, dust, hot people and even hotter animal products. The ends of my stole flapped in the wind and I took a moment to wind it more tightly around my face, covering my mouth against the all-pervasive dust. The sand underfoot was coarse and gravelly and would, I knew from experience, easily and painfully work its way into all my nooks and crannies. Trust me, when you come back from this sort of assignment, there’s half a desert in the bottom of your shower tray.

  There were no streets as such – just narrow, gritty paths meandering around groups of buildings. Goats and really rough-looking sheep stood or lay silently in makeshift pens. Skinny stray dogs slunk past looking for somewhere to sleep and even skinnier cats were waking up and setting off to see what the night might bring.

  With the sun gone, faint stars began to appear. The sky above me was a deep, rich purple, shading to a glowing lavender on the horizon.

  I opened my com and called up Bashford. ‘All set?’

  ‘Ready when you are.’

  ‘Good luck, everyone.’

  We had no difficulty getting into the palace complex. There was a constant procession of people traipsing up and down the Great Staircase and in and out of the Gate of All Nations. We needn’t have worried about blending in, either. This was a very cosmopolitan city. There were all sorts here – and all nationalities. Soldiers, traders, minor palace officials, and a massive number of slaves. Everyone was heading in the same direction, too. Under the Persian kings, Medes and Persians had taken a shorter, more privileged processional route to the Great King, while lesser and conquered peoples went the long way around. Now, everyone just piled in. There was some muttering and jostling, but everyone had an eye on the ever-present soldiers and behaved themselves.