Last Prophecy of Rome

by Iain King

  The clothes on the side of his torso where he had skidded and landed in the car park were frayed. He lifted them up. The skin underneath was bruised, but otherwise fine. Two shards of window glass had penetrated his flesh, near his ribcage. He drew them out. Fortunately, the incisions weren’t deep, and little blood seeped out where they had been. Myles rubbed his shoulder, which was sore, but there was no serious damage. He was probably safe. For now.

  Myles desperately needed to reach Helen in Istanbul. If the plot to destroy America was about lead, then Myles had likely stopped it. But if it was about the plague, then Helen would be trying to stop it right now. And if she was only a little less lucky than Myles had been so far, she would definitely need help.

  Stealing a car around midnight in the middle of Germany was easy. Myles simply walked along the road, putting his hand to door handles and pulling on them as subtly as he could. The fifth vehicle he tried – a medium-sized Skoda, parked on a driveway set back from the main road – was unlocked.

  Quietly Myles climbed in, then spent more than ten minutes fiddling with the circuitry under the dashboard. He was trying to bypass the ignition switch, but it was hard because the manufacturers had clearly done something clever to stop it being ‘hotwired’. It wasn’t enough to change the way the different leads were connected.

  A puzzle: he tried to break it. He could tell there was no computer involved – inserting a key and turning it must be enough to disable whatever anti-hotwiring device had been installed. He saw how the key turned from ‘off’ through two other positions before it reached the ignition setting. Then he saw each of those positions had a different cable associated with it. Eventually, by working out the order he needed to make the connections, Myles was able to make the car start. He twisted the wires to fix them in place, and moved into the driving seat. The tank was almost completely full, meaning Myles could travel far before he would need to refuel – or steal another car.

  There were no roadblocks. If the authorities had decided to set them up, then they were nearer to the factory and Myles was already beyond their reach. He kept driving away from the factory site for more than twenty miles. There, driving onto the German autobahn, he turned south, then south-east.

  He was heading for Istanbul.

  Days VII-VIII

  Forty-Three

  Germany

  Istanbul was some two-thousand miles away – impossible to drive in a single stretch, and Myles was already worn and tired. His stomach was painfully empty, and his concentration was fading. He had lost his purple bag in the factory – no more food and water. He decided he would travel only until he was out of Germany before he took a much-needed break.

  By first light Myles had reached Pilsen in the Czech Republic, not far from Prague. Here he decided to drive his Skoda into a parking lot, where he climbed out and left it.

  He walked for a few streets until he came to more vehicles and did the same as before. He was soon driving away in a Mercedes, which he guessed was at least twenty years old. This he drove some twenty miles, until he abandoned it too, near a farm, where he decided to sleep through the day.

  Woken by deep hunger, Myles walked to a nearby village, hiding the side of his body and his torn clothes as much as he could. There he used his last euros to buy smoked meat, cheese and some bread. As he ate his impromptu picnic sitting by the roadside, Myles wondered about Helen, thinking she was probably making good progress with her investigation in Turkey. He understood Helen knew how to take care of herself, but it didn’t stop him from worrying that she might be in some kind of danger.

  Myles made the rest of the journey to Istanbul through a combination of hitchhiking – with a lorry driver to the border between Romania and Bulgaria – then by stealing a third vehicle, a cheap-looking Ford.

  He passed several large camps set up near the Danube for refugees fleeing from the East. The thought of warm soup and other food – perhaps even fresh clothes – tempted him inside. But, like the camps for desperate migrants set up by the Romans, he knew the authorities would try to keep him inside. He’d be kept away from Helen. They might even recognise him and send him back to court. He had to keep moving.

  He drove the Ford into Turkey – the only border where they asked for his passport. When Myles pretended he couldn’t find it, he was made to wait on one side, then managed to drive through when the guards changed. He soon reached Istanbul itself, parking the car in the outskirts of the city before he enjoyed the last of his bread and meat. The thought of meeting up with Helen again made him smile.

  Istanbul – he’d made it.

  Stopping at a public payphone, he tried to call Helen’s unregistered mobile. No answer. He tried again. Still no response.

  Next he dialled her normal mobile. That went straight to answerphone. Myles decided the phone was probably being monitored, so it was best not to leave a message.

  He thought again, and remembered the name of the plague cemetery Helen had mentioned: the Cemetery of Emperor Justinian.

  He found a shop which was selling guidebooks of the city. One of the books contained a map. Carefully Myles unfolded it and tried to orientate himself. From a small index in the corner of the paper, Myles found the cemetery: the excavation was just outside the city walls, probably about three miles from where he was currently standing.

  Back in the car, Myles drove past the Roman heritage which still propped up the city. Temples, old marketplaces and ancient government buildings were everywhere. All empires leave a legacy. The Romans had left much more than most. What would be left of modern civilisation, if Juma managed to destroy it?

  He was also puzzled by why Helen hadn’t answered either of her phones. There could be a simple explanation for it, but Myles suspected something more sinister. The joy of a reunion with her was becoming clouded by fear.

  He drove on to the ancient cemetery, where he saw the canvas tent which covered the excavation site. Deliberately, Myles drove past, then parked up and watched.

  Nothing seemed to be happening. So Myles climbed out, closed the car door behind him and walked towards the tent.

  The entrance was tied up with thin rope. Myles listened from the outside until he was content no one was inside, then started to loosen the knot. The flap was soon undone and Myles could enter.

  Despite the eerie feel, the inside of the tent appeared to be empty. Myles moved further inside. He could see a peculiar scientific-looking chest and some benches.

  Then he moved towards the large hole in the centre of the tent. He leant over to look down. Some of the excavated soil surface was reflecting light, indicating it was wet. But there was something else, too. Myles squinted and saw a faint light. Something was glowing down in the ruins.

  Myles quickly climbed down the aluminium ladder, to the bottom of the excavation site, several metres below. He moved towards the glow and confirmed it was a mobile phone. He picked it up: one missed call. The call was timed to just over an hour ago, from a number in Istanbul. He flicked through the call log. There had been a call from Germany, and a call to an unusually short number in Germany about sixteen minutes later. The Germany emergency services: it was Helen’s unregistered phone.

  It meant that either Helen had lost it or, more likely, she was in trouble.

  With only the faint light from the phone, he could see old Roman tombs and broken architecture all around him. He realised this was one of the earlier graves for plague victims. Later ones were more hurried and less ornate.

  He touched the surface of the stones. Most had decayed beyond recognition. But one seemed to have letters carved into it which he could still make out. There was clearly a ‘C’ followed by ‘M’, then a space or a bump – hard to tell – but he thought it was probably an ‘X’. Next came another ‘X’ followed by ‘II’. Then a space, and three more letters: ‘AUC’. Vaguely, he remembered ‘AUC’ was short for ‘Ab Urba Condita’ – Latin for ‘from when the city was founded’, usually taken to be 753BC. It was how the R
omans counted years before they reset their system to the birth year of Jesus Christ. So this tomb was from before the Empire converted to Christianity. He worked through the Roman numerals: CMXXII – nine-hundred and twenty-two. Quick maths: 922 minus 753BC made it 169AD. The numerals spelt out the year of one of Rome’s great plagues. He was touching the gravestone of one of its victims.

  But something didn’t fit. He was in the Cemetery of Emperor Justinian, but this grave was about three and a half centuries older. It was an earlier plague. A half-memory from tutorials with Placidia flickered into his mind. What was he missing? He needed to remember…

  Then he noticed movement on the floor of the excavation pit. He turned to look closer: it was a human body, covered in a cloth and bound in ropes, lying alone on the floor of the site.

  Carefully, Myles approached. Then he saw a half-exposed face. It was a face he recognised immediately, and a jolt of horror suddenly passed through his entire body.

  Forty-Four

  Cemetery of Emperor Justinian, Istanbul

  Myles rushed over to Helen’s body, unsure whether she was unconscious, asleep or dead. He grabbed her and lifted her into his arms, shouting into her ear, ‘Helen, Helen…’

  She was still warm, but her body was limp. He registered the rope tied around her wrists but ignored it. Instead, he pushed back her hair to shout her name straight into her ear. She still didn’t respond. He kissed her on the lips, pushing his mouth to hers as hard as he could. Desperate, he slapped her face and shook her.

  Slowly Helen started to stir.

  ‘Helen – wake up!’

  She half-opened her eyes and saw Myles. Her face relaxed as she recognised him. Then she gulped and looked queasy.

  She grabbed his shoulder, then strained as she turned away. She was kneeling on the floor. Myles looked on, feeling helpless.

  Then Helen retched. Vomit flew out of her mouth onto the dusty floor of the excavation. She tried to regain her breath while remnants from her stomach dribbled down from her mouth. Then she hurled again, expelling much less this time. She spat out what remained in her mouth until her mouth was clear. Then she wiped her face and looked up at Myles. Her expression was an apology for what she had just done.

  ‘Are you OK?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Helen. ‘They injected me with something.’ She gestured to her arm.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Helen was speaking much more weakly than usual. ‘Juma’s people, I guess.’

  Myles rubbed her head and neck, trying to wake her some more. Then he peeled off the tape which was binding her wrists together. He lifted up her left sleeve to see a needle mark on her arm and ran his fingers over it, feeling a bump where the skin was inflamed. Trying to disguise his reaction, he put the sleeve back in place.

  After untying the cord around her ankles, he noticed Helen was shivering. Myles pulled her close and tried to warm her body with his. ‘What do you think they injected you with?’

  Helen didn’t answer. But they both knew what they feared: they were in an excavation for victims of the bubonic plague. Known as the Black Death when it had struck Europe in the 1340s and killed about forty per cent of the population, the bacterial illness had struck the Roman Empire several times, often with an increasingly terrible impact. Plague helped bring down the Roman Empire. Was Juma about to unleash it into the world again, with Helen as his first victim?

  Helen changed the subject. ‘I know how they did it,’ she said. ‘How they got you.’ She could tell Myles was confused. ‘The information about the Navy Seals going into Libya,’ she explained. ‘The stuff they found on your computer.’

  ‘They found stuff on my computer? That was their “evidence”?’

  ‘Yes, that’s why they arrested you,’ said Helen, nodding. ‘The raid turned out to be an ambush – Juma’s men had been warned the Special Forces were coming. So Homeland Security tried to work out how, and they found the secret plan for the raid was on your computer. But it had been planted there remotely.’

  Myles paused before responding. Helen was sick and he didn’t want to disappoint her. ‘That’s good news,’ he said. ‘But we already know any information like that must have been planted somehow.’

  Helen rolled her head. Myles didn’t get it. Then she coughed. ‘Myles, your computer was accessed by someone trying to set you up, and I know where it was accessed from.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘From Iraq. One of the computer guys in the studio identified internet traffic that went in before the Special Forces raid,’ she explained, desperate to get the words out despite her condition. ‘And he got an IP address, too.’

  Myles understood. ‘So you know who did it?’

  ‘Sort of,’ said Helen, less confident this time. ‘The IP address belongs to a Private Security firm in Iraq, based out in the Western Desert. It’s in Anbar Province.’

  ‘Does Roosevelt Security operate there?’

  ‘No. It’s a rival. A small start-up called “Galla Security”.’ Helen smiled weakly as she said ‘Galla Security’ – she’d been right about Placidia.

  Myles pondered. ‘Have you found out anything about them?’

  ‘There doesn’t seem to be much. Probably a local militia group which got a licence to become legal. They’re not big.’

  Myles put his hand on Helen’s forehead. It was cold. ‘How long ago did they inject you?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she replied. ‘It was soon after you called me from Germany.’

  Myles looked down at the patch of vomit, which was already half soaked up by the dust on the ground. If Helen did have the plague then she needed treatment fast. ‘We need to leave,’ he said. Then, more gently, he asked, ‘Do you think you can climb the ladder?’

  Helen looked up at the aluminium steps. She nodded. But the way she moved her head made clear to Myles that she wouldn’t reach the top without help.

  He steadied the metal frame and placed one foot on the bottom rung to keep it firm. Then he put one arm around Helen’s back and another under her knees, and pulled her close. She collapsed into him. Clutching her limp body to his chest he turned back to the ladder, and slowly started to haul himself up. He had to poke his elbows into the ladder as he climbed.

  Eventually they made it to the top. Trying to climb out onto the ground he slipped, but managed not to fall. Soon he could place both her feet firmly on the earth, where she staggered and sat down.

  Myles looked around the inside of the excavation tent for ideas. Antibiotics were what he needed. The plague was a bacterial disease, so it could be treated with antibiotics. But there were no antibiotics in the tent.

  He stood up and helped Helen to her feet. ‘We’ve got to get you to a hospital,’ he said. ‘And fast.’

  He put his arm under her shoulder and helped her stand. They started walking.

  Then a beam of light shone straight at his face. Myles was temporarily blinded. He tried to shield his eyes but still couldn’t see who was holding the torch. He called out. ‘Hello?’

  After a few seconds a voice replied. ‘Stand still, please, Mr Munro.’

  The torchlight moved closer. Then he saw the needle of a syringe glint in the beam.

  Myles knew what was about to happen. He was about to be injected with the disease too.

  He had to think quickly. No way to escape. No good going back down into the excavation pit. No way to fight back…

  Then he whispered to Helen. ‘Lick my hand.’

  ‘What?’

  Without waiting for permission, Myles pushed his fingers into Helen’s mouth. Her head reeled back in shock but didn’t resist.

  The torchlight and syringe approached closer. He heard someone else coming from behind, about to grab his arms.

  Myles spun round. Two Somali men were there, exposed by the torch now shining from behind Myles. One looked squat, the other nervous. Both froze as Myles squared up to them.

  Then Myles jabbed his wet
hand straight towards them.

  One... Two…

  Quickly, he poked his fingers into each of the men’s mouths. The men stood stunned, unsure how to react.

  Myles turned back to the man holding the torch. Although the light made it hard to know exactly where the man’s mouth was, Myles made a guess. He stabbed his fingers forward.

  Myles could see the men stop. Their attack was over. They knew what he had done.

  He saw the syringe fall to the floor as the man holding it tried to wipe out his mouth – desperate not to become infected.

  Helen realised too, and tugged at Myles. She could see the men were distracted and wanted to use the opportunity to escape.

  Myles shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘If we leave to get the cure, these guys will spread the disease before they die. The plague will get out. There’ll be an epidemic.’

  He could see the reaction on his assailants’ faces: they were shocked there was a cure, but terrified that they would die without it.

  Two of the men started arguing in an African dialect. One pulled a knife from his belt, but the other ordered him to put it back. The third man was still wiping his tongue, vainly hoping he could remove any trace of the plague bacteria.

  One of the men who had been arguing gave Myles a macho nudge. It was a way of showing he was still in charge. But Myles knew that really it meant the power dynamic had changed. They faced death in two or three days, just like Helen and him. More than that: since he had mentioned there was a cure, he had gained power over them. Time for a bargain.

  The Somali nudged Myles again. It was more like a push this time, intended to provoke. ‘You give us the cure,’ demanded the man.

  Myles shook his head. He could see what was going to happen next, but he needed it to play out so the three men understood the situation too. Next would be threats…