Last Prophecy of Rome

by Iain King

  Beside them, lying on the ground, was Helen, who looked pale. Myles rushed over and lifted her head. He tried putting two of the antibiotic pills in her mouth and crunching them between her teeth. Then he took out some of the injectable anti-viral drugs. They were hard to use. Eventually he managed to plunge three doses into her thigh.

  There was no immediate reaction. He shook her. Still no response. He couldn’t tell whether or not the medicine was reaching her bloodstream. He rubbed her leg, hoping to spur the antibiotics into her system.

  ‘Helen, I know you’re going to survive,’ he called into her ear. Then he lowered his voice so the Somalis couldn’t hear him. ‘You’ve got septicaemia, but not the plague…’

  Then an angry voice called to him from behind. ‘You have poisoned us,’ it jeered.

  Myles shook his head, still tending to Helen as he spoke. ‘You poisoned yourselves,’ he said. ‘You overdosed.’

  The Somali grabbed his shoulder, pulling him away from Helen. ‘But we’re sick now. You made us sick.’

  Myles could barely bring himself to answer the Somalis. They had stolen the antibiotics from him in the shop window, and left none for Helen, whom they had promised would get the first dose. ‘You’ve just taken too much medicine,’ he said. ‘It means you won’t die of the plague.’

  Myles could see his response hadn’t satisfied them. The three were stirring towards him. They were about to attack.

  Myles dug his hand into his pocket. There he found the slimming pills which he had taken from the shop. He held up the thin strip of tablets. ‘Look,’ he said. ‘I’ve got medicine here which will cure your overdose.’

  The Somalis peered sceptically at the packet. The writing on it was too small for them to read from where they were standing.

  The three men edged closer. ‘I’ll cut you a deal,’ he offered, holding the strip of tablets higher. ‘You get these tablets if you allow Helen and I to leave.’

  The men looked unsure. Myles could see them wondering: would this Englishman really trust us again? Was he a fool?

  One of the men started to grin. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘You give us the tablets and we’ll leave you alone.’

  Another one joined in. ‘Yes. You give us the tablets first.’ The man was holding out his hand, looking up at Myles. Smug and insincere: there was no way Myles would trust them.

  With a single backhanded motion, Myles flicked the packet of pills through the air as if he was throwing a frisbee. The pills flew high, hitting the roof of the tent, then dropped down towards the large excavation hole. Both Myles and the Somalis saw the last glint of light reflect from the packet as it smacked into the side of the hole, spun around, then fell down to the bottom.

  Myles waved his hand towards the hole. ‘You’ve got a deal,’ he said. ‘The pills are down there…’

  Myles turned back to Helen, half-expecting the Somalis to pounce on his back. But they had taken the bait. They were ambling over to the excavation hole and arguing over who should climb down first.

  Taking the opportunity to go while he could, Myles put one arm under Helen’s knees and one beneath her shoulders. Then he lifted her limp body and carried her through the flaps of the tent.

  Out in the night air, which was colder than the inside of the excavation site, Helen seemed to revive a little.

  Myles ran holding her, stumbling over the ground where it was uneven.

  ‘I’ve not got the plague?’ she asked, blearily.

  ‘I’ll explain soon,’ said Myles, still running.

  He headed back towards the old Ford parked just a few hundred metres away. When he reached it, he leant down to open the front passenger door, then manoeuvred Helen into the seat. She could barely sit upright, so he put a safety belt on her to make sure she stayed in position. A few seconds later he was driving off, back towards the Roman gate and the site of the pharmacy break-in.

  The policemen were still there. He drove up to them and lowered his window. ‘Vandals,’ he told them, pointing behind him. ‘Back in the excavation tent, just through the gate over there. Vandals, destroying the Roman ruins. You should investigate.’

  One of the policemen nodded as he thanked Myles in rusty English. The other was about to ask follow-up questions, but Myles was already driving away.

  He watched them in his rear-view mirror as he accelerated away. They seemed to have taken his crime report seriously and would probably send someone over to the excavation tent. The trio of Somalis would soon be arrested.

  Myles smiled to himself: how appropriate that they should be arrested for being ‘vandals’ – the tribe that raided the Roman Empire in its dying days.

  He kept driving, looking for road signs which might point to a hospital. He glanced across at Helen, and spoke as he drove. ‘Helen. Are you awake?’

  There was no answer.

  ‘Helen. I’m going to drive you to a hospital,’ he said. ‘You need proper treatment, but you don’t have bubonic plague. None of us do – not even the Somalis. OK?’

  Helen still seemed asleep.

  ‘I worked it out from the tombstone,’ continued Myles. ‘They dug up the wrong plague victims. Placidia sent them to the wrong grave by mistake. The epidemic of 169AD wasn’t bubonic plague, it was smallpox. And there’s no way they’ll be able to recreate smallpox from the tombs – the DNA of the disease is too fragile to survive through the centuries. Other archaeological digs which have looked for smallpox have found only the faintest trace of it inside teeth. Your illness is septicaemia, from having soil injected into your bloodstream.’

  He looked back over at Helen. She probably hadn’t heard anything he had said.

  ‘Septicaemia isn’t infectious, so the rest of us are healthy. But Helen, you still need treatment. Antibiotics for your blood infection, and a medical check for the smallpox,’ he explained. Then he paused: the next words were hard. ‘But I’ve still got to track down these terrorists. And if I’m with you, then I can’t do it.’

  Finally he saw a road sign labelled with a large ‘H’ and the word ‘Hastane’, which he guessed was Turkish for hospital. Myles followed the arrows and soon saw a well-lit building. He moved down through the gears as he approached the accident and emergency section, where he live-parked.

  Myles froze still for a moment, trying to force himself to move. His body resisted. He wanted to stay with her. But he knew he had no choice.

  ‘Helen, I’m going to have to leave you here,’ he whispered, hating himself for it.

  Gently, he moved round to help her out of her seat. Then he wiped dirt from her forehead, and kissed it.

  Lifting her up, he hugged her close, then carried her towards the reception desk. Seeing that the woman was obviously very sick, two medical professionals in uniforms moved over to take her.

  ‘Thank you, Myles.’

  Myles just caught her words as he left the building.

  Days IX-X

  Forty-Seven

  Off the Coast of Ostia, Central Italy

  Safiq knew the supertanker was approaching land. Italy, someone had said. Safiq’s chance to settle in civilisation was approaching...

  One of Juma’s crew came down into the oil storage area, where the smell of faeces had displaced the whiff of gasoline. The pirate explained what was going to happen.

  Two groups, he had commanded: young men with weapons to lead, and everybody else to follow.

  Safiq was one of the first young men to be offered a gun – an AK-47. He remembered his father had once been given a Kalashnikov too, and had cherished the Russian-made weapon, even though he never had any bullets for it. Safiq accepted both, half nervous, half excited by what was to come.

  As he followed the others onto the deck of the tanker, he saw how police boats were trying to block the port entrance. Loud speakers were blaring across the water in a language Safiq didn’t recognise. Port workers were running away. The tanker was approaching them fast.

  Too fast?

  Then Safiq realised
– it was meant to go fast. The supertanker would ram into the dockside so that none of the Italian police could stop it.

  The pirates were pushing the young men with guns to the front. But Safiq reckoned anyone near the bow would be hurt when the ship crashed into the port. He moved through the crowd to avoid an argument with the pirate crew, who were becoming angry. As the dockside of Europe came closer and closer, he barely had a chance to look forward. He was still trying to get to the middle of the ship.

  Safiq tumbled over when the tanker hit, his ears deafened by the crunch of metal against concrete. He heard the people around him roar – first in fear and confusion, then in celebration. They had landed in Europe – now they would reach America.

  The crowds streamed off, jumping down from the buckled deck onto the harbourside below. They cheered as they ran. The men with guns fired into the air. The families followed, carrying whatever they could and taking much longer to climb down from the ship than the young men at the front.

  Safiq realised the great mass of people was moving forward. They knew where they were going. Safiq followed.

  Jostled by the crowd, Safiq’s AK-47 was knocked and the magazine fell to the ground. He picked it up but it was dented. Still running, Safiq tried to clip it back into place again but it wouldn’t stay. He tried holding it there, until he decided he didn’t really need it – the gun already had a bullet in the chamber, and that was enough. He allowed the magazine to drop again, and left it this time.

  He saw some of the men with weapons taking aim. A rocket was fired at a tower – but missed. A burst of gunfire hit the outside of a house. They were scaring the local people away so they could reach their destination. Threatening civilisation so they could join it.

  Safiq pointed his AK-47 at an empty car, holding it from the hip, and pulled the trigger. The single bullet pumped out. Metalwork near the wheel hub buckled. But the gun was much louder than Safiq had expected and the recoil frightened him. He didn’t want the weapon. He let it fall on the roadside and ran along with the others.

  He could see people watching the crowd from windows. They were afraid – good. But not that good – Safiq wanted to be like them. To enjoy a home like theirs, food like theirs, a life like theirs…

  He kept running with the crowd, all of them desperately hoping they could reach the centre of the city before they were blocked or captured... Then Safiq truly understood: he and the African migrants around him weren’t running for their lives. They were running for a good life.

  And they knew where they were running: to America.

  Via the American Embassy in Rome.

  Forty-Eight

  Istanbul, Turkey

  Myles slumped. Deep tiredness infected his muscles. His whole body was exhausted. Three days ago he had sprinted for more than a mile to escape the gunman in London. He couldn’t do that now.

  Once he had driven clear of the hospital, Myles parked up and tried to think through his next steps. He knew he had some nasty choices to make.

  Should he stay near Istanbul? That way he could check on Helen – perhaps visit her in hospital in a day or two, when no one was expecting it. Desperately, he hoped she was OK. Septicaemia, he tried to convince himself, was quite common. The medics would diagnose it quickly. She’d get the right treatment, whether Myles visited her or not. There was probably nothing more he could do to make her safe.

  Should he hand himself in? After all, he’d stopped an attempted poisoning in Germany and now a plot to spread the plague – even though the bungling grave robbers had only dug up smallpox. Police would have seen his work in both places and known that Myles had foiled two terrorist plots within a week. They might even let him stay with Helen.

  But it wasn’t enough. Myles was convinced that Placidia was planning more. The Roman Empire had been weakened by lead poisoning and the plague, but it had not been destroyed by them. It was barbarians running through the streets of the capital - desperate and hungry, but also jealous and resentful, which had defined the ancient civilisation’s final days. The barbarians had ransacked a culture they envied but couldn’t understand.

  How could Placidia make that happen to modern-day America?

  There was more going on here. Far more.

  He felt sure that if he gave himself up to the authorities they’d quarantine him, or find some other excuse to keep him away from what was happening. Myles would have to keep running. And the best thing he could do for Helen would be follow the lead she’d given him – to Iraq.

  He lay back on the car seat. As the back of his scalp hit the headrest he recognised just how tired he was. He was hungry and thirsty, too. His whole body was a wreck. He needed downtime, and he needed to spend it away from danger.

  He also realised that he needed to change his car. The Ford had been seen by the policemen near the pharmacy break-in, and also at the hospital. Turkish police were probably looking through CCTV footage to find him while he rested.

  Summoning his energy, as if a long-planned lie-in had been cut short, Myles climbed out of his vehicle and walked along the street until he found another row of cars. As before, he checked the doors of several of them until he came to one which was open – a white Fiat. He climbed in, tore open the cardboard hiding the electronics, and again hotwired the ignition. He was able to do it more quickly this time, now he understood how the circuitry in modern cars was arranged. But he still found it exhausting.

  He drove on about three miles, until he found a parking lot near a supermarket. Here he parked, and lay in the back of the car under a blanket laden with pet hair he found on the back seat.

  He was woken by the morning light, feeling groggy and thirstier than ever.

  He opened the glove compartment in the car: insurance documents, a torch, an adjustable spanner, receipts, and an out-of-date coupon for something. No money.

  Myles looked up at the sign for the supermarket: they would have food.

  He checked himself again: was it really OK for him to steal, just so he could remain on the run? He already felt bad for taking the cars, rifling through the luggage on the bus going to Oxford and breaking into the pharmacy. Each time he had broken the law he could justify it: he was protecting the public…

  But stealing food from a supermarket seemed harder to justify somehow. The thought of it made Myles despise himself. Crime rose when Rome declined… If everybody stole – even to save America – the America they saved would be very different. Did he really have to steal?

  He thought again and realised, yes, he did. If he was going to have a chance of confronting Juma and Placidia and stopping the plot to bring down America like ancient Rome, he needed to get some food and drink.

  Reluctantly, Myles slumped out of the white Fiat and ambled towards the store. It was still fairly early in the morning and there didn’t seem to be many customers inside. But he was conscious of his clothes – the tears and faint scorch marks drew attention to him. Myles was used to being a misfit, but standing out had just become dangerous...

  He wandered towards the double doors, which opened automatically as he approached. A security guard was waiting as he went in. Myles tried his best to ignore the man. The guard appeared to be only half-interested.

  Never having shoplifted before, Myles decided it was best to look as though he was browsing normally. He picked up a basket and surveyed the vegetables near the entrance, plucking a cabbage from the rack to check it for quality. Occasionally he picked more things up to inspect them, trying to sense whether anyone was watching him. There were no cameras in the ceiling. He felt confident he wasn’t being observed.

  On the corner of an aisle, he found some cartons of milk. In a single swift motion, he bent down and moved one into the inside pocket of his jacket.

  Next he came to some cans: tinned meat and, a little further along, baked beans. Again, he made a point of putting them in his coat as nonchalantly as he could.

  Finally, he found some cheese. This was easier to take, since t
he slices of brie were thin. Myles leant over and stuffed several inside his sleeves.

  He had what he needed. It was time for him to go.

  As he walked back towards the double doors, he wondered how ironic it would be if he were arrested for shoplifting – a small but real crime – after he had just uncovered plots to spread poison and plague in the world.

  He continued towards the exit, trying to avoid catching the attention of the security guard. He knew leaving the store with an empty basket was bound to raise concerns. He just had to keep walking.

  ‘Affedersiniz, Efendim...’ called a voice. It was the security guard. Myles turned to him, unsure what the man had just said. The guard realised Myles was foreign and offered him the same phrase in English. ‘Excuse me, sir...’

  Myles nodded. He moved over to the man, trying to smile, and wondering if he was about to be arrested. He started thinking through what he could do. Run – but where to? He couldn’t make a fast getaway in the car. Pretend to know nothing about the stolen goods? Not credible. Hand himself in… Maybe.

  Myles approached the security guard. ‘Yes?’

  The man pointed down, his eyes lowering towards Myles’ coat pockets.

  Myles frowned, pretending to understand what the security man was saying.

  ‘Your laces, sir.’

  Myles looked at his feet: his laces were untied. He relaxed his face in understanding.

  Bending down subtly, Myles tried hard to keep the cheese slices hidden in his sleeves. Kneeling on one knee at a time, he refastened each lace in turn. One, then the other, making sure to pull them tight. ‘Thank you,’ he said, weakly.

  Myles smiled at the man, who tipped his cap in response. Myles replaced the empty basket by the door and walked out of the store as confidently as he could.

  He retreated to his car. Checking again that he hadn’t been seen, he collected his takings beside him on the passenger seat. He waited a few more minutes to check before he ate the cheese slices, washed down with the chilled milk. Then he took the adjustable spanner from the glove compartment and used it to squeeze the tin of meat. As he tightened, the metal buckled then split. Myles scooped out what he could, catching his finger at one point, causing a small cut. The cold baked beans opened more easily, but some oozed out of the can before he could eat them. His clothes had become messier than ever.