No Time Like the Past

by Jodi Taylor

  ‘Why is this so important?’

  ‘Max, it’s your wedding.’

  I stared at him. ‘This is Kal, isn’t it? Kal and Helen have put you up to this. And don’t sit there looking pathetic and sorry for yourself because that won’t save you. If you choose to hang out with the two most terrifying women in the universe then that’s your problem.’

  ‘Three.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing.’ He gestured for two more drinks. ‘Have you actually given this any sort of thought at all?

  ‘Well …’

  ‘I mean, where will the actual ceremony take place? Church? Register Office? Swanky hotel?’

  ‘I do know Leon wants a religious ceremony,’ I said, glad to be able to report something positive. ‘It means a lot to him and I don’t mind, so …’

  I tailed off.

  ‘Have you even thought about what you’ll wear?’

  ‘Um …’

  ‘Max!’

  ‘Well, not one of those enormous, white puffy dresses, obviously.’

  ‘God, no,’ he said. ‘You’d look ridiculous, but what about flowers? And the reception?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said, miserably. ‘How can anything be so complicated and at the same time so unimportant?’

  ‘Max, you’ve planned multi-part assignments which have spread over centuries. Millennia, even. Why is planning one small wedding throwing you into such turmoil?’

  ‘I don’t know. I always think a wedding is a bit like dying, don’t you?’

  ‘No,’ he said, carefully. ‘No, I don’t think that thought has ever occurred to me.’

  ‘Well, it is. It’s unpleasant, messy, and complicated, but it’s something you have to go through to find out what happens next. It would be nice if I could just wake up and find marriage had happened overnight. While I was asleep.’

  ‘Have you discussed this with Leon?’

  ‘Oh, no. He’d think I don’t want to go through with it and that’s not true at all. I just wish it was all over with.’

  ‘Look,’ he said. ‘You need to get to grips with this. Have the ceremony here – if the Boss doesn’t object and why should he? – It would be rather nice to be filing into the chapel for something a bit more cheerful than the usual memorial services. Although possibly not for you, of course. Honestly, Max, the way you’re carrying on, you’d think it was one of those medieval trials by ordeal.’

  ‘Well, it is a bit, isn’t it? It’s a bit like Earl Godwin being accused of murdering the King’s brother and saying, “If I am guilty then let this bread choke me”, and he took a bite and it choked him and he died.’

  He stared at me. ‘No it’s not. It’s nothing like that at all. Will you pull yourself together? I’ve never seen you so all over the place and remember I once saw you chased by a T-Rex.’

  I nodded and chugged back the rest of my drink.

  He signalled for another refill.

  ‘Right. List of things to do. Sort out the venue. Speak to Mrs Mack about the catering. I think she’d be delighted to prepare something other than Toad in the Hole or Spotted Dick. Talk to Mrs Enderby who knows clothes better than anyone does. I bet you any money she has half a dozen designs tucked away all ready for you. Don’t worry about flowers because Mr Strong will help you out there. Don’t worry about invites – I’m assuming you don’t have any family to invite?’

  ‘God, no.’

  ‘Tell people they can wear what they please. The men will wear their uniforms because it’s the easy option and the girls will probably wear long dresses because they don’t get the chance to dress up very often. Don’t worry about seating plans and things. When have you ever known St Mary’s experience difficulty sitting down for a meal? And that’s pretty well it. Sorted.’

  ‘I’m impressed. And I don’t have to do a wedding list because we don’t want any presents.’

  ‘Ah yes, that reminds me of the second part of my mission.’

  ‘What mission?’

  ‘Nothing,’ he said, soothingly. ‘No mission at all. Allow me to ply you with more alcohol.’

  ‘Are you plying? I hadn’t noticed.’

  ‘You’re on your third Margarita and wouldn’t notice if Markham and Roberts performed the handkerchief dance, naked, on the coffee table in front of you.’

  ‘No. There aren’t enough Margaritas in the world for me to miss that. What do you want?’

  ‘Look, this may be the alcohol talking …’

  ‘That’s all right. It’s certainly the alcohol listening … What do you want?’

  ‘You.’

  I frowned. ‘Flattering, but I’m spoken for. Haven’t we just been discussing the preliminaries to making it official?’

  ‘No, idiot, I’m here to discuss my gift to you.’

  ‘Tim, there’s no need. I don’t want …’

  ‘Thermopylae.’

  ‘… to miss that. Are you serious? How did you swing that?’

  ‘You gave up your jump so that we could sort out Markham’s ghost so it’s only fair. Consider it St Mary’s gift to you.’

  ‘And Dr Bairstow said yes? What about my knee?’

  ‘Dr Foster says no running, no jumping, no kneeling – you know the sort of thing. However, so long as you just sit on a rock and record, there shouldn’t be a problem.’

  ‘Wow!’ A thought struck me. I should be thinking for two now. ‘What about Leon?’

  ‘He’s not coming.’

  ‘No, I mean what about Leon’s gift?’

  ‘Oh, I believe he’s getting a new screwdriver.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well, some sort of special piece of kit he’s been after for some time. The techies are over the moon about it. You do know that if you change your mind the entire Technical Section will kidnap you and forcibly marry you to Leon – like it or not.’

  Which reminded me again of this wedding hanging over me like the Sword of Damocles.

  ‘I’m being got rid of, aren’t I?’

  He looked shifty.

  ‘What’s going on?’

  He said nothing.

  ‘Oh my God, Kal’s coming to organise things, isn’t she? Isn’t she?’

  ‘Cheer up,’ he said, thrusting another Margarita my way. ‘It’s all academic anyway. You probably won’t make it through Thermopylae. Just think about it – being killed by your own wedding present. How bizarre would that be? Even for you.’

  ‘Cheers, Tim.

  Leon had clearly announced he would be wearing his uniform and anyone who so wished could do the same. Lucky devil. All he had to do was have a haircut, not cut himself shaving that morning, and he was done. My preparations, alas, were somewhat more complex. And, as I kept pointing out to an uncaring world, I had my Botticelli report to write, my Thermopylae assignment to prepare for, a whole new training schedule to create, to say nothing of daily and exhausting physiotherapy which, yes, I was going to get around to any day now.

  It all fell on stony ground but despite Tim’s motivational speech, I just couldn’t get any enthusiasm going at all and then Kal arrived from Thirsk and set about organising the universe back into line.

  I fled to Thermopylae.

  Chapter Seventeen

  We thought we’d hold a briefing for Markham, who was coming with us, which just went to show what we knew, because he ended up briefing us.

  I don’t think Peterson quite believed his claim that he was familiar with the facts. ‘All of them?’

  ‘Of course. The Battle of Thermopylae was required reading.’

  ‘For what?’

  He paused and then said evasively, ‘For me.’

  ‘In what capacity?’

  ‘During training.’

  ‘It’s like pulling teeth,’ said Peterson. He fixed Markham with what he probably imagined was a penetrating stare. ‘For what were you training?’

  Silence. Markham shifted uneasily.

  ‘Hang on a minute, weren’t you in the army?’


  ‘How did you know that?’

  ‘You told us, cloth head.’

  If, like me, you were sitting well back and watching very carefully, you could just see the flicker of amusement in Markham’s eyes.

  ‘Did I?’

  ‘Hold on,’ I said. ‘Were you studying tactics and things at – what do they call it – officer school?’

  ‘Not for very long.’

  ‘You surely didn’t set fire to that as well?’

  ‘No, of course not,’ he said, wounded to the core. ‘Not the whole thing. It’s a big place, you know.’

  ‘So just a small corner of it?’

  ‘Barely even that. Just a few rooms. Maybe a bit of corridor. There was plenty of building left so I don’t know why they made such a fuss.’

  ‘So they chucked you out?’

  ‘Of course not. We all put it down to youthful high spirits.’

  ‘So why did you leave?’

  ‘I was recruited?’

  ‘What? By St Mary’s?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Dr Bairstow recruited you?’

  ‘No,’ he said, patiently. ‘I told you. He recruited Major Guthrie and I came with him. A complete package. But, to drag you back on topic, before all that, we studied assorted battles and Thermopylae was one of them.’

  Peterson turned to me. ‘It’s like discovering a diamond in a compost heap.’

  He was indignant. ‘You can’t call me a compost heap. I’m almost certain that’s against rules and regs.’

  ‘He’s not calling you a compost heap, idiot. He’s calling you a diamond.’

  ‘Oh.’ He settled down. ‘Well, that’s all right, then.’

  Peterson settled back and put his feet up. ‘Go on then. Give us Thermopylae.’

  Markham cleared his throat.

  ‘OK. 480BC. The Persian King, Xerxes, is marching on what is now Greece, intent on making them part of his vast empire. No one’s anticipating any real difficulties. Greece is a collection of tiny city-states, whose leaders can’t even comfortably be in the same room as each other, let alone form an effective alliance. However, needs must when the devil drives, and the Greeks manage to put aside their differences and assemble their forces. Unfortunately, the Spartans were the only country with any sort of professional troops and as the massive Persian army approaches, they’re celebrating some sort of religious festival –’

  ‘The Carneia,’ I murmured.

  ‘That’s the one. Anyway, because it was a bit of an emergency, Leonidas of Sparta is allowed to take three hundred of his bodyguard to block the pass at Thermopylae. Legend says they knew they were all going to their deaths, so the order was “Sires only”. In other words, only Spartans with living sons could fight. So off they set, picking up reinforcements as they went.’

  He paused for a glug of tea and to snaffle the last chocolate biscuit from under Peterson’s nose.

  ‘I can’t remember the names of all the allies and their armies, but they reckon there were about seven thousand of them when they arrived at the Hot Gates. Xerxes, apparently, tried to bribe his way past them and when they laughed at him, he ordered them to hand over their arms. To which the Spartans replied, “Come and get them!”

  ‘Anyway, the Spartans chose their ground well. Cliffs on one side and rough seas on the other. There are three sets of gates, one at each end of the pass, and one in the middle and Leonidas set up camp at the middle one.

  ‘The Persians attack – the battle lasts three days with the Spartans giving a good account of themselves and Xerxes apparently having hissy fits because his magnificent army can’t get past. He has huge logistical problems keeping them all fed and watered, and he’s fretting about his fleet, which is out there somewhere.’

  ‘However …’ said Peterson, unwrapping my emergency packet of Hob Nobs.

  ‘However,’ said Markham, helping himself to the top three without even seeming to move, ‘they’re betrayed by some bloke …’

  ‘Ephialtes of Trachis,’ murmured Peterson,

  ‘Yes, him, and he leads a force around the back and the Persians fall on them from the rear and they all die. An important lesson, they told us, in how a secure position can suddenly become a trap. We had to write essays, draw diagrams, the lot. It was good.

  ‘Anyway, it seems those few days they held the Persians back were just long enough for the Greeks to get their fleet operational and not long enough for any of them actually to fall out and start killing each other, instead of the enemy. The Persians were eventually finished off at the Battle of Platea. Everyone agrees the Spartans were very brave and they made a cracking, but not very accurate, film out of it.’

  He busied himself with the biscuits again.

  Peterson and I looked at each other.

  ‘Masterful,’ said Peterson.

  ‘Yeah,’ he said, spraying crumbs all over my office. ‘I got good marks.’

  ‘You also got expelled.’

  ‘I told you – I left,’ he said with dignity. ‘Having received a job offer commensurate with my qualifications and talents …’

  ‘You mean St Mary’s – a place where setting fire to things is actually considered a qualification.’

  ‘That’s the one,’ he agreed.

  It’s always the dust that I remember. In my eyes. In my hair. The smell of it. The feel of it making everything gritty to the touch. And it was hot. So hot. A brazen sun hung in a sky from which the heat had leached all colour. An eagle hovered on a thermal, high above our heads.

  Huge, forbidding cliffs hugged the coastline, leaving just a narrow passageway barely wide enough for a single chariot to pass through, let alone an army. Rough seas chopped incessantly at this narrow place, throwing spray into the air. In a few days, these waters would run red with blood as bodies and bits of bodies bobbed about in the choppy waters.

  We stood above the Pass of Thermopylae in what today is modern Greece. Even from all the way up here, I could see the steaming pools that gave the Hot Gates their name. I could smell the sulphur on the breeze. Just as in Troy, this was a place where the unseen presence of the gods cast long shadows. For the Spartans, these Hot Gates were the gateway to the next world.

  Their only weakness was the infamous goat track that ran behind them, impassable to heavy troops or cavalry but easily accessible by foot soldiers. The legend says that the Spartans were caught unawares, but Leonidas was perfectly well aware of its existence and had despatched a thousand Phocians to block their path. With hindsight, this was a mistake. If he had strengthened this force with even a few Spartans, the whole course of the battle might have been different. Unable to spare even a single man, however, he mistakenly placed his faith in the Phocians and kept his own men where he thought they were needed most. His force consisted of his bodyguard; about five thousand other troops, mostly from the Peloponnese; seven hundred men from Thespiae; and about four hundred from Thebes.

  The Persians waited on the plain to the west. Leonidas and his men waited at the Gates. The Greek fleet waited on the beach at Euboea, watching to see which way the Persian fleet would turn. Everyone was waiting. And it was August. The heat was blistering, beating down on us like a hammer on an anvil.

  I turned west to face the sun.

  A huge dust haze on the horizon signalled the position of the Great King and his massive army. Herodotus puts the figure at two point six million; the Greek poet Simonides at nearly four million. Another contemporary estimated about eight hundred thousand. Modern estimates, with their tendency to downplay ancient glories, generally reckon between about a hundred thousand to three hundred thousand. All of them facing seven thousand Greeks. At night, we could see the tiny flecks of light that were the Persian campfires, stretching to the distant horizon. As if all the stars in the heavens had fallen to earth. Reports spoke of rivers being drunk dry. Looking down on that vast force now, it was easy to believe.

  We knew there would be a five-day pause, while both armies took stock, sur
veyed each other, and waited. Xerxes would use the time to send out spies who would report back that the Spartans, famously, were indulging in a little light exercise, oiling their bodies, and combing their hair. Traditional pastimes for an army that boasted it looked forward to battle – warfare was far less strenuous than their regular training regime. Leonidas, of course, had no incentive to attack, but Xerxes, with, at a conservative estimate, a hundred thousand mouths to feed, could not afford to linger. His supply lines must have been perilously long.

  We hung camouflage nets around the pod, checked over all our gear, and then ventured forth to search out the best vantage points, settling finally on a small, north facing plateau on the lower slopes of Kallidromus, about a hundred yards from the pod. As things went, it was comparatively rock-free, offered an excellent view of the Middle Gate, and was protected from behind by a small cliff wall.

  We could do nothing more, because, as we had known it would, the weather began to change. The wind veered and became stronger. We swallowed even more dust and took refuge inside the pod. Our position was sheltered, but we knew a storm was coming. A big one. Every year, at this time, the notorious Hellespont wind would arrive and this year it was late.

  The next day, the wind was gone but there was no relief. An oppressive stillness settled everywhere. The sky was like a bruise. All birds had disappeared. Clouds of choking dust hung in the air. The heat was massive, every movement a huge effort. With the benefit of hindsight, we knew this was, literally, the calm before the storm. We checked again that everything was secure, including ourselves, and waited it out. We could do nothing else. None of us could.

  Towards nightfall, a screaming wind – the Hellesponter – came out of nowhere. The storm was spectacular. The sea boiled and crashed down on the narrow path. Foam flew skywards. I could taste salt on my lips, even all the way up here. Lightning split the sky in jagged flashes. Thunder crashed and boomed.

  For the Spartans, this was good news. Their flank was safe. No Persian fleet could move in these waters.

  The storm lasted the best part of two days. We took refuge in the pod, recorded what we could, and waited.

  ‘It’s like Wuthering Heights,’ said Markham.