by Jodi Taylor
‘Miss North makes a very valid point. I cannot over-emphasise its importance. And not just the women. For all of us. Our watchwords will be discretion and unobtrusiveness … ness’
A bit of a panic there as I felt the word getting away from me.
‘Unobtrusiveosity?’ suggested Sykes, straight-faced.
I stared down at her. She beamed helpfully at me. Disgraceful behaviour. I distinctly remember I was never anything other than polite and helpful when I was a trainee.
We were recalled by North, laser-focused as always, wrapping up her briefing and ordering everyone off to Wardrobe for their fittings. She had been brief and to the point. I had uncharitably imagined her boring on for hours, enjoying the sound of her own voice, but she’d resisted the temptation. Grudgingly, I had to admit I couldn’t have done much better myself.
They all traipsed off to Wardrobe to be kitted out and I took the opportunity to grab a word with Markham.
‘Just the one security guard?’
‘Yes, but that one is me.’
‘Is it some sort of punishment?’
‘Only for me. After your last effort with the mammoth, Major Guthrie made us draw lots.’
‘And you won?’
‘Nearly right.’
Completely wrong as it happened. Only an hour after the briefing, he had presented himself to Sick Bay for his latest round of vaccinations, or inoculations, or whatever they had to do to him to render him fit for purpose, and the silly sod had some sort of allergic reaction to something and broke out in giant red lumps. We all traipsed along to laugh at him but they wouldn’t let us in, which was disappointing.
Anyway, there being no one else available at the moment, we got Leon instead.
‘A technician?’ said North. I swear I saw her lip curl.
I turned slowly. ‘I’m sorry?’
She had the grace to back down. ‘Well, it’s not his area of expertise, is it?’
‘For your information, Miss North, not so very long ago, that particular technician saved our world. I forgive your ignorance because we haven’t dealt with this subject yet, but against overwhelming odds, he instigated and led the rebellion against the Time Police. All the Time Police, up and down the timeline. He commanded the rescue team that saved St Mary’s and was, in fact, Director of this unit until Dr Bairstow recovered from his wounds. You were not to know that and so, on this occasion, I shall forgive your rudeness.’
I hadn’t realised I was shaking with rage. Because he is a quiet man who doesn’t say a lot in this over-gobby unit, those don’t know him tend to underestimate him. He didn’t get that nasty scar across the bridge of his nose for nothing. He was still second in command of the unit. I know Dr Bairstow consults with him on every important issue. He was the man I had chosen. And most importantly, he was the man who had chosen me.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, stiffly. ‘Obviously we’re lucky to have him.’
‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘You are.’
We all walked down to Hawking together. We were dressed as travellers. The men wore knee-length tunics, sturdy boots, thick cloaks, and wide-brimmed hats. We women wore long tunics, stout shoes, and voluminous stoles to cover our heads and conceal our faces.
I’d wanted to bring Peterson along as well, to act as the head of our party, and because he spoke excellent Greek. He was too busy, however. He’d promised to come on the next one.
We traipsed up the ramp. TB2 still smelled, very ostentatiously, of disinfectant and pine air freshener. I could feel my sinuses shutting down in self-defence. With what passed for a sense of humour in that sorry department, the Technical Section had put an extra bucket in the loo. I resisted the urge to pitch it straight back out again.
I shunted Miss North out of the left-hand seat – nice try, but no banana, Miss North – and checked over the coordinates. While I did that, she made them check over their coms and their recorders and criticised Sykes’s hair. Sykes scowled and rammed in another few hairpins. I could sympathise.
North turned to me. ‘All present and correct, ma’am.’
In the background, Leon nodded.
‘Very well. Initiating jump.’
The world went white.
It was a beautiful day. The sun shone from a cloudless blue sky and dazzled the eyes. The sea glittered invitingly. This was a pleasant spot. I could see why people would want to live here.
We turned our attention to the town.
All the colours of the Mediterranean were here. Blue, green, ochre, terracotta … Blindingly white buildings were arranged in a modern grid pattern. All the walls facing the street were blank but for large, wooden doors, some of which stood open. I could smell pine trees, hot dust, and mimosa blossom. In the far distance, I could hear the sea.
It was very hot and very quiet. I wasn’t sure if that was good or bad. The few people on the streets moved sedately from one patch of shade to another. We stood out, but on the other hand, no one was challenging us. We seemed able to move around easily enough.
Atherton led the way. North seemed unable to get her head around the fact that even though she was mission controller, she was a woman and should stay well back. I sighed. You couldn’t fault her academically, but she had to understand it’s perfectly possible to lead from the rear. Eventually, after a certain amount of jostling for position, she consented to walk at Atherton’s shoulder.
Hoyle and I followed on behind and Sykes and Leon brought up the rear. I would actually have preferred to have Sykes in front of me where I could keep an eye on her, but in the words of the song, we can’t always get what we want.
The streets were very clean. Even without the grid system, you could tell this was a modern town. There were no twisting lanes or sinister alleyways. No weeds sprouted between the paving and most streets were paved. No litter lay around, no broken pots, no dubious stains down the side of immaculately whitewashed buildings. The occasional cat sprawled on a roof in the sun, or a dog trotted past, intent on his own business. We could hear voices on the other side of walls as we passed. Women’s voices mostly. Someone was cooking something that smelled really good.
There were some women on the streets, examining goods on market stalls, or standing in groups, talking. And there were plenty of female slaves drawing water, or sweeping steps. No high-class women around obviously, but women in a small party, supervised and chaperoned by their menfolk, appeared to be socially acceptable. We were just dusty travellers looking for a meal and a night’s rest. We didn’t push it anyway, drawing our stoles around our faces and keeping our eyes downcast.
Atherton detached himself and approached a group of men standing talking in the shade of yet another high, white wall. His Greek wasn’t as good as mine was – actually, it was excruciating – but there was no way I could approach a group of strange men. They seemed to understand him, however, and pointed away up the street. He nodded his thanks and we set off. At the end of the street, we halted.
‘Just down there,’ said Atherton. ‘If I understood them right.’ He nodded to a high wall on our left, broken by a pair of sturdy wooden doors. One door stood open. Squinting through the gap, I could make out a courtyard, two sides of which consisted of a flat-roofed, L-shaped house. I could hear female chatter. Someone was shaking a rug. I could see a few pots against a wall with straggly herbs trailing over the edge.
‘Right,’ said North, before I could speak. ‘Is everyone ready? Recorders on? Is everyone aware of their role?’
Training Officers aren’t allowed to slap their recruits. I’d checked with Peterson. Twice, actually, just in case the rules had changed recently. However, to maintain solidarity, I nodded obediently and ignored the carefully blank-faced Leon.
Atherton and Hoyle stood at the front. The rest of us clustered behind them and peered in through the open gate.
There he was. Right in front of us. Over by the far wall, in the shade of a stunted pine tree, just as I had always imagined, sat a stocky, middle-aged man in an
unbleached tunic. A nearby table was laden with scrolls and amphorae. Several scrolls lay on the ground at his feet. I could hardly believe our luck. Surely, this was going to be the easiest assignment ever. We’d have thirty minutes of so observing the Great Man and then be back home in time for tea.
We stood in the gateway, looking in at the peaceful and scholarly scene. The next minute, an amphora sailed through the air and smashed against the wall beside me. I jumped a mile and an enraged voice bellowed, ‘Bugger off out of it, ye randy little ginger git!’
For one ghastly moment, I thought he was shouting at me and then a skinny ginger tomcat, lightning fast, zipped past my legs, out through the gate, and away.
We all stood frozen. Not so much because of the low flying amphora – people chucked things at us all the time, we were used to it – but the words had been spoken in English. Modern English. With a broad Scouse accent.
At the same time, he caught sight of us and froze. We all stared at each other.
This second look was much less favourable than the first. I saw a man approaching middle age with wide shoulders and powerful forearms. Probably from throwing all those amphorae around. He was short and dishevelled, his crumpled tunic was covered in wine stains and with a thick, greasy leather belt. His bare feet were very dirty and he was showing a great deal of forehead because he had very little hair, and the little he did have was matted and greasy. His beard had bits of food in it. He was drunk. I could smell him from here.
And he was English.
It was all a bit much to take in.
All right, yes, he was sitting at a table under a pine tree – I got that bit right – but that seemed to be it. He was about as far from my picture of a scholarly historian as it was possible to get.
I dragged my gaze back to his face, which was flushed with wine and good living. He had the coarse red-brown complexion of the Englishman abroad and spread across the top of his head, presumably to protect his bald pate from the sun, was the world’s worst fashion faux pas – the knotted handkerchief.
We all stared at each other.
He struggled to sit up and said in abysmally accented Greek, ‘Yes? What do you want?’
I pushed my way to the front and said in English, ‘Mr Herodotus?’
I could practically see his mind working. I saw him consider the possibility of pretending he couldn’t understand me. I saw him remember he’d shouted at the cat in English. I saw his shoulders slump. He sat back on his stool and said, ‘St Mary’s, I presume. Don’t suppose any of youse got a ciggy, like?’
Chapter Eleven
It was Leon who rose magnificently to the occasion. Good job we brought him because I was just too gobsmacked to speak.
He ushered us all into the courtyard, carefully pulling the gate to behind him.
At a word from the man, the two women shaking the grass mats stopped what they were doing and disappeared back into the house.
‘Um … You are Herodotus?’
‘The very same.’ He rose, tried to bow, lost his balance, clutched at the table and one of the jugs went over with a crash. Empty, fortunately.
We gaped. It was just too much to take in. I know that meeting a cherished idol in the flesh is often a disappointing experience, but for God’s sake, when you travel back through time to meet the Father of History, the great Herodotus himself, you don’t expect to be confronted by some badly dressed, cat-hating, fat bloke from Liverpool with personal-hygiene issues and a drink problem. At this rate, any minute now, we’d discover The Beatles were Mesopotamian temple prostitutes.
I opened my mouth but never got the chance to speak.
‘I’m not going back.’
‘Pardon?’ said Leon.
‘You can’t make me. I won’t go.’
‘No, we don’t …’
I began to have a bad feeling. I stepped forwards, saying, ‘Sir …’ but he wasn’t listening.
Grabbing an old broom, he took up a threatening position which I ignored because, frankly, he was so pissed he could hardly stand up, let alone hit anyone.
‘Sir, please put the broom down. We’ve come …’
‘I know why you’ve come. You’ll never take me back. I’m warning you – I’ll shout the buzzes. Get out of here while you still can.’
This was not good news. The last thing we needed was to be involved with the local authorities. At this time, there was no equivalent of a modern police force. Order was maintained by a bunch of publicly owned slaves. In Athens, they were known as the Scythian Archers and there was no reason not to assume the founding fathers of Thurii wouldn’t have implemented the same system here. They dealt mostly with public order and surveillance of foreigners. We came under both categories. At any moment, we could expect a bunch of rod-bearing thugs through the gate, all set to cart us off to wherever they held people guilty of a breach of the peace. We were foreigners and he was an important man. Suddenly, this was serious and I needed to calm him down.
‘Sir, we haven’t come to take you back anywhere. Trust me when I say that no one from St Mary’s has any idea you are here.’
‘Never mind St Mary’s. What about those bastards in the Time Police?’
‘Believe me, sir, we’re on a simple training jump and are as surprised to see you as you are to see us.’
He made a noise that sounded like humph, which was something I thought only happened in books and slowly lowered the broom.
We stared at each other some more. Whatever he was thinking, he came to some sort of decision. He made a huge effort to pull himself together and said, ‘Well, I can see some sort of mistake has been made. I wouldn’t want to keep you from your assignment, but perhaps I can offer you some wine before you go?’
I wasn’t enthusiastic. Greek wine is the Hellenic world’s answer to battery acid. Even inhaling the smell was usually enough to turn my stomach. But this was Italy and maybe wine would taste better here.
Before I could politely decline, he shouted and the two women scuttled back into the yard. One bore a tray with beakers. The other carried yet another jug of wine.
He fussed around with stools and things. Now that he’d got used to us, he seemed anxious for us to stay. He poured and the women handed round the beakers. I noticed that both of them had bruises on their arms. One had another, older mark on her cheekbone.
He saw me looking so I took a few sips to be polite. I’d been wrong about the geographical location improving it any.
Leon put his beaker down untouched. He kept watching the gate. ‘Sir, we mustn’t trespass on your hospitality any longer.’
‘Oh, must you go so soon?’
His voice had a false ring to it. I looked from him to Leon. I could see he was unhappy and if Leon was unhappy then we should go. And now.
The trainees put down their beakers. I said something polite – I forget what – and Leon, overriding Herodotus’ protests, had us on our feet and out of the gates before he knew what was happening.
‘Back to the pod, everyone,’ he said, pulling the gate closed behind him. ‘Quick as you can.’
‘Why?’ enquired Sykes as we trotted off down the street.
‘For someone who wanted us to leave, he was suddenly very keen that we should stay, don’t you think?’
We moved as quickly as we could without attracting attention. The sun continued to beat down on our heads and I was suddenly conscious of a certain amount of internal discomfort, which I suspected was my body’s usual indecision regarding from which orifice it should expel the recently imbibed wine.
We were in a pristine public street. There was nowhere to go. Literally. We trotted on until we rounded a corner and ahead of us was a small olive grove with a conveniently situated clump of myrtle bushes. The moment became urgent.
‘Wait here,’ I said. ‘I’ll be back in a minute.’
‘What on earth …’ enquired Atherton.
‘Greek wine.’
‘Ah.’
‘You lot sit in the
shade,’ ordered Leon. ‘Nobody moves from this spot.’
I pulled him aside. ‘You should stay with them.’
‘No one goes anywhere alone. Your orders. Trainees wait here. Miss North, you are in charge.’
He cast an anxious glance around, but no one was in sight anywhere. ‘Come on.’
We trotted down the goat path and I worked my way into the centre of the myrtle bushes. Leon waited on the path.
It’s all very well for men and their outdoor plumbing. I had to manoeuvre myself into the appropriate position, manage vast quantities of fabric, avoid prickly plants, and manage not to wet my own footwear.
All this takes time and when I eventually emerged, triumphant, some time later, Leon was sitting on a nearby rock. He checked no one could see us, put his arm round me and we walked back through the olive grove. I listened to the birdsong and the insects and thought about how peaceful life was here.
They’d gone. All four of them. They weren’t here. They weren’t bloody anywhere. Any of them. I couldn’t believe my eyes. Where could they possibly have gone?
We stared about us. The landscape was empty.
This was a disaster. A complete disaster. All right – if I’d just lost one or two I could have fudged the registers and possibly no one would have noticed, but not all of them. Sooner or later, someone was going to realise I was a training officer with no trainees. I looked all around us. I think I might even have looked up, because you never know.
‘Shit,’ said Leon. He pushed me against a wall. ‘Stay here. Do not move from this spot.’ He ran to the end of the street, looking left and right.
I opened my com and said, ‘Miss North? Can you hear me? Are you safe to speak?’
She responded immediately, speaking very quietly. She sounded breathless.
‘I think we’ve been arrested.’
Oh, for God’s sake.
‘For what?’
‘Theft.’ A pause. I could hear men’s voices around her. I waited until she judged it safe to speak again. ‘Something in my basket. Heading towards harbour.’
