A Second Chance

by Jodi Taylor

  We had bread left over from yesterday, which we ate with some cheese and made plans for the day.

  Peterson and his people were deployed around the lower town. I was going back on the walls. Guthrie was to accompany me.

  Leon, bless him, volunteered to remain behind and secure the two sites.

  ‘Non-historian,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Slightly less useful than the fifth wheel on a bike. Go, my children. Flutter forth. Make your way in the world and do whatever it is historians do all day long. I shall remain here, feet up in the shade – but vigilant. Always vigilant.’

  Peterson snorted and we all set out. I had Guthrie again. Silent, as usual.

  It was a funny sort of day. The wind had died away but there was no relief. Everything felt close and airless. Sounds seemed muffled and distorted. I hoped for a breeze off the sea later. Even the hot winds would be preferable to this stifling heat.

  My God, there’d been a hot time in the old town last night! Never mind the Greeks – Troy already looked as if an invading army had put it to the sword. People lay in shady corners, white-faced, their garments stained with unspeakableness. A naked man sprawled face-down in a pool of something. The smoke from neglected cooking fires drifted across litter-laden streets. Hardly anyone was around. Some poor sods – slaves, probably – were out in the hot sun, drawing water. They looked reasonably all right, as slaves go. They probably hadn’t been partaking of last night’s tainted meat. From somewhere nearby, I could hear the sound of vomiting. And then another, even more unpleasant sound. Someone groaned and cursed.

  A few guards stood on the walls, leaning heavily on their spears. The one I passed had his eyes closed. Fat lot of good he was going to be, asleep in the hot sun.

  And it was hot. It was very hot indeed, especially since we weren’t yet much past mid-morning. I felt the perspiration roll down my back. Even Guthrie, normally as cool as they come, had sweat beading his brow. By unspoken consent, we moved into the shade of a high wall.

  I stared out across the plain to the empty sea. A few people were out there, picking over the remains.

  The city slowly woke up behind me. More people emerged on to the streets. There were tasks that must be performed – livestock to be fed, water to be drawn. The city trundled painfully back into life again.

  The morning passed. I listened to the chatter in my ears – nothing out of the ordinary.

  We moved slowly, following our patch of shade along the wall. We’d brought water, but limited ourselves to a sip every now and then. Because, when it was gone – it was gone. I wasn’t going to risk any Trojan water.

  I was about to suggest finding somewhere cool for a spot of lunch around noon when I glanced at Guthrie. He was very pale. A bead of sweat ran down his cheekbone.

  In sudden concern I said, ‘Major, are you all right?’

  He pulled himself together with an effort that was painful to watch.

  ‘Yes. Yes, I’m fine.’

  He swayed and even more colour drained from his face.

  ‘Ian, you’re ill.’

  ‘No, I can’t be. I haven’t eaten or drunk anything that someone else hasn’t had. And I don’t feel sick – I just feel – strange.’

  He looked strange, too. A kind of otherworld look about him, as if he wasn’t quite here.

  ‘Can you hear that?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘We need to get off the walls.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Don’t know.’

  He wasn’t looking at me. He stared blindly at his feet and spoke very quietly through clenched teeth.

  ‘Off the walls. Now.’

  I didn’t argue. I’d known him too long. I guided him to the staircase and we stumbled down to street level. I tried to get him into the shade, wondering if he had sunstroke, but he insisted on standing in the wide space by the fish market and I couldn’t budge him.

  It really was no day to be standing in the hot sun. And it was so, so hot. My tunic was drenched. My eyes stung with salty sweat.

  He caught my arm. Hard. I could feel his fingers digging into my flesh.

  ‘Tell them, Max. Stand in open ground. Get away from the buildings. Get them away from the buildings.’

  I’d heard of this before, but not really believed it.

  I opened my com. ‘This is Maxwell. Code Red. Code Red. Code Red. Get away from any buildings. Find an open space and stay there. Immediate action. Now. Maxwell out.’

  Dogs began to howl across the city. First one, then another, took it up. I looked round, but could see no cause. A flock of shrieking birds shot high into the air, wheeled once and disappeared.

  I stared around. Ian was holding his head. A tiny, stifled groan escaped him.

  The silence was deafening.

  The weight of the heat was unbearable.

  The world held its breath.

  The gods were poised.

  And then, from deep, deep beneath my feet, I heard a dreadful sound. Like a bellowing bull.

  Poseidon, the Earth-Shaker had awoken.

  Oh God, I knew what this was.

  This was not my first earthquake.

  I just had time to shout, ‘Earthquake. Everyone get down,’ when the earth moved. And for all the wrong reasons.

  Just a small shudder initially, and I thought this might not be too bad after all, and then the ground began to shake, harder and harder, increasing in volume and strength.

  I crouched and struggled to keep my balance. The noise was tremendous. The earth groaned and then groaned again. Around me I could hear crashing pots, breaking crockery, then louder crashes and bangs as items of furniture moved or fell over. As the tremors got stronger and louder, the buildings started to fall. Small mudbrick huts went first, collapsing in a cloud of dust and then the bigger buildings started to go, just dropping in on themselves with a roar of collapsing stones.

  As suddenly as it started – it stopped.

  There was a moment’s breathless silence.

  And then the screaming began.

  I picked myself up off the ground and crossed to Guthrie. He, like me, was covered in brick dust.

  I pulled him to his feet. ‘Are you hurt?’

  ‘No. Are you?’ The old Ian was back.

  ‘No.’ Although my little heart was pounding away nineteen to the dozen. We tend to take solid ground for granted and it’s a bit disconcerting when suddenly it isn’t so solid any more.

  He wiped his face, which did absolutely no good at all and looked around.

  ‘Bloody hell, that was a big one.’

  He was right. Buildings or parts of buildings lay in heaps of rubble. Trees leaned at crazy angles. A huge split zig-zagged across the square, missing us by only a few feet.

  ‘Ian, did you know that was going to happen?’

  ‘No. I just knew something wasn’t right. The pressure in my head … I couldn’t see. Couldn’t hear anything except the noise. It’s gone now.’

  I’d heard of this. Some people are sensitive to thunder storms so I suppose there’s no reason why others shouldn’t be sensitive to earthquakes. Theseus of Athens, son of Poseidon himself, was able to foretell earthquakes. And I had heard tales from America – before the borders closed, obviously – of people who claimed to be able to do the same thing. Mind you, that same person also told me that over there they actually pick up the ball and run with it when playing football, and how believable is that?

  I stood quietly, brushing the dust from my clothes, waiting for him to collect the reports. He finished, closed down his com and nodded. ‘No major casualties.’

  The sun beat down upon us. I looked up at the sky, washed of all colour by the oppressive heat.

  People were emerging from buildings around us, cut, bruised, dazed, dragging out their children, their family treasures, or whatever they happened to have in their hands at the time. Their faces reflected shock and bewilderment and then, as they saw the devastation to their city, outright fear. Uncomprehending children
wailed for their parents. Women screamed. Men shouted, clawing vainly at the rubble.

  I stared. Every instinct is to help. But what could I do? Guthrie solved the problem for me. Seizing my arm, he pulled me across the square.

  ‘Come away, Max.’

  Years ago, I’d been in a wartime hospital in France when it caught fire. I still remember the panic and confusion as helpless people staggered from the smoke and flames out into the thick mud, only to run in hopeless circles, endangering themselves and others. This was no different. I’d tried to help on that occasion – I should do so again.

  ‘Ian …’

  But he was ruthless. I was dragged away. He was right. I had a duty to my own people first, but to run past helpless and broken people – children – when they called out to us as we passed …

  Somehow, we got back to the pods.

  Leon came forward. He broke our self-imposed rule and gently rubbed my arm. ‘Everything all right?’

  I nodded and did a head-count. Everyone was present and nearly correct, which, with St Mary’s, is about the best you can ever hope for. Markham had a field dressing on the side of his head. It looked as if he’d been caught by falling masonry, although knowing him, he might well have been bitten by another irate goose.

  We called it quits for the day.

  Chapter Eleven

  The aftershocks continued throughout the night, varying in strength and duration. We sat outside in the breathlessly hot night, pod doors open, in case we needed to make a quick exit and listened to the sounds of terror in the already stricken city. In the distance, we could hear furious waves thundering down upon the shore.

  No one got any sleep and about an hour before dawn we went out again.

  I was in constant contact with Van Owen, who had taken a team into the city. There had been damage throughout, she reported, but the buildings in the citadel, although more tightly crammed together, were better constructed and had suffered less damage.

  Guthrie and I had returned to the pods around mid-morning to pick up new disks when it happened again.

  Guthrie, who had been perfectly normal up to that moment, suddenly clutched his head and groaned.

  I just had time to shout a warning when the big one struck. And this time it was a big one and it did not stop. The ground trembled and jerked. The earth groaned in pain. We were all thrown to the ground. Inside the pods, I could hear equipment falling out of the lockers.

  These things usually only last a few seconds – although it often seems much longer.

  Not this time. The ground heaved violently. On the other side of the olive grove, I could hear buildings coming down.

  Terrible noises came from the city. Screaming people. Terrified livestock. The seemingly never-ending crash of collapsing buildings as the topless towers of Ilium swayed and fell. And then, over everything, an almighty rumbling that swelled in intensity until we couldn’t hear ourselves shout.

  Already on the ground anyway, I curled into a ball, protected my head, and, like everyone else in Troy, endured as best I could. This was how I always imagined the end of the world.

  The earth gave one last shudder and was still.

  No one moved. I could still hear things clattering to the ground around us. And then – if you discounted all the screaming – everything was quiet …

  I uncurled and brushed dust, dirt, and debris from my tunic.

  People nearby were pulling themselves and each other to their feet. Injuries were miraculously few. Schiller had sprained a wrist as she fell. Markham now had several new cuts and bruises to add to his almost permanent collection.

  I coughed and spat dust.

  ‘Chief, please run a full check on all the pods.’

  He nodded, rubbed dust, and God knows what from his hair and stepped into Number Three.

  ‘Miss Van Owen, How are things with you?’

  ‘Astonishingly, we’re fine. A bit dusty and knocked about, but yes, we’re OK.’ She moved on to matters we both considered much more important. ‘Max, you’ve got to get up here. It’s gone. Completely gone.’

  ‘What has? What’s gone?’

  ‘The Scaean Gate. It’s completely demolished. And its fall has brought down the sections of wall on either side. There’s nothing left but rubble. There’s massive damage to the upper city too – the western part of the palace has collapsed. The statue of Athena has fallen. The big tower is down and it’s damaged the cistern. There’s water everywhere. Fires are breaking out all over. You have to get more people up here now. Just a minute. What?’

  I could hear shouted voices in the background.

  ‘Say that again. What? Oh, my God!’

  ‘What?’ I shouted, very nearly beside myself. ‘What’s happening? Report.’

  ‘Max, there are ships approaching. Hundreds of them. It’s the Black Ships. The Greeks are coming back.’

  Of course they would. The probably turned back yesterday, after the first earthquake. With the possibility of tidal waves, they would seek a safe harbour and this was the nearest.

  ‘How long?’

  ‘Before they get here? Maybe half an hour or a little longer. They’re riding the waves and the wind is behind them.’

  ‘Your priority is keeping your people safe,’ I said. ‘But I want as much of this as possible.’

  ‘You’ve got it,’ she said, calmly and closed the link.

  I deployed everyone. Leon to stay with the pods. Schiller, bandaged but functioning, Guthrie, and Peterson to the Scaean Gate to cover the Greek landing. Markham, Prentiss, and me to the citadel.

  ‘We have less than thirty minutes. As soon as the Greeks land – get back to your pods. That goes for historians, too. I don’t care if you discover that Agamemnon was a woman and Helen has been shacked up with Odysseus these last ten years. As soon as the first Greek sets foot on Trojan soil – you move. Understood?’

  They nodded and we scattered.

  Leon caught my tunic as I passed. ‘For God’s sake, be careful.’

  A bit like telling water to flow uphill, but I nodded anyway. I was in such a hurry that I don’t think I even took the trouble to look at him properly.

  The trumpets sounded as we set off. First one, then others took up the call.

  All over the city, they were calling out the men to fight. Any man. Every man.

  I saw young boys with swords as big as they were. Everyone had a cudgel of some kind. Women snatched up their children and locked them in cellars or hid them in outhouses, standing guard outside with hastily snatched up household implements.

  All of Troy was arming itself. To defend themselves and their homes. It wouldn’t do them the slightest bit of good.

  My heart bled for them. A ten-year war. Sickness. Earthquake. Devastation. And now they were defenceless and the Greeks were back. Truly, the gods had deserted them this day.

  This would not be the glorious victory or heroic defeat of legend. This would be a slaughter. Too weak to resist, taken unawares, feeble with hunger and sickness, they stood no chance at all. It was as if all the Horsemen of the Apocalypse had gathered here today in this one spot, to oversee the razing of that most powerful of cities – Troy.

  We pushed our way through the crowds of screaming people. Many buildings were still upright or partially so, but the street patterns had disappeared under the rubble.

  We scrambled over the wreckage of people’s lives.

  The Dardanian Gate was unguarded. Soldiers had more important things to do. We entered the citadel, where the panic was no less widespread than in the lower part of the city.

  Men ran past on their way to what was left of the walls. Fires bloomed everywhere. Ash and dust floated on the wind.

  Markham insisted we stay together, arguing he wasn’t Solomon’s baby and couldn’t cut himself in half. A small corner of my mind registered that our Mr Markham was not only extremely good at his job but also considerably more intelligent than he would have us believe.

  We filmed th
e broken buildings, especially the Temple of Athena, now badly damaged, with one side completely cracked away and leaning dangerously. Somewhere in there, if legends were true – and after the last few days, who could say what was true and was not? – Kassandra and other noble Trojan women and priestesses would seek sanctuary. That would not end well.

  We filmed as much as we could, with Markham chivvying us along like an anxious sheepdog. I could hear Prentiss dictating into her recorder. We found a gap in the buildings and climbed over tumbled stones to try to get a view of what was happening on the plain.

  Van Owen was right. The Greeks were back; flying on the crests of powerful waves crashing on to the shore. A thick, black wall of ships, hundreds of them, were followed by hundreds more. Their sails billowed fatly in the same stiff wind that flung dust and ash in our faces.

  Prentiss recorded the ships. I filmed the ruined city. Markham, ignoring historical accuracy in the way that only the security section can, clutched a stun gun in one hand and a thick wooden staff in the other and shifted anxiously from foot to foot.

  ‘Max …’

  ‘Yes. We’re finished. Come on.’

  I don’t know how it happened.

  Prentiss slipped.

  Her foot skidded sideways. She gave a cry of pain and fell heavily and awkwardly, dropping her recorder.

  Markham was there in an instant.

  ‘Can you get up?’

  ‘Yes, of course. Aaaah! No.’

  ‘Let me lift you.’

  ‘It’s not that – my foot’s stuck.’

  Markham handed me his gun and I kept watch although no one was taking any notice of us. They were all far too busy trying to get themselves to safety.

  He crouched awkwardly and investigated.

  ‘Does it hurt?’

  ‘No. It’s just wedged in there.’

  In there was a gap between two white limestone blocks that had once been part of a grand house to the south of the palace.

  He wiggled her leg.

  ‘How’s that?’

  ‘No bloody good at all.’

  ‘Can you get your sandal off?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well try, will you? I really don’t want to have to amputate your foot. I haven’t had breakfast yet.’