A Second Chance

by Jodi Taylor

  We sat there all day in the hot sun. The occasional aftershock brought more walls down, but we were safe enough in the middle of the square. I hunched my shoulders and made sure I stayed behind everyone else. At first, I tried to watch what was going on around me. I even considered activating my little recorder, but that was just asking for trouble. I stowed it carefully away in my hidden pocket because the last thing I wanted was for some future archaeologist to dig up a three and a half thousand-year-old, state of the art, digital 3D recorder with my initials illegally scratched on the bottom.

  As I say, at first I tried to watch, but as the hours passed the sights and sounds of so many people dying were just too much. The old, the sick, the wounded, anyone they didn’t like the look of were just executed on the spot. A quick spear thrust, and down they went into the blood-soaked dust. The streets echoed to the screams of the terrified and the dying.

  I did as the other women did. I drew my stole across my face and apparently gave myself up to despair.

  They moved us as the afternoon thought about becoming evening. The stifling heat had not let up for one second. I was parched, and, when the moment came, not at all sure I could get my stiff legs to work.

  A couple of pokes with the butt end of a spear convinced me that I could.

  I said softly, ‘We’re on the move.’

  A voice said, ‘We’re ready.’

  And off we went.

  The trouble began at what was left of the Dardanian Gate.

  I was at the rear and couldn’t see clearly, but, as we approached the gate, the leading women suddenly broke their silence and set up a keening wail that lifted the hairs on my arms. Other women took up the cry. I craned my neck to see what was going on.

  Our guards, obviously anticipating difficulties, waded in, using their spear butts to prod and club us onwards, shouting all the time.

  It was no use. Our ragged line shambled to a halt. Wailing women tore their garments and scratched their faces.

  Spread-eagled against the gate hung the naked body of Paris. They’d hacked off his genitals. He had been impaled by over thirty arrows, including one through each eye. They’d used him as target practice. Judging by the fly-infested pools of blood at his feet, he’d taken a long time to die.

  Not a warrior’s death.

  Bastards.

  One woman broke ranks and ran to dip her stole into his blood. For a moment, it looked as if our little procession would end in chaos. Other women surged forwards, too. Ajax barked an order and they were cut down without mercy. They lay like broken dolls, their blood hideously red against the grey dust.

  We huddled together in shock. The girl next to me was trembling violently. She was only very young. Her dust-covered hair hung around her face and her huge dark eyes were jerking wildly. Her breath came in short, sharp pants. Any minute now she would succumb to hysterics. Others would follow suit and then we’d all be in trouble.

  I took her hand and pinched the webbing between her thumb and first finger. She jerked violently, caught her breath in a kind of gasp, and then, to my relief, the tears started to fall. She pulled her stole across her face and turned away.

  I never saw her again. I sometimes wonder what became of her.

  We edged our way past the bodies, out through the gate and along the main street, heading towards the gap in the walls.

  I’ve never seen a city die before. I never want to again.

  The lower town was almost gone. Fires still burned and we coughed our way through the smoke. Half-burned bodies sprawled everywhere. One woman hung out of a window, her upper torso completely untouched and her legs burned away to the bone. I remembered women locking their children in outhouses or cellars and wondered how they had fared. Dead and dismembered soldiers lay everywhere. I could smell the metallic stench of blood. We climbed over bodies. I could hear buzzing flies. Away off to my left a woman screamed repeatedly. I kept my eyes forward, watching where I put my feet. What I had to stand in.

  The smoke made us cough. The air was thick with ash and dust which settled in the folds of our clothes and coated our hair. I had no spit with which to swallow and the taste in my mouth was of burning metal. Everyone, everything, was coated in thick layers of grey grime.

  Apart from other lines of women and children, I saw no other living person anywhere in the lower city. I began to fear for my team. All around me, the other women were crying and wailing. I used the noise.

  ‘Major?’

  ‘Max, we can’t see you. You all look the same.’

  He was right. Apart from bloodstains, there was no colour in our clothes. Everyone was covered in dust. Even our hair was grey. Our faces were thick with it. I could see the tear tracks on the faces of those around me.

  ‘Where are you, Major?’

  ‘I’m at the Scaean Gate. Ritter’s out on the plain and Markham’s down by the South Gate.

  ‘I’m at the Scaean now.’

  And at that moment, my luck ran out, because the same runty little soldier who found me in the first place took exception to my murmurings and hit me hard with his spear butt, right across the face.

  I thought I’d gone blind. I definitely thought my nose was broken. I staggered sideways and would have fallen, but the two women on either side grabbed me and held me upright. I guessed that if you couldn’t walk then you were dead.

  I tried not to panic. This was Ian Guthrie. He would find me. I was tagged – we all were – and if he could get close enough then they could trace me, whether I could see or not. So despite everything I felt reasonably optimistic, until I staggered out on to the plain and as my sight cleared, I saw, for the first time, the scale of Troy’s defeat. There were thousands and thousands of people, women mostly, sitting, lying, standing in shuffling lines … thousands and thousands of them.

  How would they ever find me?

  Chapter Twelve

  I could feel my eye swelling and my nose felt like a football. If I ever got my hands on that little runt … although actually he’d done me a favour because now I could bunch my stole and use it to mop up my nose and cover my mouth at the same time.

  ‘Leaving gate. Moving west. About 30 women. Three guards.’

  We trudged on a little further. The two women with me wouldn’t let go and I didn’t push it. I was familiar with this. In a crisis, help someone else. It’s a kind of defence mechanism for the mind. Something else to think about. I patted their hands to thank them.

  We halted at the top of the beach. Our guards leaned on their spears and picked their noses. Occasionally, one shouted to another. This was the dangerous time. No supervision from higher up and they would soon get bored. They would want a little fun.

  ‘Max, sit down.’

  I sat.

  A pause.

  ‘Stand up again.’

  I stood, looking around me.

  ‘Now sit.’

  I sat, but I’d attracted attention. Little runty man lifted his spear, but before he could get to me, we were on the move again.

  Now they meant business. We formed a line. Around me, passive despair was giving way to desperation as women fought for their children, their babies, their freedom. It was suicide, but that didn’t stop them. Many preferred to die here on the beach, outside their own city rather than be taken away by the Greeks. More soldiers piled in, punching and kicking and, in extreme cases, despatching the troublemakers without a second thought. The sand was stained with blood.

  It was hot and they were impatient and thirsty. Occasionally, someone would be singled out as an example to the others …

  Our own line shunted slowly forwards. Towards what, I couldn’t see. But I had only seconds. If they didn’t find me soon … once I was on a ship … if I got that far. Not everyone made the cut. Where was St Mary’s? The two women in front of me were yanked away.

  I stared blearily at a pair of dirty feet in scabby sandals. Someone hauled me to my feet. Not gently. A hand grasped my chin and turned my head this way an
d that, looking, inspecting. I was turned around. Someone’s hands were all over me, assessing my worth.

  A voice said, ‘It’s me.’

  I couldn’t see much, but I knew that voice.

  ‘This will hurt. I’m sorry,’ said Guthrie. ‘Go limp.’

  He slapped my face – which began to throb all over again. I had no difficulty going limp and he heaved me over his shoulder like a sack of coal. Shouts of advice and encouragement followed us off the beach.

  ‘Report,’ I said, from upside-down, arms dangling.

  ‘Van Owen’s team has jumped. Markham and Ritter returned with them. All personnel correct and accounted for. Number Eight with Peterson is still here. Waiting for you and me.’

  He stopped talking.

  Leon wouldn’t go without me. Something was wrong.

  ‘And Chief Farrell?’

  ‘Will probably be waiting for us when we get back.’

  I said no more. He had other things on his mind. Like getting us through a burning city filled with drunken, violent soldiers exacting revenge for a ten-year siege.

  It wasn’t easy. Every other Greek soldier, laden with looted gear, was heading for the shore. He shoved and cursed his way through the crowds like a salmon swimming upstream. A group of men caught his arm and voices were raised.

  He slapped my rump and replied in purest Caledonian. Everyone laughed. Except me.

  I hung as limply as I could, trying to look unattractive so they wouldn’t want their turn too, and obviously I was successful because after one last laugh, they went on their way.

  The gate was just a pile of rubble and twisted timbers. Guthrie clambered awkwardly over the wreckage. I lifted my head and watched, covering our retreat. Smoke drifted across the rubble and caught in my throat.

  Hanging upside down made my head throb unbearably. His armour dug into my rib cage. I could barely breathe. My eye had closed and ribbons of blood and snot hung from my nose, mingling with my hair. However, I was alive and, if not safe, at least I was safer than I’d been ten minutes ago.

  He found a sheltered corner away from the shouting and lowered me to the ground. I sat with my eyes closed as he carefully cleared my nose and wiped my face with more gentle care than I would have expected.

  ‘I don’t think your nose is broken, but you already have a world-class black eye. Can you see? How many fingers am I holding up?’

  ‘Seventy-three.’

  ‘Close enough. Does it hurt?’

  ‘A little. My face feels as if it’s going to explode.’ I could be the first woman in History to be killed by her own nose.

  ‘It’ll be quicker if I carry you. But painful.’

  ‘Whatever it takes, Major.’

  The streets were unrecognisable from the Troy I had known. Bodies sprawled everywhere like broken puppets. None of them had died easily. Many had been trampled, either by incoming Greeks or by fleeing townspeople.

  A little pink hand lay in the gutter.

  I could see orange flames everywhere and caught the smell of burning meat on the wind.

  The streets were thick with the detritus of war. Household goods, dead livestock, shattered roof tiles, and discarded weapons. I could see arrows lodged in the walls, broken javelins, smashed pottery, dead people – everything here was either broken or useless. Or dead. Anything with value was on the beach, waiting to be shipped.

  Far-off voices rose occasionally in anger, or song, or fear, but Guthrie guided us surely through the smouldering remains of Troy.

  Navigating the open spaces was nerve-wracking. Anyone could put an arrow through us.

  ‘Put me down. We can run faster.’

  ‘Not likely. Having you draped all over me is better than a shield.’

  Our neighbours’ little group of houses were well ablaze. I could see two charred bodies in the doorway. I remember thinking how loud the crackling sounded in the evening air. The shop had been looted. A few broken pots lay on the ground, but everything else was gone.

  And the tavern – the little tavern where Helios and Helike had lived …

  Guthrie lowered me to the ground and we looked on.

  ‘I hope you’re getting all this,’ he said harshly and turned away.

  Pieces of people lay everywhere. Except for Helike. They’d kept her intact.

  We heard a shout behind us. Two Greeks appeared around the corner, each clutching a wineskin and prepared to defend their territory against all comers. Their eyes lit up when they saw me.

  Guthrie indicated that he would be delighted to share his prize in return for a drink and pushed me towards them.

  I took the one on the left. Guthrie dropped his in seconds and then zapped mine for good measure. We’re not allowed to kill people. It’s never a good idea to start decimating your ancestors.

  ‘Come on,’ he said, seizing my arm and we threaded our way through the smoky olive grove. The heat was fearsome and the fumes made my eyes run. We turned constantly, trying to cover all the angles, but there was no one else around. Rural areas aren’t anything like as exciting to plunder as urban ones. You can’t uproot olive trees and take them back with you.

  Number Eight was intact. After what I’d put it through over the years, it was going to take more than a few flames and rioting soldiers to cause it any concern. The door slid open and Peterson covered our approach.

  Now that I was safe, I couldn’t wait to get inside and busy myself. The last thing I wanted to do was think about that beach and what was happening there. And what would have been happening to me if not for Guthrie.

  I said, ‘Thank you, Ian,’ and touched his forearm.

  He pulled off his looted helmet and breastplate and dropped them on the ground with a clatter. His face was smoky and sweat-streaked.

  ‘An honour and a privilege, Max.’

  I grinned at him. ‘Worst helmet-hair ever,’ and he thumped me on the shoulder.

  Peterson checked us both over. ‘No foreign objects.’

  We entered the pod.

  No Chief Farrell.

  I passed Guthrie some water, had a good glug myself and said to Peterson, ‘Report.’

  ‘Everyone got away safely. Just waiting on the Chief and then we’re off, too.’

  ‘Where did he go?’

  He shifted uneasily. He didn’t know.

  What the bloody hell did Leon think he was playing at?

  I opened the locker doors and peered at the cubes, sticks, tapes, disks, written notes, maps and in my own case, sketchpads. Every single, priceless little fact we’d been able to gather about the Trojan War. Enough data to keep Dr Dowson happy for years and years to come.

  I gave myself a second to feel the satisfaction of a job well done. But only one second.

  ‘In case we have to, can we go at a moment’s notice?’

  ‘Yes. FOD and POD plods done.’ The words, ‘Just waiting for Chief Farrell, who has suddenly and inexplicably disappeared,’ were not spoken.

  I felt a sudden cold hand on me and heard again Kassandra’s words.

  ‘Weep for your dreams,

  For today they die.’

  This was the end. Our last assignment. I was safe. Where was he? Was it all going to be snatched away at the very last moment?

  ‘Here he is,’ said Guthrie suddenly. Huge relief washed over me like a wave. The door opened.

  It was Leon and he wasn’t alone.

  Clamped to the front of him, like a tiny, terrified monkey clinging to its mother, was young Helios. His eyes were screwed tight shut and black blood crusted the side of his face.

  The door closed behind them and for a while there was no sound but Leon’s heavy breathing.

  ‘Weep for your dreams.

  For today they die.’

  I think I knew, at that moment, how this was going to end.

  I said, tightly, ‘Report.’

  He caught his breath and then said, ‘They’re all dead over there. I couldn’t save his sister but I managed to get Helios
out.’

  He stroked his hair and went to put him down, but the little lad clung on even more tightly.

  Peterson and Guthrie stood like statues.

  I knew how this was going to end, but I tried anyway.

  ‘Guthrie and I came that way and it’s all clear now. You can let him go.’

  ‘Are you mad? He wouldn’t last an hour.’

  I was conscious of something building inside me.

  Fear. Because he wanted to lift Helios out of his own time. Not just save his life and then leave him to take his chances – we’d done that before and got away with it. Or rather, History had allowed us to get away with it. But this – this was deliberately taking someone out of their time – which was bad enough – and then what? Drop him in another time? In another life? Or bring him back twenty years hence? To pick up where he left off? What did he think he was playing at? The consequences to the timeline … History would not permit this and she wouldn’t mess about. Her solution would be swift – and final.

  And anger. How could he do this? How could he put me in this position? How dared he make me the one who had to condemn this little boy to death? And I would. Make no mistake about it. I would. I wouldn’t like it, but if I had to, I would do it.

  And a terrible grief. For everything I had just lost and for what I was about to lose. I was going to lose it all.

  The long silence had given him my answer.

  ‘Max, you can’t. You’re condemning him to death. Or worse. You can’t just abandon him. You’ve saved people before.’

  No. I’d picked people up off the ground and given them the chance to die another day. In their own time and in their own place. This was not the same thing at all. This was so wrong. Every little bit of historian inside me was shouting – screaming – a warning. They say women don’t know how to say no. In fact, men have been saying that for centuries. That when women say no, they mean yes. Well I’ve got news for you, busters …

  ‘No.’

  No more. No less. No explanations. No reasons. No excuses. Just say: ‘no’.

  ‘He won’t last the night. You’re sending him to his death. If he’s lucky. Look at him. He’s not old enough to be a slave. They’ll take him on a boat, use him on the voyage home, and then toss him overboard as they make land. That’s what you’re condemning him to.’