by Jodi Taylor
Caesar wasn’t a tall man and I don’t think he was as old as he looked. He had a sickly, yellow look that aged him prematurely. His hair was thin and greying and deep lines ran from his nose to the corner of his mouth. But he was a powerhouse. Energy radiated off him in waves. His presence in the room changed everything within it.
A chair was brought for him. Not a throne, just a simple wooden affair, but several inches higher than Cleopatra’s. I imagined their respective households sitting together, thrashing out these compromises.
He seated himself, pulling the folds of his purple toga around him as if he was cold. His short-sleeved tunic was of soft wool – understated, but of the finest quality.
His wife nodded her head and two slaves rushed forward with a marble-topped, claw-legged table. Another two began to lay out wine and snacks. The centrepiece was a great golden bowl of figs, drizzled with honey for extra sweetness. A true delicacy at this time of year.
We had been completely forgotten. Not unthankfully, we began to ease ourselves backwards, and we would have made it, too. We would have slipped away, climbed into our wooden edifice, been carried back to our pod, jumped away, and a large part of History might have been disastrously different.
But it wasn’t; for which we have Markham to thank, and that’s not a phrase that is often bandied around.
Caesar served the queen with wine and offered her the bowl of figs.
I remember it all very clearly – a frozen moment in time. Caesar holding the heavy bowl in both hands. Cleopatra, bracelets chinking, smiling up at him, and reaching gracefully to take a fig. And just as her hand hovered, just as she was making her choice, I heard a shout of warning; something thrust me violently to one side and Peterson to another. Markham lunged forwards and struck the bowl from Caesar’s hands.
Figs flew through the air, flicking honey over everyone nearby.
And then everything speeded up again.
People shouted in anger. And fear. And confusion.
Two Nubians sprang forwards in one smoothly co-ordinated movement and formed an impenetrable barrier between the queen and us.
Not to be outdone, half a dozen Roman soldiers seized Guthrie and Peterson, but, thank God, hesitated before doing the same to Van Owen and me. Markham, however, being neither female nor highborn, was hurled to the floor with a sword at his throat.
No one had any idea what was happening and I was terrified they would kill us first and ask questions later. I was particularly anxious that Markham should be kept alive so I could kill him myself later.
And then, amongst the spilled figs, something moved.
Without stopping to think – again – I brought my sandal down on a small but very indignant snake.
An asp.
Markham very wisely didn’t try to speak – just signalling with his eyes. Two more snakes lay curled in the bottom of the bowl. Another was wriggling across the floor as fast as he could go, looking for cover, but not anything like fast enough because Guthrie pulled an arm free, seized my stick from me, and brought it down hard on the snake, instantly breaking its backbone. A substantial amount of snake blood and guts splattered across my pretty tunic. Mrs Enderby would be wanting a word with me. Again.
Another one was heading for the garden and freedom, but a quick-thinking slave brought a flagon down on its head, picked it up with a stick, and tossed it into the pool. I never saw what became of it afterwards.
A third Nubian had upended the bowl, trapping the two sleepier snakes beneath it. Their future looked nearly as bleak as ours did.
That we were suspects was very apparent.
Chaos cut in. Someone had attempted to assassinate either Caesar or Cleopatra or both of them. That it was deliberate, there could be no doubt. Six snakes do not accidentally find themselves in a bowl of honeyed figs. It seemed a safe bet that everyone here knew everyone else. In fact, there was only one set of strangers in the room and they were the idiots from St Mary’s who had chosen this one day of all others to observe Caesar and Cleopatra, and dropped themselves right in it.
I let everyone else mill about, exclaiming and speculating. I stared at the sad little pile of squashed snake under my sandal and then I lifted my eyes and found myself staring straight at Caesar’s wife. Who stood quietly in the corner, as she always did. Unimportant. Unregarded. Unobserved. Unmoved.
As if she felt my gaze, she turned her head slightly. We exchanged looks and I knew.
Shouting men were stamping on already-dead snakes. Seeking to disassociate themselves from this shocking event, many more were stampeding towards the front doors. Scylla and Charybdis had disappeared and their place taken by a quartet of tough-looking soldiers. Another two guarded the side entrance. Calpurnia and I still stared at each other as if we were the only two people in the room. Which, at that moment, to all intents and purposes – we were.
She had attempted murder. But of whom? The hated foreign woman? Or the husband who had made her live in his first wife’s house? Who had ordered her to give up her rooms to foreign guests? Who compelled her to serve his mistress? And when he became ruler of all the known world, he wouldn’t want her any longer. He would want the woman who was already a queen. Who already had a son by him.
So which of them was the intended victim and did she even care?
I knew what she’d done and she knew I knew. We were in a very great deal of trouble here. I’m not sure whether she had deliberately sought to implicate us. That had not been her original plan, I was sure of it, but the sudden appearance of a bunch of strangers who might not be what they appeared to be … she had given instructions we were to be admitted. She had presented us to the queen to put us in the front line. Never mind that we’d had no opportunity. No one would care about that. As long as the blame didn’t fall on them. Any minute now, Caesar’s men would start taking names. Everyone present would be minutely examined. And not in a pleasant way. We’d given false names and an address that wouldn’t stand up to any sort of close examination, let alone the stringent enquiries about to be made. The chances of us being allowed to depart were non-existent. We were in some very serious trouble. We would be arrested and taken away and once they split us up, there would be no hope of rescue. We’d be tortured and if we survived that, we’d be executed. Or crucified. Or sent to the arena. We had to get out of here.
It had happened in one of two ways. She’d either spotted us as impostors and recognised an opportunity to implement her plan and place the blame on legitimate targets; or – and I felt badly about this – I’d insulted her and this was her revenge. She genuinely thought we’d come to visit her – that someone was actually paying her some attention – and then I’d looked away as Cleopatra entered the room. Just as everyone else had done. And the insult had been just one too many.
And suppose she’d succeeded. Suppose Cleopatra died before Caesar. What then? No Mark Anthony. No Battle of Actium … No suicide by – ironically – asp bite.
And if Cleopatra had died today, what of Caesar? Suppose her death put him on his guard to such an extent that the assassination on the Ides of March either failed or never took place at all. Suppose Caesar was declared king of Rome. With his son Caesarion to succeed him. How much would that have changed History? The implications were breathtaking.
Were we meant to be here? To prevent a murder?
Possibly. And now it was a very good idea not to be here. But how we were to get out was anyone’s guess. I didn’t think we were under suspicion – yet. The little misunderstanding was being ironed out. Peterson was talking, his face calm and untroubled, and Markham was being pulled to his feet. But everyone in this room would be investigated and we needed to depart.
I caught Van Owen’s eye. She nodded.
I gave a sudden, hoarse cry and clutched my chest.
‘Quickly,’ called Van Owen. ‘Quickly. My aunt. Her heart. Please help her.’
They did.
I was supported to a chair. Wine was pressed upon me. On the
grounds that I deserved it, I drank the lot. Believe me, there are huge advantages to living in a society that believes women are delicate and fragile creatures, unable to withstand even the smallest shock. I rolled my eyes, groaned, panted, clutched my chest and everything else I could think of. It was a powerful performance, if I do say so myself.
By now, Caesar had assumed control of the situation. He murmured briefly to Cleopatra who gracefully but swiftly left the atrium, surrounded by her retinue. He issued a series of crisp instructions and the excited gabble subsided. Finally, he approached Peterson and I could see the two of them discussing what best to do. If they offered me a room here then we were sunk.
Never once did he glance at his wife or express any concern for her wellbeing. As far I as I was concerned, the bastard deserved everything he got.
Peterson, however, was adamant I would be more comfortable in my own home.
‘Everyone knows where we live,’ he was declaring, confidently. ‘The Street of Six Vines behind the smaller Temple of Juno. Just ask for my house. Anyone can point it out.’
Never buy a used car from an historian.
He became confidential.
‘She often has these turns. They are getting worse. One day …’ he paused, significantly. ‘She’s not getting any younger.’
And he wasn’t going to be getting any older. Directly we were safe, he was going to die. Slowly and painfully.
Caesar, however, appeared to have bought it. We were the people who’d foiled the plot, after all.
Someone was sent to organise our chair. Since no more wine appeared to be forthcoming, I allowed myself to be helped to my feet.
Our old-fashioned conveyance awaited, exuding enough respectability to satisfy anyone, together with a suddenly wide-awake set of chairmen. I suspected rumours were already flying around Rome.
Both Caesar and his wife attended our departure, she standing a little behind him, her face expressionless. I could not help a little shiver. Whether he was aware of something or not, Caesar turned around. For one long moment, he stared at his wife. The man was no fool. I wasn’t the only one who had suspicions that Caesar’s wife might not be as above reproach as she should be. But was she above being caught?
What would he do?
I said, ‘We need to go. Now,’ and moaned a little more, which gave Peterson a good reason for ordering them to get a move on. And move they did. I swear we broke into a canter at one point. The old chair creaked and swayed under the strain and Van Owen, who has a delicate stomach, turned the same colour as her dress.
I said to Van Owen, ‘Tell them to get a move on.’
She stuck her head out of the curtains and a second later, we moved up a gear.
We crossed the Tiber, muddy and swollen with winter rainfall, and finally, two streets away from the pod, we pulled over. We piled out and Peterson dismissed the chairmen. From the speed with which they disappeared, I suspected he’d massively over-tipped them, but should they subsequently be questioned, they could honestly say they dropped us in the middle of nowhere.
‘This way,’ said Guthrie, getting his bearings and nudging us down a very unevenly paved street. We concentrated on not turning an ankle and Markham brought up the rear.
Nearly there.
We were just one hundred yards from the pod. Just one hundred yards, when we heard a shout behind us. Mindful of Major Guthrie’s oft-repeated instructions, we kept going.
‘Never mind what’s happening behind you. You’ll find out soon enough if you turn to look.’
Just about the first thing I learned at St Mary’s.
We kept our heads. Van Owen and I scooped up our skirts and did the hundred-yard dash, sandals slapping on the uneven cobbles. Peterson ran with us. Markham and Guthrie covered our rear. Really, we’d done this sort of thing so many times we barely even stopped to think about it.
It would appear we had considerably underestimated Gaius Julius Caesar, conqueror of Gaul, Dictator Perpetuo, etc. etc. He knew very well what his wife had done. He also knew he could not publicly accuse her. He needed scapegoats. His soldiers had followed us at a discreet distance and when it became apparent we weren’t heading for the Street of Six Vines, they’d decided to move in.
Fat lot of good it would do them. We scrambled inside and heaved a sigh of relief. We were safe inside the pod. They were outside the pod. We could just wait for them to give up and leave and then we could jump back to St Mary’s when it got dark.
They didn’t give up and they didn’t leave. Of course they didn’t. Roman soldiers were the best in the world, Caesar’s men would be the best of the best, and these would be the handpicked best of the best of the best.
They pounded on the door, which didn’t do them the slightest bit of good. Nothing short of a thermo-nuclear blast would get through that door if we didn’t want them to. They threw their weight against it and there were some big boys there, but they were wasting their time. After a while, someone turned up with the battering ram.
An interested crowd began to gather.
Soon afterwards, reinforcements turned up. You could see they didn’t take it very seriously. The wandered around the pod, kicking the walls and laughing. It was just five fugitives in a small hut, for crying out loud. Come on, centurion, get that door down and we can all go back to the mess.
The attentive crowd shouted instructions and helpful advice.
We made some tea and Peterson handed the mugs around. ‘I have to ask,’ he said to Markham. ‘How did you spot what was going on?’
Markham, unexpectedly, said nothing.
Guthrie put down his mug. ‘Well, I’ll tell you, since he won’t.’
I looked from one to the other. What was this all about?
He continued. ‘It’s what we do. While you’re caught up in the moment – and no criticism; you’re historians and you don’t see the world in the same way as normal people – anyway, while you’re caught up in the moment, we watch what else is going on. We keep you safe. It’s our job. Markham saw a movement where there shouldn’t have been movement and he acted. Because it’s his job and he’s very good at it.’
I looked at Markham and saw him – small, perpetually grubby, spiky hair, St Mary’s favourite disaster-magnet, but he wasn’t, was he? He was tough, competent, and virtually indestructible. I suddenly realised that if I couldn’t have Guthrie then I’d rather have Markham watching my back than anyone else I knew.
And what of Guthrie himself? Quiet, assured, solid as a rock. Keeping us all safe.
I took a breath. ‘We don’t say this anything like often enough – but on behalf of everyone here – good job, guys. Thank you.’
There was a moment of intense embarrassment, but fortunately the soldiers chose that moment to clamber onto the roof to try and batter their way through, so we were able to keep calm and carry on.
We drank our tea and laughed at them. Our plan was to wait for them to give up and jump away under cover of darkness.
We didn’t laugh for long because they didn’t give up.
Their next idea was to smoke us out. They dragged up great piles of brushwood and timber – God knows where from – doused it with oil, and set it alight.
Pods are built to withstand a great deal of punishment and I should know. I nearly melted one, once. However, solid and robust as they may be, there’s some delicate stuff inside. I wasn’t sure how it would respond to being engulfed in a fireball. And what on earth would I tell Leon? It’s possible I might have a bit of a reputation for damaging pods and this wouldn’t help.
The interior of the pod grew very hot. A couple of red lights flickered. I instructed Peterson to shut down non-essential systems.
We sat in near darkness and listened to them bringing up more firewood. There were five of us in a small space and things began to get stuffy.
‘This is no good,’ said Guthrie, grimly. ‘We’re going to have to jump soon.’
‘We can’t,’ said Van Owen. ‘They’re
too close. This is why everyone stands behind the safety line in Hawking. So we don’t inadvertently suck anyone into the vacuum.’
‘Ah,’ said Markham in tones of enlightenment. ‘Is that’s what it’s for? You’d think a far-seeing technical department would have fitted us with something to give the buggers some sort of electric shock, wouldn’t you?’
There was a thoughtful pause and then Peterson said, ‘Actually …’ and rummaged in a locker. ‘I’ve had a brilliant idea.’
This was met with caution. Some of our brilliant ideas – aren’t.
He pulled out a disk.
‘Voila! The Sonic Scream.’
Van Owen and I stared at each other, baffled. Sweat ran down my back. I wiped my forehead on my palla.
‘The what?’
‘The Sonic Scream. Something Chief Farrell is putting together. Still experimental, of course.’
Silence.
‘Look. You’ve heard of that sonic device? The one that only affects teenagers?’
‘What are you talking about?’ said Van Owen. Teenagers are inarticulate, acne-ridden lumps of inert matter. The only way you can ever induce movement is by trying to separate one from its mobile phone. And if you can do that then the only way you can stop it attacking is with rhinoceros tranquiliser.’
Harsh words from someone who only ceased being a teenager herself a few years ago.
‘No, no,’ he said, hastily. ‘You broadcast at low frequency and only they can hear it. Normal people aren’t affected. It induces feelings of discomfort. And they’re teenagers, so they’re pretty uncomfortable already. They don’t like it, so they move on. We have something similar here. Not low frequency, obviously, but the same sort of thing. I think Chief Farrell thought it might be useful for hostile animals and suchlike, but it might shift this lot.’
I shook my head. ‘I really don’t think broadcasting screams will make this lot go away. Half of Rome will turn up to see what’s going on.’
‘No, that’s the beauty of it. Nothing is actually audible. They’ll just feel a bit odd – and then, without knowing why, they’ll just go away.’