by Jodi Taylor
‘For heaven’s sake – give over with the pregnant. It’s a condition – not a disease.’
‘Dr Foster’s going to kill me.’
‘If you don’t stop moaning, I’ll kill you.’
He sighed.
‘Look, we need to get our stories straight. Don’t say I fell down. Say I was pushed.’
‘Yes, that hardly sounds as if I wasn’t doing my job properly at all.’
‘By the crowd, idiot. Say it was an accident. No one’s to blame.’
‘How does you rolling around in the gutter as a mob streams over the top of you make me sound good?’
‘Oh, so that’s what this is all about. You’re just scared of what Helen will say.’
‘Aren’t you?’
‘Dr Foster doesn’t frighten me,’ I said loftily, knowing full well I’d suffer for that if she ever found out. ‘Look, we should get out of here. I can hear barking again and the last thing we need is to be attacked by some pack of rabies-ridden, feral dogs.’
‘Let’s go to the park’ he said. ‘They’ve laid on stuff to keep the mob happy. We’ll stare at some flowers, and you can wash your face, straighten your bonnet, and regain your social status before we go back.’
So we did.
Just for once, neither Dr Foster nor Nurse Hunter were particularly interested in Markham’s scratch – or major laceration, as he kept calling it. I think he was a little peeved at the lack of attention.
‘Your blood pressure’s elevated,’ said Hunter to me.
I had to tread a little carefully because we’d told them I hadn’t suffered any sort of peril or injury, and if they thought even a normal, bog-standard jump would raise my blood pressure, then I’d be grounded for the duration.
‘Well,’ I said carelessly, ‘there might have been the teeniest, tiniest bit of an altercation.’
‘Might have been?’
‘There probably was.’
Hunter sighed and consulted her clipboard while Markham and I sat, feet up, swigging down our tea and waiting for her to finish with me.
‘Are you eating at least five pieces of fruit and/or veg a day?’
‘Yes, of course,’ I said, wondering what this had to do with Caroline of Brunswick.
She ticked the ‘no’ box. I mean, why bother to ask?
‘Are you taking at least an hour a day to relax and take things easy?’
A couple of hours ago, I’d been racing around Westminster Abbey in pursuit of an inappropriately active Princess of Wales. In the interests of peace and harmony – to say nothing of Markham’s love life – I said, ‘Yes. I’ve just had a pleasant stroll around the park in the afternoon sunshine.’
She sighed. ‘When?’
‘I told you. Just now.’
‘I mean – what time period?’
‘Oh. Early 19th century. It was actually very pleasant. No one died. Not in front of us, anyway. No one attacked us. There were no earthquakes.’
‘So how on earth did the pair of you pass the time?’
I said, with dignity, ‘It was a cultural experience.’
She made another note.
‘Are you doing your pelvic-floor exercises?’
Markham blinked at her. ‘Which one of us are you talking to?’
‘Of course I am,’ I said, with more speed than accuracy. ‘Forty-five minutes with Chief Farrell and you have a pelvic floor that could crack walnuts.’
Silence.
Markham whispered to me, ‘What’s a pelvic floor?’
‘Something you crack walnuts with.’
‘I could do with one of those. Can I borrow yours?’
‘I’m sure if you want your nuts cracked, Nurse Hunter would be more than happy to oblige.’
We were remanded for the statutory twelve hours, of which we only served six, because the Arminius assignment came back in a hurry and they wanted the beds. A grumpy Markham and I were expelled and forbidden alcohol. Seven days in his case – the rest of my life in mine.
Chapter Four
I debriefed the Arminius crew personally as soon as they emerged from Sick Bay and they were all discharged within hours except for Bashford who had suffered his customary blow to the head and was still recovering.
‘I’m not sure I’d recognise him without concussion,’ said Ian Guthrie, handing me his report.
‘There’s not a lot of difference,’ said Sykes, grinning, ‘but just for future reference, he is extraordinarily suggestible for several hours after the initial blow.’
We regarded her with some confusion.
‘To the head, I mean,’ she said indignantly, and we breathed again.
‘Right,’ I said. ‘Let’s get started. Mr Clerk, would you like to begin?’
They went suddenly quiet, then Clerk spoke. ‘Well, I’ll tell you something, Max. I wouldn’t want to be caught in the Teutoburg Forest today, let alone in 9 AD,’ and the others nodded.
‘Quinctilius Varus must have been out of his mind to take his legions there. Dark, wet, and completely silent, Max. No birdsong, no small animals, no signs of life anywhere. God knows, it was spooky enough before the battle, and now there’s the ghosts of twenty thousand dead Romans and their auxiliaries flitting through the glades.’
‘I don’t know what Varus was thinking,’ said Prentiss. ‘Not only did he act on dubious intel, but he didn’t even send out any recon parties and he allowed his forces to become separated. They were easy meat. The slaughter was massive.’
‘Where were you?’
‘Mostly up a tree. You’ll see though, when you read our report, that visibility was poor. Mist, fog, not a lot of daylight getting through the thick trees. Our recorders weren’t a lot of use so mainly we had to rely on our ears.’
I imagined them, clinging to trees, balancing precariously on branches, as below them, an entire army was slaughtered. And not just any old army. A Roman army. This was what being an historian was all about – not chasing fat princesses around Westminster Abbey.
They talked on and I saw it all. The damp, dark forest. The narrow road – a hill on one side, a swamp on the other. The ferocious German tribes, united under Arminius. The increasingly desperate Romans. Some fought. Some fled. Varus fell on his sword. His second in command deserted, taking the cavalry with him.
The aftermath was no less bloody for the survivors. Some were sacrificed in religious ceremonies – their bodies cooked in pots. A lucky few were ransomed. Some were enslaved; most died horribly – and the Romans never crossed the Rhine again.
I talked to them all, collated their reports, watched such footage as they had, initialled everything, sighed deeply because I’d missed it, and took it all off to Dr Bairstow. Who wanted a word.
‘Caer Guorthigirn,’ he announced, passing over a file and two data cubes.
I brightened immediately. A British hill fort near the Welsh borders. This sounded considerably more interesting than watching the Royal Bosom come adrift from its moorings.
‘Excellent, sir. Pre or post Roman?’
‘Post,’ he said. ‘Mid-6th century. I require you to ascertain whether this particular fort was built for defence or some other purpose. Ceremonial, possibly. Whether it was refortified after the Romans left. This is the age of Saxon incursions after all. You will map and survey the site and its surrounding area. I would be grateful if you could settle, once and for all, the vexing question of revetments before the Professor and Dr Dowson actually come to blows. You may select your own team, but I would like you to include Dr Peterson.’
‘Is he back on the active list, sir?’
Some months previously, Peterson had been injured in Rouen, 1431. Someone else had died. The Time Police had turned up and I had lied through my teeth to them. That’s all I’m prepared to say about that particular assignment.
Peterson’s wound had been severe and although he’d flung himself into physiotherapy and rehabilitation sessions (usually organised by Markham and therefore borderline illegal in civilised countries), he
would never again have full use of his left arm. Since he was right-handed, he was insistent this hardly slowed him down at all. He still had bad days, however, when he had to wear a sling. Mrs Enderby had run up a few for him.
Black silk: ‘For formal occasions,’ Peterson said, messing about as he always did when something was serious.
A jaunty red and white spotted affair: ‘For casual or sportswear.’
Blue, the History Department colour: ‘For everyday use.’
And a wicked, rich, dark crimson silk: ‘For romantic occasions,’ he said. ‘For when I want to impress Helen.’
I personally thought it would take a great deal more than a bit of red silk to impress Dr Foster and said so.
‘It matches her eyes,’ he’d said and I’d laughed with him. He looked exactly as he always had – tall, relaxed, grinning his lazy grin. Was I the only one who remembered him, white-faced and unconscious on the pod floor, as his lifeblood soaked into the carpet? Or saw him afterwards, lost in despair as he struggled to come to terms with his injury? To all intents and purposes, his recovery had been complete. Was I the only one who sometimes wondered if he was as all right as everyone thought? Well, if he was on his way to being back on the active list, then the answer to that would seem to be yes.
‘That’s good news, Dr Bairstow.’
He agreed.
‘Is this assignment for Thirsk, sir?’
‘It is. And now that the uproar over their recently discovered Botticelli paintings is dying down, they are eager for our next discovery.’
‘They’re insatiable, aren’t they, sir. We’ve created a monster.’
‘We have, but a benevolent one. They are very kindly disposed towards us at the moment, and I wish to bask in their approval for as long as possible.’
‘I’ll give the matter some thought, sir. How does Persepolis sound?’
‘One assignment at a time, Dr Maxwell.’
‘Indeed, sir, but as I’m sure you will have noticed, I am rather on the clock at the moment.’
‘That state of affairs can easily be remedied, Dr Maxwell, should I learn from Dr Foster that you are overexerting yourself.’
In addition to Peterson, I selected Sands because of his interest in all things post-Roman, Roberts, for no better reason than he came from Herefordshire, and Markham, because, he said, someone had to keep an eye on us.
‘Dear God,’ said Leon, as we stepped into the pod. ‘Peterson with only one and a half working arms, Sands missing a foot, Markham with half an ear gone, and Roberts still with no discernible facial hair.’
Roberts bridled indignantly, touching his upper lip, presumably in case something had sprouted in the last half hour.
‘And what am I missing?’ I said, quite offended over this criticism of my team.
‘Nothing you need worry about, Scarecrow.’
I wore a soft woollen underdress, with another thicker one over the top. Both were in undistinguished shades of brown, but they’d keep me warm. I tied my hair up in a piece of linen and tucked in the ends. Quick and neat.
They’d given me a pair of soft leather boots that looked more badly worn than they actually were, designed to look unappealing to boot thieves. I’ve never actually been robbed of my footwear, but Bashford once told me that it had happened to him, and had been one of the most embarrassing experiences of his life.
‘And if that wasn’t bad enough,’ he’d continued, ‘not only had I to complete the assignment in my socks, but when I got back, Mrs Enderby stared at me reproachfully and you know what that’s like.’
I did indeed know. It’s very rare that any of us return from an assignment not liberally splattered with something. Mud, blood (ours and other people’s), random body fluids, (ours and other people’s), excrement (not usually ours, but always a possibility if the assignment becomes more exciting than normal), animal waste, bits of rotting vegetables – the list just goes on and on. And then we get Mrs Enderby’s special reproachful stare. She never actually says anything, but somehow that makes it worse.We assembled outside Number Five, one of the bigger pods. I could hear Dieter and Leon inside, carrying out last-minute checks. We stowed our packs in the lockers, along with surveying equipment, recorders and torches. I myself had only recorders and a change of clothes. I’d been warned against trying to carry anything heavy, which suited me down to the ground. I didn’t intend to lift anything heavier than a mug of tea. Sands seated himself at the console to scan the read-outs and I nabbed the other seat before Peterson could get there.
‘Aren’t I driving?’ he said, hurt.
‘No,’ said everyone within earshot. Peterson tends to land his pods like a stone skimming across a lake. If he’s really on form, you can end up a good half mile away from your landing coordinates. I don’t know how he does it. I suspect he doesn’t either.
And that was it. We were ready to go.
Not only is there a wonderful hill fort at Caer Guorthigirn, but the place itself is smothered in legends. Vortigern supposedly burned to death there – that’s the High King Vortigern, not Mrs Mack’s beloved kitchen cat, obviously. The Romans supposedly captured the famous King Caractacus nearby. There’s also a cracking cave, excavated by the Revd W. S. Symonds in 1871, which was discovered to be full of Neolithic remains – flint tools, together with the bones of mammoths, cave bears, lions, woolly rhinos, and other exciting animals. It’s known as Arthur’s Cave, although that doesn’t necessarily mean a great deal. There are Arthur’s Caves all over the place. He’s a bit like Queen Elizabeth. Legend has it she slept in nearly every stately home in England and obviously Arthur wasn’t constitutionally capable of passing a cave without nipping inside and getting his head down for eight hours either.
We were in a no-lose situation this time. If the fort was still inhabited, we’d have an unparalleled opportunity to observe and document life in an occupied hill fort; and if not, if the people had finally drifted away, then we’d not only be able to survey and map, but we could have picnics with some pretty spectacular views. Much of the 6th century was taken up with the British struggles to resist Saxon invasions, but this area had been comparatively quiet. We’d carry out a little light surveying. I’d sketch what I could. We’d take our time, complete the assignment at a gentle pace just for once, and be back in time for tea next Tuesday. Job done.
So, of course, we landed in the middle of a war. What is it with us?
We landed on a steep slope. A very steep slope. We tilted sharply and then two of the hydraulic legs activated to keep us stable. Stable being a relative term for a pod full of historians and Mr Markham.
‘This isn’t right,’ said Sands, checking the console. ‘According to the read-outs, it should only be about eleven in the morning. If that. What’s going on? Why is it so dark?’
Markham peered at the screen. ‘It’s smoke.’
‘Smoke?’ I said. ‘Is something on fire?’
We angled the cameras. The split screens showed people struggling past, all heading in one direction: uphill. Women were shouting and trying to herd children and livestock at the same time. Sheep scattered. Pigs refused to move at all. Some men were present, shoving people in the right direction, or helping push laden carts through boggy patches. Many had swords drawn and we didn’t need the anxious glances they were throwing over their shoulders to tell us what was happening. This was an evacuation.
People were toiling uphill, backs bent under their loads, helping each other. Children frequently fell and rolled back down the steep slope until someone caught them and set them on their feet again. We angled the cameras again, trying to make out their destination, which was also ours. Caer Guorthigirn.
‘Well,’ said Peterson, looking at me. ‘What do we do?’
The correct procedure would be to leave at once.
‘We go and have a look, of course,’ I said, mildly irritated that anyone would even ask. ‘There’s no record of any early 6th-century massacre here so we should be comparatively sa
fe. And Thirsk won’t be happy if we have to go back and start again. We have an excellent opportunity to observe a possible Dark Age conflict at first hand, so let’s get some work done.’
All perfectly sound reasons for placing ourselves in harm’s way, as I think everyone will agree.
We took a blanket each and some packs of those shitty high-energy biscuits that no one ever eats. They’re about two inches thick and built of some material designed to be harder than teeth. You can mix them with water or milk and call them breakfast. You can dip them in tea and call them shortbread. You can hurl them at the enemy and be prosecuted under the Geneva Convention for subjecting your foe to cruel and unusual punishment. No one even looks at them until absolutely everything else has been eaten, and only then if we can’t get rat.
We loaded up with water and sallied forth to see what we could see.
The pod was hidden in dense woodland. Tall, slender trees grew thickly, but not so thickly as to impede our progress. It was autumn and a thick carpet of golden leaves covered the ground. Others floated silently down to join them.
Smoke drifted up from the valley below. Smoke brought up on the wind. I squinted down through the trees. Here and there, I thought I could see small flickers of light. Homes were burning, but whether they’d been torched by an invading army or by their owners, I was unable to tell.
No one noticed us. People were joining the procession from all directions, all of them clutching whatever had seemed valuable to them at the time.
A man and a woman were struggling with an unwieldy handcart. We tossed in our bundles. Roberts and Markham put their backs into it and with a glooping noise, the wheel came free from the mud. We followed along with the others.
It wasn’t an exodus because that implies running from something. These people were running to. Running to safety. To the hill fort which now, as I stopped plodding upwards and lifted my head to look, seemed a very long way away.
‘Max,’ said Peterson softly. ‘You should go back.’
‘I’m fine,’ I said. ‘There are other pregnant women here and you don’t see them bitching about how steep the path is.’