by Jodi Taylor
The pig, scenting victory, closed for the kill, followed by her equally enthusiastic offspring. The now ex-looters gave it up, hauled each other off the ground, and ran for it. The pig uttered a bellow of victory and followed on behind. They all vanished from view.
In our little street, silence fell.
‘I don’t believe any of this,’ said Grey, who had sensibly taken refuge behind Markham. ‘We’ve just been beaten up by a pig. Who are you people?’
Based on our performance to date, I would have thought that was obvious.
I don’t know about the others, but I don’t have much memory of getting back to the pod. We hadn’t been gone that long – although it seemed longer – but in our absence, the square had filled up with Boudicca’s troops. Chariots still circled the Temple, but massive numbers of footsoldiers were pouring into the square from all directions. The noise was overwhelming.
We stayed well away from all that, working our way around the edge of the square and using such cover as we could find. We moved in a tight group. Peterson led the way; Grey and I steered a still rather wobbly Bashford, and Markham brought up the rear.
We kept our attention firmly on our route back to the pod because Markham had announced he would shoot the first historian who stopped and tried to identify Boudicca herself. Apparently it had been a long day and he just wanted to get home. Which was unfortunate, because without us even looking for her, there she was. I swear, it wasn’t our fault. Although, as I tried to explain to him afterwards, if you thought about it logically, where else would she be?
Grey and I were struggling to manhandle the surprisingly difficult to steer Bashford, when he stopped, peered blearily over my shoulder, and said in surprise, ‘Boudicca?’
‘No, no,’ said Grey, soothingly, trying to push him in the right direction. ‘St Mary’s.’
‘No,’ he said, ‘Oh my God, it is! It’s Boudicca! Look! Cooee!’ And he waved. He actually waved.
I just had time to think ‘Shit!’, and we all turned slowly.
He was right.
No more than thirty feet away, leaning out of a mud-splattered chariot drawn by two wild-eyed, foaming horses – there she was. Even as we stared at her, she spotted us, straightened up, and stared right back.
I couldn’t believe it. I was looking at Boudicca, Queen of the Iceni. The woman who took on the Romans and won. Who destroyed Colchester. And St Albans. And London. Who would kill herself rather than be captured. And she was looking at us.
Some ten or twelve gigantic, heavily armed warriors, all on foot, surrounded her, their faces painted with identical, intricate blue patterns. They were looking at us as well. Everyone was looking at us. Even the bloody horses were looking at us.
There can’t possibly have been silence anywhere in Colchester on that day, but I have no memory of any sound at all. No battle cries, no screams, no clash of weapons, not even the chink of harness or snorting breath from the horses. Just long, unmoving, complete silence.
She was tall and standing in the chariot meant that she easily towered over the heads of those around her. In contrast to her entourage who wore tunics and trousers of this year’s latest colour, fashionable British Mud, she was dressed to catch the eye. To be instantly recognisable to friend and foe alike. A bright blue cloak covered her crimson dress. She wore a fabulous golden torc around her neck and her cloak was fastened at each shoulder with golden brooches in the shape of Celtic knots.
Contrary to popular depictions, her hair did not stream dramatically behind her. It was pulled back from her face and secured in a business-like knot at the nape of her neck. Her face was thin and hatchet-like and deep lines ran from her nose to her mouth. She was not beautiful. She was a warrior. She wore a plain, bronze breastplate and carried a spear. Backlit by the burning buildings, she was the living personification of Andred, the Iceni goddess of victory. No wonder they followed her.
Peterson said softly, ‘Max, you’re up,’ and for a moment, I couldn’t think what he was talking about and then I did. Boudicca had called on Andred before the battle, releasing a hare in her honour. I could use that.
I stepped in front of the others. Close to her, but not too close.
I tossed back my cloak so she could see my armour. This was not the time for fumbling in Old English. I spoke in Latin. As queen consort and then queen in her own right, I was certain she would have some Latin. I had to speak very slowly to give myself time to assemble the right words and it gave my voice an unfamiliar authority. I pitched it to carry across the distance between us.
‘Boudicca of the Iceni. You called upon Andred and the goddess answered you. She sent the hare to run on the auspicious side. The goddess now demands repayment. I appeal to you, woman to woman, let these people go. It is her wish.’
I paused for a moment. The Latin was possibly not a good move, given the circumstances, but it was vital that she understood me and I had deliberately used the phrase ‘woman to woman’. The phrase she herself had used when calling on the goddess.
She stared down at us, her face expressionless. One word, that’s all it would take. Just one word from her and it would all be over for us. Never mind Ian Guthrie, there would be no Christmas for Leon or Helen or Hunter, or anyone at St Mary’s. I swallowed. Dear God, what was I doing?
More and more Britons were pouring into the square. We really should go. The real battle for the Temple had not yet begun.
She hadn’t taken her eyes off me.
‘This is so cool,’ beamed Bashford, cross-eyed and blissfully unaware of the danger in which we stood. Obviously a natural historian.
She cut her eyes to him as he gently swayed, oblivious to nearly everything. He waved again. Just for one moment, I thought the corner of her mouth twitched, just very, very slightly. She said something to her driver. He whipped up the horses and the chariot rattled away towards the Temple.
What? What had she said? ‘Let them go?’ That would be good. Or had she gone with the slightly less good, ‘Kill them all and throw their bodies to the dogs?’
Someone barked an order. I didn’t see who. We braced ourselves. Her guard wheeled about and disappeared.
I became aware I hadn’t breathed for quite a long time.
‘Did you see?’ said Grey grabbing Bashford’s arm in excitement. ‘Did you see her clothes? And her armour?’
‘Who?’ he said, groggily. ‘Whose clothes?’
Markham could be heard calling on the god of Security Sections everywhere for patience and to make it bloody quick.
‘About five foot seven or eight, I think,’ said Peterson, who was no better than the rest of us. ‘And where were her daughters? And the warriors around her must be some sort of personal guard. Do you think those facial markings were some sort of insignia or badge identifying them as such? And I couldn’t quite see … Was she armed?’
‘She had a sword and some sort of spear,’ I said, obeying my own instincts. ‘And did you see her chariot? Horsehide stretched over wood.’
‘And the placement of the axle…’
‘When the history department has quite finished,’ said Markham, with commendable restraint, ‘the Security Section would like to inform them that anyone not on the move in two seconds will regret it.’
‘What?’
He kept it simple for historians. ‘Move or I’ll shoot you.’
So we did.
Those not following Boudicca were too busy torching the streets and looting to spare us any attention. We raced across the final few yards. I led the way, blaster whining, ready to zap anyone in my path, and keeping my eyes fixed firmly on the pod ahead of us. Peterson and Markham covered our rear.
I called for the door and we all crashed breathlessly into the pod.
We were safe. For the time being. Until Dr Bairstow opened my report.
It was a bit of a squeeze once inside. Markham lowered Bashford to the floor and checked over his head wound. I sat Grey down in the corner. Peterson passed over the Fi
rst Aid kit, seated himself at the console, and activated the cameras.
‘What are you doing?’ said Markham, in disbelief. ‘You lot have absolutely no conception of priorities, do you?’
‘Leave him alone,’ I said. ‘Presenting this information to Dr Bairstow might be the one thing that saves our lives.’
‘I meant,’ he said with dignity, ‘isn’t anyone going to put the kettle on?’
Somewhat groggily, Bashford began to laugh.
Grey said, ‘Who are you? I don’t know any of you. How did you find us so quickly?’
The moment of truth. The three of us looked at each other. Here we go.
‘Well, I’m Maxwell. He’s Peterson. I think you may already know Markham here. And we didn’t. Find you quickly, I mean.’
I passed her some water, took a deep breath, and said quietly, ‘Elspeth, it’s been ten years.’
I’m not sure whether Bashford grasped what I’d said, but Grey did. She choked on the water and clutched my wrist.
‘Ten – you’re sure?’
‘Yes, I’m sorry, Elspeth. Ten years.’
She was silent for a moment. I could see exactly what she was thinking. This time yesterday she had been at St Mary’s, saying goodbye to Guthrie and setting off on her assignment. And now, ten years had passed.
She said hesitantly, ‘Ian? Ian Guthrie?’
‘Safe and well,’ I said, hoping to God he was.
She looked around for him. Leon’s pod is a single-seater and small. With five of us inside, it was smaller still. Did she think we had Guthrie folded up in a locker?
‘He didn’t come with you?’
‘We didn’t invite him. It seemed the more humane thing to do. Just in case … you know.’
‘Ten years,’ she said, disbelievingly. There was a pause as she wondered how to phrase it. ‘Has he…? I mean…’
‘No,’ I said cheerfully, pretending to misunderstand her. ‘No improvement at all. He’s still the same grumpy, misogynistic, Caledonian bachelor he always was.’
I could hear Peterson grinning.
Markham said, ‘There you go, mate,’ and helped a blood-smeared Bashford to sit up. His eyes swam around in his sockets like a couple of bewildered goldfish before he was finally able to focus.
‘Markham? It is you.’
‘That’s right,’ said Markham, sunnily. ‘How are you feeling now?’
‘Absolutely fine,’ said Bashford, and threw up all over everything.
‘Impressive,’ said Markham, staring down at his thoroughly pebble-dashed self.
Bashford smiled blearily. ‘Thank you.’
I began to warm towards Mr Bashford.
We jumped back to the paint store. I made Peterson call Dr Foster on the grounds that of all of us, he was the least likely to be killed for disturbing her at this time of night. Or rather, the morning. Markham anxiously prompted him to remind her to bring Nurse Hunter, as well.
We surveyed the state of Leon’s pod in silence.
‘We’ll see to it later,’ I said. ‘Or, with a bit of luck we’ll be sacked for tonight’s effort so it’ll be someone else’s problem.’
‘True,’ said Peterson cheerfully, shouldering Mr Bashford. ‘Shall we go?’
The medical team was waiting. Ignoring us, they whisked away Grey and Bashford and we were left to fend for ourselves. Peterson and Markham made the tea and we sat down to wait.
Half an hour later, Helen Foster emerged. She folded her arms and surveyed us without speaking. I had to admit, we did look a bit on the sloppy side. Markham picked vaguely at his vomit-encrusted body armour. I was still dripping with pig product. There may have been a faint odour … Peterson, relatively unscathed, grinned at her.
She ignored him in a way that didn’t augur well for the rest of his Christmas.
I asked her how they were.
‘They will be fine. They’re not fine at the moment, but they will be.’ She looked at me. ‘She’s asking for Ian. Will you call him, or shall I?’
I stepped to one side, crossed my fingers, activated my com, and called Ian Guthrie. He answered immediately.
‘Guthrie.’
His voice was sharp and curt. He obviously wasn’t in the best mood. However, at least he was still alive.
‘Sorry to call you out, Major.’
‘Oh God – it’s the other one.’
‘What other one?’
‘I’ve had him here all bloody night, you know. He’s been driving me insane. Apparently, he wants to discuss safety protocols. On Christmas Eve. In the middle of the night. I can’t even go to the bathroom without him trying to follow me in. I’m about to shoot him.’
‘Really?’ I said, sacrificing Leon for the second time that night. ‘How bizarre. Has he been drinking, do you think?’
I felt, rather than heard, Leon’s indignant response.
Guthrie sighed.
‘What do you want?’
‘What? Oh. Yes. I’m in Sick Bay. We have intruders.’
He remained unalarmed. ‘In Sick Bay? On Christmas Eve?’
‘Yes.’
‘Who’s we?’
‘Um – well, reading from left to right – me, Dr Foster, Peterson, Markham, oh, and Nurse Hunter.’
‘Sounds like a bloody army to me. Shoot them and go back to bed.’
‘We’re not armed,’ I lied.
‘I’ll send Leon down. He can talk them to death. Why should I suffer alone?’
For crying out loud – we’d braved Boudicca’s battalions to rescue the love of his life and he was instructing us to shoot her. This is typical of St Mary’s. You plan a romantic reunion for a pair of lovers who’ve been apart for ten years and one of them can’t even be bothered to show up. If this were fiction, there would be a swelling soundtrack, tears of joy, people sobbing into tissues … What is the matter with us? Why can’t we do things like normal people?
Markham uttered an impatient sound, unshouldered his blaster, screamed melodramatically, and fired two blasts into Helen’s wall.
A large piece of burning plaster fell to the floor.
Helen screamed – in genuine rage this time – and Guthrie shouted, ‘On my way.’
The link went dead.
We all regarded Markham.
‘What?’ he said, spreading his hands. ‘He’s coming, isn’t he?’
And indeed he was, crashing through the doors, weapon drawn. A one-man assault force.
We froze. Markham made sure to stand behind Hunter.
For a long time, nothing happened, then he clicked on the safety, tucked his gun away, activated his com and said, ‘Stand down. It’s only the usual suspects.’
I noticed Leon had not accompanied him, although he probably hadn’t been offered the option.
Guthrie surveyed the still smouldering lump of plaster. ‘Exactly what is going on here?’
I don’t think any of us knew what to say. I stepped up, put my arms around him, and hugged him tightly. Hunter did the same with the bits left over.
He patted us both, awkwardly. ‘Well, this is … not in line with normal Sick Bay protocols.’ His face changed. ‘I’m dying, aren’t I? That’s why you wanted me. To tell me I have some fatal disease. How long have I got?’
‘If you continue hanging around with this bunch,’ said Helen, dryly, ‘who can tell? But no, that’s not why you’re here. Please put down those women and come with me.’
He extricated himself, not without some difficulty, from our clutches. ‘What’s this all about?’
‘Would you come this way please, Major?’
She crossed to the female ward and opened the door for him.
He paused on the threshold. I caught the briefest glimpse of his face.
As he passed through the door, she said softly, ‘Merry Christmas, Ian,’ and closed the door behind him.
I couldn’t hang around. I had things to do. There was Leon to placate and explain to. Then I had a very, very careful report to write for Dr Bai
rstow and a breathtakingly monumental bollocking to prepare for. However, before all that, I had a gift to retrieve from my desk and deliver.
I bounced my way into Mrs Partridge’s office and all my careful plans collapsed because despite it being dawn on Christmas Day, she was sitting at her desk, elegant in her usual, beautifully tailored, black suit.
I skidded to a halt and said, awkwardly, ‘Oh. Good morning, Mrs Partridge.’
She inclined her head. ‘Good morning, Dr Maxwell. How may I be of assistance?’
‘Um … I came to wish you a Happy Christmas.’ And could have kicked myself.
‘A different belief system, but nevertheless, thank you.’
‘Um…’
I’m not usually tongue-tied. Sex renders me speechless occasionally, but even then, not for long. I just hadn’t banked on her being here. My plan had been to leave it on her desk and go.
Hesitantly, I pulled out the small parcel and handed it to her. ‘Season’s greetings, then.’
She stared at it for so long that I felt compelled to say, ‘It’s a Christmas present.’ Just in case she was unfamiliar with the concept.
Slowly, she unwrapped the badly packaged rhomboid, not even defeated by the four and a half miles of Sellotape holding it all together.
I’d done a pen and ink drawing of the Muses. They were all there, Calliope, Terpsichore, all of them grouped around a seated central figure, Kleio, the Muse of History, gracefully holding her scroll. I’d put a lot of time and effort into it, getting the faces just right and then applying a few gentle washes of colour. I was actually quite pleased with the likeness and that doesn’t happen often.
She was still silent.
I kicked myself again. She didn’t like it. I had stepped over our invisible but very clearly drawn line. Hot with embarrassment, I began to edge backwards to the door.
Finally, she looked up at me and smiled gently. ‘Thank you, Max. This is – quite beautiful.’