No Time Like the Past

by Jodi Taylor

  He lifted his head and informed me he was doing some of his best work here and a little appreciation would be nice.

  I told him I’d known him do better.

  I was challenged to cite my source.

  After four or five minutes, he said, yes all right, but he believed in quality over quantity.

  I told him I preferred deeds over words.

  He demanded to know why historians were always in such a hurry.

  I told him historians have a short attention span and who was he again?

  He grinned down at me, his blue eyes dark and very bright. ‘Let me remind you,’ and a couple of frantic minutes later, I had forgotten who I was, too.

  Afterwards, when we could speak coherently again, I said to him, ‘Now. What’s all this, “I’ll lift that – it’s much too heavy for little old you”, rubbish?’

  He buried his head in my hair so I couldn’t see his face. ‘I love you, but I can’t always tell you how much. I can’t always tell you how much I worry about you. I’m not much good at telling you about things that mean a great deal to me and you do mean a great deal to me, Max. More than anything in the world. And you were so badly hurt. I know you’re bouncing around the place these days like Tigger on a trampoline, but every time I look at you, I see you lying there, white, helpless, hurt … I just worry you’ll do too much.’

  I opened my mouth to tell him I’d be fine and then had a second thought.

  ‘In that case, I’ll slow down a little. Just for you. If you like, we can go back to having lunch together outside Hawking. Sitting in the sun as we used to. That way, you can check me over every day and I’ll pretend not to notice.’

  He laughed and reached for me again. ‘Deal.’

  First time I’ve never finished a doughnut.

  Chapter Thirteen

  I didn’t waste any time, making an appointment to see Dr Bairstow the very next day. We desperately needed something to restore our confidence and prestige. In our own eyes, as well as those of other people.

  He didn’t immediately look up from his writing. Not a problem. I could wait him out.

  Eventually, when it became clear I wasn’t going to go away, he looked up.

  I grinned at him. He closed his eyes.

  ‘I believe I have, on several occasions, requested you not to do that, Dr Maxwell.’

  ‘Sorry, sir.’ I rearranged my features into an expression funereal gloom. I wouldn’t have thought it possible, but he managed to look even more disapproving.

  He frowned. ‘I’m sure this is a question we will both regret me asking, but why are you here? Did I send for you?’

  ‘I don’t think so, sir. Not unless you despatched Mrs Partridge to swoop down on me, rather in the manner of a Valkyrie scooping a fallen warrior from the battlefield, and she’s missed me.’

  ‘Both scenarios are equally unlikely, Dr Maxwell. State your purpose.’

  ‘To blow your socks off, sir.’

  ‘I should perhaps warn you that these days, my socks are not that easily blown off.’

  ‘Glad to hear that, sir. I like a challenge.’

  He laid down his pen. ‘Proceed.’

  So I did. I brought up my data stack, gave him a second to assimilate the contents, and took him through everything from beginning to end. He listened in complete silence, but then, he always did. His method was to allow me to dig my own hole, unimpeded, and then bury me with the flaws, inconsistencies, and weak spots.

  I wound down to a halt and waited. Still not speaking, he held out a hand for my notes. I passed them over. He read through everything from beginning to end, went back, re-read a section, checked it against the data stack, laid the file on his desk, and regarded me.

  I regarded him right back again.

  He spoke. ‘You don’t feel that after recent events, something a little less high profile might be more appropriate?’

  ‘No, sir, I don’t. We screwed up big time. We can spend years taking small, safe steps to restore our reputation or we can hit them with the biggest coup of the century.’

  ‘And if it doesn’t come off?’

  ‘We’re no worse off, sir.’

  ‘You don’t feel a cautious approach might be indicated?’

  ‘This is the cautious approach, sir. As you will see, I’ve recommended we only inform Thirsk after we’ve successfully concluded the assignment. If we fail then they’ll never know. But we won’t. Fail, I mean.’

  ‘We did last time.’

  ‘Actually, sir, we didn’t. Your people performed perfectly. It was Ronan and Barclay who killed Miss Schiller and went on to steal our artefacts and substitute her body.’ I took a deep breath. ‘To prevent that happening again, I propose we deploy the entire Security Section at the second site. For protection. I don’t think historians at the first site will be in any jeopardy, sir. There are no advancing armies or burning buildings. We’ll be fine.’

  ‘I think you underestimate the History department. I have yet to learn that any historian requires an advancing army or a burning building to get herself into trouble, Dr Maxwell.’

  I said nothing. He was coming around. The best thing I could do now was to keep my mouth shut.

  He stared hard at his desk for a while. ‘I will give provisional permission. Present me with a mission plan within five days and I will give it full consideration.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  I seized the file and data stick and was out of there before he could change his mind.

  He said yes. Eventually. He just really made me work for it. And I did. I put together an assignment in near-record time. I raced around the building, involving as many people as possible because we needed this. We needed not just any old salvage mission but something spectacular. Something to get us back in the game. With the History department waiting anxiously downstairs, I marched into his office with my completed mission plan and talked for nearly an hour.

  The Man from St Mary’s – he say yes!

  I held a full briefing in the Hall. Everyone was there. The whole History department, the Security Section, most of IT and the Technical Section, even Mrs Mack and the kitchen crew, because they were going to have to feed us. I even included the Admin Section who would be assisting Dr Dowson and Professor Rapson in their research. They sat at the back, eager and attentive, in direct contrast to the historians lounging at the front, pretending to be cool about the whole thing.

  I stood on the stairs and looked down at their heads, bent over scratchpads and scribblepads. Mr Strong had set up the big screen for the visuals and Mrs Partridge and Miss Lee were distributing the background info. I waited patiently and eventually, silence fell.

  ‘Good morning, everyone. Thank you for coming. Our purpose today is to discuss our upcoming assignment. I know a lot of you have already contributed a great deal of time and effort. Thank you for that. I shall brief you on the background to this assignment, give details of the teams and their pods, work out a timetable, and answer any questions at the end. Everyone set?’

  They nodded. Here we go.

  I brought up the first images.

  ‘Site One. Florence – 1497. Specifically, the 7th February 1497. The Bonfire of the Vanities.’

  A ripple ran through the room. Someone, somewhere at the back said, ‘Yes!’

  I continued. ‘It’s the height of the Renaissance. The city of Florence is at the forefront. The old ways are being discarded. The invention of printing means new ideas and new ways of thinking are accessible to the masses. It’s a period of incredible advancement and change and it’s happening all across Europe, but it’s especially happening in Florence. It’s no coincidence that Da Vinci, Botticelli, and Raphael were all born in this area.

  ‘Or rather, it was all happening in Florence. Unfortunately, the city has fallen under the influence of the monk, Girolamo Savonarola. His stated mission is to destroy all “frivolous and sinful pursuits”, which, according to him, is just about everything excluding breathing and e
ating and even those two only in moderation. He’s a powerful preacher and under his influence, draconian laws are introduced forbidding fine clothes, art, music, homosexuality, and the old favourite, “moral transgressions”.

  ‘It’s a dreadful time. And it’s not just the adults who are involved. Children, over a thousand of them, will march through the streets collecting items for the Bonfire. They’ve been brought up to shop their parents, their relatives, their friends, everyone. To report all instances of frivolity or luxury. They even snitch on each other. They get people beaten up and arrested. Even being overweight is considered a sin. These are not nice kids. There is a record somewhere of them parading through the streets, singing hymns and carrying candles. Forget it. These are kids in the grip of religious fervour and in a position of power over adults. Do not underestimate them. We will need to tread very carefully.

  ‘Under Savanarola’s influence, almost everything – cosmetics, books, statues, fine clothes, playing cards, chess sets, jewellery, wigs, musical instruments, even false teeth are to be burned. And, of course, works of art. Which brings me to our assignment. The influence of Savanarola is such that even the artist, Sandro Botticelli, caught up in the moment, volunteers some of his paintings to be cast into the flames.’

  I paused and took a deep breath. ‘That’s what we’re after, folks. And everything else we can lay our hands on, of course, but basically, we’re there to bag a Botticelli.’

  Silence.

  ‘So what’s the plan?’ asked Evans. ‘Just knock on his door and shout the Florentine equivalent of “Penny for the Guy?” Paintings for the Bonfire?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Silence.

  ‘How many paintings were destroyed?’ asked Dieter.

  ‘No idea. It could be one or it could be twenty.’

  ‘Wow,’ said someone. Again.

  ‘Problem?’ I said.

  ‘Oh, no …’

  ‘I think we may be overestimating the difficulties. It won’t be a case of wrenching them from an overprotective artist. He’s so completely under the spell of Savonarola that he’ll probably give them to anyone who asks for them. We just have to make sure it’s us doing the asking. All we need do then is to convey them safely to the second site, where Dr Dowson and his team will dispose of them in such a way as to enable discovery by a University of Thirsk funded excavation in the near future.

  ‘So – the teams. Two teams for Site One. Clerk, Maxwell, and Sands in Number Eight, and Peterson, Prentiss, and Roberts are in Number Five. This part of the assignment will be under my control, or failing me, Dr Peterson.

  ‘The third team will be headed by Professor Rapson and is responsible for procuring contemporary storage materials because, as always, all items are to be sourced locally.

  ‘The fourth team, headed by Dr Dowson and his archivists, will be waiting for us at Site Two. Also on site will be the Security Section, for obvious reasons, and a small team of technicians, just in case we break something. These teams will all be in TB2. Doctor Dowson, if you would like to give us the details of Site Two, please.’

  He bounded to his feet and joined me on the staircase, shedding a blizzard of papers in all directions.

  ‘Thank you, Max. Firstly, I must tell everyone that the usual rules apply – the artefacts will not leave their country of origin. They are Florentine treasures and will therefore be discovered – we hope – near the city.’

  He brought up a map on the big screen.

  ‘We were rather spoiled for choice when it came to selecting a suitable hiding place for our recovered paintings, but after a certain amount of reconnaissance we have selected, as Site Two, the Belverde caves near Monte Cetona. These are a range of naturally occurring caves and there is widespread evidence of prehistoric settlements. We feel it is perfectly possible that 15th-century treasures could have been sent there for safe keeping and then forgotten about until a joint Thirsk/Italian dig will shortly stumble upon them, to worldwide astonishment and acclaim.’ He smiled at me. ‘We hope.’

  I smiled back. ‘Listen up, people. We’re St Mary’s and we’re not bright, but we learn from our mistakes and we will be taking certain precautions. There will be absolutely no possibility of anyone following us this time. As I said, almost all the Security Section will be deployed at the caves. Let me remind all of you, they are there for our protection. Please do not ask them to fetch and carry, give you a hand to lift something heavy, or just hold this for a moment. They are there to keep us safe. Allow them to do so. Yes, this is a big assignment, and if we pull it off there’s no doubt we’ll be back to flavour of the month, but it’s not as important as the safety of everyone there. Therefore, everyone, including me, will be answerable to the Security Section. I’ll ask now – does anyone anticipate any difficulties with that?’

  Sometimes, you just have to get right in people’s faces and tell them, but apparently, no one had any difficulties at all.

  ‘The usual sterile conditions will apply at Site Two. These finds will be subject to intense archaeological scrutiny, especially if we do manage to bag a Botticelli. Paper suits, hairnets, and cotton gloves will be supplied and are to be worn at all times in the working areas. By everyone. I don’t want an over-zealous archaeologist discovering that not only did women in the 15th-century dye their hair Sunkissed Blonde, but smothered it in extra-strong-control mousse as well.’

  I paused again. ‘Any questions?’

  ‘Language?’ asked Peterson.

  ‘Well, most of us will need a crash course from Dr Dowson, but we’re fortunate in that Dante Alighieri wrote his famous Comedies in the Florentine dialect, and this became the basis of the Italian language, so anyone who can speak Italian stands a good chance of being understood. Mr Sands does, I believe?’

  He nodded. Roberts raised his hand as well. ‘Me too – a little.’

  ‘Excellent. The rest of us will mug up on the basics. OK, then. Those who need to, report to Wardrobe and get kitted out. Mr Dieter, if you could be kind enough to ensure sufficient paper suits and booties are loaded into TB2, please. Everyone is to report to Sick Bay for a check-up. By Thursday, please. Dr Dowson and Professor Rapson, if you could let me have details of your teams asap, please. That’s it for the time being. Thank you, everyone.’

  We assembled in Hawking. Historians waited outside Number Five. A quivering Dr Dowson and his crew stood by TB2. There wasn’t a great deal of chatter. People were very carefully not thinking about the last time we did this.

  ‘Change of plan,’ said Leon, materialising beside me. ‘Dieter’s going with the R & D crew – I’m going with you. Just in case.’

  ‘In case of what?’

  ‘In case anything needs dismantling, reassembling, fixing, whatever. And no, I’m not talking about historians wrecking everything they touch – although they do – I’m also available for heavy lifting and crowd control.’

  ‘Glad to have you,’ I said, because I was. Disregarding the completely inaccurate remark about historians breaking everything – as if! – he was right. We might have to take things apart to get them into the pods and if you hand a screwdriver to an historian, two seconds later he’ll have blinded himself with it.

  I ran my eyes over everyone for one last check. I wore a shapeless sack in a coarsely-woven brown material that itched. I was pretty pissed about it and so was Prentiss, already looking acutely uncomfortable in a similar outfit, scratching herself, and complaining bitterly.

  We adjusted each other’s headdress – just a simple linen hood for this trip – I wasn’t sure how severe the dress code would be, but it seemed simpler to have no hair showing at all. We didn’t want to end up on the Bonfire ourselves.

  Peterson gave me the thumbs up. Dieter indicated that now would be a good time for Dr Dowson to enter TB2 and helped him up the ramp. I ushered my own team into Number Eight.

  ‘Whenever you’re ready, Mr Sands.’

  The world went white.

  We landed in a tiny
unnamed square faced with blank, brick walls. Over in the corner, an outer wooden staircase leaned against the wall for support. At the top, a bricked-up doorway gave no clue as to the building or its function.

  The day was grey and chilly. It had been raining and all the paving glistened wetly. Brown weeds struggled to survive in the gaps between the uneven cobbles.

  I could see Number Five, sitting quietly against the left hand wall. Sands angled all the cameras and Clerk checked the proximities.

  ‘We’re fine,’ he reported. ‘Ready to go when you give the word, Max.’

  ‘OK,’ I said. ‘Let’s do it.’

  ‘Good luck,’ said Leon, sitting back comfortably.

  I was surprised. ‘Are you not coming?’

  ‘I’m on pod protection detail. Besides, it’s cold and wet out there.’

  ‘I’m sorry; I forget that at your age, inclement weather can be a problem for you.’

  ‘Play nicely, children. No biting.’

  I gave the word and we all assembled outside. Peterson consulted his map while Roberts struggled with the wooden handcart we’d optimistically brought with us to handle the vast numbers of artefacts we hoped to acquire.

  We emerged cautiously from the square and sorted ourselves out. We put Peterson in front with Clerk and Sands behind him. As the junior member of the team, Roberts pushed the cart and Prentiss and I, knowing our places, fell in behind. As always, I would be leading from the rear, standing safely behind everyone at all times. Like a wartime politician. We all assumed expressions of terminal piety and set off.

  We’d landed near the dark mass of San Spirito. With our backs to the church, we headed for the river, turned right, and made our way along the riverbank. The Arno flowed darkly and silently, swollen with winter rains. Five minutes later, we arrived at the fabled Ponte Vecchio.