What Could Possibly Go Wrong (The Chronicles of St Mary's Book 6)

by Jodi Taylor

  One moment he was there. The next moment he was teetering at the edge of the well – and then the next moment he was gone.

  I shouted and ran forwards. I wasn’t the only one. A woman started screaming. Real screaming, not the running around in circles waving your arms screaming.

  She couldn’t get anyone to listen. The slaves were busy making sure their prisoners couldn’t escape, the woman at the pottery stall was yelling at Herodotus who, by struggling to extricate himself, was making things much worse. A crowd was gathering there as well. There were angry voices. Founding father or not, I wondered again how popular he actually was.

  I ran to the well, pulled the woman down on her knees so she wouldn’t be knocked in too, and we both peered down into the watery depths. A draught of cool, damp air rose out of the well. It wasn’t that far down – only about ten feet or so. My relief was overwhelming. If it had been about forty feet deep we’d have been buggered.

  I could see the little boy, head straining out of the water, eyes screwed tight shut, scrabbling at the stone sides, which were green and slippery. He couldn’t get a grip. I could hear him whimpering and gasping for breath. The water slapped loudly against the sides as he thrashed around in a panic. If he couldn’t swim or somehow keep his face out of the water then he wouldn’t last long.

  We needed rope. This was a harbour, for God’s sake. There were ships. Where there are ships there’s always rope.

  Leon was suddenly at my side, peering down the well. Our priorities had rearranged themselves. The trainees would have to wait because you can’t let a contemporary die. The consequences could be massive. We needed to sort this out – fast.

  ‘Rope,’ I said.

  He looked around at the flailing riot at the pot stall and the crowd surrounding the burning building. No one was paying any attention to us.

  ‘No time. Give me your stole.’

  I ripped it off and held out my hand for the woman’s girdle. She was bright. She pulled it off and handed it over.

  ‘I need more,’ said Leon.

  Sykes and North weren’t that far away, pushed against a wall. I shouted, ‘Give me your stoles.’

  The stared for a minute and then began to unwind themselves. In public, too. If we hadn’t been guilty of something before, we certainly were now.

  Not without some trepidation, I approached the guards slowly and carefully and gestured at the stoles on the ground. They stared at me for a moment, then back at the woman on her knees at the well side, crying and wringing her hands, and then suddenly, they got it.

  I ran back with the stoles and handed them over to Leon who began to knot them together and when I looked up, the slaves had joined us and were also peering down the well. The woman continued to shout at the kid to hold on. I think his name might have been Amyntas.

  Bits of burning thatch were floating through the air and the riot at the pot stall was approaching meltdown.

  Presumably not wanting to let them out of their sight, the guards had helpfully brought their prisoners with them.

  ‘I’ll go,’ said Sykes, hanging dangerously far over the edge.

  ‘No you won’t,’ I said, hauling her back.

  ‘I’m smaller, lighter, and younger than you,’ she said, winning no friends at all as far as I was concerned.

  ‘You’re a trainee. You’re not allowed to endanger your life. You have to wait until after you’re qualified for that.’

  ‘Neither of you is going,’ said Leon. ‘I’ll go. They’ll pull me up.’ He gestured to the slaves who obviously understood and nodded. He wasn’t as small and light as Markham, but he was considerably smaller than the guards. We all were. There were mountains smaller than those guards.

  He tied the stoles around his waist and handed the other end to a big bugger with a shaven head whose stubble was just beginning to grow through again. He wore a washed-out grey tunic stretched tightly across his enormous chest. He got the idea, nodded, and planted his feet. His two colleagues did the same, seizing his belt and bracing themselves.

  Leon slowly lowered himself over the edge. Hoyle and Atherton lay on their stomachs shouting advice. I stayed with the young mother, who couldn’t bring herself to watch.

  ‘Has he got him yet?’ I said, completely unable to see what was happening.

  ‘Nearly,’ said Hoyle.

  The big slave, muscles bulging, was taking the strain easily enough. He was as big as a house. Actually, he reminded me of Dieter, a little bit.

  A shout from Leon below and now the three of them began to heave him up. Atherton and Hoyle hung over the edge, directing operations. North and Sykes hung on to them, just in case they fell in too, and I hung on to the mother. A real team effort.

  Leon’s head appeared first, and then the kid’s, eyes still screwed tight shut. His hair was plastered to his head and two skinny brown arms clung tightly around Leon’s neck.

  Atherton prised the kid loose. ‘Here you go, sunshine,’ and handed him, dripping wet, to his mother. We all heaved Leon out and over the edge, where he lay, gasping and making a puddle in the dust. If they arrested us all now there wouldn’t be anything we could do about it.

  The knotted stoles had ridden up under his armpits. I struggled with the wet knots.

  The big guard flexed his shoulders a couple of times in relief and then took out a knife.

  I tensed. What I thought I would do is a mystery, but fortunately, I didn’t have to do anything. He sliced through the sodden material, pulled Leon to his feet, and fetched him a slap on the back that made him stagger. Someone passed Leon a wineskin. The young woman, complete with child, flung her arms around him. He staggered backwards under the onslaught. I laughed at him.

  Now what?

  I was contemplating quietly gathering my team together and just casually strolling out of the war zone when a scream from the pottery stall caused heads to turn.

  Everyone has their tipping point. The moment when the straw breaks the camel’s back and the camel turns round, spits in your eye, and then eats you.

  It would appear that our Miss North had had enough.

  I’d only taken my eye off her for a second, but in that time she’d managed to find some sort of wooden tray – from the wine shop, I guessed – and was beating the hapless Herodotus around the head and shoulders with more enthusiasm than I would have thought her capable.

  It would seem that while you can take the girl out of the 21st century, it’s more difficult to take the 21st century out of the girl.

  ‘You bastard! You total bastard!’

  ‘She doesn’t seem very happy,’ observed Leon. ‘What’s the problem?’

  Herodotus lay on his back, hopelessly entangled in the awning, broken planks, broken pottery, and with his tunic unattractively up around his waist again. I wondered if he ever regretted abandoning trousers.

  ‘Well he did grass us up, I suppose.’

  That, however, did not appear to be the issue uppermost in her mind.

  ‘I spent hours on this bloody assignment, you arsehole. Days, even. I planned it all down to the minutest detail and then you come along and everything goes straight down the drain. This was supposed to be the perfect assignment. This was my moment and thanks to you, it’s been a bloody shambles. A bloody bollocking shambles, you pathetic little worm. Give me one – just one – reason why I should allow an obnoxious piece of excrement like you to continue polluting the planet, because I can’t think of any. And for heaven’s sake, pull your tunic down and cover up that disgusting object before it evaporates in the sunlight.’

  She was belting him so hard that pieces of wooden tray were flying off in all directions. Apart from curling himself into a ball and shouting, ‘Gerroff,’ occasionally, there wasn’t a lot he could do. He was completely at her mercy.

  No one was making the slightest move to save him. Clearly my doubts about his personality had good grounds. People were standing, grinning. At any moment, they would be pulling up chairs and calling f
or more wine.

  We’re really not supposed to beat up contemporaries. As a cautious and prudent leader, I should do something. Sometimes the bluebird of wisdom does deign to flap gently over my head and release a small dollop of something appropriate.

  I walked over as slowly as I could. She’d had a trying day. She deserved a small treat.

  I said gently, ‘Miss North.’

  I don’t think she heard me.

  I said again, ‘Celia.’

  She dealt him one final blow and desisted, but only because the tray had finally disintegrated in her grasp. She flung the last piece to the ground and stood, chest heaving for breath, staring around her.

  It was just bloody typical, wasn’t it? Our Miss North, despite being arrested for theft, starting a fire in a public building, and laying into the Father of History like an avenging Fury, had managed to emerge pristine and unmarked. Her hair was immaculate. Her robe spotless. I didn’t dare look down at my own clothing. Sometimes life just isn’t fair.

  She stepped from the wreckage like Dido from the ruins of Carthage. An avenging goddess, eyes flashing fire. An over-enthusiastic Valkyrie. She stared challengingly at the watching crowd. You could see every man of them suddenly remembering why they never let their women out of doors if they could help it.

  She put her hands on her hips and glared at them. ‘Are you looking at me?’

  Sykes and Atherton surged forwards before the crowd could come to any harm.

  She kicked aside what little remained of her tray, tucked a stray wisp of hair behind her ear, and picked her way delicately towards us. We stood respectfully silent as she joined us.

  ‘Dr Maxwell.’

  ‘Miss North.’

  ‘We should go,’ said Leon, hastily and Hoyle and Atherton nodded enthusiastic agreement. ‘Before they discover who started the fire. And before Herodotus comes to his senses and does us some real damage.’

  I looked around.

  The storeroom-cum-gaol roof was blazing merrily away.

  The young mother appeared to be crushing the small boy to her bosom while simultaneously boxing his ears. An impressive feat that only mothers seem able to achieve.

  The skinny cats, unable to believe their luck, had abandoned the fish entrails and were in among the unguarded baskets of fish. They darted about, seizing something tasty and racing off through the crowd, tripping several people up in their haste to get away.

  Someone’s donkey was having a kind of seizure by the sound of it. Or perhaps they always sound like that.

  There were even two old women screeching at each other from their sitting positions against a wall. They were only prevented from doing each other actual bodily harm by the fact they couldn’t stand up without assistance. Their screeched insults were clearly audible over the shouts, yowls, breaking pots, roaring flames …

  You could tell St Mary’s was in town.

  We gathered ourselves together, put up our hair, and rewound our wet stoles. Leon wrung out his tunic.

  Herodotus had been pulled out of the remains of the pottery stall and propped up against a wall. He looked terrible – face the colour of boiled shite and spotted with big blue bruises. He had a glorious black eye and blood trickled from both nostrils. He opened his eyes as we approached.

  ‘Go away. Just … bloody … go away, will you.’

  ‘We’re going now,’ said Leon. ‘And you’re going to facilitate our departure by telling everyone it was a misunderstanding. That you were too drunk to know what you were doing. They’ll believe that.’

  He looked at us. ‘What about you? What are you going to do?’

  ‘We’re going,’ Leon said. ‘And we’re never coming back.’

  He nodded.

  I’d been thinking.

  I turned back again. Herodotus peered at me groggily and visibly braced himself.

  I said softly, ‘Look, you were an historian before you came here. Now you’re Herodotus. The greatest historian of all. Why don’t you tidy yourself up a bit? Lay off the wine. Get those notes written up. Write that book. You chose a famous name. Live up to it.’

  He wiped his nose on the back of his hand, looked at me, and then spat a gob of bloody mucus at my feet. I washed my hands of him.

  I just wanted to get us all back to the pod, but even as I thought about getting them moving, an elderly man hobbled cautiously towards us, gave us all the once over, and picked Atherton as the most approachable. Or the most normal. He began to talk furiously, gesturing towards us, and plucking at Atherton’s tunic.

  Leon was herding us all together like an anxious sheepdog. ‘What’s going on over there?’

  ‘Don’t know. We might not be out of the woods yet. Be prepared to make a run for it.’

  We stood in a tight little group, expecting the worst.

  Eventually Atherton extricated himself and came over.

  I said, ‘What was that all about?’

  ‘Well, I’m not sure I got all of it, but I think I might have been offered half a goat for Miss North.’

  Sykes pricked up her ears. ‘Really? Which half?’

  We limped back to the pod. North was nearly in tears.

  ‘The whole thing was a disaster. Could it have gone more wrong?’

  ‘Hard to see how it could have,’ said Sykes, cheerfully.

  ‘Not helping,’ said Atherton.

  ‘How much trouble are we in?’

  ‘None at all,’ said Leon. ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘I beat up the Father of History.’

  ‘Yes, you did,’ I said in admiration.

  ‘But I was mission controller. I should have …’

  If she was going to start on what she should have done, we’d be here all day.

  ‘Listen,’ I said, ‘You handled your team, yourself, and the situation well. I’m not sure I could have done better.’

  She seemed genuinely surprised.

  ‘The aim was interaction with contemporaries and we more than achieved that objective. No one said it had to be friendly interaction. Not everyone in History is nice, you know.’

  She nodded.

  ‘Just try not to be quite so … inflexible. It’s all very well to have a stated goal, but you should realise there are many paths to that goal. And if things go horribly wrong – and you must be prepared for the fact that they frequently do – then you must be able to think on your feet and get there another way.’

  ‘So I haven’t failed this assignment?’

  ‘No. We frequently have missions that turn to crap. The measure of success is how we deal with that.’

  She turned that over in her head. I rather got the impression this was a completely new concept to her. Dealing with the unexpected, I mean.

  ‘You should think about this, Miss North. Anyone can meticulously plan and there’s nothing wrong with that, but in our job, we have to expect the unexpected. It’s how we cope with the unforeseen that is the measure of our success. You have all the makings, and if you can learn to be a little more flexible – learn to adapt to rapidly changing circumstances – you could be an excellent historian.’

  She smiled suddenly. ‘Really?’

  I nodded. ‘Yes, really.’

  And perhaps if I stopped looking for things to criticise and looked for things to praise her for instead, I might become at least an adequate training officer. Something for me to think about, too.

  We drank our tea – except for the heathen Hoyle – and tried to tidy ourselves up a bit. Historians never go back looking scruffy. Injured – yes. Dead – occasionally. Scruffy – not if we could help it. Looking around, some of us were a little smoke damaged. Some were wet. Apart from Miss North, all of us were muddy. By the time we’d finished, the pod looked as if a small war had been fought inside it. I could see Leon compressing his lips. It was obvious whose fault this was going to turn out to be.

  ‘Everyone set?’ I asked.

  The world went white.

  Dieter opened the door
, took it all in at a glance, and grinned at me. ‘So, how did it go?’

  ‘Perfectly,’ said Leon. ‘The locals were completely unaware of our presence.’

  Isn’t he wonderful?

  I began to shut things down. They picked up their gear and filed out.

  ‘We’ll be out in a minute,’ said Leon to Dieter. ‘I just need to have word with the Training Officer about certain aspects of this assignment.’

  Oh dear.

  Sykes looked back. ‘Should we stay?’

  ‘No,’ he said calmly. ‘None of what follows will be suitable for young people or those of a nervous disposition.’

  She cast me a sympathetic glance and followed the others outside.

  He closed the door behind her. And locked it.

  I looked up. ‘Leon, what are you doing?’

  He said nothing, just looking at me across the pod, holding my gaze. Not looking away. At all. I couldn’t tear my gaze away, either.

  ‘Well,’ he said softly. ‘Wasn’t that just like old times?’

  My breathing was suddenly all over the place. The ventilation system had obviously packed up because suddenly I just couldn’t get enough oxygen into my lungs. And the heating system had gone into overdrive.

  He crossed the pod in two long strides, took hold of my wrists, and pushed me up against the lockers, crushing my body with his. His blue eyes were very dark. I could feel him hard against me. He grasped my hair and pulled my head back, kissing the base of my throat. I could feel his breath on my skin. His lips were very hot.

  As was I.

  He kissed me hard. Eagerly. He tasted of dust and sweat and Leon. I pushed against him as hard as I could. I could feel the heat of his body even through his damp clothes.

  He pulled my tunic down off my shoulder. And then the other one. I got my arms free. Slowly, very slowly he dragged his muddy hand across my breast, leaving a long smear, dark against my skin. We both stared at it for a moment and then he said softly, his breath hot in my ear, ‘You are a very … very … dirty girl.’

  I sat quietly while Dr Bairstow read through our reports.