After closing the window behind her she tiptoed towards the inner door. As she’d hoped, it was unlocked and she shut it behind her before daring to take out a pencil torch to find her way. Finding the box holding the Pompeii fragments was easy and she set it down on the bench. Next she tried the door to what the archivist had described as a store-room. At first glance it appeared he’d been telling the truth and Flora was about to leave when the torch beam flashed across something white: in the middle of a workbench stood a light-box. Again, nothing surprising – after all, she’d seen dozens like it – but her curiosity about Sumter’s photographs made her look more closely. It was then that she noticed them: a series of three box files identical to those in the main archive next door.
Stretching up, Flora took one down and opened the lid. What she saw took her breath away. Fresh, clear and unmistakeable, she was looking at one of the documents whose photographs were all over the web.
Grabbing the boxes she ran back into the other room, opening the first one and gently laying the parchment fragment on the table. Then she stopped. Something wasn’t right, something so obvious that she’d missed it in her excitement: unlike the other finds which were so delicate that even picking one up could cause it to fall into dust, none of these had any sort of protective covering and were as fresh and as pliable as new. She opened another box and shone the torch into it: more papyrus fragments but again, no protection. The colour was right but the page itself was flexible and robust. The answer was simple – they were modern fakes. And then another fact hit her: if she could see what they were by torchlight in the dark, then Donald Sumter must know too. And that meant the reason no one at Pompeii remembered seeing them was simple: the manuscript fragments had never left Alabama. The implications came as a cascade as Flora tried to work out the possible links between Sumter and the robbery. However, what she needed now was evidence so she ran back to collect the light-box and set it up on the table: no time to do all of them, but she got through the collection as quickly as possible and rolled up one of the suspected fakes, securing it with an elastic band before sliding it into the rucksack.
The first flash he took for the start of a summer storm and so paid it no heed but after the second and then more, each coming at regular intervals, the student got up from his desk and peered out of the window, resting his elbows on the sill and waiting. There it was again – it seemed to be coming from the direction of the library block and as he squinted into the humid darkness he realised that the source was inside rather than outside the building: one of the domed skylights. But what was it? An electrical short? – that meant fire and fire in the library would be a disaster so he pulled the window shut and turned to run downstairs. Then he stopped. The flashes were too regular and always of the same intensity: someone was taking photographs in the archive block, just like that idiot Patterson had done. There was no time to call Irvine, he had to act. Slamming the door behind him he sprinted to the other end of the corridor and hammered on the door. ‘Mike, Mike. Wake up, we got a problem.’
Seconds later the door opened and a bleary-eyed face appeared round the door. ‘Shit, man, you know what time it is? What’s the matter with you –’
‘Shut up and get dressed. Someone’s taking photos in the archive block.’
‘Shit!’ The door closed and then moments later, Mike burst out clad in a T-shirt and a pair of shorts.
Three floors down Flora checked her watch. Ten minutes in the building was longer than she’d planned: a couple more photos then time to leave. She selected a battered codex: the back cover was in place but the front half of it was in a poor state. Skimming though the first few pages she was about to put it back in its box when something caught her eye. She read on but what she saw simply wasn’t possible – right before her eyes was a fragment from the Apocryphon of John, a manuscript belonging to the University of Athens and reported as having been stolen from this very archive. This just didn’t make sense. She thought about taking it with her but instead, used up another precious three minutes taking as many pictures as she could.
Time was running out and she’d already stayed longer than she’d planned. She scurried around, trying to hide all trace of her presence and putting everything back where she’d found it but as she replaced the last of the Pompeii boxes she stopped, frozen to the spot in terror. The muffled noise, whatever it was had come from the library, and then moments later her worst fears were realised as a light showed under the door, followed by the sound of two men’s voices. She was trapped. Grabbing the rucksack she pulled aside one of the heavy, black curtains to leave via a window: triple-glazed, the archivist had said, but as long as they opened she couldn’t have cared less.
Flora searched but there was no sign of a handle and the toughened glass would be proof against any of the tools she had with her. Heart pounding, she looked for somewhere to hide: the store-room was too small and the archive itself offered nothing better than row upon row of identical book-cases…the book cases, that was it, and so, using the shelves like rungs of a ladder climbed up and lay flat along the top. In the dark she misjudged the distance and cracked her head against something hard. Turning to see what it was, she noticed a faint glimmer of light: it was one of the skylights and its curtain was partially adrift, allowing her a tantalising view of a starlit Alabama night sky through the glass dome.
It was a risk, she knew, but a moment’s illumination with the torch showed the skylight was opened and closed via a simple screw-jack with a hole in its base to take the hook of a winding handle. She fumbled in her rucksack and pulled out the screwdriver: using its blade in the hole, it was possible to turn the jack and, agonisingly slowly, the skylight began to lift. She turned off the torch and continued winding. The voices were coming closer but only a few more inches and there’d be enough room to squeeze through.
Then Flora’s luck ran out.
Chapter Forty-five
Ephesus, AD 79
The governor of Ephesus shifted uneasily in his seat and glanced up at Josephus who remained standing in front of him, arms crossed. ‘But you don’t understand what’s involved here,’ said the governor. The wheedling voice was beginning to grate on Josephus’ nerves.
‘Not only do I understand what goes on in Hierapolis, the emperor does too and these orders are his, not mine. I’m just the messenger.’ The fat, sweating Roman started blustering again. ‘Very well,’ Josephus said, making to leave. ‘I’ll tell Vespasian you’re more interested in filling your personal coffers than doing his will. But if I were you I’d start spending fast because the way you’re going, you’ve probably only got months to live –’
‘No, don’t go. Please, surely we can come to some arrangement. We’re both men of the world –’
‘Marcus Tullius, if you’re offering me a bribe –’
‘Oh, but of course not –’
‘You’re a lying old bastard, Tullius. You and I are going on a little trip,’ said Josephus.
‘Not to Rome. Please, not that.’
‘That’s up to you. Rome or Hierapolis: what’s it to be?’
Hierapolis AD 79
The last witness delivered his lines with theatrical perfection and Tullius, sitting in his capacity as magistratus turned to look at Philippos. The old man could barely remain upright under the weight of the shackles and his face showed unmistakeable traces of a beating. ‘Philippos, you have preached sedition and deliberately encouraged the credulous to turn their faces away from the natural justice and bounty that flow from Rome. I judge you guilty, therefore, of treason. Sentence of crucifixion to be carried out this day.’ He rose and strode out of the audience chamber of the city’s capitol, brushing aside the pleas of lawyers and Philippos’ supporters.
‘There, that wasn’t so difficult, was it?’ said Josephus.
‘Maybe not for you. I on the other hand have to try and govern this province. Anyway, Josephus, you’ve got what you wanted so I won’t detain you any longer. I’m sure you’
ll want to get back to Rome as quickly –’
‘Nice try, Tullius. Get me off the premises and then as soon as my back’s turned, cash changes hands and Philippos has a miraculous escape. No, I think I’ll stick around: I’ve got a crucifixion to watch and then I think I’ll visit these famous baths of yours.’
Rome, Summer AD 79
In his dream Josephus was back at sea and the storm flung them from one wave crest to the next. He heard a voice calling his name and made to reply but no sound came. The ship lurched once more, shaking his head from side to side. He snapped awake and the smoky yellow light from an oil lamp shone in his eyes. The slave was shaking his shoulder and a voice called his name again. ‘Wake up, sir, you must wake up.’
Josephus blinked and propped himself up on one elbow. ‘What’s the matter, Felix? Is the house on fire?’
‘No, sir. A messenger, from the palace. It’s a summons from Vespasian.’
He swung his feet over the side of the bed and sat up. ‘Vespasian’s sick: what’s he want with me in the middle of the night?’
‘The messenger says the emperor is dying and he wants you to go to him.’
Outside in the pre-dawn chill stood the messenger accompanied by three men from the Praetorian guard. The little group hurried through the empty streets and within half an hour Josephus was climbing the familiar steps to the royal apartments.
The doctor looked up and shook his head as Josephus edged into the emperor’s bed chamber. Yet another hazard of Roman life which stubbornly refused to respect rank was the typhoid bacillus and, because of a single cup of contaminated water from the Aquae Cutiliae spa, the emperor Vespasian lay dying. Dehydrated and wracked with agonising spasms in his gut, he turned his filmy eyes towards the new arrival and stretched out a hand. Josephus knelt and gently took the old man’s hand between his own: tears filled his eyes but no words came. In spite of everything, Vespasian forced his parched lips into a smile – even at the last his cynical wit remained undimmed. ‘You’ve timed your arrival well, Josephus. Damn it, I think I’m turning into a god!’
Josephus remained in Rome during the period of public mourning for his patron and delayed his departure to Pompeii until the final week of August. Keen to resume his writing, he planned to stay there until he’d finished the first draft of The Seven Stars. A feeling of pride came over him when he thought of what he’d written so far. The Great History of the Jewish People, as he called it, was complete as was The Great Jewish War: the latter in particular was a work intended to resonate down the years. In reality, The Wars of the Jews, as it became known, was a massive exercise in self-justification and spin, seamlessly interwoven with hard fact, although its author had long ago convinced himself that his version of history was the truth.
Sending his slaves on ahead by land, Titus Flavius Josephus, as he now styled himself, took ship from Ostia for a leisurely cruise along the coast to Pompeii.
As the vessel entered the bay of Naples, passing between the mainland and the island of Prochyta, the weather changed abruptly for the worse. Visibility dropped to under a mile, an overpowering stench of sulphur filled the air and the surface of the water was covered by an oily scum. They pressed on but after an hour, the captain announced that he was making for port at Puteoli. As they neared land, the colour of the water turned to a sickly grey-green, covered by a floating carpet of what looked like ash. Here and there, bloated corpses of animals, and, worse, still, people, bobbed in the long flat swell while seabirds feasted on the unexpected bounty.
Under an ashen sky Puteoli loomed out of the sulphurous fog to show a town enveloped by a choking blanket of grey dust: rooftops, streets, even the people themselves were covered in it.
Once ashore, accurate reports of what had happened were impossible to come by. Some blamed the wrath of Vulcan, others said it was the Christians. The one consistent strand in all the accounts was the continuous stream of refugees heading north from further round the bay. Josephus accosted one of the stragglers in the street. ‘What do you mean it’s gone?’ he raged.
The old man wouldn’t make eye contact, his focus seemed fixed on a point, far off in the smog. ‘Go and see for yourself, boy. Pompeii’s gone and so’s Herculaneum. Half the mountain’s missing and all.’
‘But that’s not possible.’
‘I know it isn’t,’ said the old man. ‘But it still happened. We all got out upwind and we’ve been back twice looking for our house… but where it was isn’t there any more.’
‘You’re drunk, you old fool,’ Josephus replied, shoving him away. With a face like thunder he stormed back to the inn and yelled at the inn-keeper to find him slaves and transport to take him to Pompeii.
Chapter Forty-six
William Sunday University, Alabama
The lights snapped on leaving Flora temporarily blinded. For a moment, the two students remained glued to the spot, unable to believe their eyes. ‘Just come down nice and slow. Don’t make us come up there and get you,’ said the one called Mike. Flora ignored him and cranked the screwdriver, the frame of the skylight inching upwards but painfully slowly. ‘Call the police,’ he shouted.
‘I wouldn’t do that if I were you,’ replied Flora. ‘This archive is full of stolen and forged documents. You call the police and it won’t be me they’ll arrest.’
‘You’re full of it. Don’t say we didn’t warn you.’ He ran to the bookshelf and jumped, his hands reaching for the highest shelf just below her feet. Luckily for her, the force of his arrival tipped the shelves forwards and he slithered down to the floor, cursing, under a pile of boxes and papers, but Flora’s reprieve was momentary. The other student joined him and from each side they began to climb, more carefully this time. A pair of hands appeared at the top of the bookshelf and Flora stamped as hard as she could on the fingers and the hands disappeared: another couple of seconds gained.
A warm breeze flooded through the widening gap and she was about to try and force herself through when from the other side of the bookshelf she felt a hand clamp round her ankle. She pulled the screwdriver out of the hole and stabbed downwards. With a scream the student let go and Flora threw the rucksack out onto the roof, then forced herself through the gap. Memories of being trapped underwater by the branch flooded back as she struggled, scrabbling desperately for any purchase she could find. She was almost out when an unseen hand held her back once more, but kicking hard with one foot and slipping out of the shoe her assailant held, she knocked him off balance and at last rolled out onto the flat roof of the library, gasping with exertion and fear. Ignoring the sharp gravel underfoot, she grabbed the rucksack and ran towards the point where the flat roof met the main building and where the rising ground gave her the shortest drop. Flora swung herself round so she was hanging from the gutter by her hands, aimed for what she hoped was a bush in the border below and let go.
With a thump that left her winded she hit the ground and fell back, coming to rest in the soft earth of a flower bed. For a moment, she lay still, looking up at the stars and hoping nothing was broken. From its silhouette against the night sky, she recognised the evergreen magnolia and got up, running towards it. Ahead lay the safety of the treeline and as she ran, lights went on all over the accommodation block accompanied by shouting. Crashing blindly through the dense undergrowth, Flora made sure she was well out of sight before risking a look at her GPS display: two hundred yards lay between her and the car. By the time she reached it the sounds of pursuit had faded into the distance.
‘You realise I should fire you for this?’ bellowed Sumter, causing the archivist to flinch as though the Professor were about to hit him.
‘But she said she was a journalist. From The Times, not the New York Times, the one in London –’
‘I know what The Times is, you fool. Did you ask to see her press pass? Did she give you a business card?’
‘N-no, sir. She said Mr Patterson had invited her over to see the archives. She’d come all the way from England and I couldn
’t really send her away, could I?’
‘And how many pieces by “Charlotte Drewry” have you read in The Times, pray?’
‘Well, not many… in fact I’ve never read it.’
Sumter brought a hand crashing down on the desk causing Irvine, who was sitting quietly in an armchair, to flinch. ‘Well I have and it took me precisely five minutes and one phone call to find out that no such person has ever worked for The Times. And did it ever enter your head to wonder why a journalist would want to see manuscripts written in languages most of the fourth estate wouldn’t know from Chinese?’ He paused. ‘Of course, that’s it. Get Holmes and Watson back in here, there’s something I need to ask all of you.’
The archivist returned to Sumter’s office a few minutes later followed by the two students who had almost caught Flora, one of whom sported a heavily-bandaged hand. ‘Right,’ said Sumter, ‘take a look at this and tell me if that’s her. He handed them a magazine open at a page showing a group photograph of a conference he’d chaired in Berlin two years earlier. Seated in the centre of the line-up was Sumter himself accompanied by about fifteen other people. The image was small but the attractive, dark-haired woman who stared back at them from the middle row was certainly familiar.
‘I think that’s her,’ said the archivist. Her hair’s different but I’m pretty sure.’
‘What about you two?’ Sumter asked.
‘That’s her all right,’ said the one called Mike.
‘I didn’t get a good enough look,’ said the other. ‘But I reckon it could be.’
‘Thank you, gentlemen,’ said Sumter. ‘It may interest you to know that we’ve just had a visit from Doctor Flora Kemble who happens to be a palaeographer from Oxford University. I’ve often had doubts about her sanity and now they’ve been confirmed. Thank you gentlemen, you may go and I shall now call the police.’
The Seven Stars Page 37