A Symphony of Echoes

by Jodi Taylor

I interrupted. ‘I’m not sure …’

  ‘Please hear me out.’ She was unstoppable. I really should know that by now. I put down my letter-opener lest I became tempted to use it and sat back to listen to her sales pitch this time.

  ‘There are busy times ahead as I’m sure you’re aware, and I’ve given careful consideration to your needs. You need someone efficient, dedicated, effective, organised, adaptable to a changing workload, personable, and amenable. After a lot of thought, I’ve allocated you Miss Lee.’

  I sat forward abruptly. I needed efficient, dedicated, organised, adaptable, amenable, whatever, and she saddled me with Rosie Lee? She was rude, unhelpful, stubborn, and argumentative – the list just went on. I strongly suspected Mrs Partridge of taking the opportunity to dump an unpopular member of staff on me.

  I had a vague memory of Miss Lee – small, dark, and vicious. I needed to think fast.

  ‘What about …?’ I said, cunningly. ‘What about Miss Lee going to work for Peterson? Everyone likes Peterson – even she will, and I’ll have his Mrs Shaw instead.’

  This was a brilliant move. Mrs Shaw was lovely – and she brought him biscuits. Mrs Shaw I could live with. ‘I’m sure Miss Lee would benefit from being Peterson’s assistant.’

  She looked at me pityingly.

  ‘Actually, Dr Maxwell, I’m giving you Miss Lee for your benefit – not hers.’

  I wasn’t sure how that would work at all.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said sarcastically, but it just bounced off her.

  Deliberately misinterpreting me, she inclined her head, smiled smugly, said, ‘You’re welcome,’ and departed. I’d lost another one. The score so far, Partridge 33 – Maxwell 0.

  I sighed and began to sort through the chaos that was my in-tray. A small sound in the doorway made me look up. It was Medusa, dark hair curling around her head like so many snakes, giving me the evil eye. She had no little cardboard box full of plants, photos, personal possessions – just herself. She was neatly dressed but there was a quiet shabbiness about her. Her hair hadn’t been styled in months. She lifted a chin and radiated defiance. We stared at each other.

  I remembered this was the girl whom nobody wanted. Shunted from department to department, lasting no longer than the initial month’s trial. No wonder she hadn’t brought anything with her – she wasn’t expecting to stay. She stood in the doorway, attitude oozing from every pore. I wondered if I was her last chance.

  I kicked what I had been going to say into touch and said instead, ‘Miss Lee, you are very welcome. I’m glad to see you. Your desk is over here. Perhaps you’d like to take some time to have a look around the office and get your bearings. I believe Mr Sands was a methodical worker – it should all be quite straightforward. When you’ve got yourself sorted out, please could you look through my in-tray? I’d like you to prioritise this lot: stuff I need to do now, stuff that can wait, and stuff I can pass on to other people. I’ll leave you in peace, now. I’m down in the hall if you want me.’

  Not bad, eh? I was impressed. She wasn’t. She stared long enough for me to register that entering the room was her choice and nothing to do with me in any way whatsoever and crossed to the desk.

  ‘There’s no chair.’

  ‘Well, there wouldn’t be, would there? David was in a wheelchair. He brought his own,’ was what I hadn’t meant to say. God, she did have a real knack for rubbing people up the wrong way. ‘Give Mr Strong a call and he’ll bring one up for you,’ and left the room before she ended up wearing the filing cabinet.

  Mrs Partridge was pretending not to lurk near the stairs.

  ‘The body’s under the desk,’ I said as I passed, just to give her something to worry about.

  Down in the hall, I ran into Peterson.

  ‘I was just coming to find you,’ he said. ‘Do you fancy a trip out?’

  ‘Maybe … What did you have in mind?’

  ‘Pathfinders,’ he said. ‘They’ve completed their last simulation. Time for the real deal. Would you care to join us?’

  The Pathfinders are recently qualified trainees. They do what it says on the tin. They find the path. Sometimes, when we’re not sure of our dates, they don’t so much jump as hop, looking for the event in question, narrowing down the co-ordinates until we find what we’re looking for. They also maintain the Time Map. They don’t usually get involved in the more lively aspects of the job until they have a bit of experience under their belt.

  I pushed thoughts of my Mary Stuart-covered desk to the back of my mind. ‘Anywhere in particular?’

  ‘Yes, actually. Do you remember, when we were at the other St Mary’s, we couldn’t find The Hanging Gardens of Babylon?’

  ‘No one’s ever found them. Or any trace of them.’

  ‘I think everyone’s been looking in the wrong place at the wrong time. There’s very strong evidence they may have actually been The Hanging Gardens of Nineveh. Fancy checking it out?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, enthusiastic at the opportunity. And even more enthusiastic at the thought of leaving my emotionally tangled life behind me for a while, and enjoying something as simple and straightforward as running for my life while being pursued by a blood-crazed mob, or succumbing to some deadly plague in the dim and distant past.

  We assembled in Hawking, outside Number Three. Peterson in his role as trainer and mentor; Messrs Hopwood and Dewar and Miss Prentiss on their final training jump. And me. Ostensibly along to help supervise, but, in reality, just running away.

  Peterson and I made ourselves scarce in the corner as they laid in their carefully calculated co-ordinates and, under Dieter’s watchful eye, carried out their pre-flight checks. I smoothed the folds in my tunic and arranged my shawl over my headdress. Eventually they were finished.

  Dieter withdrew.

  Peterson said, ‘In your own time, lady and gentlemen,’ and the world went white.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ said Hopwood, unprofessionally, and I had to agree. Nineveh in 680BC was – mind blowing.

  We stood quietly under a small tree, just inside the Mashki Gate on the north-west side of the city, and tried to take it all in. The last king, Sennacherib, had extensively remodelled Nineveh, laying out new, wide streets and squares, and building ‘The Palace Without Rival’. He’d brought water to the city by building canals and aqueducts. He’d planted gardens and erected hundreds of statues. I was looking at a giant man-bull a few yards away and it was looking right back at me.

  Nineveh was a huge city – about seven hundred and fifty hectares – and built on a scale to match. The gates – all fifteen of them – were colossal. The stone and mud brick walls were sixty feet high and fifty feet thick. And as if that wasn’t enough to deter invaders, stone towers had been cut into the walls every sixty feet or so.

  Inside the walls, the city was dominated by the royal palace. Built for Sennacherib’s beloved wife, Tashmetu-sharrat, it soared above the city.

  We’d been standing for about ten minutes or so and, as far as I could see, no one was paying us the slightest attention. As usual, we didn’t quite blend in, but Nineveh straddled the important trade routes of the time, so the streets were already full of other strange-looking folk who spoke funny.

  This part of the assignment was under Mr Hopwood’s control.

  ‘This way,’ he said, confidently. ‘Miss Prentiss and Dr Maxwell, if you would be kind enough to bring up the rear, please.’

  This was a polite way of saying, ‘Women at the back where you belong?’ Still, at least they hadn’t brought anything heavy for us to carry. In ancient times – and modern, now I come to think of it – it’s always women who do the heavy lifting.

  We set off for the palace. Even I could have found it. Sennacherib had been a fully paid up member of the ‘in your face’ school of architecture. Built of huge white limestone blocks, it dazzled in the hot sunshine. A pair of magnificent copper lions guarded the main entrance. I saw terraces, pillars, and walkways, all heavily planted and cascading with run
ning water. You could have been forgiven for thinking that here, indeed, were the famous hanging gardens, but you would have been wrong. Because the gardens were next door, connected to the palace by a canal and a royal avenue.

  I caught my breath. We all caught our breath. The Hanging Gardens of Nineveh were beautiful. A green jewel in a dusty desert. Built in concentric squares, the largest, the outer square, was laid out as a public park. I could see small groves of trees. Shady paths invited further exploration. Entrance, to this part at least, seemed to be open to all.

  Inside this park was a wide, lily-covered, square moat and inside this, another, smaller square park, more thickly planted and obviously private. But the centrepiece was the huge, three-storey ziggurat towering above its surroundings. Each terrace was lush and beautiful, landscaped with statues and planted with ornamental bushes, trees and the hanging foliage that gave the gardens their name. The summit was crowned with a copse of full-grown trees. Water cascaded wastefully from one terrace down to another, making the statement – We are Nineveh and we are rich and powerful and we can afford to chuck it around.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ said Mr Hopwood again. Again, no one argued.

  ‘Right,’ said Mr Dewar, pulling us all together. Historians do tend to get lost in the moment. On some assignments we really could do with a couple of well-trained sheepdogs and a cattle prod.

  His was the next part of the mission. We’d all been allocated tasks. He made us check our com links – he was going by the book – and we all scattered. Peterson and I, who knew as much about horticulture as the average politician knew about effective and efficient government, were allocated the north side of the park.

  We walked slowly, not drawing attention to ourselves – we hoped. The park was full of families enjoying a respite from the late afternoon sun. Heatproof children ran around, shouting. Water sellers lined the paths. Stone benches invited rest under the shady trees and everywhere was the sound of running water.

  ‘I want to see how they get the water up there,’ said Tim, gazing up at the ziggurat. ‘Sennacherib – never unduly modest about his achievements – claimed to have used something that sounds suspiciously like the Archimedes screw – four centuries before Archimedes got round to inventing it.’

  ‘Interesting. Lead on.’

  The sun was far too hot to move quickly, so we strolled along happily, politely stepping aside with a smile whenever we encountered anyone else. It was easily the most peaceful assignment I’d ever had.

  Miss Prentiss spoke in my ear.

  ‘Dr Peterson. We have a problem.’

  Tim sighed.

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘Mr Hopwood’s been bitten. By a scorpion.’

  ‘Did you see it? How big?’

  Believe it or not, the smaller they are, the more dangerous they can be. So if you are ever bitten by one the size of a small truck, you should be fine. Size matters. Never mind whether it’s women, chocolate, or scorpions – big is always beautiful.

  ‘Smallish. But that’s not the problem. He seems to be having some sort of allergic reaction.’

  ‘Symptoms?’

  ‘Rising temperature. Erratic pulse. Tingling in his extremities.’ There was a pause and an unpleasant noise. ‘And severe vomiting.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘The three of us are already in the pod.’

  ‘Get him back at once. You can return for us later. We’re right at the northern end and it would take us a good twenty minutes to get to you. Go now.’

  ‘Sir, are you sure?’

  ‘Yes. Medevac. Get him out now. My authorisation.’

  ‘Yes, sir. We’ll be back as soon as we can.’

  ‘No rush. Take your time.’

  In the background, I could hear the computer counting down. ‘… Three, two, one …’

  And they were gone.

  ‘Well,’ said Tim, briskly, to cover the sudden feelings of unease we were both experiencing at being left here with no means of getting back. ‘Shall we continue?’

  I’d never actually been left behind before. With no means of escape should I need one. On the other hand …

  I looked around. Lush green growth rioted all around us. Beautiful birds flitted from tree to tree. I could hear gently trickling water somewhere to my left. A path twisted enticingly deeper into the gardens. A peacock called. The whole scene breathed peace and serenity. When you consider our usual setting was some bloody battlefield, or rat-filled slum, or viewing a spectacular but hazardous natural catastrophe, it could have been a lot worse. We were in a garden. What could go wrong?

  We ambled slowly around the park, pausing every now and then to admire a particular flower, peer into the dark depths of an ornamental pool, or just inhale the cool, green, garden fragrance. Occasionally, through the trees, we caught glimpses of the giant central ziggurat with its green crown.

  We still had no way of knowing whether these were the hanging gardens, but if they weren’t, then Babylon was really going to have to get its green wellies on to go one better than this.

  Slowly, we left the more popular areas behind us, drawing near to the moat to get a good view of the ziggurat.

  I was entranced.

  ‘Tim, this is wonderful.’

  ‘Isn’t it?’ he said. ‘I could stay here for ever.’

  We never learn.

  As he spoke the words, we stepped out from under the trees and found ourselves looking across the moat to the ziggurat and a flight of steps leading to the first terrace. Even though this was the least visited part of the park, Sennacherib had still paid attention to detail, and two winged leopards guarded the stairway.

  We ascended a small, grassy hump for a better view.

  And then, as we watched, three sumptuously dressed figures emerged and stood directly opposite us on the other side of the moat. One, several steps above the others wore a tall, golden conical hat. The other two were bareheaded. They talked among themselves. They were obviously high-ranking noblemen, their beards curled and oiled in the fashion of the day. The two younger men wore robes of gold with scarlet shawls. The older wore purple. Royal purple.

  Tim stiffened. ‘Is that who I think it is?

  I nodded. Something was wrong. Really wrong. I had a very nasty feeling we were looking at the mighty Sennacherib himself. And with the lack of guards and personal retinue, the two younger men must be family members. Sons, probably. Two of them.

  My happy feelings evaporated.

  ‘Tim, we may need to move pretty sharpish.’

  ‘Why?’

  Too late.

  Even as we watched, one of the younger men laughed and pointed upwards, drawing attention to a bird passing overhead. The older man looked up and as he did so, both younger men fell upon him with swords. Taken completely unawares, he went down at once. It was over in seconds. He lay, head down on the staircase, not moving. Scarlet trickles of blood ran down the steps in a dreadful parody of the cascading water around us.

  We stood frozen.

  They’d killed the king. Right in front of us, they’d killed the king. The mighty Sennacherib. The Assyrian who came down like the wolf on the fold was dead. Killed in his own back garden. By his own sons. And we’d witnessed it.

  This was bad. This was very, very bad.

  My next thought was even worse. We’d got the date wrong. We thought we were in 680BC and we weren’t. If the records were right – and they were – we were in 681BC, instead. Which meant …

  No time to think about that now. Both men straightened up from examining the body. One of them casually wiping his sword on his father’s robe, glanced across the water and saw us watching.

  I saw it all in slow motion. He stared for a second, then turned his head and shouted.

  They weren’t alone at all. Some dozen or so heavily armed men emerged from the trees and bushes.

  He pointed directly at us. I don’t speak Akkadian. I didn’t need to. Standing on a small, grassy knoll at the site
of an assassination is never good in any language.

  ‘Shit!’ said Tim, encapsulating the situation nicely.

  They began to run towards one of the delicate bridges spanning the moat.

  ‘Run,’ I said. ‘Come on.’

  We fled.

  ‘We have to get out,’ said Tim.

  We certainly did. Once they closed the gates to the gardens, we would be trapped. They’d beat the grounds and it would be only a matter of time. But not if we could get to the gates first.

  So we ran.

  I shed my shawl – an action I would later regret, and pulled down my hair. From a distance, I was now a red-haired girl in a tunic rather than a mature woman in a traditional shawl.

  We flew down the path, emerging near the gate with the stone stele. We’re old hands at avoiding pursuit. We slowed down and walked behind and then alongside a family group on their way out.

  The little boy dropped a small, carved toy and Peterson picked it up and began to play with him. At the same time, I relieved one of the women of her heavy basket. I’m not sure how happy she was to relinquish it, but I didn’t give her a lot of choice and we all walked out together. From the corner of my eye, I could see movement. Voices were raised behind us.

  Once outside, I handed her back her basket. She snatched it from me, but we were out and I was past caring. We hurried away, back towards the Mashki Gate.

  ‘What just happened?’ said Peterson.

  ‘Assassination of Sennacherib in 681BC, by two of his sons in revenge for his desecration of Babylon. Another son, Esarhaddon succeeds, but not yet because he’s not here. Probably there will now follow a period of turmoil and lawlessness while everyone sorts themselves out and new players emerge. A bit like after a general election.’

  ‘You mean there isn’t turmoil and lawlessness before general elections?’

  Joking apart, we were not in a good position. There would be soldiers on the streets soon and almost certainly a curfew. And until Number Three turned up, we had nowhere to go.

  And we’d witnessed the murder. And they’d seen us witnessing the murder.

  Number Three didn’t come.

  We were right about the soldiers. And the curfew. And having nowhere to go.