A Symphony of Echoes

by Jodi Taylor

  ‘Look,’ said Tim. ‘We can’t hang around here waiting for St Mary’s. God knows when they’ll get here. It’ll be dark soon and we have to find somewhere to hole up for the night. Just in case.’

  He was right. St Mary’s would come, but they might not come in time. We needed to find somewhere safe and we needed to find it soon. Before it got dark.

  We stepped off the main thoroughfare and lost ourselves in the maze between the Mashki and Nergal Gates, choosing narrower and narrower streets until we finished in a tiny alley behind blind walls. It was a dead end, which wasn’t ideal, but the wall was low enough for us to scramble over should we need to. And from there we could nip through someone’s back yard, over another wall into a similar alley and away.

  It wasn’t a comfortable night. We were tired and thirsty and became more so as the night progressed. The sky was clear and full of stars. We sat with our backs to the cooling wall and quietly discussed our predicament.

  The first thing, obviously, was that something had gone wrong when the co-ordinates were laid in. The date of Sennacherib’s death was widely and extensively documented. The date was right. We were wrong. And if this mistake wasn’t somehow picked up, they’d look for us in the wrong time. We were in 681BC. They’d be looking for us next year.

  Peterson was confident. ‘Chief Farrell, Dieter, Polly Perkins,’ – Polly was head of IT – ‘one of them is bound to pick it up. And if not immediately, they’ll recheck when they can’t find us. They’ll jump about and eventually they’ll get to us.’

  Beside him, I nodded in the dark.

  ‘In the meantime, we need to stay safe. The soldiers are probably looking for us, but the population is around a hundred thousand and so long as we keep our heads down, we’ll be OK.’

  He wasn’t being over-optimistic. It wasn’t the soldiers we needed to worry about too much. If we weren’t rescued within a day or so, then life for us was going to get very tough. Very tough indeed.

  Everyone has their own place in time. Almost everyone is part of a family unit, or a tribe, or a guild, and even those who aren’t – those who live outside of normal society – usually have the knowledge to survive. Where to go – where not to go. Where they’re likely to pick up free food. Who to watch out for. We had none of that knowledge. We didn’t speak the language. We weren’t prepped for a long assignment. We had no money – or the equivalent. We had nothing tradable. Nothing to barter. If we wanted to eat then we’d have to steal it – with all the dangers of being caught. Hanged. Hands chopped off. Impaled. Not all at the same time, obviously, but none of it was good.

  Water was not so much a problem. There were public wells. But we had nothing in which to carry it. We’d have to persuade someone to draw it for us. Or we could go down to the riverbank. The Khosr flowed through the city and the mighty Tigris itself was only a mile away.

  But we couldn’t go too far away from the Mashki Gate because that’s where they’d look for us. Except they’d be here next year. Because we were in the wrong time. We would never survive for a whole year.

  Neither of us got any sleep that night. Soldiers were everywhere. Whether they were searching for us, or simply enforcing the curfew during the current power vacuum, we had no way of knowing. Twice loud voices sounded at the end of our little alley, but no one ventured near us.

  Night in the desert is very cold. We both shivered in our thin tunics. We huddled closely together, tucking Tim’s shawl around us.

  He said, ‘Do you remember our first jump together?’

  ‘I certainly do. You peed on me.’

  ‘Do you want me to do it again? For old times’ sake?’

  ‘Save it. If we have to go into hiding, we may have to drink our own urine.’

  ‘That’s something I’ve often thought about. Do you drink your own – or the other person’s?’

  ‘When you say ‘often thought about’ …’

  ‘Well, you know, every now and then. Just out of idle curiosity.’

  ‘You’re not drinking my urine.’

  ‘That’s a little selfish. Surely, in our current crisis, we should be working together. I’m rather disappointed in this “me first” attitude.’

  ‘Fine. Half a pint of Maxwell’s Old Peculiar coming right up. Get it while it’s still warm.’

  I felt him chuckle. ‘This time tomorrow we’ll be back at St Mary’s.’

  We weren’t.

  We had a shit day. Even by St Mary’s standards, it was a shit day.

  We snuck out of our alley at first light and walked to the well at the end of the street. Early though we were, a couple of old crones were there before us. Peterson heaved up a couple of buckets of water for them and they gave us a drink in return. We chugged back as much as we could handle, nodded our thanks, and set off for the Gate again.

  We hung around all day, moving on when we started getting suspicious looks. We would walk around in the hot sun for a while and then return.

  The result was always the same. No St Mary’s.

  Soldiers were everywhere. Troops marched purposefully from A to B and then, presumably, back to A again. Groups of them stood on street corners, and large contingents had been drafted to the Gates. We couldn’t have got out even if we’d wanted to.

  The sun rose and the heat intensified. I had no shawl to protect my head. Without a comb, I twisted my hair up as best I could. Peterson said I looked like someone’s mad granny.

  The city seemed calm but tense. People knew something had happened, but not what. Nineveh under Sennacherib had enjoyed a period of stability. What would happen when the news got out was anyone’s guess. Widespread panic, probably. People don’t like change.

  Their plan was obviously to keep a lid on things until a peaceful succession could be achieved. But Esarhaddon was a long way off. He would undertake a series of forced marches. He would get here. But he wasn’t here yet.

  I wondered what had happened to the murderers. Did they sit tight and ride out the storm? Or were they out of the gates before the body cooled? And speaking of the body …

  ‘Let’s go and look,’ said Peterson. So we did.

  The site was pristine. Gazing across the moat, we could see no traces of violence at all. That was what all the guards had been for – they were the clean-up squad. Not a trace remained of yesterday’s drama.

  We returned slowly back to the Mashki Gate. Still no sign of St Mary’s.

  ‘Typical,’ said Peterson. ‘Without you or me to show them the way they probably can’t even find Hawking by themselves, let alone Nineveh.’

  There was quite a crowd at the public well by now, and we had to wait a long time for our turn. We were hungry, too. The time for the mid-day meal was approaching. Succulent smells drifted around. My stomach rumbled.

  We returned to our little alley, stifling between the high walls. The citizens of Nineveh employed the time-honoured method of rubbish disposal. They chucked it over the back wall into the alley. Problem solved.

  We poked around, found some odd bits of wood, one sandal (why is there ever only one?) some strange bits of shrivelled vegetables that presumably even the goats wouldn’t touch, a certain amount of night soil, a dead rat, and some broken pots.

  We’re St Mary’s. We can make anything out of anything. We could probably build a nuclear reactor out of this little lot. However, we settled for propping the wood against the wall and draping Peterson’s shawl over the top, which gave us shade and cover. Crawling underneath, I picked over the pottery and we found a broken piece that could hold several inches of water.

  We slept for a while, roused only by the family on the other side of the wall all of whom seemed to have all traipsed outside for the sole purpose of yelling at each other for half an hour, and then traipsed back inside again.

  It was still stifling in our alley, so we set off to the well again. Using our precious piece of pot, we were able to rinse off some of the dust and drink our fill.

  The sun was going down. W
e’d been in Nineveh for twenty-four hours. With that thought, my stomach rumbled again. The street markets were packing up for the day and we wandered slowly along, keeping an eye out for discarded fruit and vegetables. No such luck. The street urchins had long since done all that. We really needed to get our act together. I started to think.

  Peterson, turning to speak to me, brushed against a pile of figs and knocked some half-dozen to the ground. He stopped, picked them up and replaced them, contriving to keep two back. And the stallholder kindly gave him another two – one each – by way of thanks.

  A feast!

  We sat on a low wall and ate them slowly. Two figs seemed very inadequate. Over the way, a man was stirring a huge cauldron of something savoury and dispensing ladlesful to people who turned up with bowls. And money.

  We moved on.

  The smell of piss told us we were in the dyeing and laundry area.

  I had an idea.

  The secret is not to run. Running draws attention. Move slowly and with confidence. I walked to the nearest vat full of reddish-coloured water, picked up a nearby bowl, filled it and walked slowly out again. I don’t think anyone even noticed me. Peterson waited outside.

  ‘What on earth …?’

  ‘We’re going to break curfew tonight.’

  ‘We are?’

  ‘Yes. We need to be more proactive. St Mary’s are all over this city even as we speak. But they’re looking in the wrong time. And I’m getting fed up with waiting. So we leave them a message. As big as we can. On the side of that big white building near the gate. Where even St Mary’s can’t miss it.’

  We crept out after curfew, just as the last light died away. I kept watch while Peterson did the deed.

  He did his best in the dark. We could only cross our dye-stained fingers.

  Stumbling out of our alleyway the next morning, we paused to admire our handiwork. Scrawled hugely across the wall in brownish-red stain, was the date:

  681BC

  You couldn’t miss it. Even St Mary’s couldn’t miss it. And the beauty of it was that no one here would have a clue what it meant. They might even think it was building decoration. And the BC was the clincher. The message could only be from us.

  Search parties would be looking for us. They would start in 680BC. When they couldn’t find us, they would start to fan out across time. We had to leave them some sort of message. Show them where to look. Sooner or later, if no one wiped it off, or the building didn’t fall down, or it didn’t just fade away, next year someone would see it. Then they’d concentrate all their resources on 681BC. We were tagged. Once they had the right time, they’d find us.

  They had to. Because something was happening. I could hear marching feet. Trumpets sounded. Orders shouted. Soldiers were on the streets.

  The secret was out. You could see it. You could see the news fly from one group of people to the next. Shock and fear were written across people’s faces. Women covered their faces and cried aloud. Men shouted, vainly demanding more details. Even the children stopped running and stood still, unsure what was happening, but aware that something was very wrong.

  Soldiers started pushing people around, trying to restore order. Traders hastily shut up their stalls. Trouble was brewing. People vanished off the streets. Children were yanked inside. Doors and shutters slammed shut. Those far from their houses ran along the streets, desperate to be home and safe. Livestock mutinied in the panic and refused to move. Soldiers pushed and shoved, shouting incomprehensibly, but the message was clear enough.

  Get off the streets.

  People milled around in all directions. I managed to grab a couple of apricots and when we returned chez nous, Peterson had a flat loaf tucked under his armpit.

  ‘What do you think’s going on?’ said Peterson.

  ‘The news is out. They’re clearing the streets to prevent trouble. It might only be for today. If not, we could have a problem.’

  ‘We should eat all this bread now,’ said Peterson. ‘It’ll be uneatable tomorrow.’

  True. Never, ever underestimate the wonderful properties of food preservatives. In this dry climate, bread was as hard as nails after only an hour or so. Bakeries produced small batches all day non-stop. Loaves were snapped up and often eaten warm and on the spot. So we ate the bread and kept the apricots for later.

  I was so thirsty. My tongue seemed too big for my mouth. I had the beginnings of a dehydration headache. And it was hot. And getting hotter.

  ‘Keep your mouth closed,’ advised Peterson. ‘Don’t breathe through it.’

  For the first time ever, I entertained the possibility that St Mary’s might not find us in time. That they would find us, I was sure, but they might be too late.

  Years ago, we lost five historians in two separate incidents. It was before my time, but I know they searched and searched for months afterwards. Not a trace of any of them was ever found. And that was our worry. Not whether we would be rescued, but whether we would still be alive to be rescued. Which we wouldn’t be if we didn’t get some water soon.

  The long, hot day wore on.

  The well was only a hundred yards away. The question was whether to break curfew and go at night, when the dark would be both friend and enemy, or try it during the day when we could see but as easily be seen. If soldiers were stopping everyone on the street then, as all foreigners are in times of unrest, we could be in trouble. And they might still be looking for their witnesses as well.

  We both plumped for breaking curfew. It was like being back at school. If you’re going to break the rules – go for it big-time. There are only so many detentions you can possibly attend in one term. Sadly, the penalty for being caught on the streets was probably slightly harsher than detention, but the need for water was becoming imperative. And we now had a bowl. A bit brown, but we didn’t care. We could bring water back to the alley at night and wait out the day. It seemed a good plan.

  We left it as late as we could, partly to give the heat time to dissipate and partly to let the moon rise. Finally, we set off.

  We slunk out of the alley like a couple of street cats up to no good. Hugging the walls, we groped our way down the streets, flitting from shadow to shadow. Three soldiers lounged at the corner. One leaned against a wall, one squatted on his heels, and one was staring vaguely in the other direction. They’d have to wait more than twenty centuries before they could pass round a cigarette.

  We slipped past them and out on to the main road.

  Peering anxiously up and down, we could see no one. The entire area was deserted. I could see the darker shadow, which would be the top of the steps leading down to the well. Already I could picture the cool damp cistern, the wet slap of water against the stone walls … taste the ice-cold water … And there was no one in sight. Surely we couldn’t be that lucky.

  Of course we couldn’t.

  We were just easing our way cautiously along the front wall of someone’s house, when I heard Guthrie’s voice in my ear.

  ‘Max?’

  I jumped a mile and knocked over something that fell with a clatter. A dog barked. Inside the house, a nervous voice called out.

  ‘Shit,’ said Peterson.

  We’d have been all right if it hadn’t been for that bloody dog. It just wouldn’t shut up. A shutter was thrown back and a light appeared.

  We ran. No choice.

  ‘We’re in trouble, Major,’ I said to Guthrie. ‘You’re going to have to get us out. And quickly.’

  A voice shouted behind us. The dog was having hysterics.

  I followed Peterson.

  In the surrounding houses, other, flickering lights appeared. Doors opened. Men stuck out their heads, presumably demanding to know what was happening. We pressed back hard into a patch of darker shadow.

  And then someone let the bloody dog loose.

  ‘Go up,’ directed Guthrie.

  We went up, scrambling up on to the low roof.

  Not the best idea he’d ever had. In the sum
mer heat, half the city was sleeping on their roof.

  All around us, people sat up, heads appeared, children started to cry, women shrieked.

  ‘For crying out loud …’ muttered Peterson and we dropped off the roof again, abandoned any attempt at silence and just ran for it.

  ‘No go, Major,’ I panted. ‘And no time to chat. Just find us.’

  We had no idea where we were going. Getting away from all this racket was our main aim. We could work out the details later.

  I could see a light bobbing ahead of us. Soldiers. We swerved to the left, but they saw us. They shouted. I could hear a strange metallic clatter. They must be bashing their swords against their shields to alert others nearby. I could hear the clatter taken up in the distance.

  More shouting now, closer at hand. What to do? To stay on the main road, or risk one of these narrower streets with the possibility of being trapped?

  The decision was taken out of our hands.

  Four men stepped out of a doorway. One swung a shield and Peterson went down like a tree. He didn’t move.

  I should have run. I should have left him. At least one of us would escape. But this was Tim. My friend Tim.

  I stood over him and snarled defiance. They laughed at me and someone grabbed me from behind. He stank of onions, leather, sweat, and dust. I didn’t struggle. I didn’t want to give them any excuse to rough us up. Maybe I could tell them we were only looking for water and they’d let us go. Maybe a pig would fly past with a nice cup of tea.

  I’d dropped the bowl, but I cupped my hands together, mimed drinking and pointed back down the street to the well.

  They held up the light and stared at me.

  As well they might. My hair had come down. I was covered in dust and grime. My hands were still stained brownish-red from the dye and there were splashes of the same colour all over my tunic. It looked like blood.

  I knew exactly what they were thinking.

  Looters.

  People out after dark, taking advantage of the prevailing confusion to help themselves to anything of value. To steal. Maybe even to kill.

  There’s never any mercy for looters in any age. Throats cut. Dropped back into the dirt for the cart to collect the next morning. They’d think no more about it. We would lie, dying, watching the lifeblood pour out of our bodies to soak into the ever-thirsty desert dust.