And the Rest Is History

by Jodi Taylor

  I’ve never seen so many people in so many tiny spaces. They were everywhere, lugging useless household possessions, trying to drive terrified goats or sheep. They surged first one way, and then discovering they couldn’t get out, would attempt to turn back the way they’d come, only to become inextricably entangled with those desperately pushing from behind. We were continually buffeted by people who never even saw us, so desperate were they to get away. I saw people lying pinned under rubble, feebly calling for help, struggling to get free before they were trampled. Or burned. Or fell victim to the Crusaders working their way through the city. And there were dead people everywhere.

  There was no order. No one was in control. I knew that the army had fled. The Varangian Guard, the elite, would hold their ground and fight, but they were hopelessly outnumbered. And they were a long way off by now. They would be guarding what was left of the churches, the monasteries, the palaces. This was one of the poorer parts of the city. The people here were on their own.

  The real downside, as if there weren’t enough of those already, was that because there was nothing of value here, those roaming these streets would probably not be Crusader knights at all, but the very worst kind of soldier. If they could be dignified with the name. Most of these men were not wearing the traditional white surcoat emblazoned with the red cross. Many wore no uniform at all. Some wore workmanlike leather tunics and boots and carried professional-looking weapons. They were mercenaries, maybe – here only because they were paid to be, and eager to enrich themselves with as much treasure as they could carry, and woe betide anyone who got in their way.

  The very worst of them were covered only in rags and carried sticks with a stone lashed to the end. These men weren’t even the jackals snapping around the edges. These were the utter dregs, here only to rape and kill. They had papal dispensation for any acts committed on a crusade and they intended to take full advantage of it.

  The emperor, Alexios V, had abandoned his city and his people to the invaders and there was nothing and no one to stand in their way. Every soul here was doomed.

  Whichever way we went, we always seemed to be swimming against the flow. Everyone else was always running in the other direction. We closed ranks and barged our way through, knocking people aside. The noise was tremendous. Thousands and thousands of people – all shouting and screaming as they fought to escape the burning city.

  Away in the distance, I could hear the clatter of horses’ hooves, but these streets were too narrow and too filled with obstacles. No horses could get down here. And why would they? There was nothing of value here. No churches full of gold and jewels. No fine buildings. No palaces. Just ordinary little homes and the people who lived in them. The defenceless people who lived in them. There was no one here who could put up any sort of fight. A few men had picked up pieces of wood but what use would they be against broadswords wielded by men with nothing on their mind but treasure and slaughter?

  I remember the heat. The heat prickling the backs of my hands and coming up through the soles of my boots. The perspiration running down my face and making my eyes sting.

  I also remember the isolation. I was alone inside my helmet. I could hear my own breathing rasping in my ears. I could hear other people’s voices, clear but tinny and remote. I could also hear roaring flames, crashing buildings and screaming people. Biometric readouts flashed before my eyes and there seemed to be some sort of sit-rep trickle down. Red and green symbols and figures clustered at the edges of my vision. I had no idea what they meant and neither did I care. I ignored them.

  I remember the piles of bodies lying everywhere like discarded dolls. Some of them were small enough to be discarded dolls. They lay half in and half out of doorways. Whether fleeing the burning building or seeking shelter from the slaughter, we’ll never know. They lay heaped against the walls against which they’d huddled. Men lay in front of the families they had tried and failed to save. Dead women curled protectively around dead infants.

  But mostly I remember the blood. Everything was red with it. We ran through sticky pools of it. I gave thanks for the breathing filters in my helmet. That I didn’t have to breathe that distinctive copper smell or taste the metal in the back of my throat.

  Everything around us was being destroyed. Flames licked around roofs and billowed from doors and tiny windows. And it wasn’t just this street or a few streets around us. A whole city was burning. Constantinople – the queen of cities – was being devastated. Churches, palaces, monasteries – ancient and beautiful buildings were being torn apart for the treasures they contained.

  The same went for the people. They too were torn apart for the treasures they carried. Necklaces were ripped from dead necks. Arms were hacked off for the bracelets and armbands they wore. Hands were chopped off living people and thrust into a bag because there was no time to prise the rings loose now. That was for later. Later – three endless days later – when some semblance of sanity would return to the invaders, they would find a skin of wine and a quiet corner, and rummage through the stinking, fly-swarmed bags for the treasures therein. I saw a woman standing motionless in shock, handless arms held rigid in front of her, screaming a long, high, thin scream as she watched her life blood arc through the air.

  So I ignored Captain Ellis’s well-meant advice and I looked. I saw it all. It was far worse than anything I had ever seen and I’ve seen a lot. This wasn’t a battle between more or less equal forces with some rough sort of soldiers’ code – this was armed men, blind with lust and greed, pitted against an unarmed, abandoned population.

  Ellis kept us moving. Emerging from a dank, dark alleyway, we found ourselves in a small square. On another day, this would have been a pleasant place. Someone had placed a bench against a sunny wall. A few pots of herbs stood nearby. On another day, their scent would have filled the air. But not today. Today, something bad was happening here. A group of about twenty people mostly women and old people were grouped against a wall. They were surrounded by a group of laughing men, their swords drawn. A small pile of probably valueless trinkets lay on the ground in front of them, and even as we watched, a few coins were tossed down as well. Were they trying to buy their safety?

  Satisfied they had extorted everything of value, the group of men lifted their swords. It was obvious what was going to happen next. Women screamed and cowered against the wall while one of the old men made useless appeals for mercy. At the same time, another man appeared at the other end of the square. A Crusader, it seemed, wearing the traditional long white surcoat emblazoned with the red cross – although the cross was no redder than the wet blood streaked around his hem. He was helmeted but his visor was raised. Shouting, he strode forwards, gesturing the men to keep away.

  Reluctantly, they obeyed him. It was obvious this man held authority. Still shouting, he placed himself between the helpless civilians, many of whom were crying and wailing hysterically.

  The mercenaries paused. I imagine greed was warring with discipline, but eventually their leader, a big man in a leather jerkin, bareheaded but wearing a breastplate, nodded. He stepped back, motioning to his men to do the same. It seemed this lucky group of people might be allowed to live after all.

  Satisfied, the Crusader sheathed his own sword and turned away. They let him take three, maybe four paces before someone shouted. He wheeled around and the big man stabbed him in the face. He fell to the ground. He was probably dead already, but two men leaped on him, and while the leader stabbed him repeatedly, the others men fell on the screaming civilians.

  Within half a minute, everyone was dead. The bench had been overturned, the pretty pots smashed, and the little square was running with blood. I watched it twist across the paving, seeping through gaps in the stones, mixing with the dirt, shit, straw and scummy water, and turning everything a bright, brilliant red. It was hard to imagine that anyone would ever again sit in this little square, feeling the sun on their face or smelling the herbs.

  I stared at the dead Crusad
er, lying in his own blood. At some point his helmet had come off. His face was gone. A good man who had tried to do a good thing on this very bad day.

  I dragged my eyes away. I wasn’t here for this. I was here for my boys.

  Ellis motioned us back the way we had come.

  Bearing in mind my own advice about not interfering in any way, I stayed at his shoulder and concentrated on keeping my feet as we picked our way through rubble-strewn streets.

  In my ear, a female voice said, ‘Two minutes. Estimated landing site one hundred yards to your right. Remain where you are. Maintain safe distance.’

  ‘Copy that,’ said Ellis.

  We stood in our teams, backs against a solid wall for protection. I was looking all around me. Where were they? Where would they appear?

  I had forgotten to count down the seconds in my head and the two minutes seemed a very long time. Were their calculations wrong? Had we missed them somehow? I took a pace forwards to see what was happening around me and Ellis pulled me back against the wall. Something dropped from above, missing us by inches and shattering on the ground at our feet, but he still wouldn’t let me move.

  I was turning my head, trying to see everything at once, worried I wouldn’t be looking in the right direction when the pod materialised. Straining my eyes for a familiar tiny flicker in all this noise and movement.

  It wasn’t like that at all. I don’t know why I worried I would miss them. You would have had to have been dead to have missed them.

  From nowhere, there came a great rushing wind. A roaring wind that picked up thatch, wool, dust, splinters of wood, and left them all whirling in its wake. Something blurred past like an express train, destroying the wall opposite, bringing down the house behind it and the one behind that and so on, shattering everything in its path, right across the city. Like a runaway express train. New fires bloomed in its wake.

  Everyone else did the sensible thing. They screamed and ran away. Everyone ran. Crusaders, mercenaries, the local inhabitants. Rubble, timbers, thatch, stonework were all exploding into the air and, then, as is usual in the scheme of things, dropping heavily back to earth again.

  We did the unsensible thing. We ran towards. We followed the trail of destruction. We scrambled through unsafe buildings, clambered over smoking debris, fought our way through people so terrified that nothing we could do could possibly make things any worse. We followed – for want of a better expression – the skidmarks.

  I thought we’d find the pod at the end of the burning trail. Like a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. But there was nothing. No pod anywhere. But I couldn’t see any sort of crater either, so it hadn’t exploded on impact. It just wasn’t here.

  I stared around, bewildered. Pods are designed to put up with a lot. Fire, explosions, impact – they’re supposed to be almost indestructible. Dieter and I dropped one off a cliff once, and we survived. Professor Penrose and I found ourselves in a place so far away that time didn’t even exist, and apart from minor melting of the casing, we survived that as well. On the other hand, they’re not designed to be blasted out of existence at one end of the jump and crash land into an entire city at the other. Because no, it hadn’t exploded. Worse – it had disintegrated. It had just fallen apart. Now that my eyes were becoming accustomed, I could see a piece of the console. And a bent and twisted locker door. And over there was part of the toilet door hanging from a hinge.

  And there was the main part of the pod – what was left of it – lying on its side, half buried under a demolished building and with black smoke pouring from the remains of the console. But there was no fire.

  ‘Spread out,’ said Ellis. ‘Search pattern alpha. Activate your tag readers. One security team with one medical team. You all know what to do. Eyes open everyone.’

  At least we didn’t have to worry about the locals. They’d long since gone and even the Crusaders had sensibly decided this was a good time to rape and pillage somewhere else.

  I stayed with Ellis as the teams scattered, tag readers bleeping.

  They found Markham first.

  A shout went up and I could see a group of them bending over something I couldn’t see.

  I scrambled over ruined buildings and kicked aside burning timbers, hearing my own heart thump inside my head, terrified of what I might see.

  He lay, face down, half buried under a pile of rubble. Not moving. Broken and covered in blood. He was burned in places. He hadn’t been wearing armour and most of his clothing had been torn away. I could see white bone.

  A medical team shouldered everyone out of the way and began unpacking their kit. Their security people formed a protective ring around them.

  ‘How is he?’ I said, preparing myself for the worst.

  They were all too busy to talk.

  Ellis took my arm. ‘Let them do their job.’

  ‘But I don’t even know if he’s alive or dead.’

  ‘He’s alive.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘They’re working on him. They wouldn’t do that if he was dead. Come on. Three more to find.’

  He’d barely finished speaking when another shout went up.

  ‘Van Owen. Over here. I’ve found her.’

  I went to join the medics as they crowded around her, but at the same moment, another shout went up, indicating they’d found Guthrie.

  It wasn’t good.

  He was still in the remains of the pod. Unlike the others, he hadn’t been thrown clear. I didn’t see how he could possibly still be alive. He lay, impaled on a jagged piece of metal, the end of which was piercing his shoulder. His helmet had been torn off and his whole face was a mask of blood. I could only see one eye. Astoundingly, he was not only alive, he was conscious – or seemed to be. His eye was half open, although I don’t think he was seeing anything. He was in shock, shaking, white-faced, teeth clenched against the pain.

  There was something else. What was it? What wasn’t right? A silly voice in my head said, ‘What is wrong with this picture?’

  I couldn’t take it in. It just didn’t register. Guthrie was here. His leg was over there. How could that be? Why was his leg all the way over there? I could see it quite clearly. Quite intact. Boot, armour, all there, just a nasty ribbon of flesh and torn skin dangling from the end. For one stupid, stupid moment, I wondered if he had three legs. Had he brought a spare? And then, of course, I realised. He’d lost his leg. My dear friend Ian had lost his leg.

  I threw myself to the ground beside him, hardly aware of the pain in my knees.

  ‘Ian. Ian, it’s Max. We’re here. We’ve got you. Can you hear me?’

  His eye flickered towards me. He grunted, ‘Max,’ and then as if that had opened the floodgates of pain, he began to scream.

  I was shouldered aside by another medical team. Smoothly, they split themselves into two teams. One for Guthrie and one for his leg. Ellis yanked me to my feet and pulled me out of the way.

  I stood watching them work. Not daring to look around me. After seeing Guthrie and Markham, I had no hope left. How could Leon possibly be alive?

  ‘Guthrie’s still alive,’ said Ellis, reading my mind. ‘His armour and helmet went a long way towards protecting him. Markham survived and he wasn’t wearing any at all. Leon will have been protected too.’

  Protected against what? Against being blown up by a madman? Against being hurled through time and space in a disintegrating pod? Against crashing into half a city on landing? Against having his pod break up around him?

  ‘The other three are still alive,’ said Ellis softly. ‘He will be, too.’

  He might have been right, but we couldn’t find him.

  We walked a spiral pattern, covering every inch, everyone staring at the ground. No one spoke. I wondered if they were looking for body parts rather than an actual body. Ellis was consulting others, as they tried to get consistent readings from their instruments. And all the time the smoke billowed, hampering all our efforts, and the distant screaming
never went away.

  My fear was that Leon was completely buried and it would be beyond our resources to dig him out. That they would have to leave him. Of course they would. They’d want to get the other three back for life-saving treatment as soon as possible. Especially Guthrie. A limb is only viable for so long. Yes, they were searching for Leon – and very diligently too – but the time would come when a good commander – and Captain Ellis was a very good commander – would give the order to withdraw. I didn’t blame him. In his position I would probably do the same.

  Except that it was Leon and the chances of me going back with them and leaving him here were nil. They couldn’t force me to go. They couldn’t use Matthew against me and, let’s face it, most of them would probably be quite happy to leave me here for ever anyway.

  I climbed to the top of what might, two days ago, have been a public oven and looked around me. I could mark the pod’s progress by the deep, burning groove through shattered walls and houses. I could see where it had broken up, hurling out Markham, and Van Owen more or less in the same spot. I could see the Time Police, turning over rubble and timbers, kicking open sagging doors, sticking their heads through holes in walls, waving their tag readers around, all of them doing everything they possibly could, and still not finding Leon. Who could be trapped, dreadfully injured but still alive, as the flames drew ever closer to him. I saw pictures in my head. Leon burning to death. Bleeding to death. Stabbed to death. Trampled to death. Dying alone. He could be only yards away and I’d never know. He might actually be able to see me and couldn’t call out. He might be dying now and I’d never know.

  The sudden rush of panic made my head spin. I bent and put my hands on my knees, fighting off feelings of being trapped for ever in this bloody helmet.

  I had a sudden memory of Matthew’s dark head, bent over his box of new toys. Well, he wouldn’t miss me. He would probably settle at TPHQ very well. The place was full of men and they had the definitive Time Map. He’d like it there.