Date: 2014-11-13 05:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Time Travel; Fantasy; Science Fiction; Fiction; Historical Fiction; Short Stories; Christmas; Historical; Humor
Description: It's Christmas Eve at St Mary's And all through the house Nothing is stirring ... Except for Max, Peterson and Markham, sneaking out at midnight for an assignment that is very definitely off the books. It's ten years ago tonight that Senior Historians Bashford and Grey went missing in 12th century Jerusalem. So how did they end up in AD60 Roman Colchester? Max has a theory. Peterson has a plan. Markham has bacon sandwiches. Colchester has Boudicca and her bloodthirsty Iceni hordes. And then there's the giant pig ... the enraged, giant pig ...
Publisher: Accent Press
Rights: All rights reserved

Christmas Present

A Christmas short story from The
Chronicles of St Mary’s Series

Jodi Taylor

It’s Christmas Eve at St Mary’s,

And all through the house,

Nothing is stirring ...

Except for Max, Peterson, and Markham, sneaking out at midnight for an assignment that is very definitely off the books.

It’s ten years ago tonight that Senior Historians Bashford and Grey went missing in twelfth-century Jerusalem. So how did they end up in AD60 Roman Colchester?

Max has a theory. Peterson has a plan. Markham has bacon sandwiches. Colchester has Boudicca and her bloodthirsty Iceni hordes.

And then there’s the giant pig ... the enraged giant pig ...

I thought it was a dream. To this day, I’m not convinced it wasn’t. It felt like a dream. There was the same lack of reality. Although, at St Mary’s, a lack of reality doesn’t necessarily mean you’re dreaming. And since I wasn’t being chased by giant scissors through a world suddenly turned to custard, maybe it wasn’t a dream.

But it probably was.

I wouldn’t go so far as to describe Mrs Partridge as a nightmare – not if she was within earshot, anyway – but there she was, standing at the bottom of my bed, regarding me with that expressionless stare that never, ever, bodes well for me and I should know. I’ve been the recipient of that stare on many occasions.

We looked at each other for a while. She was wearing the full formal attire – Greek robes, silver diadem, sandals, and a stern expression. Only Kleio, Muse of History could brandish a scroll as if it was a heat-seeking missile.

I, on the other hand, was not only in my PJs, but further disadvantaged by the presence of a heavily slumbering Leon Farrell beside me. The only good thing about this situation was that she hadn’t turned up twenty minutes earlier. By unspoken but mutual consent, we ignored him.

I struggled to sit up. ‘Mrs Partridge?’

As if there could be any doubt, but it was the middle of the night on Christmas Eve. It was freezing cold – I could see frost on the window – and St Mary’s was officially on holiday.

We work for the St Mary’s Institute of Historical Research. We investigate major historical events in contemporary time. We do not call it time-travel. The Boss, Dr Bairstow, detests that phrase. ‘This is not Science Fiction, Dr Maxwell!’

I knew he was in Rushford tonight, dining with a bunch of civic dignitaries, and wouldn’t return until tomorrow, just in time to preside over Christmas lunch. If he wasn’t here and St Mary’s was on holiday, what could she possibly want? And how had she got in? Leon, wisely, always locked the door. I mentally kicked myself. She was Kleio, daughter of Zeus and immortal Muse of History. She could go anywhere she damned well pleased. And, apparently, she had.

She said, ‘Get up, please, Dr Maxwell. I’ll wait outside,’ and turned to go.

‘Wait! What’s happened? Is someone dead?’

But she’d gone.

I grabbed my dressing gown.

She was waiting for me on the dark landing. ‘Please, come with me.’ She took my hand.

‘No. Wait. What’s going on?’

Too late. She never likes to spoil the surprise with anything as mundane as an explanation. The ground disappeared beneath my feet and we whirled away into the air, as directionless and weightless as two tiny snowflakes in a blizzard. We landed, light as thistledown in her case, and like a small sack of coal in mine.

I picked myself up, dusted myself off, and started all over again.

‘Mrs Partridge, please, just tell me. What’s this all about?’

She gestured ahead of us. We were in Hawking Hangar. But not the Hawking I knew. This one looked really rough. Primitive, even. For a start, the lighting was terrible. Eye-wateringly bright in some areas, but dangerously dim in others. A bit like our Technical Section, actually. The central area was taken up with long metal benches, smothered in tools, cables, and equipment. The floor and walls were of rough concrete and the whole place echoed like a cathedral. Huge, rubber-sheathed cables trailed across the floor; not tidily bundled against the walls as they should be, but snaking around the place in giant loops, seeking to trip the unwary.

Busy techies were moving around us, obviously completely unaware of our presence. Nobody actually walked through us though, which was a shame, because I would have liked to see how my dream coped with that.

Pods stood on plinths, ready to jump back to their allocated time, but instead of each plinth having its own set of controls built in, techies were trundling around a giant contraption of flashing lights, dials, levers, read-outs, and electronic beeping. Huge umbilicals sprouted from every orifice. They heaved it to plinth four – it took three of them – and started plugging things in. They all wore thick insulating gloves. They even wore protective goggles. For an organisation that tends to regard health and safety in the workplace as something that happens to someone else, this was a little worrying. It all looked very Heath Robinson to me. As if something new was being born and everyone was making it all up as they went along. A crisis would occur and someone would bolt on another piece of equipment, which would do until the next time something else went horribly wrong, and they had to come up with another solution.

Looking at the faces around, I hardly recognised anyone until Dieter drifted past, wearing a stained orange jumpsuit and looking as if he’d just escaped from college – which actually turned out to be the case. He was pounding his scratchpad and calling the results to someone inside Number Four. A disembodied but familiar voice replied and two seconds later, a very young looking Leon Farrell stuck his head out of the door, requesting clarification.

Yes, this was Hawking, but not as I knew it.

I looked around for a convenient calendar. Given the technical and mechanical nature of the place, the picture on the wall should be of some semi-naked nymph, sprawled elegantly across a high-end sports car, while a significant portion of her anatomy defied gravity. Since this was St Mary’s, a fluffy kitten and a fluffy duckling sat side by side above a date showing Christmas Eve. Ten years ago.

‘Oh no,’ I said to Mrs Partridge. ‘No, no, no. I am not doing the “Ghost of Christmas Past” thing.’

She sighed. ‘This is not about you, Dr Maxwell. Please concentrate.’

‘You promise?’

‘Please observe closely.’

Three figures approached Number Four. Two, I didn’t know at all, but I certainly recognised the third one. Major Ian Guthrie, head of our Security section.

Beside me, Mrs Partridge said, ‘May I introduce two of St Mary’s Senior Historians. Mr Bashford and Miss Grey.’

I knew those names. I’d seen them up on our Board of Honour in the chapel, recording the names of those who didn’t come back. Those who died in the service of St Mary’s.

It was before my time, but in the early days of St Mary’s, Bashford and Grey set out for twelfth-century Jerusalem and never came back. Search parties failed to find any trace of them. They were killed by Clive Ronan, a renegade historian from the future. Killed for their pod, Number Four. We got it back, eventually, but Grey and Bashford were never found.

‘Major Guthrie, of course, you know.’

Well, I did, obviously, and he hadn’t changed that much over the last ten years. Except that, at second glance, he had. I don’t know how to put this, but sometimes, you don’t know how unhappy someone is until you see them before the unhappiness. Before grief etches deep lines on their face and dulls the light in their eyes. He walked beside Miss Grey, looking down at her as she lifted her face to him, smiling. I never thought I’d say this, and certainly not about quiet, self-contained Ian Guthrie, but his very soul was in his eyes as he looked at her.

A half-forgotten memory flashed into my head. A naked Professor Rapson yodelling to himself on the top shelves of the archive. Dr Foster draped all over Peterson telling him how much she loved him, and Ian Guthrie slumped against a wall, staring at something only he could see and whispering, ‘Elspeth, I looked for you. I looked everywhere for you.’

I had wondered at the time who he was talking to. And yes, before anyone asks, they were all as high as kites on homemade hallucinogenic toxic honey. Long story. This must be that Elspeth Grey.

They paused outside Number Four. Bashford shook his head, laughed at them both, and disappeared inside with Chief Farrell.

Guthrie and Grey exchanged a few words. She was dressed for the twelfth century in a long tunic of blue. Her hair was covered, but her eyebrows were fair. She looked up at Guthrie with large, dark, serious eyes. He said something. She laughed. They paused and then formally shook hands, as Leon and I did when we had to say goodbye in front of other people. A private moment in a public place. Guthrie retired back behind the safety line. She entered the pod. Leon came out and the door closed behind him. Thirty seconds later, they were gone. Gone forever, because they never came back. St Mary’s searched for them because we don’t leave our people behind. But they were never found.

Mrs Partridge turned to me.

‘Well, Dr Maxwell, what have we just seen?’

Obediently, I responded. ‘We have just seen Bashford and Grey depart on their last assignment. Twelfth-century Jerusalem. At some point, that bastard Clive Ronan will ambush them. He will kill them and steal their pod.’

I stopped and waited. What did she want from me? It had already happened. I couldn’t prevent it. Ronan stole Number Four and there was nothing anyone could do about it. She said nothing because I always have to work things out for myself. Seriously, would it have killed her to type up a briefing sheet every now and then?

I made myself think. All right, so not the pod. It would be stolen and it would be a long time before we saw it again, so it had to be the people. Bashford and Grey. I experienced the legendary Maxwell Leap of Revelation and nearly fell over a coil of cable at my feet.

‘The historians!’

‘Yes?’

Having made this promising beginning, I fell silent. She surely didn’t want me to prevent the jump. I wouldn’t do that. Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t. It had already happened.

‘I couldn’t prevent them leaving.’

‘Of course not.’

I racked my brains. For God’s sake – what did she expect from me? It was the middle of the night. I’d been dragged from my bed and dumped, in a dream, in the middle of Hawking ten years ago and – And we were gone.

There was no gentle fading away. I blinked and found myself on the gallery, looking down into the Great Hall. I knew where we were now. And when. This was tomorrow. This was Christmas Present.

All our historian gear had been stored away. A slightly wonky Christmas tree stood by the stairs, tastelessly festooned with tinsel, lights, and ornaments of every shape and colour. There was no fashionable colour scheme. Every shade of the rainbow was more than represented. At the top, a lopsided star clung on for dear life.

As in the style of a medieval banquet, a long table ran down the middle of the room. This was rather more democratic, however. We’re St Mary’s. We’re all below the salt.

The noise levels were tremendous. Lunch had finished and crackers were being pulled. Such is the standard of sophisticated humour at St Mary’s, that the jokes inside were considered hilarious. Copious amounts of alcohol had obviously been consumed.

I leaned on the balustrade and looked down.

I saw Kalinda Black, temporarily returned from extorting money from the University of Thirsk, our hapless employers. She was laughing with Dieter and Polly Perkins from IT. Professor Rapson and Dr Dowson were arguing amiably. Dr Bairstow sat at the head of the table, benign and dormant – like a volcano taking the afternoon off.

Someone was missing. Someone’s seat was empty. My finely honed historian senses told me something was wrong.

I turned suddenly to Mrs Partridge – who wasn’t there. And neither was I.

I was alone in a dark room. The curtains were pulled across the windows. A man sat, perfectly still, his sightless eyes staring at a muted TV screen. Light flickered across his face. The empty pill bottle stood at his elbow.

For Ian Guthrie, there would be no Christmas Future.

I heard my hiss of indrawn breath. Heard the blood pound in my temples. Felt the room sway around me. I stood still for a long time. Until I was sure I wasn’t going to faint. My brain searched frantically for a reasonable explanation. A way to make sense of what I was seeing. The hope that I would open my eyes to find I’d made a terrible mistake. That it was some trick of the light. That it was a dream. Please, please, if there really is a merciful god somewhere, let this be a dream.

Ten years. Tonight was the ten-year anniversary of her death and I hadn’t known. I’d never even had a clue. Had anyone else known? He was such a very private man. I thought of all his grief, building over the years, with nowhere to go, until suddenly … I’ve grieved for someone. I know what it’s like. And he’d been grieving for years. And we hadn’t known …

‘Ian? No. No, no, no.’

It came out as a dreadful, rasping whisper that hurt my throat, although no pain could be greater than the one in my heart.

I shouted. I tried to shake him. I don’t know why. I tried to get the door open to call for help and found I could do none of these things. I was suffocating under that helpless feeling you have in dreams when something dreadful is happening and you can’t move, can’t speak, can’t struggle, can’t do anything … Oh God, let this be a dream …

I awoke with a jerk. Beside me, Leon muttered and turned over. I lay rigidly still for a moment, waiting for my heart rate to return to normal, while images I could well do without kaleidoscoped through my head.

I closed my eyes and had a bit of a think. I knew what I wanted to do. I knew what I had to do. What I must do. But first things first. I had to find someone to watch over Guthrie. Someone who would stay with him, no matter what. Someone not easily intimidated. Someone who wouldn’t gossip. Someone I could trust.

I sat up and sacrificed Leon without hesitation.

‘Wake up!’

‘No more,’ he said, without opening his eyes. ‘I’ve told you before, your demands are beyond the limit of human endurance, and I need my sleep.’

‘You should be so lucky. Wake up.’

He sighed. ‘What do you want?’

What did I say to him? Leon, I’ve had this weird dream which might not have been a dream at all actually, and Ian Guthrie is going to kill himself tonight, and I need you to keep an eye on him while I – while I what? What was I going to do? I’d come back to that.

‘Leon, listen. I don’t have time to explain now, but I will. You know I will.’

He sat up, rubbed his hair, and said nothing.

‘I need you to do something really, really important.’

He didn’t ask what was going on, or demand an explanation, or ask me what the hell I thought I was doing, and I remembered again just why he was so special.

‘What do you want me to do?’

‘I need you to stay with Ian Guthrie. All night if necessary. At least until I get back.’

I waited for him to ask me where I was going at his time of night, and he didn’t.

‘Why?’

I was confused because he’d asked the wrong question. ‘Why what?’

‘Why must I wake Ian Guthrie, who is almost certainly asleep by now, and stay with him all night at least until you get back?’

A reasonable question.

‘That’s a very reasonable question.’

‘And I can’t wait to hear the very reasonable answer.’

‘There isn’t one.’

‘That figures.’

He folded his arms and waited. I had to tell him something.

‘Leon. It’s ten years tonight. She’s been gone for ten years. I think he needs a friend.’

I watched his expressions. Perplexity. Realisation. Shock. Guilt. Urgency. He swung his legs out of bed and reached for his clothes.

‘How do you know this?’

I avoided the direct question. ‘It’s ten years tonight, Leon. He shouldn’t be alone.’

‘And if he’s sleeping quietly in his bed? Which he probably is. I’m to wake him and spend the night with him? Have you any idea what he will be thinking?’

‘No,’ I said, innocently. ‘What will he be thinking?’

He paused from dragging on his jeans. ‘We will be discussing this more fully tomorrow.’

I blew him a kiss as he left the room and looked for my own clothes.

I crept downstairs to the kitchen where I made myself a mug of tea and headed for the silent library for more thinking. The whole building was quiet, but there were a few people still around. Markham, doing a security sweep, came upon me at a data table.

‘You too?’ he said.

I blinked at him over my data stack. ‘Me too what?’

I’m really not good at anything until I’ve had at least two mugs of tea.

‘Peterson. Prowling the gallery. Says he can’t sleep.’

‘Really? Well, if you see him on your sweep, tell him to get me a bacon sarnie.’

‘Oh, I’m not working.’

‘It’s the middle of the night, for crying out loud. Why are you wandering the corridors?’

He grinned at me. Short, disreputable, and indestructible.

‘I’m waiting for Hunter. She’s off duty now and I thought we could …’ he trailed off and beamed at me.

I told him I couldn’t understand why he hadn’t gone blind.

‘Me neither,’ he said, sunnily. ‘But I do eat a lot of carrots. Do you think that helps?’

‘I thought I heard voices,’ said Peterson, appearing in the doorway. ‘At this hour I can only assume the two of you are up to no good. Whatever it is, I want to be included.’

‘I’m having a bad night,’ I said, and that was true enough. Historians have more than their fair share of nightmares. ‘And Mr Markham is apparently roaming the building on the off-chance of a little casual sex.’

‘There’s nothing casual about the way I do sex,’ he said, offended. ‘I have – what’s that word? Begins with testi – testi something?’

‘Dear God, please tell me you don’t mean testicles?’

‘No! Well, yes, obviously, but I meant the other things.’

My mind boggled. What other things?

‘Testimonials,’ said Peterson, enlightened.

‘I’d like to see those sometime. The testimonials, I mean,’ I said, as they both opened their mouths. ‘Will you two clean up your act, please?’

Silence fell. The building creaked around us. I played with my empty mug.

‘Tell me,’ I said to Markham. ‘How long have you worked here?’

‘At St Mary’s? About ten years now. Just over.’

‘You knew Elspeth Grey, then?’

There was a long pause.

‘A little.’

Tim was rotating my data stack. ‘What are you doing?’

More silence.

‘Max?’

‘OK,’ I said. ‘Cards on the table. I’ve pulled the records from Number Four. The one that was stolen. I’ve had an idea. I thought maybe I could –’ I stopped.

‘What?’ said Tim? ‘What did you think you could do?’

‘I thought I could find Grey’s jump to twelfth-century Jerusalem and maybe – I don’t know.’

‘We searched for ages afterwards,’ said Markham quietly. ‘Months. We never found either of them. Not the slightest trace. We took tag readers and combed the city. There was nothing.’

Interesting. Even if they were dead, they should have found the tags.

‘Maybe,’ I said slowly, testing my idea as I went along, ‘maybe that’s because they weren’t there at all. I was just thinking. Maybe they were seized along with the pod and instead of killing them there and then, that bastard Ronan jumped again – to somewhere else – and just pitched them out. That’s just the sort of thing that would appeal to him. He tried it with me, once. Suppose he took a couple of historians who were geared up for the Crusades and dropped them in, say, a prehistoric Russian winter, or right slap bang in the middle of something nasty, such as Paris during the St Bartholomew’s Day massacre.’

‘Yes, but how would we ever know?’ asked Markham.

‘We wouldn’t,’ I said. ‘But the pod might.’

‘That’s what you’re looking at, isn’t it?’ said Tim, stirring the data again.

I nodded. ‘This is the jump history from Number Four. There are two sets of coordinates for each jump. In and then out again. If I can find the jump after Jerusalem – that just might be where Ronan abandoned them. If that’s what happened then I think … I think I might be able to find them.

‘You keep saying “I”’, said Peterson. ‘Is this off the books?’

‘Yes, I think so.’

‘Why? Why not go to Dr Bairstow with this? He surely wouldn’t refuse to try.’

I hesitated, remembering my dream. ‘Dr Bairstow’s not here.’

‘Well, that doesn’t matter. He’s back for Christmas lunch tomorrow. Speak to him then.’

Now what did I say? Ian Guthrie was an old and valued friend who had saved my life on more than one occasion. I wasn’t going to give him away if I could help it. He deserved my loyalty.

I know it’s hard to believe, but here at St Mary’s, we do undergo regular psychological monitoring. I believe Dr Bairstow once discussed taking on an additional member of the medical team for very that purpose, until Dr Foster told him there weren’t enough mental health professionals in the entire world to sort out the staff at St Mary’s, and the plan came to nothing. While I’m prepared to concede the possibility that there might, occasionally, be outbursts of slightly odd behaviour that might lead the uninitiated to believe there’s something seriously the matter with most of us, there was no way someone in Ian Guthrie’s position could afford even the slightest hint that all might not be well. He was Head of Security – the rock on which we all leaned. I owed it to him to make every effort to safeguard his reputation. And if we could find them and bring them back safely, then no one would ever have to know how close he came.

I said, awkwardly, ‘I don’t want to raise hopes I might not be able to fulfil.’

‘Sorry, I’m not with you.’

I looked at Markham, who said nothing. If he’d been here ten years then he wasn’t as young as he looked. And I knew he wasn’t as scatter-brained as he would have everyone believe. And he obviously wasn’t going to gossip about his boss, Ian Guthrie. I saw again that face in the flickering light of the TV and felt again the icy hand that stopped my heart. I said carefully, ‘I have some concerns.’

I waited, but Markham still said nothing.

Peterson looked from one to the other of us. ‘What don’t I know?’

Markham wouldn’t say it.

‘It was before our time, Tim, but Guthrie and Grey were …’ I hesitated.

‘He never saw anyone else if she was in the room,’ said Markham, quietly, and I’m not sure who he was talking to. ‘They didn’t make a big thing of it, but it was special. And then, that Christmas, she didn’t come back. He nearly drove himself into the ground. He barely spoke. He barely ate. He would have gone on every search party if he could. We searched and searched but the day came when the Boss had to call a halt.’ He sighed. ‘I suppose we all thought the Major had finally accepted she’d gone. He never said anything. Not to anyone. Not even to Chief Farrell. He was just as he was before and I suppose, after a while, people just forgot that they’d been …’

‘It’s ten years tonight,’ I said. And there would be that empty chair at the Christmas lunch tomorrow.

Unless …

More silence.

‘So that’s the three of us then,’ said Markham, briskly. ‘Are we going to steal Chief Farrell’s pod and get ourselves into trouble again?’

‘I certainly hope so,’ said Peterson. ‘Max, you and I will do the coordinates. Mr Markham – you’re in charge of refreshments.’

I hesitated.

‘What’s the matter?’ said Peterson. ‘You’re not thinking of going without us, are you?’

‘This is more than off the books, guys. If this goes wrong there will be hell to pay.’

Peterson shook his head. ‘There isn’t anyone at St Mary’s who doesn’t owe Major Guthrie in one form or another. I know I do. Count me in.’

‘And me,’ said Markham.

I smiled sadly. ‘Guys, even if it all goes right, Dr Bairstow will still come down on me like a ton of bricks. You should be aware.’

‘We’ll wear hard hats,’ said Peterson.

‘Yes,’ said Markham, cheerfully. ‘I’ve still got mine.’

‘What?’ said Peterson. ‘Why have you … oh, never mind.’

The task went much more quickly with two of us and we found the twelfth-century coordinates easily enough. The computer identified the next set as AD60. Camulodunum. Roman Colchester.

‘Bastard,’ said Peterson, softly.

Markham swallowed the last of his bacon roll. ‘Why?’

‘Boudicca’s revolt,’ I said. ‘She levelled the town and slaughtered the inhabitants. Hardly anyone got out alive. He dropped them in the middle of a massacre.’

‘OK,’ said Peterson. ‘This needs careful planning. ‘We’ll need to go in early, so we’re already in place when Ronan turns up. Number Four will appear. The door will open. He’ll throw them out. If they’re still alive.’

‘They’ll be alive,’ said Markham. ‘No point chucking them out dead. They might not be in good condition, but they’ll be alive.’

‘True,’ said Peterson. ‘This all works in our favour. He won’t want to hang around with anything up to a hundred thousand enraged Britons bearing down on him, so he’ll push them out and jump away as quickly as possible. We grab them and get out ourselves.’

I didn’t say anything, but our window of opportunity would be tiny. We had a lot to do and not much time to do it in. Two historians to rescue from a vengeful Clive Ronan on one side, and Boudicca and her hordes to avoid on the other.

‘Are we taking him with us?’

I came back to earth with a jolt. ‘Who?’

‘Guthrie.’

Peterson looked at me. ‘Are we?’

It was tempting. What a Christmas present that would be for him. But no. I shook my head. ‘If we get it wrong and he sees her die … or if she’s already dead … We’ve no idea how this will pan out. We don’t want to make things any worse for him.’

Markham nodded. ‘All right. Can we go now?’

‘A quick stop for some gear first,’ said Peterson, getting up. ‘Why, what’s the rush?’

‘He’s meeting Nurse Hunter later on,’ I said. ‘He’s under the impression this will be a treat for the poor girl.’

‘Hey,’ he said, wounded. ‘It was her idea. She sent me a note telling me what she has planned. Incidentally, do you know where I can get a tin of Swarfega and a wetsuit?’

I sent them on ahead to gather what was needed, while I scribbled a few words for Leon. I folded the paper, and shoved it in his pigeonhole. Just in case …

I met Peterson and Markham outside Hawking. They had a flatbed loaded with equipment. We checked no one was around and let ourselves into the paint store where Leon kept his pod. We made our way to the back corner. I called for the door, and we entered Leon’s pod. Here was the familiar smell of hot electrics, damp carpet, an overworked toilet, stale people, and cabbage. Our pod smell.

Pods are small, flat-roofed, apparently stone-built shacks in which we jump to whichever time period we’ve been assigned. We live and work in them. They’re cramped, squalid, and thanks to the heroic efforts of the Technical section, they never, ever let us down. There’s no need to tell them I said that. The official attitude of the Technical section is that the pods function despite the heroic efforts of historians. Leon and I have passed many a happy hour shamelessly slandering each other’s departments.

We unloaded our gear. We weren’t even considering trying to blend in with the local population. There was absolutely no point in looking wonderfully authentic if we were sprawled in a Colchester gutter with our throats cut. Or worse. So Markham had liberated body armour and helmets, and three big blasters. We couldn’t shoot anyone, but we could put the blasters on a low charge and lightly singe everyone within range. And let’s face it, no one was going to notice a few extra burns in a city already in flames. As a concession to historical accuracy, however, and to keep me quiet, Peterson had acquired three dark grey woollen cloaks in which we could envelop our anomalous selves.

‘Right,’ I said. ‘We’re on the clock from this moment.’ By which I meant that time was ticking inexorably closer to the moment when Ian decided nothing was worth it any longer. Suppose we rescued the love of his life and returned to St Mary’s to find Guthrie already dead? How much of a tragedy would that be?

I crossed my fingers for Leon.

‘We jump now. Tim, lay in the coordinates. We’ll change and discuss tactics once we’re on site.’

‘Understood,’ he said calmly and two minutes later, we were ready to go.

The world went white.

I have no idea what time of day it was. This was England. Heavy grey clouds obscured the sun. It could have been any time from nine in the morning to nine at night. On this jump, however, the time and the weather would be the least of our problems. For safety’s sake, we usually land in a quiet back alley somewhere. In fact, should you ever find yourself in a quiet back alley somewhere, it’s well worth checking around. There’s bound to be a pod and two bickering historians nearby. Wave, if you like.

In this case, however, we’d landed at the far edge of a large, wide-open space, the centre of which was occupied by a huge building with an imposing portico. I knew where we were. If I was right, then that was the Temple of Claudius and, with our usual luck, we’d landed right where the battle would be fiercest.

Having said that, the place was deserted. Tim angled the cameras, and apart from a small group of men standing on the Temple steps, there was no one around.

‘Odd,’ said Tim.

‘Perhaps the Brits have been and gone,’ said Markham, hopefully.

I looked at Tim, who made a ‘you tell him’ gesture.

So I told him.

‘This is Roman Colchester. Camulodunum. AD60.’

‘Yes?’

‘This is a Roman town, inhabited mainly by army veterans and their families. It’s unfortified because apparently, they thought they wouldn’t need walls. So at the moment, the only thing encircling the town is about a hundred thousand enraged Iceni and Trinovantes tribesmen for whom Camulodunum encapsulates everything they’ve come to hate. Such is their loathing for everything Roman that Boudicca’s army consists of not only every warrior she could lay her hands on, but women and children as well. I wouldn’t be surprised if they’ve even brought their chickens along to fight. If they’d been and gone, there would be no town left. Trust me.’

Markham nodded and then got his own back. ‘In that case, just a small correction to the original plan. We form a two-man snatch squad and one of us – Max – will stay with the pod to provide cover and get the door open.

‘No,’ he said, as I opened my mouth. ‘Peterson will back me up on this. We’ll need you – on the roof, probably – to give us an overview. We’re either going to be up to our necks in hysterically fleeing citizens or invading hordes of madmen and their chickens. Either way, we’re going to need someone up high, to provide covering fire, tell us what’s going on, and open the door for us. You don’t need me to tell you that the few seconds it takes to get the door open could make all the difference. And if you don’t like it then you shouldn’t have brought me along.’

There was a small silence. Peterson was suddenly very busy doing something to the console and no help at all.

I swallowed. ‘OK.’

We geared up and then turned our attention to what was going on outside.

‘What’s that big thing over there?’ said Markham, pointing to the screen and displaying the Security section’s typical attitude towards the wonders of the past.

‘That’s the Temple of Claudius. Built with local forced labour. Symbol of everything they resent. The inhabitants thought they would be safe inside, but with hindsight, it’s not the best place for them to take refuge.’

Which was true, but they didn’t have a lot of choice. It was easily the biggest and most substantial building around, set high above the ground with flights of steps leading to a magnificent portico. And yes, it would be successfully defended for two days, which was probably just long enough to give those cowering inside the hope that they might be rescued after all. Except that the legions would never come …

‘How long before Ronan and Number Four turn up?’ I said to Peterson.

‘About fifteen minutes, I think.’

‘Let’s get onto the roof. See what we’re dealing with.’

We scrambled up on top of the pod and stared around us.

The two parts of the city were clearly delineated. It’s hard to tart-up thatched wattle and daub roundhouses, so the British part of the city was basically mud-coloured – with accents of mud thrown in.

The Romans, whether deliberately or not, had brought the colours and shapes of their homeland with them. Bath-houses, public buildings, temples, all were rectangular in shape, with terracotta roof tiles and whitewashed walls. Sadly, of course, this was Britain, so these white walls were generously splashed with mud rather than sunshine. I know the grey day was sucking the colour out of everything, but the overall effect was dingy and dull. Still, give it an hour or so and we’d have lovely yellow and orange flames leaping merrily from one building to another, interspersed with those always cheerful puddles of red blood.

From the accounts I’d read, I’d always assumed that the Iceni swooped down on a comparatively unaware Colchester, slaughtering everything in their path, but looking around us now, I could see some defensive measures had been implemented. Of course they had. This was Colonia Victricensis, whose inhabitants were mainly army veterans and their families. Of course they would fight. Houses were bolted and barred. Barricades and other obstacles had been erected across the streets to hamper the Iceni chariots. Those who hadn’t fled were taking refuge in the Temple.

More men hurried across the square. None of them was young. In fact, the youngest of them was middle-aged. Some were missing limbs or eyes. They were all grizzled and scarred. These were the Roman ex-legionaries and they were preparing to do what they did best. They all carried weapons of some kind. Some had obviously kept their short stabbing swords from their army days. Some had spears. Some had axes. Those who had no military gear had armed themselves with pitchforks or even heavy cudgels with vicious-looking nails protruding.

I turned my attention away from the Temple. Who would turn up first? Ronan or Boudicca? Would he literally throw them into the path of the oncoming army? To be trampled to death? Or worse? Or did he intend to drop them an hour or so beforehand? It would amuse him to have a pair of obvious foreigners – spies, possibly – running around Colchester, and in as much danger from the Romans as the Iceni. Yes, that would appeal to Clive Ronan. And that, of course, was the weakness in his plan. If you want someone dead then do it. I keep saying this. Don’t gloat – just shoot.

I said to Peterson, ‘How much longer?’

‘Now. It should be any moment now.’

‘Then go. Good luck to both of you.’

‘And you too, Max. Stay safe.’

They jumped down.

I lay on the flat roof and kept watch.

A broad avenue led to the Temple. At a mid-point between the gates and the Temple itself, it split around some kind of ornate, four-sided public fountain that gave the illusion of cover, and there they crouched, waiting.

I checked again that my blaster was on its lowest setting and on wide beam.

The city was silent and for the first time, I became aware of a sound: the non-stop roar of Boudicca’s army as they approached the city. Occasionally, the noise would swell to a terrifying crescendo as a thousand drums rolled and a hundred thousand voices called on their gods for revenge against the hated Romans.

I felt the hairs on my head lift. The veneer of civilisation is very thin. Deep inside all of us, the old instincts are still there. The instinct of the small, furry mammal when confronted with an enemy a hundred times larger is to flee. Flee for your life. Flee blindly, without thought, without plan – just get away. As far and as fast as possible.

Then the next instinct kicks in. The one that gives the small furry mammal the courage to turn at bay, bare its teeth, and fight. In defence of it young, its mate, its burrow. That was what we were watching now.

The men on the Temple steps were forming themselves into ranks. A stout, middle-aged man wearing a brown tunic and heavy boots pushed his way through them and turned to address his men.

Discipline dies hard. They fell silent. Other than the now very audible roar of the invaders, there was no sound.

His voice, battle-honed, echoed around the Temple precinct, bouncing off the walls of nearby buildings.

‘Men of Rome. We are soldiers of the empire. We are the greatest soldiers in the world. From the Rhine to the Nile, there is no force that can withstand the might of Rome. The legions will come. Quintus Petillius Cerialis and the IX Hispania will come. Our task today is to hold the Temple of the Divine Claudius until they do. We will defend the Temple. We will defend our families. We will hold. We will hold for Rome!’

A roar went up from the assembled ranks. Weapons were brandished.

‘Rome! Rome!’

For a moment, the sounds of invasion were lost under the thunder. ‘Rome! Rome!’ Those who had shields clashed their weapons against them. For a moment, even I believed they would hold the Temple against overwhelming odds.

And then, as if in response, away, in the distance, primitive horns sounded. Drums rolled. There was a moment’s complete silence. Here in the Temple precinct, all movement stopped. The world waited.

And then, a huge, ear-splitting roar. With a hundred thousand voices screaming their hatred, the British army began to move.

We could hear it. We could feel it under our feet.

How long did we have? And where was bloody Clive Ronan?

At the Temple, the big wooden doors slammed shut with a boom that echoed around the square. Outside, the veterans closed ranks and raised their weapons. The Temple would be defended at all costs.

Away in the distance, I could see a red glow. The Iceni had reached the outskirts.

The chariots would sweep through the city, clearing the way, bringing down everyone in their path and the foot soldiers would follow on behind, mopping up and torching everything in sight. Everything and everyone would be slaughtered. There are people who use the word ‘massacre’ lightly, with no idea of its true meaning. They should have been in Colchester on that day.

Already, we could hear the far-off clatter of hooves on paved streets. The thunder of chariot wheels. The shouts of the warriors.

The glow of burning buildings grew brighter. I could smell smoke. Ash drifted on the wind. There were some public buildings made of stone – the Temple, for instance – but the majority were made of wood and with thatched roofs. They burned like torches.

Here in the Temple precinct, good order prevailed. The veterans stood in disciplined ranks, each one ready to do his duty.

Still no Clive Ronan. No Number Four. Why weren’t they here? Had I got it wrong? Had I placed us in harm’s way for nothing? Had it really been just a dream? I don’t mind saying that those few minutes on the pod roof, looking down on a horribly exposed Peterson and Markham and waiting for something that I was becoming increasingly convinced might not happen, are not anything I ever want to do again.

I kept flicking my eyes from the fountain, to the grid pattern of streets around us, to the pathetically small army defending the Temple of Claudius, and back to the fountain again. I assumed the chariots would forge ahead into the square, desperate to get to this symbol of their oppressors. They would burst into view at any moment, and once they turned up, I would pull us out. I would have no choice, even if Number Four hadn’t appeared. That moment hadn’t yet arrived, but I could prepare.

I said, ‘Peterson, Markham – when I say – on my mark – you retreat back to the pod. That is an order. Understood?’

Silence.

‘Understood?’

‘Yes,’ said Peterson. No more – no less.

We waited.

Where the bloody hell was Number Four and Elspeth Grey?

The veterans stood still, solid and silent. They were waiting, too.

Peterson and Markham crouched, back to back in the shelter of the fountain.

I lay on the roof, wearing my eyes out watching for Number Four. I was as highly strung as a violin on steroids – which would be a cello, I suppose. We were all set to go. The second Ronan touched down, we would be on standby. They second the door opened, we would be ready, and the second he jumped away, we would move.

The clamour of Boudicca’s approaching army drew ever closer. The wind got up. Smoke mingled with the grey clouds, darkening the day even further. More ash blew across the square. I could smell burning wood. I even thought I could make out individual voices and the rhythm of marching feet, although that was unlikely. They weren’t that close. Yet.

Still no sign of Ronan. I prepared to jump down and get the two of them back in to safety.

Just as I bunched my muscles, everything happened all at once.

Not twenty yards away from me, a small, battered stone hut blinked into existence. My heart soared with relief. There they were! I’d been right. We’d found them. Now all we had to do was get them back.

I flattened myself on the roof. Peterson and Markham, who had been waiting for this moment, tensed themselves to move quickly.

At the far end of the square, some half dozen war chariots burst into view and headed towards to Temple, where they circled, out of reach of Roman weapons, hurling taunts and challenges in their own tongue.

Shit!

Time to move.

The veterans clashed their weapons, stamped their feet, and bellowed, ‘Rome! Rome!’

I said, ‘Run for the pod, guys. I’ll get them.’

It was the right thing to do. The pod had landed much nearer to me than to them. I could get there more quickly and without exposing myself to Boudicca’s advance guard.

The pod door opened and someone was slung out with enough force to roll them across the paving stones, where they lay horribly still.

A second later, two struggling figures appeared in the doorway. It was Grey and she was battling with someone who might or might not have been Clive Ronan. I couldn’t tell.

I wanted to shout to her. To tell her to stop. Rescue was at hand. Not to risk herself or Bashford, but I couldn’t. If he knew we were here, he’d shoot them both stone dead and try for us as well. I really didn’t know what to do, but Boudicca solved that little problem for me, because at that moment, another three or four chariots appeared from a different direction, also racing towards the Temple.

Grey was knocked to the ground. The door closed. The pod blinked out of existence.

‘Now! Move! Now!’

I’d love to say that we moved with all the coordinated precision of a well-trained professional unit but that did not happen. In any way. The whole thing was just … typical.

I shouted and my voice was lost in the noise of the circling chariots and the taunts of the British. Grey and Bashford couldn’t hear me. They did what historians are trained to do. Having no idea where or when they were, they sought shelter. She heaved Bashford to his feet and the two of them pelted across the square. In the wrong bloody direction.

I had a split second to make a decision, but it was no decision, really. We’d come here to rescue them. There was no point going back without them. The only thing that just might save me from the certain and terrible wrath of Dr Bairstow was the production of Bashford and Grey. Preferably alive.

I scrambled down off the roof, landed awkwardly, and twisted my ankle. It wasn’t serious, but I had to wait for the initial pain to subside before I could get after them.

Markham, seeing me sprawled on the paving stones, leaped to his feet, slipped in the very substantial evidence that a number of excited horses had passed this way quite recently and crashed to the ground. Peterson fell over him.

I cursed, offered up a prayer to the god of historians, who, on the evidence so far, must be off on a comfort break, heaved myself up and chased after our two fleeing historians.

Markham and Peterson set off after me.

I shouted at Bashford and Grey to wait.

Markham and Peterson shouted at me to wait.

Seriously, I swear trained chimps could do the job better than us.

The only thing that prevented the whole thing skidding along the famous St Mary’s catastrophe-curve and crashing straight into full-blown disaster was that there was nowhere for them to go. I’ve said before that Colchester was not unprepared and barricades had been set up at every corner. They ran straight into a blocked street.

They skidded to a halt, as did we, chests heaving.

I said, breathlessly, ‘Hey!’

Bashford span around, his face covered in blood, and lashed out. If he’d connected then I’d have been on my back in the mud. And not for the first time. Typical bloody historians – you risk your life and career to save them and they respond by trying to punch your lights out.

I dragged up my visor and shouted, ‘It’s me. The rescue party.’

He responded by having another pop at me. He was way off target because, I realised belatedly, he couldn’t see for the blood running down into his eyes. He wouldn’t have a clue who I was.

‘St Mary’s,’ I shouted, frantically dodging. ‘Guthrie sent us.’

Grey seized his arm. ‘Tom. Wait. Stop. We’re OK. It’s St Mary’s.’

He stopped swinging wildly.

She turned to me. ‘Is he here? Is Guthrie here?’

Markham, experienced in the ways of historians and their ability to stand chatting as a tsunami of disaster threatens to crash down upon them, strode forward. ‘No time to talk. We need to get out of here. Peterson, you take the lead. Max, Grey, and Bashford in the middle. I’ll bring up the rear. The longer we stay, the less likely we are to get away. Move. Now.’

We headed back towards the pod and I began to think we might make it after all.

Wrong.

Again.

In any major disturbance, you will always find those who try to take advantage of the situation. A bit of freelance looting here – a bit of casual pillaging there. They’re usually not bright, and just to prove my point, when everyone with more than one brain cell had either fled Colchester or sought safety, these men were trying to steal a pig.

I have no idea where they came from. I’d never seen such a villainous-looking crew. One was enormously fat. His mud-coloured tunic strained tightly over his belly and was stiff with what I really, really hoped were foodstains. One was small and skinny with terrible skin. He wore coarse brown trousers and a bright ochre tunic several sizes too big for him. I suspected it had been freshly liberated from its real owner. The other wore some kind of metal helmet that was far too big for him so again, I guessed it wasn’t his. I have no idea what colour his clothes had originally been. They all stank. Huge sweat stains encircled each armpit. They were scruffy, scarred, and had opportunist thieves written all over them. Oh, and they were drunk. Very, very drunk. I could smell the fumes from here.

Hardly surprising, of course. They’d been going from house to house, looting what they could find. They all had bulging sacks of looted goods over their shoulders. I had no idea whether they were native Colchestrians or escaped slaves. They might even be freelancing Iceni soldiers. Boudicca had very little control over her army. She relied on numbers and savagery rather than tactics. Looking at these three, they’d been drunk for some time. Which was good, because they obviously weren’t career soldiers. And bad, because they were unpredictable. With our luck, they’d be fighting drunks, rather than maudlin drunks. Or happy drunks. Or – and this was my favourite – unconscious drunks.

Markham shifted his stance slightly, ready for trouble.

‘Wait,’ said Peterson, softly.

He was right. Drunk they might be, but they might also have about a hundred thousand friends out there, all of whom would be turning up any minute now.

We all stared at each other and while we were doing that, another two stuck their blond, tangle-haired heads out of a nearby ramshackle wooden shed. Both of them had beards in which you could lose a small car. Great. Now there were five of them. Maybe more, because in the depths of the shed, something else grunted and moved in the dark. We were trapped. They were between the pod and us.

I sighed. Now would be the time to have a really brilliant idea.

We couldn’t kill them because we might, just might, be killing one of our own ancestors and History really doesn’t like us doing that sort of thing.

We couldn’t even seriously disable them because then someone else might go on to kill them and if they weren’t supposed to die today then again, there would be Trouble.

Maybe we could intimidate them. All right, several of them were built like brick shithouses, but that’s never a match for feminine guile. Or cheating, as Leon always calls it.

I was behind Bashford and Peterson. I whipped off my helmet and passed it to Grey. I pulled out my hairpins, shook my hair free, tossed back my cloak, set my blaster to full charge and elbowed my way forwards to confront them.

I tried to see myself as they were seeing me.

A woman with red hair. Quite a lot of red hair. Actually, I have hair like Japanese Knotweed. Cut it and it grows back ten times thicker. I’m still waiting for the hair care industry to produce a shampoo that reduces volume and shine.

But, I was a red-haired woman wearing armour and if they were followers of Boudicca then this would not be an unfamiliar sight to them. And best of all, I was a woman who could do – this.

I raised my whining blaster and sent a stream of liquid fire onto the thatched roof of the ramshackle shed, which went up with a whoosh. There was a sudden blast of heat and red sparks flew skywards. Flames began to lick around the door.

They jumped a mile and stared at me, wide-eyed and swaying. Maybe we were going to get away unscathed, after all. I took advantage of their surprise and gestured in the direction of the Temple, assembling words in my head. I don’t speak Brythonic and I only have a very little Old English. I hoped for the best.

‘Death! Death! Kill them all! Kill the Roman cats!’

I know, I know, but in the heat of the moment, I couldn’t remember the word for dogs and quite honestly, I think I deserve some sort of credit here. Drunken looters were confronting us and Boudicca’s battalions were going to show up any minute now. For God’s sake, what do people expect from me?

They stared at me blankly.

I sighed. Everything was going wrong. This was just not our day. Today was the day we were all going to die in Roman Colchester.

And then, typically, at this point the god of historians pulled the chain, exited the comfort station, and returned to duty.

I really should have taken a second to wonder what the other two were doing in the shed, although no one had much chance to think about anything because the next moment, we were all of us in fear for our lives.

An enormous, enraged pig erupted out of the burning building, scattering squealing piglets around her feet. Two, however, were made of sterner stuff than their siblings and hung on, sucking grimly. She stood, head down, legs splayed, piglets swinging.

She was massive. She was the biggest pig I’d ever seen in my entire life, which, admittedly, has not been pig-filled, but even so ... Even when stationary, bits of her continued to wobble and quiver of their own accord. Tiny, beady, piggy eyes peered balefully at the world. She really wasn’t happy at all. She fixed those eyes on me, correctly identified the person who had torched her sty, and began to lumber.

‘Look out,’ shouted Peterson, and before I could protest, he pushed me sideways. I landed in something pig-related and unpleasant that I was given no chance to examine, because half a second later, he landed on top of me.

The pig uttered some sort of porcine battle cry, changed direction, and, trailing piglets, charged for the bearded buggers, who fell over themselves trying to get out of her way. They tried to scatter, but in a narrow street, it was more of an involuntary clump than a scatter. The fat one ran into a wall and rebounded, nearly bringing down the skinny one. One slipped over and scrabbled backwards on his bum to get up. Someone else tripped over Peterson and me. It had to have been one of our British friends. No pig could smell that bad. Dreadful oaths and bitter recriminations rent the air and not all of them were from St Mary’s. Piglets squealed and ran between people’s legs. The pig barged into the still reeling fat bloke, knocking him into the burning shed. He shrieked and rolled back out again, beating at his smouldering clothing.

The pig, scenting victory, closed for the kill, followed by her equally enthusiastic offspring. The now ex-looters gave it up, hauled each other off the ground, and ran for it. The pig uttered a bellow of victory and followed on behind. They all vanished from view.

In our little street, silence fell.

‘I don’t believe any of this,’ said Grey, who had sensibly taken refuge behind Markham. ‘We’ve just been beaten up by a pig. Who are you people?’

On our performance to date, I would have thought that was obvious.

I don’t know about the others, but I don’t have much memory of getting back to the pod. We hadn’t been gone that long – although it seemed longer – but in our absence, the square had filled up with Boudicca’s troops. Chariots still circled the Temple, but massive numbers of footsoldiers were pouring into the square from all directions. The noise was overwhelming.

We stayed well away from all that, working our way around the edge of the square and using such cover as we could find. We moved in a tight group. Peterson led the way; Grey and I steered a still rather wobbly Bashford, and Markham brought up the rear.

We kept our attention firmly on our route back to the pod because Markham had announced he would shoot the first historian who stopped and tried to identify Boudicca herself. Apparently it had been a long day and he just wanted to get home. Which was unfortunate, because without us even looking for her, there she was. I swear, it wasn’t our fault. Although, as I tried to explain to him afterwards, if you thought about it logically, where else would she be?

Grey and I were struggling to manhandle the surprisingly difficult to steer Bashford, when he stopped, peered blearily over my shoulder, and said in surprise, ‘Boudicca?’

‘No, no,’ said Grey, soothingly, trying to push him in the right direction. ‘St Mary’s.’

‘No,’ he said, ‘Oh my God, it is! It’s Boudicca! Look! Cooee!’ And he waved. He actually waved.

I just had time to think shit!, and we all turned slowly.

He was right.

No more than thirty feet away, leaning out of a mud-splattered chariot drawn by two wild-eyed, foaming horses – there she was. Even as we stared at her, she spotted us, straightened up, and stared right back.

I couldn’t believe it. I was looking at Boudicca, Queen of the Iceni. The woman who took on the Romans and won. Who destroyed Colchester. And St Albans. And London. Who would kill herself rather than be captured. And she was looking at us.

Some ten or twelve gigantic, heavily armed warriors, all on foot, surrounded her, their faces painted with identical, intricate blue patterns. They were looking at us as well. Everyone was looking at us. Even the bloody horses were looking at us.

There can’t possibly have been silence anywhere in Colchester on that day, but I have no memory of any sound at all. No battle cries, no screams, no clash of weapons, not even the chink of harness or snorting breath from the horses. Just long, unmoving, complete silence.

She was tall and standing in the chariot meant that she easily towered over the heads of those around her. In contrast to her entourage who wore tunics and trousers of this year’s latest colour, fashionable British Mud, she was dressed to catch the eye. To be instantly recognisable to friend and foe alike. A bright blue cloak covered her crimson dress. She wore a fabulous golden torc around her neck and her cloak was fastened at each shoulder with golden brooches in the shape of Celtic knots.

Contrary to popular depictions, her hair did not stream dramatically behind her. It was pulled back from her face and secured in a business-like knot at the nape of her neck. Her face was thin and hatchet-like and deep lines ran from her nose to her mouth. She was not beautiful. She was a warrior. She wore a plain bronze breastplate and carried a spear. Backlit by the burning buildings, she was the living personification of Andred, the Iceni goddess of victory. No wonder they followed her.

Peterson said softly, ‘Max, you’re up,’ and for a moment, I couldn’t think what he was talking about and then I did. Boudicca had called on Andred before the battle, releasing a hare in her honour. I could use that.

I stepped in front of the others. Close to her, but not too close.

I tossed back my cloak so she could see my armour. This was not the time for fumbling in Old English. I spoke in Latin. As queen consort and then queen in her own right, I was certain she would have some Latin. I had to speak very slowly to give myself time to assemble the right words and it gave my voice an unfamiliar authority. I pitched it to carry across the distance between us.

‘Boudicca of the Iceni. You called upon Andred and the goddess answered you. She sent the hare to run on the auspicious side. The goddess now demands repayment. I appeal to you, woman to woman, let these people go. It is her wish.’

I paused for a moment. The Latin was possibly not a good move, given the circumstances, but it was vital that she understood me and I had deliberately used the phrase ‘woman to woman’. The phrase she herself had used when calling on the goddess.

She stared down at us, her face expressionless. One word, that’s all it would take. Just one word from her and it would all be over for us. Never mind Ian Guthrie, there would be no Christmas for Leon or Helen or Hunter, or anyone at St Mary’s. I swallowed. Dear God, what was I doing?

More and more Britons were pouring into the square. We really should go. The real battle for the Temple had not yet begun.

She hadn’t taken her eyes off me.

‘This is so cool,’ beamed Bashford, cross-eyed and blissfully unaware of the danger in which we stood. Obviously a natural historian.

She cut her eyes to him as he gently swayed, oblivious to nearly everything. He waved again. Just for one moment, I thought the corner of her mouth twitched, just very, very slightly. She said something to her driver. He whipped up the horses and the chariot rattled away towards the Temple.

What? What had she said? ‘Let them go?’ That would be good. Or had she gone with the slightly less good, ‘Kill them all and throw their bodies to the dogs?’

Someone barked an order. I didn’t see who. We braced ourselves. Her guard wheeled about and disappeared.

I became aware I hadn’t breathed for quite a long time.

‘Did you see?’ said Grey grabbing Bashford’s arm in excitement. ‘Did you see her clothes? And her armour?’

‘Who?’ he said, groggily. ‘Whose clothes?’

Markham could be heard calling on the god of Security sections everywhere for patience and to make it bloody quick.

‘About five foot seven or eight, I think,’ said Peterson, who was no better than the rest of us. ‘And where were her daughters? And the warriors around her must be some sort of personal guard. Do you think those facial markings were some sort of insignia or badge identifying them as such? And I couldn’t quite see … Was she armed?’

‘She had a sword and some sort of spear,’ I said, obeying my own instincts. ‘And did you see her chariot? Horsehide stretched over wood.’

‘And the placement of the axle …’

‘When the history department has quite finished,’ said Markham, with commendable restraint, ‘the Security section would like to inform them that anyone not on the move in two seconds will regret it.’

‘What?’

He kept it simple for historians. ‘Move or I’ll shoot you.’

So we did.

Those not following Boudicca were too busy torching the streets and looting to spare us any attention. We raced across the final few yards. I led the way, blaster whining, ready to zap anyone in my path, and keeping my eyes fixed firmly the pod ahead of us. Peterson and Markham covered our rear.

I called for the door and we all crashed breathlessly into the pod.

We were safe. For the time being. Until Dr Bairstow opened my report.

It was a bit of a squeeze once inside. Markham lowered Bashford to the floor and checked over his head wound. I sat Grey down in the corner. Peterson passed over the First Aid kit, seated himself at the console, and activated the cameras.

‘What are you doing?’ said Markham, in disbelief. ‘You lot have absolutely no conception of priorities, do you?’

‘Leave him alone,’ I said. ‘Presenting this information to Dr Bairstow might be the one thing that saves our lives.’

‘I meant,’ he said with dignity, ‘isn’t anyone going to put the kettle on?’

Somewhat groggily, Bashford began to laugh.

Grey said, ‘Who are you? I don’t know any of you. How did you find us so quickly?’

The moment of truth. The three of us looked at each other. Here we go.

‘Well, I’m Maxwell. He’s Peterson. I think you may already know Markham here. And we didn’t. Find you quickly, I mean.’

I passed her some water, took a deep breath, and said quietly, ‘Elspeth, it’s been ten years.’

I’m not sure whether Bashford grasped what I’d said, but Grey did. She choked on the water and clutched my wrist.

‘Ten – you’re sure?’

‘Yes, I’m sorry, Elspeth. Ten years.’

She was silent for a moment. I could see exactly what she was thinking. This time yesterday she had been at St Mary’s, saying goodbye to Guthrie and setting off on her assignment. And now, ten years had passed.

She said hesitantly, ‘Ian? Ian Guthrie?’

‘Safe and well,’ I said, hoping to God he was.

She looked around for him. Leon’s pod is a single-seater and small. With five of us inside, it was smaller still. Did she think we had Guthrie folded up in a locker?

‘He didn’t come with you?’

‘We didn’t invite him. It seemed the more humane thing to do. Just in case … you know.’

‘Ten years,’ she said, disbelievingly. There was a pause as she wondered how to phrase it. ‘Has he …? I mean …’

‘No,’ I said cheerfully, pretending to misunderstand her. ‘No improvement at all. He’s still the same grumpy, misogynistic, Caledonian bachelor he always was.’

I could hear Peterson grinning.

Markham said, ‘There you go, mate,’ and helped a blood-smeared Bashford to sit up. His eyes swam around in his sockets like a couple of bewildered goldfish before he was finally able to focus.

‘Markham? It is you.’

‘That’s right,’ said Markham, sunnily. ‘How are you feeling now?’

‘Absolutely fine,’ said Bashford, and threw up all over everything.

‘Impressive,’ said Markham, staring down at his thoroughly pebble-dashed self.

Bashford smiled blearily. ‘Thank you.’

I began to warm towards Mr Bashford.

We jumped back to the paint store. I made Peterson call Dr Foster on the grounds that of all of us, he was the least likely to be killed for disturbing her at this time of night. Or rather, the morning. Markham anxiously prompted him to remind her to bring Nurse Hunter, as well.

We surveyed the state of Leon’s pod in silence.

‘We’ll see to it later,’ I said. ‘Or, with a bit of luck we’ll be sacked for tonight’s effort so it’ll be someone else’s problem.’

‘True,’ said Peterson cheerfully, shouldering Mr Bashford. ‘Shall we go?’

The medical team was waiting. Ignoring us, they whisked away Grey and Bashford and we were left to fend for ourselves. Peterson and Markham made the tea and we sat down to wait.

Half an hour later, Helen Foster emerged. She folded her arms and surveyed us without speaking. I had to admit, we did look a bit on the sloppy side. Markham picked vaguely at his vomit-encrusted body armour. I was still dripping with pig product. There may have been a faint odour … Peterson, relatively unscathed, grinned at her.

She ignored him in a way that didn’t augur well for the rest of his Christmas.

I asked her how they were.

‘They will be fine. They’re not fine at the moment, but they will be.’ She looked at me. ‘She’s asking for Ian. Will you call him, or shall I?’

I stepped to one side, crossed my fingers, activated my com, and called Ian Guthrie. He answered immediately.

‘Guthrie.’

His voice was sharp and curt. He obviously wasn’t in the best mood. However, at least he was still alive.

‘Sorry to call you out, Major.’

‘Oh God – it’s the other one.’

‘What other one?’

‘I’ve had him here all bloody night, you know. He’s been driving me insane. Apparently, he wants to discuss safety protocols. On Christmas Eve. In the middle of the night. I can’t even go to the bathroom without him trying to follow me in. I’m about to shoot him.’

‘Really?’ I said, sacrificing Leon for the second time that night. ‘How bizarre. Has he been drinking, do you think?’

I felt, rather than heard, Leon’s indignant response.

Guthrie sighed.

‘What do you want?’

‘What? Oh. Yes. I’m in Sick Bay. We have intruders.’

He remained unalarmed. ‘In Sick Bay? On Christmas Eve?’

‘Yes.’

‘Who’s we?’

‘Um – well, reading from left to right – me, Dr Foster, Peterson, Markham, oh, and Nurse Hunter.’

‘Sounds like a bloody army to me. Shoot them and go back to bed.’

‘We’re not armed,’ I lied.

‘I’ll send Leon down. He can talk them to death. Why should I suffer alone?’

For crying out loud – we’d braved Boudicca’s battalions to rescue the love of his life and he was instructing us to shoot her. This is typical of St Mary’s. You plan a romantic reunion for a pair of lovers who’ve been apart for ten years and one of them can’t even be bothered to show up. If this were fiction, there would be a swelling soundtrack, tears of joy, people sobbing into tissues … What is the matter with us? Why can’t we do things like normal people?

Markham uttered an impatient sound, unshouldered his blaster, screamed melodramatically, and fired two blasts into Helen’s wall.

A large piece of burning plaster fell to the floor.

Helen screamed – in genuine rage this time – and Guthrie shouted, ‘On my way.’

The link went dead.

We all regarded Markham.

‘What?’ he said, spreading his hands. ‘He’s coming, isn’t he?’

And indeed he was, crashing through the doors, weapon drawn. A one-man assault force.

We froze. Markham made sure to stand behind Hunter.

For a long time, nothing happened, then he clicked on the safety, tucked his gun away, activated his com and said, ‘Stand down. It’s only the usual suspects.’

I noticed Leon had not accompanied him, although he probably hadn’t been offered the option.

Guthrie surveyed the still smouldering lump of plaster. ‘Exactly what is going on here?’

I don’t think any of us knew what to say. I stepped up, put my arms around him, and hugged him tightly. Hunter did the same with the bits left over.

He patted us both, awkwardly. ‘Well, this is … not in line with normal Sick Bay protocols.’ His face changed. ‘I’m dying, aren’t I? That’s why you wanted me. To tell me I have some fatal disease. How long have I got?’

‘If you continue hanging around with this bunch,’ said Helen, dryly, ‘who can tell? But no, that’s not why you’re here. Please put down those women and come with me.’

He extricated himself, not without some difficulty, from our clutches. ‘What’s this all about?’

‘Would you come this way please, Major?’

She crossed to the female ward and opened the door for him.

He paused on the threshold. I caught the briefest glimpse of his face.

As he passed through the door, she said softly, ‘Merry Christmas, Ian,’ and closed the door behind him.

I couldn’t hang around. I had things to do. There was Leon to placate and explain to. Then I had a very, very careful report to write for Dr Bairstow and a breathtakingly monumental bollocking to prepare for. However, before all that, I had a gift to retrieve from my desk and deliver.

I bounced my way into Mrs Partridge’s office and all my careful plans collapsed because despite it being dawn on Christmas Day, she was sitting at her desk, elegant in her usual beautifully tailored black suit.

I skidded to a halt and said, awkwardly, ‘Oh. Good morning, Mrs Partridge.’

She inclined her head. ‘Good morning, Dr Maxwell. How may I be of assistance?’

‘Um … I came to wish you a Happy Christmas.’ And could have kicked myself.

‘A different belief system, but nevertheless, thank you.’

‘Um …’

I’m not usually tongue-tied. Sex renders me speechless occasionally, but even then, not for long. I just hadn’t banked on her being here. My plan had been to leave it on her desk and go.

Hesitantly, I pulled out the small parcel and handed it to her. ‘Season’s greetings, then.’

She stared at it for so long that I felt compelled to say, ‘It’s a Christmas present.’ Just in case she was unfamiliar with the concept.

Slowly, she unwrapped the badly packaged rhomboid, not even defeated by the four and a half miles of Sellotape holding it all together.

I’d done a pen and ink drawing of the Muses. They were all there, Calliope, Terpsichore, all of them grouped around a seated central figure, Kleio, the Muse of History, gracefully holding her scroll. I’d put a lot of time and effort into it, getting the faces just right and then applying a few gentle washes of colour. I was actually quite pleased with the likeness and that doesn’t happen often.

She was still silent.

I kicked myself again. She didn’t like it. I had stepped over our invisible but very clearly drawn line. Hot with embarrassment, I began to edge backwards to the door.

Finally, she looked up at me and smiled gently. ‘Thank you, Max. This is – quite beautiful.’

I breathed a sigh of relief. No flaming sword for me today.

‘You’re welcome, Mrs Partridge. See you later.’

‘One moment, please, I have a present for you, too,’ and to my astonishment, she handed me a small package, beautifully wrapped in tissue paper. No Sellotape in sight.

I gently pulled the paper aside to reveal a small but very heavy knife in a battered leather sheath.

‘It’s made of meteorite metal,’ she said. ‘It’s extremely old and has quite a history.’ Just for a moment, I thought I saw a gleam of amusement. ‘You would not believe some of the people that’s been in.’

‘Cool,’ I said, enthusiastically.

‘I thought you would appreciate it.’

We paused. She looked at her hands. I looked at my feet. Outside, the snow fell silently.

‘Well, um … I must be going now.’

‘Yes.’

Another long pause.

‘So, um …’

She picked up some papers, stared at them, and then put them down again and looked out of the window, seemingly at a loss. ‘Yes … of course …’

‘Um … Merry Christmas, Mrs Partridge.’

‘And a very Merry Christmas to you, Dr Maxwell.’

THE END

Published by Accent Press Ltd – 2014

ISBN: 9781783752171

Copyright © Jodi Taylor 2014

The right of Jodi Taylor to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

The story contained within this book is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be copied, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, electrostatic, magnetic tape, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of the publishers: Accent Press, Ty Cynon House, Navigation Park, Aberycnon,, CF45 4SN

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