3. A Second Chance (11 page)

This was Kassandra, daughter of Priam, one of only two people in Troy who warned against bringing the Trojan Horse into the city. And no one listened to her.

Her beauty supposedly caused the god Apollo to fall in love with her, and when she spurned his love – which you just don’t do to a god – he cursed her twice. Firstly, with the ability to know the future. And secondly, and most cruelly, that no one would ever believe her.

They didn’t believe her now. King’s daughter or not, she was just that mad bat Kassandra, the one who was always ranting on about something or other. They laughed and pointed. And laughed again.

She redoubled her efforts.

They redoubled their laughing.

And then, in mid-rant – she stopped. She lowered her arms, turned her head and, for one moment, I thought she looked directly at me.

I couldn’t look away. I wanted to. But I couldn’t.

Then Guthrie spoke and the spell was broken.

Considerably shaken, I stepped behind him, out of her sight, just to give myself a moment.

The horses were followed by cheering crowds. All over the city, butchers would be sharpening their knives. Priests were lighting fires. Troy was preparing to party. Party until it dropped.

We were out there, of course. We’d have been mad not to be. So long as no one ate or drank anything, we’d be fine.

The party started as the sun slipped below the horizon. The last carefully hoarded supplies were broached as people flung years of restraint straight out of the window. After ten long, bitter years, they finally had something to celebrate.

And celebrate they did. The entire city was one giant street party. Every lamp was lit. Drink flowed. The smell of roasting meat was everywhere. Long lines of people danced along the streets, picking up and discarding others as the fancy took them. Many couples peeled off into dark doorways and a whole new generation could have been conceived that night.

Every square had at least one bonfire and winding queues of waiting people. Roasting horsemeat smells quite good, but none of us was tempted. I’d made it a hanging offence, anyway. I’d personally checked our supplies and I knew Kal had done the same on the other side of the olive grove. We would only ever have this one opportunity and I wasn’t going to squander it by having half my team on the sick list.

So we moved among the crowds, laughing, dancing, recording, and, in my case, wondering what the hell would happen next.

I’d never actually been on an assignment where this had happened. We jump to specific events, already having a fairly clear idea of what will happen. Sometimes minor details are wrong, but if we jump to Hastings 1066, we know the Normans will win. We might not know how, and the arrow in the eye is something we’re going to have to sort out one day – but the point is – we know the Normans win. As Professor Penrose had once pointed out to me, our work was hazardous but predictable.

Now, we had no idea how this would end. Anything could happen. It was quite exciting. I said so and Guthrie rolled his eyes.

I called a halt at midnight, expecting some muttering about party pooping, but we were all exhausted. We’d been at it since dawn.

And starving, too. I ate nearly two mouthfuls of Markham’s ghastly stodge before I realised what I was doing.

And then we all went to bed.

I woke early the next morning and lay for a while, staring up at the fading stars and still thinking about yesterday and what I was missing. Around me, I could hear my team moving around. I sat up. Roberts and Markham were tea monitors this morning. I took mine a little way off, sat with my back against an olive tree and thought.

And got nowhere. I just couldn’t see how this would end. By now, of course, most of Troy would be groaning in the gutters and pebble dashing every available surface. Even those who had escaped food poisoning would have the hangover from hell. Some – possibly many, given their weakened state – would die, but not enough for Troy to fall.

I was still missing something.

We had bread left over from yesterday, which we ate with some cheese and made plans for the day.

Peterson and his people were deployed around the lower town. I was going back on the walls. Guthrie was to accompany me.

Leon, bless him, volunteered to remain behind and secure the two sites.

‘Non-historian,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Slightly less useful than the fifth wheel on a bike. Go, my children. Flutter forth. Make your way in the world and do whatever it is historians do all day long. I shall remain here, feet up in the shade – but vigilant. Always vigilant.’

Peterson snorted and we all set out. I had Guthrie again. Silent, as usual.

It was a funny sort of day. The wind had died away but there was no relief. Everything felt close and airless. Sounds seemed muffled and distorted. I hoped for a breeze off the sea later. Even the hot winds would be preferable to this stifling heat.

My God, there’d been a hot time in the old town last night! Never mind the Greeks – Troy already looked as if an invading army had put it to the sword. People lay in shady corners, white-faced, their garments stained with unspeakableness. A naked man sprawled face-down in a pool of something. The smoke from neglected cooking fires drifted across litter-laden streets. Hardly anyone was around. Some poor sods – slaves, probably – were out in the hot sun, drawing water. They looked reasonably all right, as slaves go. They probably hadn’t been partaking of last night’s tainted meat. From somewhere nearby, I could hear the sound of vomiting. And then another, even more unpleasant sound. Someone groaned and cursed.

A few guards stood on the walls, leaning heavily on their spears. The one I passed had his eyes closed. Fat lot of good he was going to be, asleep in the hot sun.

And it was hot. It was very hot indeed, especially since we weren’t yet much past mid-morning. I felt the perspiration roll down my back. Even Guthrie, normally as cool as they come, had sweat beading his brow. By unspoken consent, we moved into the shade of a high wall.

I stared out across the plain to the empty sea. A few people were out there, picking over the remains.

The city slowly woke up behind me. More people emerged on to the streets. There were tasks that must be performed – livestock to be fed, water to be drawn. The city trundled painfully back into life again.

The morning passed. I listened to the chatter in my ears – nothing out of the ordinary.

We moved slowly, following our patch of shade along the wall. We’d brought water, but limited ourselves to a sip every now and then. Because, when it was gone – it was gone. I wasn’t going to risk any Trojan water.

I was about to suggest finding somewhere cool for a spot of lunch around noon when I glanced at Guthrie. He was very pale. A bead of sweat ran down his cheekbone.

In sudden concern I said, ‘Major, are you all right?’

He pulled himself together with an effort that was painful to watch.

‘Yes. Yes, I’m fine.’

He swayed and even more colour drained from his face.

‘Ian, you’re ill.’

‘No, I can’t be. I haven’t eaten or drunk anything that someone else hasn’t had. And I don’t feel sick – I just feel – strange.’

He looked strange, too. A kind of otherworld look about him, as if he wasn’t quite here.

‘Can you hear that?’

‘What?’

‘We need to get off the walls.’

‘Why?’

‘Don’t know.’

He wasn’t looking at me. He stared blindly at his feet and spoke very quietly through clenched teeth.

‘Off the walls. Now.’

I didn’t argue. I’d known him too long. I guided him to the staircase and we stumbled down to street level. I tried to get him into the shade, wondering if he had sunstroke, but he insisted on standing in the wide space by the fish market and I couldn’t budge him.

It really was no day to be standing in the hot sun. And it was so, so hot. My tunic was drenched. My eyes stung with salty sweat.

He caught my arm. Hard. I could feel his fingers digging into my flesh.

‘Tell them, Max. Stand in open ground. Get away from the buildings. Get them away from the buildings.’

I’d heard of this before, but not really believed it.

I opened my com. ‘This is Maxwell. Code Red. Code Red. Code Red. Get away from any buildings. Find an open space and stay there. Immediate action. Now. Maxwell out.’

Dogs began to howl across the city. First one, then another, took it up. I looked round, but could see no cause. A flock of shrieking birds shot high into the air, wheeled once and disappeared.

I stared around. Ian was holding his head. A tiny, stifled groan escaped him.

The silence was deafening.

The weight of the heat was unbearable.

The world held its breath.

The gods were poised.

And then, from deep, deep beneath my feet, I heard a dreadful sound. Like a bellowing bull.

Poseidon, the Earth-Shaker had awoken.

Oh God, I knew what this was.

This was not my first earthquake.

I just had time to shout, ‘Earthquake. Everyone get down,’ when the earth moved. And for all the wrong reasons.

Just a small shudder initially, and I thought this might not be too bad after all, and then the ground began to shake, harder and harder, increasing in volume and strength.

I crouched and struggled to keep my balance. The noise was tremendous. The earth groaned and then groaned again. Around me I could hear crashing pots, breaking crockery, then louder crashes and bangs as items of furniture moved or fell over. As the tremors got stronger and louder, the buildings started to fall. Small mudbrick huts went first, collapsing in a cloud of dust and then the bigger buildings started to go, just dropping in on themselves with a roar of collapsing stones.

As suddenly as it started – it stopped.

There was a moment’s breathless silence.

And then the screaming began.

I picked myself up off the ground and crossed to Guthrie. He, like me, was covered in brick dust.

I pulled him to his feet. ‘Are you hurt?’

‘No. Are you?’ The old Ian was back.

‘No.’ Although my little heart was pounding away nineteen to the dozen. We tend to take solid ground for granted and it’s a bit disconcerting when suddenly it isn’t so solid any more.

He wiped his face, which did absolutely no good at all and looked around.

‘Bloody hell, that was a big one.’

He was right. Buildings or parts of buildings lay in heaps of rubble. Trees leaned at crazy angles. A huge split zig-zagged across the square, missing us by only a few feet.

‘Ian, did you know that was going to happen?’

‘No. I just knew something wasn’t right. The pressure in my head … I couldn’t see. Couldn’t hear anything except the noise. It’s gone now.’

I’d heard of this. Some people are sensitive to thunder storms so I suppose there’s no reason why others shouldn’t be sensitive to earthquakes. Theseus of Athens, son of Poseidon himself, was able to foretell earthquakes. And I had heard tales from America – before the borders closed, obviously – of people who claimed to be able to do the same thing. Mind you, that same person also told me that over there they actually pick up the ball and run with it when playing football, and how believable is that?

I stood quietly, brushing the dust from my clothes, waiting for him to collect the reports. He finished, closed down his com and nodded. ‘No major casualties.’

The sun beat down upon us. I looked up at the sky, washed of all colour by the oppressive heat.

People were emerging from buildings around us, cut, bruised, dazed, dragging out their children, their family treasures, or whatever they happened to have in their hands at the time. Their faces reflected shock and bewilderment and then, as they saw the devastation to their city, outright fear. Uncomprehending children wailed for their parents. Women screamed. Men shouted, clawing vainly at the rubble.

I stared. Every instinct is to help. But what could I do? Guthrie solved the problem for me. Seizing my arm, he pulled me across the square.

‘Come away, Max.’

Years ago, I’d been in a wartime hospital in France when it caught fire. I still remember the panic and confusion as helpless people staggered from the smoke and flames out into the thick mud, only to run in hopeless circles, endangering themselves and others. This was no different. I’d tried to help on that occasion – I should do so again.

‘Ian …’

But he was ruthless. I was dragged away. He was right. I had a duty to my own people first, but to run past helpless and broken people – children – when they called out to us as we passed …

Somehow, we got back to the pods.

Leon came forward. He broke our self-imposed rule and gently rubbed my arm. ‘Everything all right?’

I nodded and did a head-count. Everyone was present and nearly correct, which, with St Mary’s, is about the best you can ever hope for. Markham had a field dressing on the side of his head. It looked as if he’d been caught by falling masonry, although knowing him, he might well have been bitten by another irate goose.

We called it quits for the day.

Chapter Eleven

The aftershocks continued throughout the night, varying in strength and duration. We sat outside in the breathlessly hot night, pod doors open, in case we needed to make a quick exit and listened to the sounds of terror in the already stricken city. In the distance, we could hear furious waves thundering down upon the shore.

No one got any sleep and about an hour before dawn we went out again.

I was in constant contact with Van Owen, who had taken a team into the city. There had been damage throughout, she reported, but the buildings in the citadel, although more tightly crammed together, were better constructed and had suffered less damage.

Guthrie and I had returned to the pods around mid-morning to pick up new disks when it happened again.

Guthrie, who had been perfectly normal up to that moment, suddenly clutched his head and groaned.

I just had time to shout a warning when the big one struck. And this time it was a big one and it did not stop. The ground trembled and jerked. The earth groaned in pain. We were all thrown to the ground. Inside the pods, I could hear equipment falling out of the lockers.

These things usually only last a few seconds – although it often seems much longer.

Not this time. The ground heaved violently. On the other side of the olive grove, I could hear buildings coming down.

Terrible noises came from the city. Screaming people. Terrified livestock. The seemingly never-ending crash of collapsing buildings as the topless towers of Ilium swayed and fell. And then, over everything, an almighty rumbling that swelled in intensity until we couldn’t hear ourselves shout.

Already on the ground anyway, I curled into a ball, protected my head, and, like everyone else in Troy, endured as best I could. This was how I always imagined the end of the world.

The earth gave one last shudder and was still.

No one moved. I could still hear things clattering to the ground around us. And then – if you discounted all the screaming – everything was quiet …

I uncurled and brushed dust, dirt, and debris from my tunic.

People nearby were pulling themselves and each other to their feet. Injuries were miraculously few. Schiller had sprained a wrist as she fell. Markham now had several new cuts and bruises to add to his almost permanent collection.

I coughed and spat dust.

‘Chief, please run a full check on all the pods.’

He nodded, rubbed dust, and God knows what from his hair and stepped into Number Three.

‘Miss Van Owen, How are things with you?’

‘Astonishingly, we’re fine. A bit dusty and knocked about, but yes, we’re OK.’ She moved on to matters we both considered much more important. ‘Max, you’ve got to get up here. It’s gone. Completely gone.’

‘What has? What’s gone?’

‘The Scaean Gate. It’s completely demolished. And its fall has brought down the sections of wall on either side. There’s nothing left but rubble. There’s massive damage to the upper city too – the western part of the palace has collapsed. The statue of Athena has fallen. The big tower is down and it’s damaged the cistern. There’s water everywhere. Fires are breaking out all over. You have to get more people up here now. Just a minute. What?’

I could hear shouted voices in the background.

‘Say that again. What? Oh, my God!’

‘What?’ I shouted, very nearly beside myself. ‘What’s happening? Report.’

‘Max, there are ships approaching. Hundreds of them. It’s the Black Ships. The Greeks are coming back.’

Of course they would. The probably turned back yesterday, after the first earthquake. With the possibility of tidal waves, they would seek a safe harbour and this was the nearest.

‘How long?’

‘Before they get here? Maybe half an hour or a little longer. They’re riding the waves and the wind is behind them.’

‘Your priority is keeping your people safe,’ I said. ‘But I want as much of this as possible.’

‘You’ve got it,’ she said, calmly and closed the link.

I deployed everyone. Leon to stay with the pods. Schiller, bandaged but functioning, Guthrie, and Peterson to the Scaean Gate to cover the Greek landing. Markham, Prentiss, and me to the citadel.

‘We have less than thirty minutes. As soon as the Greeks land – get back to your pods. That goes for historians, too. I don’t care if you discover that Agamemnon was a woman and Helen has been shacked up with Odysseus these last ten years. As soon as the first Greek sets foot on Trojan soil – you move. Understood?’

They nodded and we scattered.

Leon caught my tunic as I passed. ‘For God’s sake, be careful.’

A bit like telling water to flow uphill, but I nodded anyway. I was in such a hurry that I don’t think I even took the trouble to look at him properly.

The trumpets sounded as we set off. First one, then others took up the call.

All over the city, they were calling out the men to fight. Any man. Every man.

I saw young boys with swords as big as they were. Everyone had a cudgel of some kind. Women snatched up their children and locked them in cellars or hid them in outhouses, standing guard outside with hastily snatched up household implements.

All of Troy was arming itself. To defend themselves and their homes. It wouldn’t do them the slightest bit of good.

My heart bled for them. A ten-year war. Sickness. Earthquake. Devastation. And now they were defenceless and the Greeks were back. Truly, the gods had deserted them this day.

This would not be the glorious victory or heroic defeat of legend. This would be a slaughter. Too weak to resist, taken unawares, feeble with hunger and sickness, they stood no chance at all. It was as if all the Horsemen of the Apocalypse had gathered here today in this one spot, to oversee the razing of that most powerful of cities – Troy.

We pushed our way through the crowds of screaming people. Many buildings were still upright or partially so, but the street patterns had disappeared under the rubble.

We scrambled over the wreckage of people’s lives.

The Dardanian Gate was unguarded. Soldiers had more important things to do. We entered the citadel, where the panic was no less widespread than in the lower part of the city.

Men ran past on their way to what was left of the walls. Fires bloomed everywhere. Ash and dust floated on the wind.

Markham insisted we stay together, arguing he wasn’t Solomon’s baby and couldn’t cut himself in half. A small corner of my mind registered that our Mr Markham was not only extremely good at his job but also considerably more intelligent than he would have us believe.

We filmed the broken buildings, especially the Temple of Athena, now badly damaged, with one side completely cracked away and leaning dangerously. Somewhere in there, if legends were true – and after the last few days, who could say what was true and was not? – Kassandra and other noble Trojan women and priestesses would seek sanctuary. That would not end well.

We filmed as much as we could, with Markham chivvying us along like an anxious sheepdog. I could hear Prentiss dictating into her recorder. We found a gap in the buildings and climbed over tumbled stones to try to get a view of what was happening on the plain.

Van Owen was right. The Greeks were back; flying on the crests of powerful waves crashing on to the shore. A thick, black wall of ships, hundreds of them, were followed by hundreds more. Their sails billowed fatly in the same stiff wind that flung dust and ash in our faces.

Prentiss recorded the ships. I filmed the ruined city. Markham, ignoring historical accuracy in the way that only the security section can, clutched a stun gun in one hand and a thick wooden staff in the other and shifted anxiously from foot to foot.

‘Max …’

‘Yes. We’re finished. Come on.’

I don’t know how it happened.

Prentiss slipped.

Her foot skidded sideways. She gave a cry of pain and fell heavily and awkwardly, dropping her recorder.

Markham was there in an instant.

‘Can you get up?’

‘Yes, of course. Aaaah! No.’

‘Let me lift you.’

‘It’s not that – my foot’s stuck.’

Markham handed me his gun and I kept watch although no one was taking any notice of us. They were all far too busy trying to get themselves to safety.

He crouched awkwardly and investigated.

‘Does it hurt?’

‘No. It’s just wedged in there.’

In there
was a gap between two white limestone blocks that had once been part of a grand house to the south of the palace.

He wiggled her leg.

‘How’s that?’

‘No bloody good at all.’

‘Can you get your sandal off?’

‘No.’

‘Well try, will you? I really don’t want to have to amputate your foot. I haven’t had breakfast yet.’

I stood up and looked out to sea. The ships were very close now.

‘Guys …’

‘Hold on,’ said Markham, wedged the end of his staff under the smaller rock and heaved. Good old Archimedes and his lever.

The rock shirted an infinitesimal inch and then settled back again.

The ships were almost within touching distance of the beach. The noise in the city grew to a roar. Many people were scrambling over the rubble of the walls and streaming across the plain in a vain effort to escape the oncoming invaders.

I said to Markham, ‘Try again. I think we nearly had it that time.’

Prentiss said, ‘Go. Both of you. I’m stuck. You’ll never get me out in time. Better only one dead than three.’

‘Shut up,’ said Markham. ‘Only those who don’t actually have their foot in a hole are entitled to a vote.’

He shoved his staff in again, spat on his hands, and heaved. There wasn’t very much of him, so I joined in. The rock lifted again.

‘A bit more,’ shouted Prentiss. ‘Nearly.’

Markham grunted with the effort.

Away to my right, the first Greeks, desperate to reach land had driven their boats far up on to the beach and were leaping onto the sand.

That they had no clue what had happened to the city in their absence was clear from their demeanour. They hadn’t returned to attack. They had sought only a refuge from the Earth-Shaker.

Now, looking around them at the fallen walls, the shattered city, and its disorganised populace, they could hardly believe their luck. They had been prepared to establish and defend a disputed beachhead. It could never have entered their wildest dreams that the city would drop into their laps this way.

All might not have been lost for the Trojans. The Greeks were as confused and bewildered by events as they were. If they could have mustered a force and got down to the old Greek ditch, and held firm, they could still have pushed the Greeks back into the sea.

But they were sick, shocked, injured, and disorganised and they were lost. I don’t know where their generals were. Hector was dead, Priam taking refuge somewhere, and Aeneas would soon be on his way out of the city to Carthage. They never stood a chance.

I heard one voice, bellowing orders like a bull. That would be the High King, Agamemnon, directing the attack. Trumpets sounded, and with a mighty roar, the whole Greek army swept up the beach towards the fallen gate, hacking down everything in their path.

People screamed and fled back into the city.

‘Come on,’ said Markham. ‘We’ve got to do this.’

We heaved again. The block shifted again.

‘Yes,’ shouted Prentiss.

I seized her under her arms and pulled. Markham let out a hoarse cry. ‘Hurry. Can’t hold … much … longer.

‘Nearly there.’

‘Nggaahh! It’s slipping. Get her out. Get her out.’

I heaved. Prentiss braced herself against the rock with her free leg and pushed.

‘Bloody get her out, will you?’ cried Markham. ‘I want to have kids some day.’

I pulled so hard we both fell over backwards. Markham let the stone drop and stood panting.

I said, ‘So, to sum up. One historian with a damaged foot and one security guard with a hernia. Could be worse.’

She grabbed her recorder and we ran. We had to move fast. The pods were at the other end of the city. We stared in dismay at the lower part of the town.

‘You should have left me,’ said Prentiss, angrily.

‘Fine,’ said Markham. ‘Do you want us to put you back?’

We needed to get away as quickly as possible. From up here on the citadel, we had an excellent view of the Greeks, streaming across the plain and heading straight for the Scaean Gate. Or rather, where the gate used to be.

The Trojans had rallied. They were weak, but they weren’t giving up. Everyone had seized a weapon. A small group of soldiers held the gate with reinforcements moving in.

‘We’ll go out through the Dardanian,’ said Markham, pushing us both along. ‘We’ll make our way along the east wall and then cut across to the pods. If they can hold the gate for ten minutes or so, we’ll have a chance. Move.’

We clattered along the streets, pushing our way through hysterical people running away from the fighting. I don’t know where they thought they were going to go.

The ground was rough with tumbled buildings to scramble over or try to get around. Fires bloomed with orange flames and I could hear the crackle of burning all around us. Acrid smoke caught in my throat and stung my eyes. All the time, I was listening for the sound of approaching soldiers. For how long could the Trojans hold the pile of rubble that used to be the Scaean Gate?

Not long was the answer to that one. We all knew how this was going to end. But maybe they could hold it long enough for us to get away.

A group of men, clutching shields and swords but with no time to don armour, raced past us, shouting to one another. Whether they dislodged something, I don’t know. The already leaning building to my left leaned even further. The front portico crumbled. Markham seized Prentiss and pulled her one way. I jumped the other. The building collapsed in a welter of stone and timbers and dust.

Coughing, I became aware of Markham shouting. ‘Max? Can you hear me?’

‘Yes,’ I said, brushing off loose pieces of stone and picking myself up.

‘Where are you?’

On the other side of the house. I’m fine. Nothing broken.’