The Chronicles of St Mary's Omnibus, page 28
‘I’ve managed to locate a source of earthenware jars I think will be appropriate, Max. I can nip back and conclude the deal whenever you’re ready.’
‘How are you paying?’ Payment had to be with contemporary material.
‘We have … induced … the Egyptology department at Thirsk to part with one or two small treasures.’
‘Excellent. Mrs Mack.’
‘Yes, Max.’ She sat with her scratchpad, all attention.
‘We need you to keep us fed and watered. Dr Dowson tells me Site B has no water supply of any kind. Because we don’t know how much material we’re going to be able to save, or how long it will take us to pack it all away in the desert heat, we have no idea for how long we need to be provisioned.’
The Chief said, ‘This shouldn’t be a problem. We can run a shuttle-pod service ferrying supplies and people as required.’
‘Good,’ I said. ‘Please can you two work out the details and let me know.’
I was being really unkind here. She was bouncing with excitement beside me. I put her out of her misery and grinned at her. ‘Mrs Enderby.’
She glowed.
‘We’ll need Wardrobe to provide fireproof clothing, canvas shelters to keep the sun off, and something appropriately sterile to wear when we work.
‘This is most important. Any archaeological find is subject to rigorous scrutiny. This goes double for what we’re about to do. People are going to be screaming, “fake,” if even the slightest detail is wrong. And if we screw this up then we’ll never be trusted again. It will finish us. We have to get this exactly right. So, it's important to minimise contact with the scrolls as much as possible. All heads must be covered. Nothing to do with religion – or sun, come to that – we can’t afford to have people shedding hair all over these scrolls. Especially if that hair is covered in modern hair product. I don’t know what would survive over two millennia but I’m not taking the risk. We don’t need scientists wondering if the ancients really did use anti-dandruff shampoo. So, Mrs Enderby, Wardrobe's most rigorous checks please. And no sun cream when handling the scrolls. Cotton gloves. We don’t know how the chemicals will react with the papyrus over such a long time.
‘Any questions before we move on to the schedule?’
They shook their heads, shifted their papers, cleared their scratchpads, and we moved on.
‘Professor Rapson, you and your team jump to Alexandria, Site A, to acquire the pots, tar-making materials, provisions, etc., taking them on to Doctor Dowson at Site B. You and your team are in Number Three. Mr Dieter will accompany you.
‘Dr Dowson, your team is in TB2 and you jump straight to Site B, the re-burial site, to set things up and wait for the Professor. Chief Farrell will accompany you.
‘The scroll-retrieval team, that's my gang, are in Number One because it's small. There are three teams -mine, with Markham and Van Owen; Mr Peterson's with Schiller and Evans; and Miss Black's, with Weller and Clarke. One historian, one Pathfinder, and one security guard to each team.
‘The medical team are in Number Two and the fire-fighting and security teams are in Numbers Five and Six. We all jump to Site A together and get cracking inside the library.
‘Once we’ve done the biz in the Serapeum, we take everything we’ve got to Site B. The medical team returns to St Mary's with any seriously wounded.
‘We start unloading the scrolls and under instructions from Dr Dowson and the Professor, pack them into the pots, and seal them up. As I said, near sterile conditions to apply. We then bury them, wall them up, or drop them down a chasm; whatever Dr Dowson has decided is appropriate, to be found by the joint Thirsk/Egypt expedition being organised as we speak. We do the world's most rigorous FOD plod and return home to wild acclaim.
‘Any questions or comments?
Professor Rapson said thoughtfully. ‘The Dead Sea Scrolls were sealed with tar, but I’m not so sure. Maybe pitch would be better.’
Doctor Dowson snorted. ‘How will you hold it together?’
‘What about droppings of some kind? Plant fibre is a wonderful binding agent. I’ll try with horse dung. Or rabbits. Or maybe human excrement. An organic and a renewable source.’
Yes, good luck with that. If they were relying on me then the jars would be unsealed for ever. After years living off rations, I only go about twice a year, usually at the summer and winter solstice. I like to have a bit of a ceremony …
We discussed things for over an hour and a few things were changed, but, basically, that was the plan.
I had the final mission plan on the Boss's desk within a month as requested. He nodded and said, ‘This seems satisfactory.’ So he was very happy with it. ‘I assume you have contingency plans?’
‘Well, yes and no, sir. Sod's Law decrees if a thing can go wrong it will. We’ve done our best but something will happen that we haven’t foreseen and then we’ll just have to wing it.’
‘Ah,’ he said. ‘The History Department's motto.’ He smiled thinly. ‘Almost, I envy you.’
I stopped gathering things together. ‘Would you like to come with us?’
He stood quite still and we looked at each other.
‘Why not, sir?’
After a long pause, he said softly, ‘Yes, why not? Although not to the library. I shan’t be able to contribute anything there, but I might drop in to Site B.’
‘I’ll leave it up to you, sir, but you’ll be very welcome.’
Outside, Mrs Partridge gripped my arm. ‘Is he going to Alexandria?’
I was really surprised. She was hurting me. ‘If he wants to.’
‘He shouldn’t go.’
‘It's up to him.’
‘You are the mission controller. You should use your veto.’
‘Why?’
But the moment had passed. Her face smoothed. She released my arm and stepped back. ‘Do you have anything for me, Miss Maxwell?’
If I was back to Miss Maxwell again, I must really be in her bad books. I handed her the data cubes, schedules, and distribution lists. She nodded, took them back to her desk, and began to hammer her keyboard.
I slipped out of the door.
There was a terrible smell on the second floor. I went to see what was happening. I’m not sure why I bothered. I could hear what was happening.
‘Rabbit shit? You’re cooking rabbit shit in here? Are you insane? Dear gods, man, you can’t cook rabbit shit. Are you seriously telling me …?’
‘Dr Dowson,’ I said soothingly. ‘What's the problem?’
He pointed a trembling finger. ‘This madman … this idiot is cooking rabbit shit. Can you believe such stupidity? Rabbit shit, for God's sake He gasped for breath.
‘Calm down, Octavius,’ said a completely unrepentant Professor Rapson, emerging from the murk and removing the handkerchief tied across the lower part of his face. ‘You’re going to have a seizure at this rate. Jamie, can you open the windows, please?’
The awful fug began to dissipate a little. The fire alarms hadn’t gone off. I climbed on a table and pulled off the cover to investigate. No battery.
‘Professor …’
‘I had no choice, Max; the stupid things keep going off. It's very annoying.’
‘Rabbit shit,’ raged Doctor Dowson, displaying a focus not often seen at St Mary's. ‘Of all the idiotic, moronic …’
‘For God's sake, Occy, show a bit of gratitude. We’re working on a recipe for pitch here and I need some sort of fibrous binding agent. I have to say, before you self-combust, this batch seems to be working very well. Show a little gratitude, please.’
Dr Dowson swelled and his colour deepened. ‘Gratitude? For what? I knew I’d end up doing R & D's job for them. Tell me this, Andrew, exactly how much rabbit shit do you think is going to be available in a city? In Egypt? In the heat? In the desert? I’ll tell you now, you’re wasting your time. Cow, camel, or donkey dung is the way to go. Plentiful supplies and bigger dollops. Have you seriously thought how many little rabbit pellets you would need to equal the average cow pat?’
‘Well, it should be easy to calculate,’ said Professor Rapson, more easily diverted, thank goodness. ‘Say between seventy to one hundred pellets to one pat -although we could do it by weight, of course … Jamie, my boy, can you get me some cowpats, please. We’ll need to poke them about a bit to check for plant material, so can you ask Mrs Mack for some forks as well. Now, Occy, we need to consider our source of resin …’
The two of them plunged back into the murk.
Major Guthrie's final briefing laid it on the line.
‘Listen up, everyone. I shall say this only once. As soon as we land, even before we step outside, you will -all of you – answer to me. Everyone from historians upwards should be aware of this. If you can’t accept this then you don’t go. It's that simple. So, no one leaves their pods until I give the word. And when I say, “Pull out,” you pull out. You don’t stop to grab just a few more scrolls or investigate what's round the corner; you go. You drop whatever you are doing and return to your pods. Is that clear?
We murmured a response.
‘Right, I’ve already briefed my team on this and now I’m telling you. We are not there to fight the fire. We’ll try and contain it while you work but our main job is to protect you while you seize what you can. We’ll give you every opportunity to get the job done, but your safety is our priority. And don’t weigh my people down with piles of scrolls because that's not what they’re there for.
‘A couple of us will be in full fire-fighter's gear. Everyone else will be wearing protective fire suits. And there's no point in the History Department shaking its head and muttering. I don’t give a rat's arse about historical inaccuracy. Live with it.
‘Those of us not on fire-fighting duties are on crowd control – guarding against hostile contemporaries. Again, don’t rope them into scroll-rescuing activities. Their purpose is to protect you long enough for an ordered retreat back to the pods.
‘Number Two is converted to a medical purpose and Dr Foster and her team will be located in and around. If any injuries are incurred, all members of the team should report to her. You must remain in your teams at all times. No one wanders around on their own.
‘Whatever happens, we spend no more than two hours on site. However well it's going. Number Six will have a designated driver who will monitor oxygen levels, act as timekeeper, and advise me when it's time to pull the plug. This brings me back to where I started, people. When I say we go – we’re gone. Any questions?’
Helen's final medical briefing was even worse. She gave us a depressingly long list of the circumstances and/or injuries which would result in us being deemed not fit for purpose. It seemed anything more serious than a slight headache would result in us being returned to sender.
I shifted restlessly in my seat. Beside me, Peterson whispered, ‘Bloody hell, Max, we’ve got to stop including these amateurs. We’ll never get anything done at this rate.’
Unfortunately, at that moment, Helen stopped talking and his voice was heard around the Hall with disastrous clarity.
‘You can say this about historians, we may be the tea-drenched disaster-magnets of St Mary's but bloody hell, can we think quickly when we have to?’ He turned in his seat, fixed a startled Ian Guthrie with a glare, and said, ‘Shh!’
It didn’t save him. I did what I could, but she separated him from the herd and when she’d finished with him, a vengeful Ian Guthrie was waiting.
Afterwards, I took him for a drink and said fondly, ‘Idiot.’
‘Yes,’ he said, downing it in one go. ‘But there's always make-up sex afterwards.’
‘True,’ I said. ‘Tell me, I’ve always wanted to know -what's he like in bed?’
Chief Farrell delivered sets of co-ordinates. The big pod, now known for ever as TB2, was completed and loaded only two days after its scheduled date. All the other pods were serviced and ready to go. He did not manage to set fire to himself in any way. No screaming was involved. No alarms went off.
‘Well,’ I said. ‘That was dull.’
*
And then, suddenly there was nothing more to do and we were ready.
We assembled in Hawking, unfamiliar in our stiff new fire suits.
Doctor Dowson and Chief Farrell had loaded up TB2 and stood on the ramp ticking off the inventory. Helen and her team waited outside Number Two. Guthrie's teams, already in fire-fighting gear, lined up outside Numbers Five and Six. Peterson, Kal and I assembled our teams and marshalled them into Number One. Professor Rapson quivered with excitement outside Number Three. The gantry was packed. Every single member of the unit had assembled in Hawking for this. This was it. This was The Really Big One. Our future was on the line. Every pod would be in use and over half the unit on the active list for this one. Thirsk was on stand-by. If this went wrong then St Mary's was finished.
What had I done?
We stood in silence. There was no point hanging around. I gave the word and the world went white.
Everything went wrong. Right from the off, everything went wrong.
We landed an hour later than planned and a good half of the library was well ablaze. Fortunately, we were at the other end. The Christians, showing a level of intelligence not normally associated with the religiously fervent, had pushed off. We exited the pod to a red-hot wall of heat and noise. It was like stepping into hell. We had no time to waste. We got stuck in.
Two paces from the pod and I was drenched in sweat. The heat was suffocating. I could hear my laboured breathing inside my own head. From the corner of my eye I could see leaping flames. It was impossible to describe the library; all details were lost in the smoky haze. My world was limited to the few square feet in front of me.
Our teams deployed to their given positions. I had Markham and young Van Owen. We nodded to each other for luck and got started. We’d rehearsed for this, but it was far tougher than I thought it would be. The slightest exertion made me sweat even harder. My head pounded. I couldn’t catch my breath.
We established a routine. Markham forced the armarium door. Van Owen and I stepped forward. Markham held the torch. We scooped the contents of the top shelf into the tub, then the next one down, then the next and so on. Pass the tub down the line. Grab a new one. Move on to the next armarium. Markham forced the doors . and so on.
Occasionally, someone passed us some water. Dark figures criss-crossed the room, shouting over the noise of the fire. I ignored them, whoever they were, trusting Guthrie to keep us safe. Concentrate on the job in hand. Deal with the now. Breathe. Ignore the increasing heat, the pounding headache, and the blurred vision. Just get on with it.
We shuffled up to the next armarium. Markham splintered the doors. These bloody scrolls were never ending. We were reaching for the top shelf when, over the clamour, I heard a new noise.
Something went over with a crash. I saw flames running across the floor towards us. The floor was marble. How could it burn? It must be oil – maybe a lamp had gone over. No, it wasn’t a lamp. The bloody Christians were back. Through the smoke, I could hear shouting. They must have seen or heard us. We were making no efforts at concealment. Markham stepped away from us to give himself room.
The security team swung into action. Their instructions were very clear. No violence of any kind. Absolutely no contemporaries were to be harmed. Moving as one, they charged towards the mob, sinister in their fire-fighting gear, uttering blood-curdling cries and waving their arms. Moving as one, the Christians turned and fled. Maybe they thought we were pagan demons come to defend our temple. They would regroup around the corner, find their courage and religious zeal, and be back. It would get bloody. Time to go.
I felt a sudden change in pressure and heard Guthrie's voice raised in warning. In my ear, someone shouted, ‘Get down. Get down. Get down.’
None of us had wasted our time over the last months. We hurled ourselves to the floor.
Too late. A hot wind picked us up and I slammed backwards into an armarium, which toppled. It and a million scrolls fell down on top of me. The heat intensified to unbearable temperatures. Was I on fire? I screamed and rolled, scrabbling to get out from under the crushing weight of the cupboard.
When I opened my eyes, Markham was bending over me, backlit by orange flames. ‘Max. Can you hear me?’
I nodded. He seized an arm and Van Owen got hold of the other one.
I shouted, ‘Wait,’ tore myself free, and grabbed the half-filled tub. There might be anything in there – the exact location of Alexander's tomb, the true story of Cambyses’ lost army, even a note from Plato saying to disregard all that Atlantis stuff – he’d had too much cheese late at night. I wasn’t leaving anything behind if I could help it.
All around, figures were grabbing what they could and flying back to the pods. Above us, I heard a crack and something massive dropped from the roof to crash and splinter on the marble floor. Flames billowed and roared hungrily.
Guthrie was yelling. ‘Evacuate. Now. Everyone out. Move. Move.’
I got seized again and we raced back to Number One as blocks of masonry, tiles, and burning wood dropped around us. The roof was coming down. The library was finished. I turned back at the door. I wanted a final look at the greatest library in the world, but it was already gone. Just fire, smoke, and destruction. I could only guess at what was being lost. Someone yanked me into the pod as a flaming beam fell across the doorway.
I heard Peterson initiate the jump and then the world went white.
The god of historians was watching out for us. We arrived at the desert site at night. We were crowded and suffocating inside the pod. Peterson ripped open the door and we all tumbled out into the crisp, cold night air, desperate for relief. I tore frantically at my smouldering fire suit. I was so hot I couldn’t bear it another second. If I didn’t get out I would scream. My gloved hands couldn’t grasp the fastenings and I panicked. Dimly, I heard Chief Farrell's voice. He pulled my hands away and others came to help. I’ve never been undressed by so many people. My boots came off and I was down to my tee and shorts when someone wrapped me in an exquisitely cold, wet towel. I groaned with relief. Someone tipped water onto my head and neck. I sagged to the ground and took a minute off. Someone else passed me a drink and I grabbed it, suddenly realising just how desperately thirsty I was.
