A Second Chance (The Chronicles of St. Mary's, #3)
by Jodi Taylor
Prologue
Troy fell.
That’s what it says in every record from Homer onwards. Just two words. Short and impersonal. Troy fell. Words which completely fail to convey, even slightly, the carnage, the brutality, the suffering, the horror, everything that must inevitably accompany the end of a ten-year war and the fall of a great civilisation.
Because I was there, on the blood-soaked sand, amongst the Trojan women lined up on the beach for export, all empty-eyed with shock and grief.
I was there.
I saw infants torn from mothers already grieving for dead husbands, sons, and brothers. Some were tossed carelessly aside as useless. Some were spitted there and then. Some were flung into the surf where they bobbed, wailing, for a few seconds. Now and then, a woman would find the strength to fight back and a frantic struggle would break out. All along the beach, men strode, cursing, shoving, and punching. Urgent to restore order, divide the spoils, and get away.
I crouched on the sand, head down, watching from under my brows. I saw Andromache led past, silent in her grief, to be handed to Neoptolemus and begin her days serving the people who had hurled her tiny son from the city walls.
Somewhere, my people were safe – I hoped. I was the only one outside. I was the only one stupid enough to be caught. Any minute now, rough hands would drag me forward, pull down my tunic, assess what they saw, and allocate me to some grinning Greek. I would be loaded on to a ship with the others. If I was lucky. If I wasn’t good slave material – and believe me, I wasn’t – I’d be pushed onto the ground and raped repeatedly and violently until I bled to death in the sand. I was under no illusions. It was happening all around me.
This is where a passion for History gets you. Right in the front line. Up close and personal, while History happens all around you. And, occasionally, to you. I could have been a bomb-disposal expert, or a volunteer for the Mars mission, or a firefighter, something safe and sensible. But, no, I had to be an historian. I had to join the St Mary’s Institute of Historical Research. Over the years I’d been chased by a T-rex, had the Great Library fall on me, grappled with Jack the Ripper, and been blown up by an exploding manure heap. All about par for the course.
More women were fighting now, clawing and shrieking. They were cut down without a second thought. There were so many of us that the Greeks could afford to be wasteful. The city had been emptied. Every Greek would go home laden with the spoils of war – weapons, temple goods, gold … and slaves.
Long lines shuffled towards the boats. I don’t know why they were in such a hurry. It would take them days to clear the city. Maybe they feared the aftershocks.
Footsteps approached. I crouched lower and pulled my stole around my head. The two women in front of me were yanked away. I saw dirty feet in scabby leather sandals. Someone grabbed my hair and hauled me roughly to my feet.
My turn.
The city burned behind us. Black smoke billowed towards the heavens, sending out an unmistakeable message to gods and men.
Troy had fallen.
Chapter One
Before that, however, there was this …
‘I really don’t see how you can blame me for this, Dr Bairstow. I wasn’t even here.’
And, of course, that was my fault too. Apparently, if I had been here, then none of this would have happened. I failed to see the logic of this argument.
‘I fail to see the logic of this argument, sir. We both know if I’d been here at the time of the – occurrence – then I’d be blue, too. However, I wasn’t, so I’m not. Blue, that is. But, until he regains his normal colour, I’m very willing to stand in for Dr Peterson on this assignment.’
I wasn’t, of course. With so much to do for the upcoming Troy assignment, there was no way I wanted to spend a day with an elderly professor from Thirsk University, no matter how many Brownie points it would earn us, or how much Dr Bairstow would appreciate this favour to an old friend. However, the honour of my department – to say nothing of St Mary’s – was at stake, so I really had very little choice.
Heads would roll for this. Starting with one in particular.
Back in my office, I requested the pleasure of Dr Peterson’s company.
My assistant, The Rottweiler, or Miss Lee if you want to use the name on her payslip, delighted at the opportunity to drop someone in it, replied smugly that he was already on his way.
Peterson, of course, was my primary target, but while I was waiting for him to materialise, a very acceptable substitute was also available.
I called Major Guthrie, Head of Security, supposedly cool and level-headed, and implicated as deeply as everyone else. He gave me no opportunity to speak.
‘You can’t blame me for this.’
‘You underestimate me.’