We left Odysseus and his problems for another time and another jump. That would be a major assignment in its own right, but both Kal and I jumped to Agamemnon’s palace at Mycenae because we wanted to see the end of Kassandra’s story.
We went as bath slaves. We landed well ahead of the actual event, slipping into the deep shadows and spending hours waiting, unmoving and silent. We witnessed what we had come to see and slipped away in all the confusion and upheaval that follows a mighty king’s murder.
Troy was the end of many things and the beginning of others.
For everyone in that part of the world, after Troy, nothing was ever the same again.
Or for me at St Mary’s, either.
It was a measure of our growing independence and prestige that, for this presentation, Thirsk came to us.
We wined and dined them and then sat them down in the Hall. I gave my usual introduction, outlined the mission parameters, and described the methodology. The streamers came on-line and suddenly we were there – on that small hill outside Troy, panning across the fertile plain that was as familiar to me as yesterday.
I felt my heart contract and, under the guise of watching the holo, moved back into the shadows.
We took them through the city, showing brief glimpses of daily life. Not too much – we didn’t want them descending into vigorous academic debate – or screaming and hair-pulling as lesser mortals might call it – before we’d finished.
We gave them shots of the upper and lower city – a brief look at the royal family – a very brief glimpse of Achilles and Hector as they faced off for their fatal confrontation – a fabulous shot of the Black Ships piling up on the beach and finally, a far-off shot of the devastated city burning – all black smoke and ash and the long lines of people on the beach.
They were speechless. We had to show it twice and even then they wanted more.
Afterwards, the Chancellor asked me if I would publish. ‘The ending of the war. The Trojan Horses. You should publish.’
I shook my head. I’d left it a little late to start publishing now. I could imagine the reaction to my paper. I’d rocked enough boats in my time. Leave the world its stories.
I shook my head.
‘Publish or perish,’ she reminded me.
For a member of St Mary’s there are many more imaginative ways to perish than simply failing to publish regularly.
I thanked her and declined.
She regarded me over the rim of her glass.
‘Could I interest you in joining us at Thirsk?’
I paused, my own glass halfway to my lips. Could she? That was a thought. A very flattering thought. After all, I had been prepared to leave St Mary’s. Mentally, I’d already made the jump. Now I was being offered somewhere to jump to.
A new beginning. In new surroundings. Somewhere I wouldn’t remember, every day, how Chief Farrell had poisoned the Troy assignment for me.
I could see Kal regularly. And Peterson and Dieter when they visited.
I could cut my bloody hair.
She was watching me carefully. ‘Think about it,’ she said, and walked away to re-join Dr Bairstow.
Actually, I did. I thought about it a lot.
The next evening there was a knock at my door. I’d been dozing in front of the TV. I shambled over in sweats and with my face imprinted by the pattern of the cushion. One day I’ll be sophisticated. I opened the door to see the Boss standing there. I woke up in a hurry.
‘Dr Maxwell, may I come in?’
‘Of course, sir.’
At least I didn’t have to rush around tidying up. I learned at a very young age not to leave any trace of my passing. The bed was made and everything tidy.
He sat on the saggy couch.
‘An excellent presentation, Dr Maxwell. Please pass on my thanks and congratulations to everyone involved.’
I said, ‘Thank you, sir,’ and waited for the real reason for his visit.
‘Am I going to lose you?’
I decided to be honest. ‘I don’t know, sir.’
He nodded. ‘The Chancellor, in what she imagines is a gesture of courtesy, has informed me she is doing her best to poach a leading member of my staff. Tell me, Max, if you do leave, would you be running from – or running to?’
‘That’s a very good question, sir. I don’t know. To tell you the truth, I don’t like myself very much at the moment.’
‘Do you think that by removing yourself from St Mary’s you can escape this self-dislike?’
‘Well, a change is as good as a rest, they say. I don’t know. I’m sorry, sir, these days, I don’t know what I do want.’
He got up to go. ‘While you’re thinking about it, may I offer a word of advice?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Paint. I remember a young historian returning from WWI, some years ago now, a little younger and lot less wise than she is today. She resolved her own unsettled thoughts by dragging them out into the open air, plastering them across the walls in SickBay, and daring anyone to object. I rather liked that young historian and I wouldn’t like to think she’s gone for good.’
I swallowed hard. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘I’d like you to clear away the Troy material as soon as possible, Dr Maxwell. I have a new assignment lined up for you.’