A Symphony of Echoes (The Chronicles of St Mary's, #2)

‘Interesting. Lead on.’


The sun was far too hot to move quickly, so we strolled along happily, politely stepping aside with a smile whenever we encountered anyone else. It was easily the most peaceful assignment I’d ever had.

Miss Prentiss spoke in my ear.

‘Dr Peterson. We have a problem.’

Tim sighed.

‘Go ahead.’

‘Mr Hopwood’s been bitten. By a scorpion.’

‘Did you see it? How big?’

Believe it or not, the smaller they are, the more dangerous they can be. So if you are ever bitten by one the size of a small truck, you should be fine. Size matters. Never mind whether it’s women, chocolate, or scorpions – big is always beautiful.

‘Smallish. But that’s not the problem. He seems to be having some sort of allergic reaction.’

‘Symptoms?’

‘Rising temperature. Erratic pulse. Tingling in his extremities.’ There was a pause and an unpleasant noise. ‘And severe vomiting.’

‘Where are you?’

‘The three of us are already in the pod.’

‘Get him back at once. You can return for us later. We’re right at the northern end and it would take us a good twenty minutes to get to you. Go now.’

‘Sir, are you sure?’

‘Yes. Medevac. Get him out now. My authorisation.’

‘Yes, sir. We’ll be back as soon as we can.’

‘No rush. Take your time.’

In the background, I could hear the computer counting down. ‘… Three, two, one …’

And they were gone.

‘Well,’ said Tim, briskly, to cover the sudden feelings of unease we were both experiencing at being left here with no means of getting back. ‘Shall we continue?’

I’d never actually been left behind before. With no means of escape should I need one. On the other hand …

I looked around. Lush green growth rioted all around us. Beautiful birds flitted from tree to tree. I could hear gently trickling water somewhere to my left. A path twisted enticingly deeper into the gardens. A peacock called. The whole scene breathed peace and serenity. When you consider our usual setting was some bloody battlefield, or rat-filled slum, or viewing a spectacular but hazardous natural catastrophe, it could have been a lot worse. We were in a garden. What could go wrong?

We ambled slowly around the park, pausing every now and then to admire a particular flower, peer into the dark depths of an ornamental pool, or just inhale the cool, green, garden fragrance. Occasionally, through the trees, we caught glimpses of the giant central ziggurat with its green crown.

We still had no way of knowing whether these were the hanging gardens, but if they weren’t, then Babylon was really going to have to get its green wellies on to go one better than this.

Slowly, we left the more popular areas behind us, drawing near to the moat to get a good view of the ziggurat.

I was entranced.

‘Tim, this is wonderful.’

‘Isn’t it?’ he said. ‘I could stay here for ever.’

We never learn.

As he spoke the words, we stepped out from under the trees and found ourselves looking across the moat to the ziggurat and a flight of steps leading to the first terrace. Even though this was the least visited part of the park, Sennacherib had still paid attention to detail, and two winged leopards guarded the stairway.

We ascended a small, grassy hump for a better view.

And then, as we watched, three sumptuously dressed figures emerged and stood directly opposite us on the other side of the moat. One, several steps above the others wore a tall, golden conical hat. The other two were bareheaded. They talked among themselves. They were obviously high-ranking noblemen, their beards curled and oiled in the fashion of the day. The two younger men wore robes of gold with scarlet shawls. The older wore purple. Royal purple.

Tim stiffened. ‘Is that who I think it is?

I nodded. Something was wrong. Really wrong. I had a very nasty feeling we were looking at the mighty Sennacherib himself. And with the lack of guards and personal retinue, the two younger men must be family members. Sons, probably. Two of them.

My happy feelings evaporated.

‘Tim, we may need to move pretty sharpish.’

‘Why?’

Too late.

Even as we watched, one of the younger men laughed and pointed upwards, drawing attention to a bird passing overhead. The older man looked up and as he did so, both younger men fell upon him with swords. Taken completely unawares, he went down at once. It was over in seconds. He lay, head down on the staircase, not moving. Scarlet trickles of blood ran down the steps in a dreadful parody of the cascading water around us.

We stood frozen.

They’d killed the king. Right in front of us, they’d killed the king. The mighty Sennacherib. The Assyrian who came down like the wolf on the fold was dead. Killed in his own back garden. By his own sons. And we’d witnessed it.