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

He wasn’t being over-optimistic. It wasn’t the soldiers we needed to worry about too much. If we weren’t rescued within a day or so, then life for us was going to get very tough. Very tough indeed.

Everyone has their own place in time. Almost everyone is part of a family unit, or a tribe, or a guild, and even those who aren’t – those who live outside of normal society – usually have the knowledge to survive. Where to go – where not to go. Where they’re likely to pick up free food. Who to watch out for. We had none of that knowledge. We didn’t speak the language. We weren’t prepped for a long assignment. We had no money – or the equivalent. We had nothing tradable. Nothing to barter. If we wanted to eat then we’d have to steal it – with all the dangers of being caught. Hanged. Hands chopped off. Impaled. Not all at the same time, obviously, but none of it was good.

Water was not so much a problem. There were public wells. But we had nothing in which to carry it. We’d have to persuade someone to draw it for us. Or we could go down to the riverbank. The Khosr flowed through the city and the mighty Tigris itself was only a mile away.

But we couldn’t go too far away from the Mashki Gate because that’s where they’d look for us. Except they’d be here next year. Because we were in the wrong time. We would never survive for a whole year.

Neither of us got any sleep that night. Soldiers were everywhere. Whether they were searching for us, or simply enforcing the curfew during the current power vacuum, we had no way of knowing. Twice loud voices sounded at the end of our little alley, but no one ventured near us.

Night in the desert is very cold. We both shivered in our thin tunics. We huddled closely together, tucking Tim’s shawl around us.

He said, ‘Do you remember our first jump together?’

‘I certainly do. You peed on me.’

‘Do you want me to do it again? For old times’ sake?’

‘Save it. If we have to go into hiding, we may have to drink our own urine.’

‘That’s something I’ve often thought about. Do you drink your own – or the other person’s?’

‘When you say ‘often thought about’ …’

‘Well, you know, every now and then. Just out of idle curiosity.’

‘You’re not drinking my urine.’

‘That’s a little selfish. Surely, in our current crisis, we should be working together. I’m rather disappointed in this “me first” attitude.’

‘Fine. Half a pint of Maxwell’s Old Peculiar coming right up. Get it while it’s still warm.’

I felt him chuckle. ‘This time tomorrow we’ll be back at St Mary’s.’

We weren’t.

We had a shit day. Even by St Mary’s standards, it was a shit day.

We snuck out of our alley at first light and walked to the well at the end of the street. Early though we were, a couple of old crones were there before us. Peterson heaved up a couple of buckets of water for them and they gave us a drink in return. We chugged back as much as we could handle, nodded our thanks, and set off for the Gate again.

We hung around all day, moving on when we started getting suspicious looks. We would walk around in the hot sun for a while and then return.

The result was always the same. No St Mary’s.

Soldiers were everywhere. Troops marched purposefully from A to B and then, presumably, back to A again. Groups of them stood on street corners, and large contingents had been drafted to the Gates. We couldn’t have got out even if we’d wanted to.

The sun rose and the heat intensified. I had no shawl to protect my head. Without a comb, I twisted my hair up as best I could. Peterson said I looked like someone’s mad granny.

The city seemed calm but tense. People knew something had happened, but not what. Nineveh under Sennacherib had enjoyed a period of stability. What would happen when the news got out was anyone’s guess. Widespread panic, probably. People don’t like change.

Their plan was obviously to keep a lid on things until a peaceful succession could be achieved. But Esarhaddon was a long way off. He would undertake a series of forced marches. He would get here. But he wasn’t here yet.

I wondered what had happened to the murderers. Did they sit tight and ride out the storm? Or were they out of the gates before the body cooled? And speaking of the body …

‘Let’s go and look,’ said Peterson. So we did.

The site was pristine. Gazing across the moat, we could see no traces of violence at all. That was what all the guards had been for – they were the clean-up squad. Not a trace remained of yesterday’s drama.

We returned slowly back to the Mashki Gate. Still no sign of St Mary’s.

‘Typical,’ said Peterson. ‘Without you or me to show them the way they probably can’t even find Hawking by themselves, let alone Nineveh.’