There was quite a crowd at the public well by now, and we had to wait a long time for our turn. We were hungry, too. The time for the mid-day meal was approaching. Succulent smells drifted around. My stomach rumbled.
We returned to our little alley, stifling between the high walls. The citizens of Nineveh employed the time-honoured method of rubbish disposal. They chucked it over the back wall into the alley. Problem solved.
We poked around, found some odd bits of wood, one sandal (why is there ever only one?) some strange bits of shrivelled vegetables that presumably even the goats wouldn’t touch, a certain amount of night soil, a dead rat, and some broken pots.
We’re St Mary’s. We can make anything out of anything. We could probably build a nuclear reactor out of this little lot. However, we settled for propping the wood against the wall and draping Peterson’s shawl over the top, which gave us shade and cover. Crawling underneath, I picked over the pottery and we found a broken piece that could hold several inches of water.
We slept for a while, roused only by the family on the other side of the wall all of whom seemed to have all traipsed outside for the sole purpose of yelling at each other for half an hour, and then traipsed back inside again.
It was still stifling in our alley, so we set off to the well again. Using our precious piece of pot, we were able to rinse off some of the dust and drink our fill.
The sun was going down. We’d been in Nineveh for twenty-four hours. With that thought, my stomach rumbled again. The street markets were packing up for the day and we wandered slowly along, keeping an eye out for discarded fruit and vegetables. No such luck. The street urchins had long since done all that. We really needed to get our act together. I started to think.
Peterson, turning to speak to me, brushed against a pile of figs and knocked some half-dozen to the ground. He stopped, picked them up and replaced them, contriving to keep two back. And the stallholder kindly gave him another two – one each – by way of thanks.
A feast!
We sat on a low wall and ate them slowly. Two figs seemed very inadequate. Over the way, a man was stirring a huge cauldron of something savoury and dispensing ladlesful to people who turned up with bowls. And money.
We moved on.
The smell of piss told us we were in the dyeing and laundry area.
I had an idea.
The secret is not to run. Running draws attention. Move slowly and with confidence. I walked to the nearest vat full of reddish-coloured water, picked up a nearby bowl, filled it and walked slowly out again. I don’t think anyone even noticed me. Peterson waited outside.
‘What on earth …?’
‘We’re going to break curfew tonight.’
‘We are?’
‘Yes. We need to be more proactive. St Mary’s are all over this city even as we speak. But they’re looking in the wrong time. And I’m getting fed up with waiting. So we leave them a message. As big as we can. On the side of that big white building near the gate. Where even St Mary’s can’t miss it.’
We crept out after curfew, just as the last light died away. I kept watch while Peterson did the deed.
He did his best in the dark. We could only cross our dye-stained fingers.
Stumbling out of our alleyway the next morning, we paused to admire our handiwork. Scrawled hugely across the wall in brownish-red stain, was the date:
681BC
You couldn’t miss it. Even St Mary’s couldn’t miss it. And the beauty of it was that no one here would have a clue what it meant. They might even think it was building decoration. And the BC was the clincher. The message could only be from us.
Search parties would be looking for us. They would start in 680BC. When they couldn’t find us, they would start to fan out across time. We had to leave them some sort of message. Show them where to look. Sooner or later, if no one wiped it off, or the building didn’t fall down, or it didn’t just fade away, next year someone would see it. Then they’d concentrate all their resources on 681BC. We were tagged. Once they had the right time, they’d find us.
They had to. Because something was happening. I could hear marching feet. Trumpets sounded. Orders shouted. Soldiers were on the streets.
The secret was out. You could see it. You could see the news fly from one group of people to the next. Shock and fear were written across people’s faces. Women covered their faces and cried aloud. Men shouted, vainly demanding more details. Even the children stopped running and stood still, unsure what was happening, but aware that something was very wrong.
Soldiers started pushing people around, trying to restore order. Traders hastily shut up their stalls. Trouble was brewing. People vanished off the streets. Children were yanked inside. Doors and shutters slammed shut. Those far from their houses ran along the streets, desperate to be home and safe. Livestock mutinied in the panic and refused to move. Soldiers pushed and shoved, shouting incomprehensibly, but the message was clear enough.