‘To Troy? Right in the middle of …?’
I saw it all again. The thick black smoke rising from the ruined city. The flames. Dead people everywhere. Burning bodies. Kassandra dragged from the temple. Little runty man breaking my nose. The lines of women and children on the beach waiting to be shipped as slaves. Dead babies bobbing in the surf …
Even though he was a grown man now, Helios would be dead in seconds, along with every other man in Troy. They would be taking him back to his death. But if he stayed, they’d shoot him as an anomaly. Certain death for Helios, whatever the Time Police did to him.
Leon was staring at his hands.
‘Unless …?’
He looked up. ‘What?’
‘Unless …?.’
‘Unless we take him back ourselves. To a time and place of our choosing. In that way, we can give him a small chance.’
‘Yes … yes, that would work. He’s a man now. We could take him back to, maybe, one year on from the war. The city was never abandoned, you know. They rebuilt afterwards. It was never the same again, of course, but he would stand a chance of survival. Or from there, he could move away. It would be his decision.’
He nodded. Both of us were skirting around the important issue. Finally, I said it. ‘Will he go?’
Because the thought of forcibly relocating him … dragging a struggling man into the pod, Joe Nelson from the Falconberg Arms, who’d lived all his adult life in modern times, who might be screaming and begging for his life, and then just heaving him out at the other end … abandoning him to the nightmare that was Troy …
This is what happens when historians interfere with History. Helios should have died at Troy and he didn’t. I’d been surprised at the time that History hadn’t sideswiped us all out of existence. Now I had a horrible feeling we were being taught a lesson. That we were being made to face the consequences of what we had done. Whatever happened to him – whether Helios died in this time or long ago, we would have this on our consciences for the rest of our lives. What was Leon thinking at this moment?
I put my hand on his arm. ‘This must be your decision, but whatever you decide, I’m with you all the way. To the death, if necessary. I won’t leave you to face this alone. Nor Peterson, or Guthrie, or any of you. Whatever you do, you can count me in.’
He reached for my hand. ‘I’m going to take him back. It’s got to be me. St Mary’s is too closely watched.’
‘He won’t run?’
‘No. His exact words were, “You risked yourselves for me. At the very least, I can do the same for you.”’
I swallowed. ‘So what’s the plan?’
He was suddenly brisk. ‘Remove your tag and leave it at Pompeii. Stop them following us once and for all. Then we can jump back to St Mary’s, pick up Helios, and take him back to Troy.’
‘How will we get him away from the Time Police?’
‘I’ve left the worst news till last. St Mary’s will arrange a diversion.’
‘Oh … dear.’
He spent all night repairing the pod. I spent all night coughing up major amounts of volcano. I drank as much water as I could and then spent the rest of the night in the toilet. The glamour of an historian’s life.
When I awoke, he’d spread a cloth on the floor and laid a small meal.
‘I’m going to give you painkillers in advance, so you need to eat.’
I tucked in to a croissant, some cheese, and a few dried apricots while he opened locker doors so I could see. We had enough food for an army, two sleeping bags, basic medical supplies, and toiletries. Best of all, I was wearing clothes that weren’t yellow and white. Life was looking up.
I cleared away the meal while he got the medical stuff together. Because now it was tag-removal time and, suddenly, I wasn’t anything like as enthusiastic as I had been, but it was that or living in a box until I died. And until it was gone, we couldn’t risk going back to St Mary’s, so I’d better shut up and get on with it.
I showered, tied up my still sticky hair, and lay down on the floor. He opened a sterile pack and started to lay things out. A bottle of brandy stood within easy reach. I stared resolutely at the scorch mark on the ceiling.
He picked up a syringe. ‘Just a little prick.’
‘Seriously? You’re saying that to an historian?’
‘Couldn’t resist it. Ready?’
‘Ready when you are.’ I closed my eyes.
He paused. ‘I’m sorry about all this, Max. We should have had at least a little time together.’
‘I’m not complaining. I can’t think of anywhere I’d rather be. Or anyone else I’d rather be there with.’
‘Say that again in ten minutes,’ he said, grimly.
‘It’ll be easy,’ I said from a position of complete ignorance. ‘Tags are tiny. How difficult can it be?’
He swabbed my arm with something cold, and I felt the prick of the needle. He also made me swallow two painkillers. He picked up a scalpel and hesitated.