Ships and Stings and Wedding Rings (3 page)

There was the usual quarrel about who was to drive. Peterson lost because he can't help bouncing his pod whenever and wherever he lands. We've never dared take him to Constantinople in case he skims, pebble-like, across the Bosphorus and we end up in the wrong continent. I left Markham to make this telling argument while I made myself comfortable and started flicking switches. Peterson's indignant response that, since we weren't actually going to Constantinople it hardly mattered, was ignored.

‘Computer, initiate jump.'

‘Jump initiated.'

The world went white.

And here I was again. Ancient Egypt. I'd been here before. Several times, actually. If I had it right, we'd arrived during the reign of Hatshepsut, when Egypt was at the height of her power. One of this female Pharaoh's many achievements was her trading expedition to the legendary land of Punt in the ninth year of her reign. She built five ships – quite an achievement in a land where wood was scarce – and this was what Bashford's team were here to check out.

Bashford's pod, Number Five, should be arriving any moment now. We'd aimed to arrive just before them because we couldn't afford to miss a second.

‘There,' said Peterson, leaning over my shoulder as they materialised. ‘On the other side of that palm grove. Don't let them see us.'

This was the real reason we'd brought Leon's pod. It has a camouflage device. And no – it's not cloaking. It's camouflage. Apparently, there's a difference. Leon will be happy to explain it to you, although that will be a week of your life you'll never get back again. I operated the system and, to all intents and purposes, we were invisible. We just had to hope a camel didn't walk into us.

I watched the screen, waiting for Bashford's team to emerge, while Markham and Peterson quarrelled over the gear I'd blagged from Wardrobe. Since I hadn't expected Peterson to join our happy band, unless one of them was prepared to wear a dress, it was obvious there wasn't enough to cover the pair of them adequately. Peterson solved the problem by pulling rank, leaving a complaining Markham to do something ingenious with an old bed sheet he found in a locker.

‘There,' he said, securing himself firmly with a length of material he was using as a belt. ‘What do you think?'

Markham looks unkempt and dishevelled in any century. There are people in the world who can make even the richest and most gorgeous clothes look scruffy and, if they had a professional organisation to represent them, Markham would be Chairman. And probably Secretary and Treasurer as well.

We contemplated him.

‘You look like a girl,' said Peterson.

‘And not for the first time,' I told him.

‘I think he looks adorable,' said Peterson.

‘I think I look like someone wearing a bed sheet.'

‘Perhaps we could tell people he's on some sort of institutional day-release scheme,' I said doubtfully.

‘We'll tell people he's our slave,' said Peterson.

‘Why am I always the slave?'

‘Demarcation. We're historians. You're not. It's not rocket science.'

‘They'll be out in a minute,' I said, endeavouring to get things back on track. ‘We should get a move on. Keep an eye on things. I'll join you in a minute.'

I scrambled into the long linen tunic-dress I'd brought with me. It was a little tight because of my expanding waistline, but my waistline is always expanding. It seems to have been a one-way process throughout my life and pregnancy wasn't helping. I tied up my hair, plonked the coarse black wig on top, and sighed. I was going to be very hot.

I had, however, brought a linen parasol and my make-up bag. Two minutes in front of a mirror with eye shadow and black eyeliner and I looked moderately respectable. As did Peterson. Markham looked like a grumpy transvestite who had escaped from a Care in the Community Programme. With mascara.

‘Just stay at the back,' advised Peterson.

‘Here they come,' I said.

I might as well say now that their behaviour during this assignment was impeccable. Bashford – when not concussed – was an excellent historian, and his team, even Grey, was unobtrusive and professional. They walked as a quiet group, heads down, discreet.

They had a strict walking order. Bashford at the front, then Gallaccio, then Grey, and Cox brought up the rear. The men had wicker baskets heaved over their shoulders and Grey carried a soft, knotted pack. It had straps but she wouldn't wear it on her back, insisting on carrying it in her arms. So that she could get to the gun quickly, as I now realised, because hindsight is so marvellous and we all have it in spades.

They walked well-trodden paths, but even I couldn't have got lost here. All paths led to the bustling boatyard.

I know there are still places in the present world where boats are made by hand – I've seen one or two as a tourist – but this was amazing.

The boatyard was vast. All around us, I could see craft of every description in varying degrees of completion. Reed rafts for hunting game birds in the marshes; papyrus boats, commissioned by the Pharaoh or her priests for ceremonial purposes; and big wooden barges for military use or for transporting cargo. Some were already in the water. Some had been hauled onto dry land and propped upright on wooden spars, presumably for repair.

Great wooden hulls were silhouetted against the sky. The sound of hammering and sawing filled the air. I could smell the river, hot mud, new wood, and burning tar.

Stocky men, burned dark by the sun and wearing loincloths or short tunics swarmed everywhere, shouting to each other. Everyone was busy and full of purpose. There were no women anywhere. Any food and water was brought by young boys. I made sure to stay well back.

Surrounding the boatyard were a number of workshops housing carpenters, rope makers, caulkers, and other allied trades. Canvas awnings slung between them provided much-needed shade in which to work.

Because it was hot. It was very, very hot. As hot as hell. Dust rose everywhere in great clouds, sticking to my sweaty skin. It was in my hair, my eyes, even my mouth. I could feel it under my clothing. Within minutes, we were all covered in a film of gritty, reddish dust, just like everyone else, but the upside was that now we fitted right in. If Bashford and the others turned around at this very moment, they were unlikely to recognise us.

Sadly, this worked both ways. We had the same problem recognising them. In fact, if they hadn't had Grey with them, we might not have been able to pick them out at all. On the other hand, of course, if they hadn't had Grey with them then we wouldn't be here.

They settled themselves unobtrusively, sharing the shade of an acacia tree with several dogs who refused to budge. The best we could get was a clump of thorny bushes some way back behind a sort of lean-to where they appeared to be boiling papyrus. Probably to make caulk. That's the material with which they waterproof their boats. The demand seemed insatiable. Piles of the harvested papyrus lay around and men arrived with fresh supplies almost hourly.

Huge vats of the stuff were being heated over open fires and I could see the heat haze rippling above each cauldron, because, of course, we weren't hot enough, were we? The men working here were practically naked and I didn't blame them in the slightest. Just watching them made my hair prickle and sweat run down my back. My tunic was drenched and limp.

Back at St Mary's, they'd be having a pre-Christmas snowball fight in which many old scores would be settled by a handful of cold wet snow down the back of your neck. I'd give anything for a handful of cold wet snow down the back of my neck.

I've no idea what type of straggly bush was providing our only patch of shade – this is what happens when you're not properly prepped – but they were apparently made of razor blades. We struggled to the centre of the thicket, made ourselves as comfortable as possible, and watched.

And watched.

We never took our eyes off them and I honestly couldn't see how she'd ever managed to lose the bloody thing. Even when working, she usually kept one hand on her pack and she certainly never let it out of her reach. I noticed too that Bashford was never very far away from her. In fact, deliberately or otherwise, she was never left alone. Even from this distance, I could see how nervous she was, jumping at every sound. Continually alert for the unexpected. It was only this time last year that we were yanking her out of Colchester. I sighed. This was all my fault. I should never have assigned her.

When Bashford's team returned to their pod, we returned to ours, since Grey had never left it at night. A shower would have been wonderful but not having been prepped to go out, the tanks weren't full and we had to conserve water. We did briefly discuss a quick dip in the Nile but I was once chased by a herd (or whatever the collective noun is) of Nile crocodiles; Leon and I barely escaped, and that sort of experience does tend to discourage the use of the Nile for casual bathing and recreational purposes. So we shook out our clothes, washed carefully, and conserved water.

Days passed. Our supplies grew low and I began to worry. Every morning, just before dawn, Bashford's team left their pod. We followed on as closely as we dared. Not too close, but not too far behind either. Following in their footsteps, eyes on the ground, always looking for that bloody gun.

They would settle themselves in for a long day's observing and we observed the observers. After they departed, one of us would nip over and give the area the once over in case she'd dropped it there. She never had.

As far as we could see, they were making general observations, but concentrating mainly on a ninety-foot long transportation barge, which was taking shape in front of our eyes. Four others lay alongside. Men swarmed all over them, up and down wooden ladders. Long ago, Herodotus had described how Egyptian boats were built, using methods that, with typical Egyptian resistance to change, had remained virtually unaltered over the centuries. Just wooden planking, cut to a precise shape that would fit tightly together in a brick pattern.

‘Not a nail in sight,' said Peterson admiringly.

Time passed slowly. It does in Egypt. I now knew more about Egyptian shipbuilding than was good for me. We couldn't even fall back on that standard English conversational device, the weather, because once we'd agreed it was hot, that was pretty well it. There were flies everywhere, most of whom fell in love with Markham. At one point, nearly every insect in the country seemed to regard him as a desirable place to take up residence, or lay their eggs and bring up their family, and he was covered in lumps, bumps, bites, and stings, and had developed a small but interesting rash on his elbow.

‘Not a clue,' said Peterson, peering at it. ‘Does it hurt?'

‘Like buggery.'

‘Well, don't scratch it.'

‘Is that it? You're both field medics and the best you can come up with is “Don't scratch it?”'

‘We could amputate your arm if you like,' I offered, out of the goodness of my heart. ‘That would certainly enable us to showcase our medical skills.'

Peterson nodded enthusiastically.

Markham protectively clutched his diseased arm and glared at us.

‘You know what,' said Peterson, settling back as comfortably as he could, ‘one day we'll have a normal Christmas. We'll spend the run up decorating St Mary's. There will be streamers and tinsel and a tree and, if I can manoeuvre Helen into the right position
vis-à-vis
the mistletoe, some serious snogging. There will be carols and eggnog and silly games. We'll listen to the King's Speech. We'll all consume a year's worth of calories in one meal and then, when she's too stuffed to put up any sort of resistance, I'll ask Helen a very important question. It will be a proper Christmas.'

He sat, staring happily into his future. Markham and I eyed each other and said nothing.

To pass the time, we discussed names for the baby. Agamemnon got the most votes, followed by Iphigenia.

To assist him in his ongoing struggle against the insect world, we pumped Markham full of everything we could find in the med kit and each morning, at his request, I sprayed him thoroughly with a can of some sort of repellent he said was at the back of one of the lockers and which seemed to be doing the job, even if he did smell of rancid grease afterwards.

‘We've been here nearly a week,' said Markham one day, wiping sweat off his face. ‘Suppose we don't ever find it? Would it be safe to assume that if
we
can't find it – and we've been looking hard – then no one else will either? That it's been buried forever or at the bottom of an irrigation ditch or something?'

‘Not with our luck,' said Peterson. ‘I wish they'd hurry up and launch this bloody ship. We're running short of food and water.'

He was right on both counts. With our luck, the gun would be picked up by some kid who, in the sort of freakish set of circumstances with which St Mary's is so familiar, would manage to blow Hatshepsut's head off and change History for all time. And our supplies were dwindling fast.

I was beginning to lose my optimism. We huddled together, following our tiny patch of shade as best we could, dogging the other team's every step, and there was no sign anywhere of that bloody gun. For two pins, I'd have stormed across, grabbed the thing from her pack, and jumped back to St Mary's as quickly as possible, but I couldn't. She never let it out of her reach.

We were hot, hungry, thirsty, sunburned, stung, and going nowhere. The barge, which appeared to be the focus of their observations, was nearing completion. They would pack up and jump back and we'd have no choice other than to follow them. Then I'd have to go and have a very difficult conversation with Dr Bairstow.

For the first time, I began to wonder whether I should have gone straight to the Time Police and left them to sort it out. Every day we were here we risked being discovered, and that would be disastrous because it would influence events that had already happened. Doubt gnawed at me and there were several occasions when I hovered on the brink of pulling us out and heading home.