Myles made the rest of the journey to Istanbul through a combination of hitchhiking — with a lorry driver to the border between Romania and Bulgaria — then by stealing a third vehicle, a cheap-looking Ford.
He passed several large camps set up near the Danube for refugees fleeing from the East. The thought of warm soup and other food — perhaps even fresh clothes — tempted him inside. But, like the camps for desperate migrants set up by the Romans, he knew the authorities would try to keep him inside. He’d be kept away from Helen. They might even recognise him and send him back to court. He had to keep moving.
He drove the Ford into Turkey — the only border where they asked for his passport. When Myles pretended he couldn’t find it, he was made to wait on one side, then managed to drive through when the guards changed. He soon reached Istanbul itself, parking the car in the outskirts of the city before he enjoyed the last of his bread and meat. The thought of meeting up with Helen again made him smile.
Istanbul — he’d made it.
Stopping at a public payphone, he tried to call Helen’s unregistered mobile. No answer. He tried again. Still no response.
Next he dialled her normal mobile. That went straight to answerphone. Myles decided the phone was probably being monitored, so it was best not to leave a message.
He thought again, and remembered the name of the plague cemetery Helen had mentioned: the Cemetery of Emperor Justinian.
He found a shop which was selling guidebooks of the city. One of the books contained a map. Carefully Myles unfolded it and tried to orientate himself. From a small index in the corner of the paper, Myles found the cemetery: the excavation was just outside the city walls, probably about three miles from where he was currently standing.
Back in the car, Myles drove past the Roman heritage which still propped up the city. Temples, old marketplaces and ancient government buildings were everywhere. All empires leave a legacy. The Romans had left much more than most. What would be left of modern civilisation, if Juma managed to destroy it?
He was also puzzled by why Helen hadn’t answered either of her phones. There could be a simple explanation for it, but Myles suspected something more sinister. The joy of a reunion with her was becoming clouded by fear.
He drove on to the ancient cemetery, where he saw the canvas tent which covered the excavation site. Deliberately, Myles drove past, then parked up and watched.
Nothing seemed to be happening. So Myles climbed out, closed the car door behind him and walked towards the tent.
The entrance was tied up with thin rope. Myles listened from the outside until he was content no one was inside, then started to loosen the knot. The flap was soon undone and Myles could enter.
Despite the eerie feel, the inside of the tent appeared to be empty. Myles moved further inside. He could see a peculiar scientific-looking chest and some benches.
Then he moved towards the large hole in the centre of the tent. He leant over to look down. Some of the excavated soil surface was reflecting light, indicating it was wet. But there was something else, too. Myles squinted and saw a faint light. Something was glowing down in the ruins.
Myles quickly climbed down the aluminium ladder, to the bottom of the excavation site, several metres below. He moved towards the glow and confirmed it was a mobile phone. He picked it up: one missed call. The call was timed to just over an hour ago, from a number in Istanbul. He flicked through the call log. There had been a call from Germany, and a call to an unusually short number in Germany about sixteen minutes later. The Germany emergency services: it was Helen’s unregistered phone.
It meant that either Helen had lost it or, more likely, she was in trouble.
With only the faint light from the phone, he could see old Roman tombs and broken architecture all around him. He realised this was one of the earlier graves for plague victims. Later ones were more hurried and less ornate.
He touched the surface of the stones. Most had decayed beyond recognition. But one seemed to have letters carved into it which he could still make out. There was clearly a ‘C’ followed by ‘M’, then a space or a bump — hard to tell — but he thought it was probably an ‘X’. Next came another ‘X’ followed by ‘II’. Then a space, and three more letters: ‘AUC’. Vaguely, he remembered ‘AUC’ was short for ‘Ab Urba Condita’ — Latin for ‘from when the city was founded’, usually taken to be 753BC. It was how the Romans counted years before they reset their system to the birth year of Jesus Christ. So this tomb was from before the Empire converted to Christianity. He worked through the Roman numerals: CMXXII — nine-hundred and twenty-two. Quick maths: 922 minus 753BC made it 169AD. The numerals spelt out the year of one of Rome’s great plagues. He was touching the gravestone of one of its victims.
But something didn’t fit. He was in the Cemetery of Emperor Justinian, but this grave was about three and a half centuries older. It was an earlier plague. A half-memory from tutorials with Placidia flickered into his mind. What was he missing? He needed to remember…
Then he noticed movement on the floor of the excavation pit. He turned to look closer: it was a human body, covered in a cloth and bound in ropes, lying alone on the floor of the site.
Carefully, Myles approached. Then he saw a half-exposed face. It was a face he recognised immediately, and a jolt of horror suddenly passed through his entire body.
Forty-Four
Myles rushed over to Helen’s body, unsure whether she was unconscious, asleep or dead. He grabbed her and lifted her into his arms, shouting into her ear, ‘Helen, Helen…’
She was still warm, but her body was limp. He registered the rope tied around her wrists but ignored it. Instead, he pushed back her hair to shout her name straight into her ear. She still didn’t respond. He kissed her on the lips, pushing his mouth to hers as hard as he could. Desperate, he slapped her face and shook her.
Slowly Helen started to stir.
‘Helen — wake up!’
She half-opened her eyes and saw Myles. Her face relaxed as she recognised him. Then she gulped and looked queasy.
She grabbed his shoulder, then strained as she turned away. She was kneeling on the floor. Myles looked on, feeling helpless.
Then Helen retched. Vomit flew out of her mouth onto the dusty floor of the excavation. She tried to regain her breath while remnants from her stomach dribbled down from her mouth. Then she hurled again, expelling much less this time. She spat out what remained in her mouth until her mouth was clear. Then she wiped her face and looked up at Myles. Her expression was an apology for what she had just done.
‘Are you OK?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know,’ said Helen. ‘They injected me with something.’ She gestured to her arm.
‘Who?’
‘I don’t know.’ Helen was speaking much more weakly than usual. ‘Juma’s people, I guess.’
Myles rubbed her head and neck, trying to wake her some more. Then he peeled off the tape which was binding her wrists together. He lifted up her left sleeve to see a needle mark on her arm and ran his fingers over it, feeling a bump where the skin was inflamed. Trying to disguise his reaction, he put the sleeve back in place.