Myles pressed onto the green bar and peeked outside before stepping through: he was back in the lane and the parking spaces. Still alone. So Myles closed the fire exit behind him and made his way out, returning to the spot on the main street he’d been only a few moments before.
The Turkish policemen were within sight but distant. They seemed to have managed to climb into their car as it rolled, stopping it. But now they were arguing with each other.
Coolly, Myles ignored them. He walked out of the shadows, up the main street and towards the gate in the Roman walls. Neighbours woken by the commotion of police sirens and shop alarms may have noticed him. They may have remembered him because of his height. But none of them would have connected him with the crime scene. Only the policemen could have done that, and they were too busy quarrelling about their runaway car.
Once through the Roman gate and out of the inhabited area on the edge of the city, Myles checked no one was watching or following him. Then, confident he was alone, Myles ran the remaining distance towards Helen in the excavation tent. He knew he had to get to her as soon as he could.
As he ran, history flickered back into his mind. He tried to remember what was special about the plague of 169AD…
As he approached the tent, Myles saw shadows moving on the canvas. He could tell there was not just Helen inside. There were voices. Anguished voices. The Somalis.
Myles had to confront them. In one swift motion, he lifted up the flaps on the entrance to the tent and leapt inside.
Forty-Six
As Myles entered the tent, he immediately saw the three men who had taken the antibiotics from him. They were clutching their stomachs and arguing. They seemed to be in pain.
Beside them, lying on the ground, was Helen, who looked pale. Myles rushed over and lifted her head. He tried putting two of the antibiotic pills in her mouth and crunching them between her teeth. Then he took out some of the injectable anti-viral drugs. They were hard to use. Eventually he managed to plunge three doses into her thigh.
There was no immediate reaction. He shook her. Still no response. He couldn’t tell whether or not the medicine was reaching her bloodstream. He rubbed her leg, hoping to spur the antibiotics into her system.
‘Helen, I know you’re going to survive,’ he called into her ear. Then he lowered his voice so the Somalis couldn’t hear him. ‘You’ve got septicaemia, but not the plague…’
Then an angry voice called to him from behind. ‘You have poisoned us,’ it jeered.
Myles shook his head, still tending to Helen as he spoke. ‘You poisoned yourselves,’ he said. ‘You overdosed.’
The Somali grabbed his shoulder, pulling him away from Helen. ‘But we’re sick now. You made us sick.’
Myles could barely bring himself to answer the Somalis. They had stolen the antibiotics from him in the shop window, and left none for Helen, whom they had promised would get the first dose. ‘You’ve just taken too much medicine,’ he said. ‘It means you won’t die of the plague.’
Myles could see his response hadn’t satisfied them. The three were stirring towards him. They were about to attack.
Myles dug his hand into his pocket. There he found the slimming pills which he had taken from the shop. He held up the thin strip of tablets. ‘Look,’ he said. ‘I’ve got medicine here which will cure your overdose.’
The Somalis peered sceptically at the packet. The writing on it was too small for them to read from where they were standing.
The three men edged closer. ‘I’ll cut you a deal,’ he offered, holding the strip of tablets higher. ‘You get these tablets if you allow Helen and I to leave.’
The men looked unsure. Myles could see them wondering: would this Englishman really trust us again? Was he a fool?
One of the men started to grin. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘You give us the tablets and we’ll leave you alone.’
Another one joined in. ‘Yes. You give us the tablets first.’ The man was holding out his hand, looking up at Myles. Smug and insincere: there was no way Myles would trust them.
With a single backhanded motion, Myles flicked the packet of pills through the air as if he was throwing a frisbee. The pills flew high, hitting the roof of the tent, then dropped down towards the large excavation hole. Both Myles and the Somalis saw the last glint of light reflect from the packet as it smacked into the side of the hole, spun around, then fell down to the bottom.
Myles waved his hand towards the hole. ‘You’ve got a deal,’ he said. ‘The pills are down there…’
Myles turned back to Helen, half-expecting the Somalis to pounce on his back. But they had taken the bait. They were ambling over to the excavation hole and arguing over who should climb down first.
Taking the opportunity to go while he could, Myles put one arm under Helen’s knees and one beneath her shoulders. Then he lifted her limp body and carried her through the flaps of the tent.
Out in the night air, which was colder than the inside of the excavation site, Helen seemed to revive a little.
Myles ran holding her, stumbling over the ground where it was uneven.
‘I’ve not got the plague?’ she asked, blearily.
‘I’ll explain soon,’ said Myles, still running.
He headed back towards the old Ford parked just a few hundred metres away. When he reached it, he leant down to open the front passenger door, then manoeuvred Helen into the seat. She could barely sit upright, so he put a safety belt on her to make sure she stayed in position. A few seconds later he was driving off, back towards the Roman gate and the site of the pharmacy break-in.
The policemen were still there. He drove up to them and lowered his window. ‘Vandals,’ he told them, pointing behind him. ‘Back in the excavation tent, just through the gate over there. Vandals, destroying the Roman ruins. You should investigate.’
One of the policemen nodded as he thanked Myles in rusty English. The other was about to ask follow-up questions, but Myles was already driving away.
He watched them in his rear-view mirror as he accelerated away. They seemed to have taken his crime report seriously and would probably send someone over to the excavation tent. The trio of Somalis would soon be arrested.
Myles smiled to himself: how appropriate that they should be arrested for being ‘vandals’ — the tribe that raided the Roman Empire in its dying days.
He kept driving, looking for road signs which might point to a hospital. He glanced across at Helen, and spoke as he drove. ‘Helen. Are you awake?’
There was no answer.
‘Helen. I’m going to drive you to a hospital,’ he said. ‘You need proper treatment, but you don’t have bubonic plague. None of us do — not even the Somalis. OK?’
Helen still seemed asleep.
‘I worked it out from the tombstone,’ continued Myles. ‘They dug up the wrong plague victims. Placidia sent them to the wrong grave by mistake. The epidemic of 169AD wasn’t bubonic plague, it was smallpox. And there’s no way they’ll be able to recreate smallpox from the tombs — the DNA of the disease is too fragile to survive through the centuries. Other archaeological digs which have looked for smallpox have found only the faintest trace of it inside teeth. Your illness is septicaemia, from having soil injected into your bloodstream.’
He looked back over at Helen. She probably hadn’t heard anything he had said.
‘Septicaemia isn’t infectious, so the rest of us are healthy. But Helen, you still need treatment. Antibiotics for your blood infection, and a medical check for the smallpox,’ he explained. Then he paused: the next words were hard. ‘But I’ve still got to track down these terrorists. And if I’m with you, then I can’t do it.’