‘Hey! Organic?’ he called out to Becks. The support unit turned to look at him. ‘You able to eat beans?’
‘That is acceptable,’ she replied.
He passed her the opened tin and set to work on opening another.
Rashim was on his knees now and shaking white dust off his sleeping bag. ‘You sleep OK, Maddy?’
‘Slept like the dead last night. I’m exhausted. My legs are killing me, though. How about you?’
‘Not too bad.’ He shrugged. ‘I think I was dreaming about ships.’
She smiled. ‘Pirate ships?’
He stroked his dark beard and flashed a grin her way. ‘Indeed.’
‘Aw, man!’ Heywood suddenly whooped.
They both turned to look. Maddy sat up groggily. ‘What’s up?’
‘Got a label on this one!’ His eyes were round and wide. He held up a large dented can in one hand as if it was a nugget of gold sifted from a babbling mountain creek. ‘Only got us a guddamn chocolate-fudge sponge here!! Anyone want to share that with me?’
Maddy shook her head. ‘I’ll take anything that looks like canned fruit.’ She got up and wandered over to the trailer. ‘Or, actually, baked beans maybe. I could go with cold baked beans.’
Heywood tossed his penknife to her. ‘There ya go. You can play lucky dip for yourself.’
‘I will share that chocolate pudding with you,’ said Rashim.
‘Uh … OK.’ Heywood shrugged. ‘There was me hopin’ I got this all to myself.’ He came over and sat down beside Rashim. ‘You gonna excuse fingers?’
‘I suppose we have little choice but to eat like cavemen.’
Maddy leaned over the side of the trailer and began picking through identical-looking tin cans.
Heywood grinned as he dug a finger into one side of the sponge. ‘I ain’t eaten a real chocolate puddin’ since I was a little kid.’
Rashim did likewise, sinking the tips of his fingers in and gouging out a chunk of it. ‘It looks good.’
Both men pulled a moist hunk of the sponge out, chocolate goo in the middle dangling in a thick gelatinous drip. After looking at each other for a moment, grinning like kids in a sweet shop, they tucked what they’d scooped out with their fingers into their mouths.
They both chewed silently for a moment. It was Heywood who pulled a face first. ‘This taste right to you?’
Rashim wrinkled his nose and shook his head. ‘No. It tastes odd. Not right. Savoury, not sweet.’ He ran his tongue round his mouth. ‘Like … yeast …’
His eyes met the old man’s and he spat it out on to the ground.
Rashim snatched the can from Heywood and then turned it round to inspect the sides. He pulled at the faded label; it was damp and loose and came away like soggy tissue paper. There was a dent beneath the label, and a small jagged hole. ‘Did you just make this hole with your knife?’
Heywood shook his head. His cheeks still bulged with food; he wasn’t sure whether to swallow or spit out. ‘I was stabbin’ at the top.’
Maddy looked round from the trailer. ‘What’s up?’
‘Don’t touch them! Don’t touch the tins!’ Rashim dropped the one he was holding on to the ground. It landed with a thud on its side and the top crust of the sponge spilled out, revealing the soft gooey centre. The goo was mottled in colour. Mostly dark brown, but in some places there were small pale bacilli-like strings.
Heywood spat out what he had in his mouth. ‘Guddamn it! Got that virus crap in it!’
Maddy and Becks hurried over and looked at the spilled chocolate pudding on the ground. The thin strands of pearly, mucus-like liquid began to fan out and spread like the speeded-up time-lapse footage of a culture growing in a Petri dish.
‘My God! It got into the tin!’ whispered Rashim. ‘The can was punctured … it got inside!’
‘But … but the virus is all dead now, isn’t it?’ said Maddy. ‘If it got in … wouldn’t it have already turned the whole pudding to –?’
‘No air inside!’ Rashim stared up at her with growing panic in his eyes. ‘No oxygen! Maybe that … maybe that slowed the process down?’
They watched fine pallid strands extending, spreading, fanning out and rapidly breaking down the sponge. Now it had air – or perhaps it was the light – the virus was working frighteningly quickly. An ingredient, a protein within the pudding, was signalling the virus to wake up; that there was yet work to be done.
Maddy’s face blanched. ‘Oh Jesus!’
Rashim looked at her. ‘It’s in me! My God, Maddy … it’s inside me!’
‘Stay calm, Rashim …’ she whispered uselessly. ‘Just … just stay calm! Let me think –’
He shook his head slowly. ‘I’m … already infected …’
‘No. Hang on. Not necessarily –’
Becks came over from the trailer. ‘Caution, Maddy.’
Heywood reached for some water and took a slug, swilling it around his mouth and spitting what he had out on to the ashes of their fire.
‘Forget it,’ said Rashim. ‘It’s too late for that.’
‘Maddy, you should step away from them!’ Becks pulled insistently at Maddy’s arm. She staggered hesitantly backwards.
‘Becks is right, Maddy!’ Rashim waved at her to step back further. ‘You should get back. Quickly! Get away from here. The virus is fast.’
‘Hang on!’ She shook her head. ‘You might not be infected!’
‘There is no way I’m not! Contaminated food touched my tongue. We both tasted it. We’re dead, Maddy! We’re dead! Get out of here!’
‘I’m not leaving you!’
‘Do it!’ he said. ‘Now!’ Even though it was cold enough for their breath to be clouds of flickering vapour, his skin was damp and glistening with beads of sweat. ‘I’m feeling wrong already!’
‘Maddy,’ said Becks, ‘Rashim is correct! You should do as he says!’
‘Christ.’ Heywood dropped to his knees. ‘I think I’m gonna be sick,’ he grunted. Then he heaved, ejecting pink-stained bile on to the ground between his legs. It spattered like offal tipped from a butcher’s barrel. He cursed under his breath, wheezing groggily. ‘The hell is that?’ He stared at the mess at his feet like an early-hours drunkard. ‘That my guddamn stomach linin’?’
‘Rashim! OhMyGod, no!’ cried Maddy.
He shook his head. ‘It’s too late … you have to leave now!’
Becks grasped Maddy’s arm and pulled her a few steps further back.
‘Rashim!’ Maddy cried. ‘I’m so sorry. I’m sorry! This is all my fault.’
He dropped down to his hands and knees and spat bile on to the ground. ‘Go! Just go! Before … before this thing … gets you …’
Maddy, still held by Becks, twisted and squirmed in her grasp. She began to sob uncontrollably. The support unit put an arm round her and turned her away from the dying men. She looked back over her shoulder. ‘I will take her from here.’
Rashim looked up at Becks, licked his lips and nodded. ‘Good. G-get … get her out of here …’
Maddy wriggled in Becks’s firm grasp, then turned round. ‘Rashim, I’m so sorry …’
‘It’s OK … nothing needs to be said, Maddy … Just go! Now!’
Becks dragged her away across the dusty ground, past the trailer and towards the nearest of the dead trees.
‘NO!’ Rashim called out after them. His rasping voice echoed round the creaking, lifeless forest. They stopped. Maddy turned to look back at him. ‘Wrong … way …’ He jabbed a finger towards a looming, snow-tipped mountain peak. ‘S-south-west!’ he gasped. ‘It’s … it’s … just … Head towards that … OK?’
Rashim saw Maddy nod. They changed direction and he watched them until the last flash of an orange anorak was lost to the black-and-white world. Then they were gone. His friend, his colleague …
Goodbye, Maddy.
He turned to his right and looked at Heywood lying curled up on the ground, shivering and groaning.
‘Hey
wood?’
The old man’s eyes opened. The whites of his eyes had haemorrhaged and were a dark red; he was leaking tears of blood on to his pale cheeks. ‘Jesus Christ! Death … d-death by … g-guddamn chocolate p-puddin’ …’ He pulled a death-mask grin. His gums were beginning to break down and bleed; the roots of his brown teeth were becoming exposed, looking long, almost like canine fangs. ‘… by chocolate … p-puddin’ … ain’t that a … guddamn stupid k-kick in the ass …?’
Rashim responded with the snort of a dry laugh. He felt moisture trickling from his nostrils, soaking into the bristles of his moustache, and tasted blood on his lips. He lowered himself gently to the ground. His arms were trembling; already he was feeling feverish and light-headed. He eased himself down and lay on his back, looking up at the sky: a rolling carpet of low sulphur-yellow clouds.
He closed his eyes and saw instead a clear deep blue sky above him and a stout oak mast reaching up to meet it. He could hear the taut strum of hemp-rope rigging, the clank and rattle of loose tackle blocks, the rustle and snap of sailcloth feeling for a breath of wind. The creak of ship’s timbers and the slosh of a lazy sea slapping against her hull.
All just a pleasing illusion. He knew that … his dying mind was firing off memories like a sinking vessel firing distress flares.
This … here … now … He smiled. There are many worse ways to die than this, he decided. Fading away on a rather pleasing memory plucked from a life he was never meant to have lived in the first place.
There could be worse ways than this. He could feel his senses failing him. His mind failing him. His breathing ragged and shallow, heartbeat faltering; the cascading domino effect of his body shutting down organ by organ. Falling into a deep sleep. Melting away to an organic soup that in turn would dry in a few days and become a harmless white powder.
His dying mind conjured one last, reassuring thought.
In the end, don’t we all come from dust anyway? We come from dust … and we end as dust.
The oh-so-short passage in between is the bit we call ‘life’.
Everything ends eventually.
Everything.
CHAPTER 44
First century, Jerusalem
There was a notable absence of Roman legionaries at every entrance to the city. No blockades, as Isaac had told them there had been yesterday. Containing the numerous riots last night had stretched the Roman garrison’s manpower to breaking point. Today the cohort was mostly holed up in their fort and watching for trouble from behind the crenellations of their high walls. They were keeping a low profile; undoubtedly word had been sent out that reinforcements were going to be needed and they were going to sit tight until they arrived, then … order was going to be restored. Brutally, if necessary.
Liam and Bob left the city through the north entrance, hidden in the back of a cart beneath a rug. After the cart had rattled down the dirt track, far enough away from prying eyes, they emerged from the sweltering heat that had built up under the heavy corded material.
Liam thanked the old man driving the cart, Linus’s father. This morning they had only briefly seen his son. He and Isaac had spent the night, as promised, going from one tavern to another, spreading the word that the one true prophet from God was going to be found in the morning on the gentle slopes of the Mount of Olives … and would reveal a message that would change everything.
Liam had assured the young man that the moment he set eyes on this Jesus … he would know in his heart he was looking at someone quite special.
‘How long have we got, Bob?’
‘Three hours and fourteen minutes until the portal is due to open.’
He looked up at the hills in front of them. They needed to head up to the brow ahead, then bear right. That would take them clockwise round the top of the city to the north-east of it, towards the Mount of Olives. He just hoped where their portal was due to open was far enough away from where Jesus would be talking to his followers.
They climbed the hill, then walked along its ridge. Liam looked at the city to his right. There were a few smudges of smoke rising from it into the sky. There had been several riots during the night, but not throughout the whole city. It was undoubtedly a tinderbox, waiting to erupt into flames of insurrection. But it was a city waiting for just the right person to ignite that fire.
And there he was.
Further downhill, where the olive trees gave way to dry grass and the slope evened out, Liam could see splashes of colour in the hundreds – a crowd of people sitting on the ground in family groups and in pairs, parents and their less attentive children chasing each other. Like a large picnic. And there, in the middle of it all, in a small space, was a lone figure in a white-linen jellaba, pacing slowly back and forth. Every now and then, carried on the fresh breeze, Liam heard applause, a ripple of laughter.
Not a firebrand’s sermon by the sound of it, all thunder and sulphur, but something far more peaceful and ultimately enduring: the gentle mockery of those in power – the Pharisees, Herod Antipas … the Romans.
Liam had glimpsed the man up close only a couple of times, and heard his voice just the once. Jesus didn’t have the booming cadence or the bombastic manner of a practised performer. Just the measured voice of common sense. The soft and confident tone of someone who prized the meaning of words over the way they were delivered.
‘We’ve got time to listen for a bit, haven’t we, Bob?’
‘We have two hours and fifty-nine minutes until the portal is due.’
‘We’ve got time, then.’
They made their way down the slope, through the olive trees and out into the open. Liam stopped on the periphery of the gathering and, not wanting to attract anyone’s attention, he gestured at Bob to sit down. Then he listened.
‘… in this world, this one mortal life, wealth is measured not in talents, or shekels or sestertii, but in what we take with us when we finally die. Our memories, our conscience. That is all that matters in the end. Our life is measured by those we have touched, loved, helped. One who shares all that he has, and lies in a pauper’s grave, dies the wealthiest of men.’
One of those listening near the front asked a question that Liam’s babel-bud couldn’t quite pick up and translate.
‘All of us are equal in the eyes of my father,’ Jesus replied. ‘Man and woman. Old and young. There is nothing a man can do that a woman can’t.’
Liam smiled at that. He’d get Maddy’s vote, then.
‘We are all equal souls held inside bodies of different sizes and shapes. What we look like, what we sound like, or even what we smell like …’
A ripple of laughter.
‘… is as unimportant as the flask that a wine is carried in. The bodies we live in – our mortal existence – is just a cart travelling along the road. But our soul is the precious cargo. King. Prince. Caesar. Prefect. Priest … These are all false titles that man has invented, titles that mean nothing in the eyes of God. In fact, they insult God. Who are we to judge who is better? Who is worth more? Who is of a higher rank?’
Liam listened to Jesus talk for the next couple of hours as the sun slowly rose to its zenith and the day became stiflingly hot. So much of what he heard the man say sounded like wisdom: a straightforward message of tolerance and compassion, illustrated with simple moral stories. It sounded so much like a contemporary, a very modern, moral guide … and so very different from the thunderous damnations he’d heard uttered by religious ‘godly’ men from the various centuries he’d glimpsed – those claiming to speak on behalf of God, but poisoning any good message with their own vicious prejudices.
He realized he was hearing something powerful, something pure … something inescapably right, which had been utterly mutated and corrupted by the passage of time and the quills and pens of those with dark minds.
I could follow this man. I could actually believe in him. This … what he’s saying right now … is the only way to live.
Bob tapped him on the shoulder. ?
??Liam, it is time to go.’
They headed back towards the olive trees and climbed up the hillside, picking a way between their ordered rows, ducking beneath their low branches until finally Bob stopped. ‘This is it. The portal opens here.’
‘I thought there would be more people out there listening to him,’ said Liam. ‘I mean, that fella, that Jesus … it’s like … I never realized how simple, how uncomplicated his message was. What the hell happened to it?’
Bob shrugged. ‘Religious texts are not a historically reliable source of information. They are like an infinitely photocopied image; replication errors, misinterpretations, mistranslations have rendered them ambiguous enough to be used to validate any belief system.’
‘It’s the perfect bleedin’ tool for bad guys to justify themselves, isn’t it?’
‘That is correct.’
Liam shook his head. ‘I’d love to give Jesus a Dictaphone or something, so we could play back what he actually said to some of the idiots speaking on his behalf today.’
‘That would, of course, cause a time contamination.’
Liam snorted. ‘You’re not kidding it would.’
In the shade of the olive trees, they gazed down the slope. ‘Liam, we must now discuss how we are to proceed. Is it your intention to attempt to contact Maddy or –’
‘When we get back … we need to work out how we’re going to locate that beam. I want to find it. It’s down there somewhere beneath that temple, to be sure. But it’s going to be hard to locate it … that place is like a damned labyrinth.’
Bob nodded. ‘There are no records or geological scans of the ground beneath the temple. We could do a density probe to find a suitably sized void to arrive in …’
‘And then what? Find ourselves stuck in some small fissure or cave, or well shaft?’
‘That is a possibility.’
‘Or we can be a bit smarter than that?’
Bob cocked his head.
‘Well … can’t we basically sort of “map” the ground beneath the temple? Do a whole load of them little density probes and get a rough picture of what’s down there … get an idea of the layout, you know … before we go charging in?’