The Romans knew, of course, exactly who was responsible. A branch of the revolutionary Zealots, known as the sicarii, sicarii, theknife-men', had been using tactics just such as this for more than twenty years. They would mingle in a crowd on festival occasions with daggers hidden in their garments. After striking down prominent collaborators with Roman officials, they would disappear back into the crowd from where they had come. These terrorists greatly contributed to the unbearable atmosphere of tension the region. theknife-men', had been using tactics just such as this for more than twenty years. They would mingle in a crowd on festival occasions with daggers hidden in their garments. After striking down prominent collaborators with Roman officials, they would disappear back into the crowd from where they had come. These terrorists greatly contributed to the unbearable atmosphere of tension the region.

And now they were amok in Byzantium. A chilling thought.

Things like this were not supposed to happen to Roman soldiers. Anywhere, but least of all in a free city.

One stiff-backed and regal-looking centurion, walking amongst the dead and the dying, turned over the fallen corpse of a crimson-clad soldier and, upon seeing who it was, let out a wail of despair, turning to his colleagues with a disbelieving look on his face. 'Sergeant Gatalius,' he shouted angrily. 'Dead and accounted for. Tell the surgeons they will not be needed here, this day.'

'What a sad and sorry mess,' Calaphilus said at last. Then he let his subordinates know, in no uncertain terms, that he blamed the praefectus's praefectus's weakness for the catastrophe. 'lf that indolent full-ofhimself clown in the weakness for the catastrophe. 'lf that indolent full-ofhimself clown in the Villa Praefectus Villa Praefectus would have allowed me to deal with these Jews in a right and proper manner, we could have stamped on these maggot-ridden sc.u.m and squashed them flat beneath our feet like slithering things. Instead we watch mute and bewildered as they waste the lives of a generation of Romans. I will not allow this to happen again.' He paused and shook his head at the silence around him 'I want the Zealots infiltrated, weeded out, dragged from their homes, publicly tried and shamed as an example to all others and then executed whilst they beg for mercy. What say you? Does any man here have reasons why this should not be done?' would have allowed me to deal with these Jews in a right and proper manner, we could have stamped on these maggot-ridden sc.u.m and squashed them flat beneath our feet like slithering things. Instead we watch mute and bewildered as they waste the lives of a generation of Romans. I will not allow this to happen again.' He paused and shook his head at the silence around him 'I want the Zealots infiltrated, weeded out, dragged from their homes, publicly tried and shamed as an example to all others and then executed whilst they beg for mercy. What say you? Does any man here have reasons why this should not be done?'

Again, there was silence until Marcus Lanilla loudly proclaimed, 'We all stand behind you with our swords at the ready, general.'

Gaius gave his tribune a withering look of contempt and turned his back on him, as if offering the young officer a first stab. 'Mark you well,' he told the rest, 'this day has seen the beginning of the end for organised resistance to the might of Rome. The subhuman things whose acts of wanton violence and mayhem have produced this sight. abhorrent in our eyes, shall rue the day that they sought to usurp the power of the empire. Let an awesome vengeance begin.'

He climbed onto his horse and was through the market gates and riding back to the barracks with a flank of the guards before anyone could speak.

'You heard the general,' shouted an eager junior tribune.

'He wishes vigilante justice upon these dogs. Let us start with the burning of a few Jewish homes and see if that loosens their tongues as to the whereabouts of Basellas.'

As most of the soldiers left, Lanilla and Fabius stood to one side, by the towering steps of the temple, looking at the littered market-place with undisguised glee.

another st.i.tch in Thalius Maximus's funeral shroud, I should have said,' noted Marcus eagerly.

Of that there is little doubt,' Fabius added. 'Calaphilus has a few uses and one of them is the way in which he will report this outrage to Rome. We have a state of martial law declared without the praefectus's praefectus's knowledge or permission. knowledge or permission.

In my opinion, I should be surprised if Thalius survives with his reputation any higher than a snake's gut.'

Marcus clearly agreed. His laughter filled the almost-deserted market-place and caused the few of the Roman soldiers still involved in the clearing up of the bodies to look at him sharply. And then to quickly turn away when they realised who it was that was laughing. 'But the old man is losing his grip. He thinks that Byzantium needs no one save him. He is wrong.' wrong.'

Just as they too, were about to leave, a captain leading the body-clearance detail strode across the square and informed the two tribunes that one of those presumed dead was actually still alive.

'He looks Roman,' said the captain, turning Ian Chesterton's bloodied face towards them.

EPISODE TWO.

FOUR SIDES TO THE CIRCLE.

Jesus answering said unto them, Render to Caesar the things that are Caesar's, and to to Caesar the things that are Caesar's, and to G.o.d the things that are G.o.d's. G.o.d the things that are G.o.d's.

Mark 12:17

Chapter Nine.

The Culture Bunker, Part One - Heliocentric

And he took the damsel by the hand, and said unto he Tal-I-tha cu-mi, which is, being interpreted, Damsel, I say unto thee, arise.

Mark 5:41

The house was carved from the living rock; bare and gnarled sandstone hewn into habitable shapes by the combined efforts of man and nature. Two medium-sized square holes in the wall, covered by a gauze-like substance, were the only sources of light besides the roaring fire that danced and crackled merrily in the centre of the Spartan and undecorated room. Behind the fire was a small wooden table at which sat three curious people whose eyes were glued onto the new arrival into their home.

Vicki, meanwhile, feeling as if she were an insect being observed under a microscope, was sitting in the opposite corner, her knees drawn up to her chin, literally shaking with fear and trying hard not to cry.

Finally, one of her rescuers spoke.

It was the man.

'Be not afraid, child,' he said in a deep voice. Every kidnapper in every bad video film that Vicki had ever seen had used that as an opening line. She wasn't buying it in the slightest.

'Sorry but that's, like, pure dead easy for you to say,' she stammered in reply.

'I mean thee no harm.'

'I don't believe you. You're a liar.'

The man stood up from the table. He was in his late thirties, unshaven and with the dark, olive-skinned complexion of a Greek. Vicki had seen many of the indigenous population during her time in Byzantium and she was, she thought, getting fairly good at spotting the differences between Thracian Greeks and other cultures in the town, like Palestinian Jews, Mesopotamians, Macedonians, Nomadic Turks, Bedouin Arabs, as well as the Romans who, with their uniforms, all looked so different to everyone else.

Still, the fact that these people were from the civilised race that built the acropolis and produced (so Barbara Wright had told her) Socrates, Plato and Archimedes (whoever they were) cut no ice with young Vicki. Her present predicament was looking 'a bit iffy', to use one of Ian Chesterton's favourite phrases. Decidedly iffy.

'What do you want from me?' Vicki asked nervously.

'Want? I saved your life, little one. You were crying out for the help of anyone with ears to listen to your pleas,' the man replied.

'Thank you,' said Vicki, and she genuinely meant it. 'Much appreciated, I'm sure. Now, how do I get out of here?'

'No, no, no'

It was the woman, still sitting at the table with a girl of roughly Vicki's age by her side, who answered. Well built and with arm muscles that looked as though they could sink a battleship, the woman's head was wrapped in a grey shawl whilst she wore the clothes of poverty. Her face betrayed a strange mixture of curiosity and apoplectic anger. 'You are not going anywhere to tell them that we were the hapless ones who helped you. What, and see us end up in terrible trouble all because of you?'

'Who is them?' asked Vicki, but her question was ignored as the woman turned to the standing man and began to berate him in their own language for bringing this, whatever she was, into their home and endangering them all.

I can understand every word you're saying,' Vicki noted when the woman paused for breath. 'I speak many languages. Apparently.'

All three heads in the room turned in her direction, including the still silent girl whose deep brown eyes betrayed a fear equal and opposite to Vicki's own, And Vicki's revelation had the effect of making the older woman not just angry but frightened as well. 'Get her out of here,' she told the man. 'Get her out, now And make sure that she speaks to no living soul about us.'

'That sounds peachy-fine to me,' Vicki replied. Then the full implications of what the woman was suggesting sank in and she realised that this was not meant as a solution to everyone's problems, merely those of her rescuers. She shuffled backwards, sc.r.a.ping her hands and legs on the rough stone floor, until her back collided with the bare rock of the wall. She hugged her knees to her chest again. 'Oh G.o.d,'

said Vicki, quickly. 'Look, you really don't have to do anything rash. I wouldn't tell on you, miss. All I want to do is find the people I was with, my family, if you like, and go home.'

'And where is your "home"?' asked the man, taking a pace towards Vicki, his hand outstretched in a conciliatory gesture.

Vicki thought about telling the truth, but then decided that a cover story would save a lot of head-scratching and accusations of witchcraft. Probably. 'England. Britain. I'm not sure what you people call it,' she said. 'A place called...

TARDIS. You won't have heard of it. It's a small fishing village on the Thames. I was travelling the empire with...'

Now came an inspired piece of lying. 'My uncle and aunt. And my grandfather. I'm an orphan, do you see...?' Wonderfully instantaneous tears appeared in Vicki's eyes and she let out a wail of misery. 'l just want to see them all again.'

The man gave the woman an ominous look, then turned to face Vicki wearing a mask of pity. 'I am so sorry,' he said. 'If they were in that crowd with you then the chances are that they are dead.'

'No,' shouted Vicki. They can't be.'

The man tried to smile. 'Perhaps not,' he said, with a horribly false optimism. 'But it is certainly not safe for anyone to be on the streets tonight. The Romans will seek out anyone that ventures abroad this night and do them a terrible vengeance. We can search for your family once the curfew hours are lifted.'

Vicki nodded and wiped a crocodile tear from her eye.

'Thank you,' she gulped, between sobs.

I am Georgiadis, the shopkeeper,' said the man. 'This is my wife, Evangeline, and our daughter, Iola.'

'h.e.l.lo,' said the girl, with the first words she had uttered since Vicki's sudden arrival. 'Welcome to our home.' There was a shy embarra.s.sment in her voice that reminded Vicki of a childhood friend who, likewise, had difficulty in speaking unless it was absolutely necessary. From Iola, Vicki looked again at her mother. The frown on Evangeline's face was gradually beginning to seep away and be replaced by something less hostile and industrial. Not kitten-soft and fluffy, exactly, but at least a bit less abrasive. And then there was Georgiadis. Handsome and dignified, a thin and wiry frame that spoke of many meals missed so that others could eat instead.

A watery grin appeared on Vicki's face. 'Thank you. Thank you all. I'll try not to get in the way, really I will. Just please don't kill me.'

Chapter Ten.

The Culture Bunker, Part Two Spies Like Us

And as he went out of the temple, one of his disciples saith unto him, Master; see what manner of stones and what buildings are here!

Mark 13:1

A temple can be made to a.s.sume many roles. A house of worship. A thing of beauty, or divinity, or hope. Or, to the cynical, it is merely bricks and mortar. A sh.e.l.l into which spiritual belief is poured in the mistaken a.s.sumption that this makes the husk, by definition, a holy thing, in itself.

And then there are those to whom a temple offers sanctuary in a literal, as well as a metaphorical, way.

Somewhere to hide.

Barbara Wright had a phrase in her mind as she staggered, her head bloodied and sore, towards the temple door. It had taken the last of her strength to reach this far, through a maze of doorways, winding alleys, cul-de-sacs and dead ends. 'My body is a temple.'

She was trying, in vain, to remember where the quotation was actually from. What the context was. Who had said it, and why. The situation was similar to her first year at university when she had become drunk for the first (and so far only) time and had needed to negotiate a lengthy mile-and-a-half trek through darkest Cricklewood with only the most basic of directional and sensory equipment still functioning in her brain. She had invented a little game attempting to read, out loud, road signs and car number plates. Anything, in fact, that would help her to stay alert while simultaneously cursing the very name of the spotty, immature legal student who had introduced her to the satanic qualities of gin and tonic.

Herbert Effemy.

Well, that that was impressive from a distance of fifteen years and at least a couple of cases of probable concussion. was impressive from a distance of fifteen years and at least a couple of cases of probable concussion.

Herbert Effemy.

Spotty Herbert.

Probably an MP or a judge or something similar, these days.

Except that 'these days' is nineteen hundred years from now, give or take a few months, she told herself.

'My body is a temple'.

Temple Gate. That's where the Law Society in London is based.

Was based?

What tense is this?

Past tense? Present tense? Future tense?

I was. I am. I will be...