Roman Holiday

Book : A Chronicles of St. Mary's Short Story

by Jodi Taylor

Genres: Time Travel; Literary Fiction; Science Fiction

Synopsis

A Chronicles of St Mary's short story that is sure to entertain. If you love Jasper Fforde or Ben Aaronovitch, you won't be able to resist Jodi Taylor. Question: What sort of idiot installs his mistress in his wife's house? Especially when that mistress is Cleopatra VII Thea Philopator, Queen of Egypt and the most notorious woman of her time? Answer: Julius Caesar - poised to become King of Rome. Or as good as. Question: At this potentially sensitive point in your political manoeuvrings, who are the last people you'd want crashing through the door, observing, recording, documenting ...? I think we all know the answer to that one. Roman Holiday - an epic, stand alone tale set in Ancient Rome, 44 BC, featuring, in no particular order: an attempted murder, stampeding bullocks, Cleopatra, Queen of the Nile, a bowl of poisonous snakes, a smallish riot, Julius Caesar and Mr Markham's wayward bosoms. Readers love Jodi Taylor: 'Once in a while, I discover an author who changes everything... Jodi Taylor and her protagonista Madeleine "Max" Maxwell have seduced me' 'A great mix of British proper-ness and humour with a large dollop of historical fun ' ' Addictive. I wish St Mary's was real and I was a part of it' 'Jodi Taylor has an imagination that gets me completely hooked ' 'A tour de force'

Release date: January 1, 2019

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 40

Sample

 

 

The word on the street was that we had a project on Cleopatra. Everyone was talking about it. This would be part of the Ancient Rome assignment and everyone wanted to be involved.

The bar was packed. I’m not sure why I mention that, because here at St Mary’s, the bar is always packed.

We work for the Institute of Historical Research at St Mary’s Priory. We investigate major historical events in contemporary time. You might as well call it time-travel. Everyone else does.

Anyway, the bar was packed. Everyone was discussing Cleopatra, including, regrettably, Dr Dowson, our librarian and archivist, and Professor Rapson, head of Research and Development, both of whom can seldom agree on the date, let alone anything else. The discussion followed its inevitable course and they were eventually separated by their respective departments and led away to opposite ends of the room.

Peterson and I, who knew all about the Cleopatra assignment and had already made our recommendations, resumed our interrupted discussion over whether it was possible to smuggle a baby into a birthing chamber concealed inside a warming pan. Chief Farrell, that still, small voice of calm in the insanity that is St Mary’s, remarked that since St Mary’s didn’t actually possess a baby, it was, at the moment, impossible to be certain one way or the other. And yes, borrowing one without the owner’s consent was, as they say, contra-indicated. In the vigorous debate that followed, none of us saw Markham and Roberts exchange glances and slip quietly out of the bar.

I suspected something was going on. People fell mysteriously silent as I walked past. Or rushed around clutching imperfectly concealed bundles of something or other. Data stacks were hurriedly flattened when I entered a room. Both Peterson, my fellow historian and partner in crime, and Major Guthrie, the head of our hard-worked security section, reported similar incidents, but as Guthrie remarked, although he was certain St Mary’s was up to something, behaviour here was so bizarre anyway, it was difficult to tell.

Three days later, Markham and Roberts unveiled their surprise.

They’d chosen their moment well. Almost everyone was assembled in the Great Hall, even our Director, Dr Bairstow, who had Clerk’s and Van Owen’s report on the unfortunate death of the MP William Huskisson under his arm, and was enquiring why there wasn’t an historian in his unit who could spell the word amonaly. Anonoly. Amono – irregularity.

Since I was stumped for an answer to this one, I was, initially, quite pleased to have a distraction. A blast of static-laden recorded music resolved itself into a fanfare of trumpets, followed by a mighty roll of drums. Startled, I turned to see Mr Roberts, my youngest historian; standing on the half-landing, staggering slightly under the weight of a rolled carpet slung over one shoulder.

My first horrified thought was that he was naked and I hadn’t had my lunch yet. A second glance, however, revealed a very inadequately secured loincloth. I gave private thanks to the god of historians that gravity seemed to have taken the day off. A magnificent torque, obviously made of tin foil, hung across his chest, and a thick, black wig swung aro. . .