Roman Holiday by Jodi Taylor Page A

day off. A magnificent torque, obviously made of tin foil, hung across his chest, and a thick, black wig swung around his face.
    ‘Bloody hell,’ said someone. ‘Roberts is a eunuch.’
    ‘No, I’m not,’ he said, crossly. In what he fondly imagined was a deep and resonantly impressive voice, he squeaked, ‘I am Robertis, body servant of the Egyptian queen, great Cleopatra, come to pay her respects to mighty Caesar and entreat his favour in choosing the personnel for the upcoming Cleopatra assignment of which, of course, we know absolutely nothing.’
    He began, precariously, to make his way down the stairs towards a stunned Dr Bairstow – or mighty Caesar, as he should probably be known for the purposes of this tale.
    He – Robertis, not mighty Caesar, obviously – was sweating profusely under the weight of the carpet hefted over his shoulder. I recognised it as the moth-eaten old thing from Wardrobe. I shot an accusing glance at Mrs Enderby, who refused to catch my eye.
    He so nearly made it. He was only two steps from safety when his legs buckled. He fell to his knees, clutching at his loincloth, whose fastenings had, as predicted, proved unequal to their task. The carpet slipped from his shoulder, hit the oak stairs with considerable impact, and fell down into the Hall, unrolling as it went, to deposit Cleopatra, or Mr Markham as he’s sometimes known, at the feet of mighty Caesar.
    I should state now: kids, don’t try this at home, because it never happened. If you roll someone in a carpet then thirty seconds later, they’re unconscious through lack of oxygen. Or heatstroke. Or whiffy on carpet-cleaning fluid fumes. Trust me – I’m an historian.
    I know that in the film, an immaculate Cleopatra lies appealingly on a priceless oriental rug, batting kohled eyelashes before seducing the most powerful man in the known world, but our Mr Markham, lying semi-conscious and drenched in sweat, hadn’t quite pulled it off.
    You had to hand it to him though, he’d made a real effort.
    All right, at some point, his wig had come off and was now glued to his sweaty face like one of those creatures from Alien , but hairier. His historically inaccurate diaphanous trousers had come horribly adrift, giving anyone who cared to look a first-class view of his Homer Simpson underpants. But it was his bosoms that were the star of the show.
    God knew where he’d got the bra from. One of Nurse Hunter’s, presumably. I hoped she hadn’t been wearing it at the time, although with Markham, you never knew. She wouldn’t want it back anyway, covered as it now was in sequins and glitter, and festooned with Christmas tinsel.
    He’d obviously taken time and trouble over the composition of his bosoms, discarding the traditional favourites of rugby socks, tissues, or oranges, in favour of two half-lemons, which, as he later unacceptably explained to an unmoved and unmoving Dr Bairstow, were just brilliant for that authentic nipple-look, sir.
    That, however, was for later. At the moment, he was lying in a less-than-alluring heap, purple-faced and gasping for breath, covered in an unbelievable amount of greyish carpet fluff which had adhered itself to every available inch of sweaty, naked skin and showed no signs of letting go.
    You want to look away, but you just can’t do it. Even as I watched, one of his bosoms, obviously dislodged by the impact, fell from its holster and rolled gently across the floor, until Dr Bairstow stopped it with his foot.
    Silence fell.
    St Mary’s held its breath.
    Even Robertis seemed rooted to the spot.
    Mr Markham, however, was made of stern stuff.
    He raised himself on one elbow, reached out a trembling hand, and exclaimed blearily, ‘Will you look at that. Some plonker is standing on my bosom.’
    ‘Yes,’ said Dr Bairstow, icily. ‘That would be me.’
    And even as Retribution reached out for him, Markham had to have the last word.
    ‘You’re doing it beautifully, sir.’
    And wisely passed