Trojan Horse III by Willie Bester at the Robert Bowman Gallery, London
{photo by Trey Ratcliff}

Johanna bolted for the exit, feet tripping one over the other in her haste to be outside in the open air.She stumbled out and crashed against the wall of the excavation pit, gasping and heart pounding. A shadow blotted the sun. Her breath caught in her throat as she looked up.
A dirigible flew over the desert on a faint rumble of a steam engine and a billow of grey smoke, its silver-white sides gleaming. Though she’d seen them before, none had been quite this big... and it was not the only one.
Thirty degrees in the shade felt hotter than it sounded. Johanna took the pith helmet off and wiped her forehead with a handkerchief that was already damp with sweat. She would not complain – she'd fought so hard to accompany the great Professor Flinders-Petrie, faced so many disparinging voices about her gender, her lack of expertise. Only Sir William had valued her enthusiasm and linguistic ability. So no complaints: she would not be the little woman, the fragile flower that wilted in the heat.
Even if the heat was so very draining.