The Blood of Alexandria (44 page)

‘Give it back, you wog fucker!’ Priscus cried above the regathering storm of noise as he moved deeper into the mob. No longer angry, his was a desperate, horrified cry. ‘Give it back! Give it back!’ he cried over and again. He kicked and punched at the men who were getting up to block the few yards of distance that lay between him and Lucas.

‘Priscus, come back,’ I shouted in Latin. ‘You’ll get yourself torn apart.’

He stopped and looked back. He was perhaps only a dozen yards from the foot of the steps. Already, it would have been impossible to turn and recross the distance. Men plucked at his clothing. His hat of office was knocked from his head. Before he was lost within the screaming, jostling crowd, I saw him pull out his sword and stab at someone who’d raised a cudgel to him.

It was now chaos all around. In front of us, to the left of us, all the way behind us on the other side of the portico, the Egyptian mass surged and screamed. Further back, the rising chant was taking on a tone less of hatred than of triumph. As yet, most had their backs to us – they were more interested in straining to catch sight of the head of Alexander than in turning back to face the living.

‘It weeps! It weeps!’ someone shouted up at us in Greek. He was turned towards us. He was a brown, runtish creature, with open sores on his face. ‘The day of deliverance is at hand,’ he went on. He reached into the box and pulled at what remained of Alexander. One of the arms came away. He turned away from us and waved it overhead. He turned back to us and bit into the shrivelled, crumbling flesh. He chewed and spat and tried to shout something. Like dust, though, the ancient flesh stuck in his mouth. He spat again and poked at me with the arm. I drew my sword and smashed hard with the hilt into his face. I could feel his lips splash and the crunching of teeth under them. He screamed and fell backwards into the boiling mass of humanity.

‘The Greek mob’s broken through,’ someone behind me cried as a new shout rose far behind us. ‘Oh dear!’ he added philosophically. ‘I don’t suppose our people will be pleased with us now. Still, they’ll have to fight their way through the wogs before they can get to us.’

‘Nicetas, get back inside the church,’ I shouted. He’d been trying to stand up again, but his walking stick had given way. He now sat awkwardly on one of the lower steps. His face had the grey, tense look of a gambler who knows but still can’t feel that he’s just been broken. It was only a matter of time before the mob turned round and decided to rip us all apart. It was almost a miracle only one Egyptian so far had ventured on to the steps. ‘Come on,’ I said to the herald, ‘help me get him up the steps.’

As I spoke, something heavy crashed into my back. The chainmail spread the force of its impact, but it knocked me forward. I looked round. Something else landed a few feet from me.

‘Shit! They’ve started on the cobblestones,’ I said. I pulled at Nicetas. I kicked at his leg, and pulled him again as he jerked upwards in agony. For someone who hadn’t run noticeably to flesh, and hadn’t even thought to come out in armour, he still managed to weigh surprisingly heavy. Getting him up those steps under a growing hail of stones and other projectiles seemed to take an age. But I shoved him at last through the doorway into the church. He sprawled on to the mosaic floor and began a sobbing fit as the eunuch took over and pulled him deeper inside.

I turned back. The mob was now coming up the steps. It wasn’t yet a rush, so much as the creeping forward of a tide. A few other members of the Council had drawn their swords and were backing slowly up to the church doors. I pulled my own out again and waved it at the now anticipatory, gloating faces. I could see no blades of any kind on the other side. The worst to show against us was cudgels. But it was a question of numbers. Dozens to one against us, they came slowly up the steps – dozens to one, and with hundreds and thousands pressing from behind. The chair on which Nicetas had recently been sitting, and around which we’d clustered, was already lost within the advancing mob. If Priscus was right, we were about to lock ourselves into our own funeral pyre. Much longer out here, though, and we’d go the way of the Great Alexander.

‘Get the doors shut,’ I called back. It was now just me outside and the Master of the Works. We slashed and poked at the oncoming mob. As if by prior agreement, we’d hold the mob back while the bronze doors could be swung into place. I could feel the massive click behind me as terrified, dithering hands got them loose and pushed them outward.

‘You first,’ I shouted at the Master of the Works. I blocked a stone with my left arm. Another crashed into my chest, almost knocking the breath out of me. I knew my arm would ache horribly later. At the time, I felt nothing. I lunged forward again with my sword. I think I did catch someone this time, though it would only have been a minor wound.

Far over on my left – far beyond the other side of the portico – there was a great scream of rage and terror. What could be happening I had no idea. But it drew attention away from me for the moment. I prepared to dart backward through the closing doors. Then I heard the despairing wail on my right. It was a familiar sound, quavering above the snarling of the mob. I glanced right.

Chapter 43

Shit and bugger! What was Martin doing up there? I’d seen him come outside the church when Alexander was carried out. I hadn’t seen him go in. I couldn’t now imagine how he’d managed to climb on to one of the bronze torch brackets. However he’d done it, though, he had his arms clamped round the top of the bracket, and one of his legs hooked over the bar securing the whole thing to the wall. With his free leg, he kicked ineffectually at the hands reaching up to pull at him. He was a good eight feet up, and no hands had yet been able to catch hold of him.

‘Martin!’ I shouted. The doors were swinging shut behind me. Someone inside was shouting at me to get through them. Another volley of stones thudded against the doors or crashed on to the pavements around me. Still wary of my sword’s glittering blade, the few members of the mob who’d not turned to face the screaming hung back. Martin got one of his hands free. He raised it despairingly to heaven, and then – his face suddenly determined – waved at me to get inside the church.

‘Martin!’ I shouted again. ‘Martin!’ There was another shout behind me. ‘Get it shut,’ I cried at no one in particular, turning half round. As I jumped rightwards, I heard the door crash shut and the thudding of bolts drawn into place.

I could see what Martin had been trying to do. A few feet up from the torch bracket, and a few feet further along, there was a series of metal rods poking from the wall. These formed something best described as a ladder with only one arm. So far as I could tell, they led diagonally up the wall, going beyond the portico to the roof of the church. They must have been there for cleaning or repair purposes. Little had ever made sense with him when he was in a panic. But it made sense that if he was too scared to cross the few yards back to the door, Martin should be trying for the roof. How he’d got as far up as he had was a mystery. But he was now too scared – or physically unable – to make the further leap and get to the roof.

I filled my lungs and managed a passable imitation of an English battle cry. I lunged forward and got someone in the guts with my sword. That cleared a larger space around me. Any moment now, and the full mob would turn back to face me. I rammed the sword into its scabbard and jumped up at the torch bracket. The armour adding about twenty pounds to my weight, I nearly jumped short. But nearly jumping short isn’t the same as nearly catching hold. I did catch hold. I dragged myself up to perch on the top of the bracket.

‘Come on, Martin,’ I shouted, grabbing at him and pulling him fully up. I felt the bracket shudder under our combined weight. It was coming away from the wall. Below us, men were poking up with sticks. The bracket was an elaborate thing. Its bottom bar was about six feet above the ground. Its top was another few feet up, and we were safe from being pulled down – though only so long as no one else tried jumping up, or went at us with sticks, or so long as the whole thing didn’t just collapse under us.

Holding on to Martin to steady myself, I stood upright and reached across to catch hold of one of the rods. I clamped my left hand on to it and pulled. It seemed firmly set into the bricks. The lowest rod of all was another four feet down. I got my left foot on to it. I took hold of Martin by the collar of his mail shirt, and swung his presently gigantic weight clean off the torch bracket and nearly bashed his face in on another of the rods.

‘Take hold and climb,’ I gasped. I felt like that boy must have on the rack. More than a moment longer of this, and I’d drop Martin, or fall with him on to the mob below. But the strain relaxed as he took hold by himself. One hand over the other, I climbed upwards. Behind me, calling out prayers and imprecations in Celtic, Martin followed. It wasn’t far to the lower part of the roof. But it felt easily as if it were hundreds of feet rather than the few dozen that it was. At last, though, with a soft ripping of silk, I twisted right and heaved myself on to the rain-pitted lead. As soon as I’d rolled myself stable on the sloping roof, I scrabbled forward and pulled Martin up the last few rods until he could lie there beside me.

‘Shut up!’ I snapped, cutting off the babble of thanks and apologies that had begun and might otherwise last all day. ‘We need to find a way down from here.’ I knew I should have been straight up on my feet and running across the roof to find some escape. Instead, I sat up and rested on the hot lead. I rubbed at my sore arm and shoulder.

I had a good view of things from up here. For the first time that morning, I could form a reasonably synoptic view of what was happening about me. I couldn’t see now under the portico. But I could hear the banging of fists and cudgels on the bronze doors of the church. So long as no one brought up a battering ram – not an easy matter through these densely packed thousands – or started heaping up kindling in front of the door, Nicetas and everyone else was safe enough. But the wide space of the concourse really was packed. It was like looking down on aroused ants outside their nest. I could see that the guards had given up all effort to keep the two mobs apart. Where I guessed the border had been, they now merged insensibly into one mob, or fought viciously. It was as the local inclination took them. The guards themselves had gathered again into a hollow square, and were slowly pushing and cutting their way towards the church. How they’d get here – or how, once here, they’d manage to do any good – wasn’t a question I could answer. What I did know was that there was no point looking for any way back down to ground level that would take us into this bubbling sea of hate.

‘Oh, Sweet Jesus!’ Martin screamed. I looked sharply down to the edge of the roof. We’d been followed up from the portico. I drew my sword and poked at the head that had now reached the level of the roof. As, with a bubbling shriek, it vanished, I leaned forward and looked over the edge. Sure enough, there were men climbing up those rods. I managed to cut the fingers off the one who was now closest to us, and he fell back on to the others.

That was the end of this attack. There was no point asking what had prompted anyone to try following an armed man upward to a place of stability. It was enough that the effort had been made once. If there were other ways up, they too might soon be found and used. I reached down and pulled hard on the last of the metal poles. My left arm was beginning to seize up, and the pole seemed too hard set into the brickwork for me to have pulled it loose even with my full strength. I sat back. I gave up on the vague plan I’d been considering, of staying out of sight up here until the trouble was over. We were in a place of at best relative safety. Besides, there wasn’t an inch of shade to be seen, and thirst can be a terrible thing in that sun.

‘Take this,’ I said to Martin, pushing my sword into his hand. It trembled there, then dropped with a dull thud on to the lead. ‘Take it up,’ I repeated, now angry. ‘If anyone tries coming up again, cut at his fingers, or just poke him hard.

‘Do you understand?’

He nodded.

I pulled myself unsteadily to my feet and looked up at the wide central vault of the roof.

‘Do you think Priscus is dead?’ he asked.

I looked at the surging, screaming crowds below and laughed grimly. ‘If he’s managed to survive in that lot,’ I said, ‘we can count this day as an utter disaster. Now, keep a lookout for anyone stupid enough to try climbing after us. I’ll be back as quickly as I can.’

There shouldn’t be any way down at the back of the church, I told myself. After all, this was where it had been made part of the Wall of Separation, and would have been made secure long ago. But over on the other side, towards the back – there we might find some way down. And it might even take us down to a place where the mob was at least thin on the ground.

However it might have gone for Priscus, our luck seemed to be holding. Over where I was hoping to find something, I did find a rope ladder. Still connected to a set of hooks projecting from the roof, it was coiled up and left beside an uncompleted repair to the lead. It might have been there for months, and most colour had been bleached out of the ropes. I pulled part of it loose and tested the ropes. Hope was dashed as they came apart in my hands. The sun had bleached out their colour and their strength. But I pulled feverishly at the coil to get it undone. Some part of the ladder might still be sound – if not part of the ladder, perhaps some part of one of the ropes. There might be something else to get us down, I thought.