The big man hadn’t meant much, it seemed, to his friends. By the time I’d got his sword in my own hand, and was testing its weight, they’d vanished back inside the building.
‘What is it?’ I asked, pushing the sword clumsily into my scabbard, where it was a very bad fit. It was a redundant question. Martin had already tugged at the restraining straps of the bag. So far as I could tell, the baby was about six months old. He should normally have been screaming his head off. But if somewhat bashed about, he seemed to be in good shape.
‘Oh, bring him along,’ I groaned. The mother – assuming that had been her – was dead. It was an easy guess what had become of the rest of the family. We couldn’t stop here much longer. Nor could we leave the boy behind. If we got through this, I could see, I’d have another adopted child. But there was no time for the formalities of acceptance. We had to keep moving. Already, we were attracting more than passing looks. Half-cut, bleary-eyed men were staggering together in the street as if from nowhere. There were still things to steal, and rapes and murders to be committed. But we looked interesting, and might not be able to run away. Though ragged and filthy, my clothes put me obviously into the higher classes. Though I had a sword again, it was plain I was injured.
We got another fifty yards along the street, then swung left into a side turning. I was desperate for water and any kind of a rest. And further on, there was what we agreed was an unpleasantly tight grouping of men sitting under the colonnade. Most of them lounged in the shade. A few of them were standing. They were all staring in our direction with what struck me as more than passing interest. We turned in, and then turned again, and then again. We were now in one of the narrow, airless streets common to poor districts in every city. The differences between this and what I’d seen of the Egyptian quarter would have been hard to list. I’d never been here in any of my wanderings through Alexandria. The sunlight was blocked by the upper storey of the buildings on either side, and it was impossible to know which way we were going. But we were alone. And this was the last place mobs bent on blood and plunder were likely to frequent.
For the first time, I was able to sit down and have a proper look at my ankle. It was horribly swollen. I was glad I’d put on shoes, rather than the jewelled sandals the slaves had tried getting me to wear. Even touching it was painful, and it wasn’t possible to say if it really was broken or just badly sprained. I cut the tattered remnant of my cloak into strips and had Martin bind them as tightly as he could around the ankle. Afterwards, I stood up. Running was still out of the question. But movement would be easier. I might even be able for a half-dozen steps at a time not to look so disabled.
‘Keep him in the bag,’ I said, nodding at the baby. ‘He’ll come to no harm in there – and it mutes the crying.’ Food was something we’d consider later. That would be for all three of us. Of course, this was a district without running water and there were butts placed on every corner. With all the hard work of rioting, these hadn’t been filled for at least a day. But they had moderately clean water for anyone willing to risk falling in as he stretched over to get it. Martin cupped some in his hands for the child, who now became somewhat quieter. All we needed after this was some place of safety, preferably inside the Palace, or in some place from where we could get to the Palace.
I looked around me. It was a poor district. Yet the mean, crumbling buildings were also well-secured. A few old women and children were darting glances from upstairs windows. But the streets were empty, and there was no chance, it was soon made clear to us, of being let in anywhere.
‘Which way do you suppose to the Palace district?’ I asked. Even if we couldn’t get all the way, there were some churches where Martin might be recognised.
‘I think that way is east,’ he said with an uncertain wave back the way we’d come. He listened closely. ‘But surely there’s a main street not far off,’ he said.
I also could hear the faint commotion. It was an annoyance, showing, as it did, that the rioting wasn’t confined around the Church of the Apostles. But it wasn’t surprising. Every poor district borders eventually on to somewhere richer, and we knew that we were only in the first few streets. This particular mob might be a few hundred yards away as it went about some mischief that, given luck, would keep it from any place we wanted to be.
‘Did you bring any money with you?’ I asked, pulling him back to the matter in hand.
Martin shook his head.
Nor had I. The golden slide for my hair hadn’t survived the climb to the church roof. Beyond that, I’d deliberately not put on any jewellery. The knife was valuable – but much more at present for its blade of Damascus steel than for the weight of its hilt. I didn’t suppose anyone here would accept a promise to pay. For food and for shelter, then, we might have been beggars in the city that I helped rule.
‘Do you think it’s getting closer?’ Martin asked anxiously.
I would have told him to shut up. But I listened again. I looked at Martin. He looked at me. The baby was beginning to cry piteously.
Chapter 45
‘They are coming closer,’ Martin said.
I nodded. There was no point in denying the obvious. The street around us was as still and quiet as in one of the abandoned suburbs of Constantinople. But the distant noise of rioting was growing louder. It wasn’t the rushing about and screaming of the mob back outside the church. That sort of rioting soon burns itself out. This was the tramp of perhaps hundreds of feet, and that rhythmical – and, in my view, that increasingly tiresome – chant about the Tears of Alexander. Add to this the regular thumping of cudgels against wood when people are marching past close-packed properties and checking to see which, if any, are not locked and barred.
It was Egyptians. And they weren’t marching by this poor district, on their way to rob and murder more Greeks of quality. They were inside the poor district. And they were getting closer.
‘It’s fair to assume they’re after us,’ I said flatly. ‘They were waiting for us and hoping to cut us off as we approached the Palace district. Who wants us and why, and what’s to be done with us – search me. If only we could find somewhere to hide…’
But where to hide? As I said, every place worth entering was already secured. The streets, though filthy as any pigsty, had no shelter. Unless we could find an open door, the best we could hope for was to keep out of sight, and wait for the mob to give up whatever search had brought it our way, or for the Greek residents to come back from their own rioting to deal with these invaders. Yes, with all this noise, there must soon be a Greek mob on the scene. That would complicate matters nicely.
With a muffled crying, much heavy breathing and the scrape of my staff on the dried mud of the street, we started off again. Even as we covered the distance to the corner of the street, the chanting grew louder.
‘But where is it coming from?’ Martin asked.
Good question. The sound was bouncing from every wall. It was impossible to tell what was original and what its echo. How Martin was avoiding one of his fits of the vapours was another mystery of the day. To be sure, I was increasingly rattled by this hunt with us as the quarry. For all the usual reasons of nationality, there was no chance of cooperation between invading mob and those residents here not of rioting age. What we most likely had was a methodical search of one slum by dwellers of another who knew the ways of all. But it seemed to me, as I hobbled painfully on, as if someone were watching us from the sky and somehow advertising our position to the mob. It didn’t matter which way we moved. We could hurry as best we could along the full length of a street. We could make turns at random and double back on ourselves. No matter what we did, the joyous chanting grew steadily louder.
Or it grew louder while it continued. Every so often, it would fall silent. Then it would be the soft tramp of many feet. Or it would be total silence. Then it would start all over with a burst of sound. It was the silences that were most unnerving. Why, if they were hunting us, these people advertised t
heir presence at all was beyond me. Why the silences was equally so. Whether we tried to get away from the chanting, or worried we’d come face to face with the silent hunters, we pressed on deeper into the labyrinthine slum.
‘They’re coming from down that way,’ I said, pointing along one of the wider and less winding streets. And they were. I turned back and began to stump heavily towards one of the smaller turnings. I wanted to stop and rest. I should have taken the armour off while we were resting. It had started as a minor inconvenience. It was now dragging me down. Martin put his free arm round my back and began pulling me forward. It got us moving faster. But where were we going? There was no point complaining we were lost. That was a problem to be sorted out later. For the moment, it was enough that we couldn’t find a scrap of cover. There wasn’t so much as a doorway for squeezing into. It didn’t help that I’d come out dressed as brightly as a songbird.
There was an alley leading into a courtyard. I saw the dark opening as Martin hurried us past. I managed to stop him and push him towards it. We threw ourselves into it. I stood leaning against a wall, wheezing and gasping as I tried to catch my breath. No one had come yet round any of the corners. If we could get ourselves into the courtyard, and stay there, the mob could look to its own affairs.
‘Get out of here!’ It was a man in late middle age. A stained leather apron covered his belly. One of his massive hands was wrapped round a hammer. In the other was what looked like a sharpened iron pole.
‘In the name of God,’ I cried softly, ‘give us shelter. There are wogs in this quarter, killing every Greek of whatever condition. Ask what you will of me. But give us shelter.’
Martin held up the twitching bag, as if the muffled crying from within wasn’t enough. I thought of offering my knife with the golden hilt. Another man, equally big, appeared. This one had the sort of metal saw you normally see two slaves working. He raised it threateningly.
‘Get out,’ the first man repeated. He jabbed the metal spike in our direction.
I’d have had trouble taking on the pair of them in the best circumstances. These weren’t anything like the best circumstances. Even the sword I’d picked up was a cheap thing I’d not have trusted to stay in one piece for a serious fight. I pointed at the bag.
‘Then at least take the child,’ I begged. All else aside, the poor thing was slowing us down.
‘Get out or I’ll kill you both,’ he replied. He jabbed viciously forward, and caught me in the stomach. The armour stopped the blow from doing any actual harm. Even so, I was knocked to the ground, and I was sure the spike had forced a small gap in the chainmail. I groaned and clutched at the probable if minor stab wound. As I pulled myself back up, the man’s friend lashed out with the saw and got Martin in the face with one of its wooden handles. Martin dropped the bag and pointed to it as we retreated backwards from the alley. I looked behind. The chanting had started again, and was loud and close But the street was clear. We could still make a run for it.
‘Take it with you,’ the man snarled. ‘Take it up – or I’ll cut it in pieces and throw it after you down the street.’ He stabbed at the bag, pinning one of its hems to the packed earth.
‘Bring him with us,’ I said to Martin. Leaning heavily on my staff, I followed Martin towards the light of the open street.
Once in Constantinople, I saw some lunatic jump on to the Circus racetrack. I think his idea was to hold up the race while he addressed us on its sinfulness. I saw him stand and hold up his arms for attention. I saw him take in breath. Then he was simply gone. He’d been struck by one of the racing chariots that had been going too fast to veer aside. What was left of him was eventually carried away from a spot fifty yards from where he’d been alive.
That’s how it seemed to be with Martin. As he emerged into the light, the mob reached us. No longer marching, it was breaking into a stampede. It crashed straight into Martin. He vanished, propelled forward by the unstoppable rush of hundreds of tightly packed bodies.
‘Martin,’ I screamed. I pulled out my sword and hobbled forward. I’d dropped my staff and fell into the mob as it rushed past. For a moment, I was caught up in that surging, cheering mass. Then I’d fallen. Now I was dragged forward on the ground. Feet trampled and kicked at me. I tried to roll out of their way. But now arms reached down and pulled me on to my back and dragged me down the road. I tried to kick on the ground to get myself upright as I was pulled backwards. I was going too fast, and my ankle didn’t allow more than a notional effort. I screamed and screamed again with the pain and the terror.
I was dropped down at one of the junctions of the streets. I lay in the middle of a circle of men. The sun was directly overhead, and I couldn’t see their faces. I tried to sit up. I did begin babbling for mercy. But someone struck hard at me from behind. The blow glanced off the armour, but knocked me over on my side. Someone kicked me hard in the stomach. Again, the harm was limited, but I was winded. Hands reached down and began ripping at my clothes. I was rolled on to my front as someone began pulling at the leather straps holding the armour to my body. Still wearing it, I was rolled on to my back again. Someone struck at my good leg. I heard the dull sound of wood on bone before I felt the pain.
Men were kneeling beside me, pulling at me and striking and jabbering incomprehensibly in an ecstasy of joyous hate. I was pulled into a sitting position. Someone had found the child. He dragged the poor creature from the bag – writhing and crying in the sudden light. He held up my knife – how he’d got it from my belt I didn’t know. He slit the stomach across and pushed his face close to catch the splashing of the blood. He pulled out the little entrails. They came out in tight coils. All round me, there was a great cry of triumph, so I didn’t hear the wailing. But I vomited as the dead or dying body was rubbed hard into my face. I got my hands over my face and tried to turn away. I think someone kicked me in the head. I know someone hit me very hard across the shoulders. As I jerked round to avoid going over on my face, I dropped my hands. I couldn’t see from my left eye. I panicked again and screamed.
I was pulled straight. My arms and legs were stretched out as if I were on the Prefecture rack. I felt a sharp pain and then numbness in my hands as if a vice had closed over my wrists. I felt hands reach under my tunic. I screamed again. I screamed and screamed. The faces all around me pressed in closer and closer. From my good eye, I could see the leering grins. One of the mouths was stopped with a tiny hand and wrist. I could see how it was sucked and chewed as if it had been a child’s comforter. I could smell the garlic and the rotting teeth. I began to black out with the horror.
I heard a sudden roaring, and the breath was stopped in my throat. The ground beneath me began to ripple and convulse as if in an earthquake. I felt a still greater tremor in the air around me. There was wailing from the back of the crowd. I heard one man scream, and then be cut off in mid-flow. The faces twisted again – now into fear and then outright terror. All around me was a pandemonium of screams and wild threshing. Someone collapsed forward on top of me. Then he was lifted off me as if by some vast but invisible force.
No one was pulling on my limbs, and I was able to roll myself into a ball of liberated agony. As the waves of blackness grew shorter and shorter, and sound and vision faded, I had the impression of being absolutely alone in a sunlight that was no longer hot. All pain and all fear slipped away from me. My last feeling that I recall was an immensely serene calm.
Chapter 46
I was in a tunnel lined with glass blocks that shone with some inner light. I was moving rapidly towards one of its ends. I tried to see what was there, but was dazzled by the warm light that flooded in from whatever lay beyond. I looked harder. But whatever I did see was so indefinite, and so changed from moment to moment, that I was no more certain than if I hadn’t looked at all.
I say that I was moving. I wasn’t walking, though. Instead, I floated, as if carried on some invisible chair. I tried to shift position, but seemed to have no control over my body. Indeed,
it was hard to tell if I had a body at all.
I felt that I was coming to a moment of understanding. The shapes within the light were beginning to resolve themselves into something definite and perceptible. Even as I focused, however, I was moving back the way I’d come. The light still dazzled, though from a growing distance. The distance stretched and stretched as I flew back at a now incredible speed. The tunnel was miles long – hundreds of miles long – and still I moved back along it, away from a light that may have been more distant, though it shone with undiminished brightness.
My speed was increasing. The glass blocks were merging into a single blur, and still I was going faster. I had no sense of hearing. I couldn’t feel any resistance of the air about me. I felt none of the forward rush you get when a chariot or a fast ship accelerates. It was enough to know that I was moving. I don’t think I was falling – though it was hard to know if concepts of up and down had any meaning here. I was sure I wasn’t falling. That couldn’t have accounted for the speed I was moving. I was like one of the atoms that Epicurus conjectured – small and unimportant by itself, and moving at inconceivable speed through a universe infinite in space and time.
I was no longer moving. I lay still on a soft surface. I opened my eyes and looked round. I was in a strange room. It was crowded with furniture of immense elaboration. There was a window of glazed panes looking out into blackness. The walls were hung with silk and with paintings in a realistic style of men in clothes I’d never seen before. There was an open fire in a grate against the wall. I heard its steady crackling and smelled the clean vapour of the sea coals. On a shelf above this was a machine with a dial set round with numbers in the Roman style. From it I could hear a slow, steady clicking of its works.
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