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.
I got no further. With a yell of terror, Martin was running towards me. There was no point asking how he’d abandoned a position from which a crippled child couldn’t have been dislodged. No point, either, in asking about the sword. I ran over to the edge of the roof and looked down. It must have been a forty-foot drop. Jumping would simply have saved anyone the trouble of throwing us down.
But no, there was a bronze downpipe to carry water from the roof. Like others in the more unsafe parts of Alexandria, it would have stopped eight or even ten feet above the ground. But it was a way off the roof.
‘This way,’ I shouted as I dragged Martin over and pointed at the downpipe.
He shook his head and shouted something back that I somehow couldn’t understand.
‘I don’t care,’ I shouted again. ‘Get down – just go!’ Shaking and twitching with the accumulated strain of at least that morning, I waited while Martin finished his dithering fit and climbed slowly over the parapet.
I snatched up what looked like a long broom handle and ran at the one man who’d come in sight over the vaulting. He opened his mouth to shout something, but I had him over before he could get anything out. Some twenty yards behind him, other men were climbing on to the roof. As yet, they had their backs to me, and I managed to jump back before anyone could see me. I skipped down to the edge of the roof and heaved myself over on to the downpipe. It creaked and shuddered. With a snapping of the aged spikes that held it against the wall, it moved a foot backwards.
For a moment, I swung helplessly, my feet treading on air alone. Then, with a fraying of skin, my hands were dragged by my enhanced weight diagonally down the pipe until I felt my knees crash against the wall. I got myself against the still firm next stretch and slithered down.
‘Let go,’ I snarled as my feet knocked against Martin’s head. He’d reached the bottom of the downpipe, and had both hands clamped hard about the thing. How he managed to hold his weight up was another mystery. There was no doubt he was in my way.
‘Jump, for God’s sake,’ I roared down at him. ‘Jump!’ I looked up. About twenty feet above me, a single face, framed against the perfect blue of the sky above, grinned down at me. Another joined it. The downpipe was too damaged at the top for anyone to follow us. But there was plenty of loose junk up there to throw down on us. First came part of the rope ladder. It missed. Another part followed. That gave me a glancing but unimportant blow to the head. It was only a question of waiting there for more substantial objects to come our way.
I kicked savagely at Martin’s hands. They might have been iron clamps. I’d have to get down to his level and somehow make him let go. I swung out and prepared to hold him in an embrace as I got level. I may have got my knees level with his chest. Just then, a very long stretch of the rope ladder hooked itself about my neck, and we fell with a tremendous, bruising thud the last three or four yards on to the pavement.
At least no one could follow us down, I remember thinking. I rolled over and prodded at Martin, whose face had gone a pale shade of green. I looked round. From above, this part of the church surroundings hadn’t been empty. As I’ve said, the whole concourse was packed. But there’s a difference between active troublemakers and those who come along to a riot to watch or for a bit of looting. The first were still making a tremendous racket over on our right. But that was now a good hundred yards away. Here, it was spectators and looters.
A few scrawny creatures hurried up to us as we rolled about on the dusty pavements. One of them spoke to me in a language that wasn’t Greek and that didn’t sound Egyptian. But I had my knife out, and he went back sharpish about his own business. I stood up and prepared to drag Martin to his feet. I fell straight down, white flashes of agony blanking out all thought of what to do next.
Chapter 44
‘Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!’ I gasped, clutching at my ankle. I’d twisted the sodding thing as I fell, and somehow hadn’t noticed until trying to stand on it. For all I knew, I’d broken it. I rocked back and forth, cradling it as I tried to force the pain to the back of my mind. The last thing I needed was to show weakness. Looters and even spectators can be dangerous to the injured. We needed to get away. That meant getting as quickly as possible out of this vast semicircular junction with its lack of cover, and into the streets and side streets beyond.
‘Let me help you,’ Martin said. He’d got up, apparently uninjured, and was pulling at me. ‘We can’t stay here,’ he added. As he spoke, the rest of the rope ladder landed beside us. It was followed by a selection of objects taken from the roof. I looked up. There were more faces looking down. To be sure, the top of the downpipe was bent too far back from the wall, and was too loose, to let anyone follow us down. Sooner or later, though, they’d start throwing down heavier stuff and to better effect.
Carrying himself in armour, and supporting something like half my own weight, wasn’t something I’d expected Martin could do at all without a heart attack. In the event, he got the pair of us across the concourse with surprising speed and without more than the occasional glance from the moderately dense crowds that moved back and forth. A hundred yards over on the right, there was what – with the wild shouting and clash of weapons – sounded a
