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.
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.