I considered surrendering, but settled for ducking behind the tree.
The man gave me an annoyed grimace, like a builder who’s just been asked to do a bit of extra finishing up, and stepped forward. I could see in my head what was going to happen next. He’d feint one way and then stab me with the point when I moved the other way. The trunk of the tree suddenly seemed very small.
I was about to leg it in the other direction, on the basis I wasn’t the one wearing the metal armour, when a high-pitched ululation from nearby interrupted us both. My poor cavalier had just enough time to grumpily turn to face in the right direction when a javelin whistled out of nowhere and pierced his throat. He staggered a step backwards and then fell with a look of profound irritation on his face.
I was expecting Tyburn, but instead got a much younger white guy, tall and lithe, with blond hair spiked up with grease and blue swirls on his face and naked chest. A golden torc gleamed at his neck and a cape made of dozens of beaver pelts stitched together hung rakishly off his shoulders.
Before I had a chance to speak he closed the distance between us, grabbed me and kissed me on the lips. Proper snog too, with tongue and everything. Not only was it not terrible as kisses go, it was also strangely familiar.
‘Beverley,’ I said when we broke for air. ‘What the fuck is going on?’
‘War has come to London,’ he said and then, after a pause, added, ‘Again.’
‘Chorley is heading for the bridge,’ I said – looking around to get my bearings. ‘And I have to stop him.’
I was standing on high ground three hundred metres north of the ancient Thames, about where St Paul’s Church was standing in the real world. The landscape had a strange unreal quality and was shrouded in a weird mist, as if I were playing a video game with a short draw distance.
I was still falling.
None of this was real.
But I’ve learnt that just because something isn’t real doesn’t mean it’s not important.
I could look east at the wide and winding course of the river and see Londinium as a vague smudge. No walls, though – too early for them. The bridge was still there – laid low over pontoons to the first of the islands that made up Southwark. I thought something glittered on the central span.
To my south was the road, curving east before dropping down into the Fleet valley to that bridge and up again into Londinium.
‘Come on,’ I said. ‘The road.’
‘Whatever you say, babes,’ he said and, grabbing my hand, starting running.
Fuck me, but these ancient rivers were fit. It was all I could do to keep up and I didn’t have any imaginary breath left to speak. This close to the city, the road was the proper full Roman – three metres of cambered gravel with big drainage ditches either side. The Fleet was about a kilometre ahead and I could actually see Chorley on the road, halfway there. But he was walking – limping, in fact – and I reckoned I could take him.
But Beverley wouldn’t let go of my hand.
‘Hold up, babes,’ he said.
There was a bestial howl from across the river and something black and doglike bounded down to the bank. Behind it thundered a couple of hundred men on horses, all in variations of the cuirass and long coat worn by my dead friend with the matchlock pistol.
That would be the Black Dog of Newgate, I thought, and the cavaliers might be riding the missing horses from Brentford.
To the right of the river crossing appeared, as if spawning into a video game, a couple of thousand burly men in mail and armour made of small plates of metal. They carried round shields, spears and axes and swords. On their heads were helmets that most definitely didn’t have horns on them.
‘So that’s where the Holland Park Vikings went,’ I said. ‘Mr Chorley has been a busy, busy man.’
Had he known there’d be a confrontation? Or was it just his usual planning in depth? I decided that would be one of the many things we would have a conversation about by and by.
And, if the unreconstructed Lego merchants weren’t enough, another mass came boiling out of the indistinct wattle and daub rectangles of Roman London. This was a rabble dressed from every period in London’s history – stout men in doublet and hose, crooked bravos in puffy shorts and jackets with slashed sleeves to show the silk shirts below. There were top hats and bowlers, swords and muskets and clubs and pikes. From this levy en masse came an ugly, hate-filled muttering.
I’ve faced groups like this at closing time. Drunk, angry people spoiling for a fight. You can talk down most Saturday night wastemen but there’s always a hard core who don’t think it’s a proper night out if someone doesn’t get hurt.
Among them rode men on horses, singly or in groups of three or four. They were straight-backed and arrogant and stank of money. I’d faced these too, but not as often – the likes of me didn’t get to feel their collars very often.
‘Who the fuck are they?’ I asked.
‘That’s the gentry and their servants,’ said blond Beverley. ‘All the liars, hypocrites, exploiters, dog-bastards, wankers, janissaries, Monday men, cat-ranchers and people who fly-tip in protected waterways.’
‘There’s a lot of them,’ I said.
‘What can I say?’ said Beverley. ‘It’s London, isn’t it?’
I couldn’t do the calculation in my head, but I was pretty sure that falling twelve metres at 9.8 m/s2 meant I was going to hit the flagstones in just over a second. And whatever the real time/weirdo memory of London ratio was, I didn’t think I had time to hang about.
I didn’t need to fight them all. I just had to reach Chorley before he got to the bridge.
‘Let’s go,’ I said, but Beverley put his hand on my arm to stop me.
‘Wait,’ he said. ‘Got reinforcements coming.’
I heard them before they arrived. It was like a thousand pots and pans being rhythmically rattled against each other. And through the soles of my feet the stamp-stamp-stamp of thousands of hobnailed sandals hitting the ground in unison.
But trotting out of the arbitrary draw distance came a pair of shaggy ponies, manes plaited and beribboned in yellow and green, drawing a wickerwork chariot with big wheels. Standing in the forward driving position was the first Tyburn, this time smartly dressed in a metal lorica, segmented skirt and deep red cloak. The only thing he was missing was a helmet with a horsehair plume.
He did a flash little stop and swerve so that the open back of the chariot was towards me.
‘Up you get,’ he said, and pulled me into the chariot. ‘Here they come.’
I looked to the west just in time for an entire bloody Roman legion to come jogging into view. Rank after rank, by the cohort and the numbers, but with no standard raised – no eagle.
The smell of blood rolled off them and, weirdly, olive oil.
They came to a halt in a clatter of iron.
‘Fuck me,’ I said. ‘I’m in an episode of Game of Thrones.’
33
The Sacrifice of Gaius C. Pulcinella Considered as a Deleted Scene from The Lord of the Rings
‘Useless fucks of the Ninth!’ shouted Tyburn, and the legion muttered – a rolling sound like distant thunder. ‘You failed this city once.’ Jeers, catcalls, and I didn’t need any Latin to recognise that tone. ‘But the gods have given you a second chance.’
The legion fell silent – which was scarier than when they were making a noise.
‘And this time you’re going to get the job done!’ shouted Tyburn.
There were mutters and sporadic cheers.
‘Right?’
A cheer started in the cohort directly in front of us. It was taken up by those on either side and proceeded to roll outward and then back, finally to peter out as Tyburn held up his fist.