Simeon leaned closer to his nephew. “What is going on?” He nodded at the jostling crowd. “What are these people doing here?” Good question, Michael thought—though less important than the one that still claimed his attention. Tarquin had collected them just after breakfast. After what may have been a random progress through the wide and endless streets of London, he’d stopped looking nervously out of the windows and taken them to a museum that was shocking in more than its size. In silence, he’d led them through gallery after gallery. His long fingers had fluttered over the contours of smashed statuary of naked gods and heroes, and he’d pulled embarrassing faces at Michael. “You watch yourself, my boy,” Simeon had whispered as Tarquin stroked the buttocks of a work they both knew from the original set up on the central spine of the Hippodrome. “This man is a slave to the abominable vice of the ancients.” But this wasn’t what had so troubled them. Tarquin had finally stopped before what had to be the original of the east pediment of the Church of the Virgin in Athens. “How could they have got hold of this?” Simeon had groaned into Michael’s ear. “And why is it so damaged?”
Michael hadn’t answered this question aloud. Unlike the presence in London of an Islamic mob, it was a question easily answered—so long, that is, as you overlooked all the known laws of nature. “Once you eliminate the impossible,” old Psellus had told him many times in class, “whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth.” More than once, Michael had taken himself through every step in the reasoning—and it always directed him to one bizarre and unthinkable conclusion. How to put this to his uncle? Or had he got there too?
“Is that Khilafah, Khilafah! These people are shouting?” Simeon asked. Michael pulled himself into the present and nodded. He patted the old man’s shoulder and cast about for soothing words. In Baghdad, Simeon had been at his considerable best. He’d cut straight through the wild confusion of the higher classes, and seeded everyone with just the right degree of misinformation to call off the projected attack on the Empire. Here, he was as lost as any of the barbarian envoys who were given the run around in Constantinople. That museum had completed his unnerving. Now, he sat beside Michael, twitching every so often as he fought to control himself. Perhaps Michael should ignore Tarquin’s presence, a couple of feet in front of them, and just open the whole matter. What to do?
There was a sudden shift in the crowd, and bodies pressed harder against the vehicle, causing it to shake. Begun by a few men immediately outside, the shouted call was spreading through the crowd. Almost without warning, thousands of voices resolved themselves into the single chant—“Khilafah! Khilafah!” they chanted. This was one of those times, Michael knew, when people of sense took to their heels. Instead, they were stuck fast. How secure was this vehicle? As if in answer, the driver opened a cupboard beside his steering wheel and took out what was probably a weapon of some kind. With a loud click, he pulled it into readiness and put in full view of anyone who might be inclined to look through the window. One man did look. The wild stare went immediately from his face, and he pressed himself back into the shouting crowd.
With a loud purring, Tarquin’s communication machine lit up. He pulled its leather flap open and began a low and nervous conversation with someone. The vehicle shook again, and his voice rose to a terrified squawk before he looked again at Michael and brought himself under control. “It may be necessary for the pair of you to get onto the floor,” he said with a failed effort to seem in control of things. He swallowed and licked dry lips. As he began another of his conversations, there was the clatter overhead of one of the flying machines that Michael had seen at regular intervals. This one was flying very low—barely over the heads of the crowd. There was a deafening and repeated warning that reminded him of what he’d heard in the waters off Dover. The response from the crowd was a unified roar of defiance, and then more chanting of that Arabic word. Just beside the window, a young bearded man with a head dress painted red in the unreadable script threw his arms up and went into an enthusiastic screaming fit. Two other men began whirling round and round as if, high on cannabis, they were about to throw themselves into battle against a Christian army.
Now, the clattering overhead was joined by a rhythmical drumming sound that came in bursts. The car shook again, and the roar of the crowd changed without warning to a great collective wail of terror. “Get down!” Tarquin screamed. He and the driver pressed themselves against the floor of the vehicle and covered their heads. “Get down!” he repeated. “For God’s sake, get on the floor!” Helping his uncle down, Michael heard the terror outside turn to panic. The bursts of drumming from overhead came closer, and went on and on, and their sound wasn’t covered even by the frantic screaming of the crowd. The vehicle shook from the gathering stampede. A few times, its metal casing rang as if struck by a stone.
And then, as quickly as it had started, the commotion was over. Without waiting for permission, Michael got off the floor and looked through the front window at a carpet of the dead or dying that covered the road all the way to its far junction. The driver was already back in his seat and turning the key that would bring the vehicle back to life. With a continual and sickening bump of wheels over the bodies of the fallen, they crept forward. Another minute, and Michael saw a few dozen men on horseback coming slowly towards them. He could hear the muffled sound of hooves on the soft stone of the road, and the approving shout whenever one of the men leaned over to club one of the blood-covered fallen into stillness. He thought they’d challenge the driver. Instead, they parted at the last moment and let the vehicle pass through. As they approached the junction, the way ahead cleared. With a cry of relief, the driver pressed one of his pedals and the vehicle shot forward.
Tarquin reached into his pocket for a paper box. “I shouldn’t think too much about what you’ve just seen,” he said, trying for an easy drawl. “City mobs, I’m sure you’ll agree, can be dangerous things.” He flicked the box open, biting his lip when he found it was empty. “We should soon have you back to your lodgings.” He turned and spoke to the driver, who said nothing. They reached another big junction and turned right. They were back in one of the quieter parts of London. The road itself was clear, though the pavements were filled with crowds that stopped and looked in silence at the vehicle.
They turned into a narrower street lined with the glass windows of the London shops. Tarquin spoke again to the driver, who this time answered, and slowed to a stop. “I need to go outside for some business,” Tarquin explained to Simeon. “I shan’t be long.” The old man nodded blankly. Tarquin opened his door and looked up and down the silent street. With a soft thump, he pushed the door shut behind him. The driver pressed a button on his own door, and there was the usual clicking sound of locks being engaged. Tarquin darted inside one of the few shops that were open. He came out with another small box. From this he took a white tube and put it between his lips. He took something else from inside his jacket and, with shaking hands, set light to the tube. Sucking furiously on the burning tube, and breathing out the smoke, he walked up and down the street, deep in yet another of his maniac conversations.