he says. ‘We can’t let this go on. I want you and Pagan on the door, sergeant. I don’t want any more people coming in. You can threaten them, if you have to.’
My pleasure. Following Rockhead as he pushes his way to the door. Squeezing past great slabs of hot, sticky flesh, through steamy clouds of garlic and onions and spice and sweat and hot peppers. Whoof! What a stew! Rockhead uses his elbows, his knees, his shoulders, his fists. Yelps and squeaks from the targets. Then into the sunshine – and a sea of heads stretching out across the square.
Christ in a cream cheese sauce.
‘Attention! Attention! ’ Rockhead, the man with a voice like the fall of Jericho, can hardly be heard above the clamour – until he raises his spear. ‘Attention, citizens! Attention! The church is full! There is no more room! Please remain where you are!’
Ominous mutterings, swelling to outrage. The bodies surge forward. Funny how you only see bits of them: a sagging bosom, a straining forearm, a mouthful of greenish, jagged teeth. One quick nod from Rockhead, and out with my sword.
Whoops! That’s done it. They can’t fall back fast enough.
‘If you force your way into the church the people inside may suffer injury!’ Rockhead declares, trying to appeal to their better natures. Pointless, of course. When the going gets tough, there’s no such thing as a better nature – not in large and pious groups of people.
Personally, I can’t see what all the fuss is about. So we’ll miss the Patriarch’s new outfit. So what? More like a blessing than a curse, if you ask me.
‘Quiet! Quiet!’ Voice from the crowd. ‘It has begun! Quiet, everyone!’
Sure enough, the choir’s started. You can hear the singing, even from out here. ‘ Laudamus te, adoramus te . . . ’ Chins sink obediently onto chests. A general easing of the noise, as the keener souls resign themselves to a beggar’s seat near the doorstep. Some arrange themselves on the ground, some lean against the limestone walls of the square, fanning themselves with their gauntlets. Some remain standing, heads bowed, hands clasped. And the flies settle down for a nice, long feed.
Is there anyone out there I recognise?
No . . . no . . . no. Not him. Not him, either. A tangle of greasy grey hair, like a dirty goat’s fleece. (No.) The face beside it – sallow and bony and pocked. (No.) To the right, an enormous black beard. To the left, a saffron silk turban over a pair of high cheekbones. A cloven chin. (No.) A missing eye. (No.) A smooth, flushed cheek just peeping out of a collar. Very nice. Very nice indeed. Lovely, the way these northern women dress. No veils. No shrouds. No layers and layers of clothing. Lots of lovely bare skin and hair, for all the world to see.
Better watch it, though, or she’s going to get sunburned. In fact we’re all heading for a dose of sunburn, in this heat. The hoods are a good idea. Someone pulling his cloak over his head . . . And who’s that big, brown baldie beside him? Looks like Oswald the ostler. No. It can’t be. No – it’s not. Didn’t think so. Last thing I heard old Oswald had run off to Nazareth. After the unfortunate affair of the borrowed donkey.
Ho hum.
‘Let God arise, let his enemies be scattered: let them also that hate him flee before him.’
The Patriarch’s voice. Quite clear, surprisingly. Drifting out of the church like a wisp of smoke. Like the insidious smell of chicken manure. High and thin and strained. Not the kind of voice to reassure you in the face of bloodthirsty Infidel armies. Not exactly the ringing tones you’d expect. Makes you wonder if God will even hear him, let alone deliver us all from the raging heathen.
We’d be better off at home, if you ask me. Packing our clothes and pots and jewellery and a spare pair of boots.
‘. . . Because of thy temple at Jerusalem shall kings bring presents unto thee. Rebuke the company of spearmen . . . scatter thou the people that delight in
My pleasure. Following Rockhead as he pushes his way to the door. Squeezing past great slabs of hot, sticky flesh, through steamy clouds of garlic and onions and spice and sweat and hot peppers. Whoof! What a stew! Rockhead uses his elbows, his knees, his shoulders, his fists. Yelps and squeaks from the targets. Then into the sunshine – and a sea of heads stretching out across the square.
Christ in a cream cheese sauce.
‘Attention! Attention! ’ Rockhead, the man with a voice like the fall of Jericho, can hardly be heard above the clamour – until he raises his spear. ‘Attention, citizens! Attention! The church is full! There is no more room! Please remain where you are!’
Ominous mutterings, swelling to outrage. The bodies surge forward. Funny how you only see bits of them: a sagging bosom, a straining forearm, a mouthful of greenish, jagged teeth. One quick nod from Rockhead, and out with my sword.
Whoops! That’s done it. They can’t fall back fast enough.
‘If you force your way into the church the people inside may suffer injury!’ Rockhead declares, trying to appeal to their better natures. Pointless, of course. When the going gets tough, there’s no such thing as a better nature – not in large and pious groups of people.
Personally, I can’t see what all the fuss is about. So we’ll miss the Patriarch’s new outfit. So what? More like a blessing than a curse, if you ask me.
‘Quiet! Quiet!’ Voice from the crowd. ‘It has begun! Quiet, everyone!’
Sure enough, the choir’s started. You can hear the singing, even from out here. ‘ Laudamus te, adoramus te . . . ’ Chins sink obediently onto chests. A general easing of the noise, as the keener souls resign themselves to a beggar’s seat near the doorstep. Some arrange themselves on the ground, some lean against the limestone walls of the square, fanning themselves with their gauntlets. Some remain standing, heads bowed, hands clasped. And the flies settle down for a nice, long feed.
Is there anyone out there I recognise?
No . . . no . . . no. Not him. Not him, either. A tangle of greasy grey hair, like a dirty goat’s fleece. (No.) The face beside it – sallow and bony and pocked. (No.) To the right, an enormous black beard. To the left, a saffron silk turban over a pair of high cheekbones. A cloven chin. (No.) A missing eye. (No.) A smooth, flushed cheek just peeping out of a collar. Very nice. Very nice indeed. Lovely, the way these northern women dress. No veils. No shrouds. No layers and layers of clothing. Lots of lovely bare skin and hair, for all the world to see.
Better watch it, though, or she’s going to get sunburned. In fact we’re all heading for a dose of sunburn, in this heat. The hoods are a good idea. Someone pulling his cloak over his head . . . And who’s that big, brown baldie beside him? Looks like Oswald the ostler. No. It can’t be. No – it’s not. Didn’t think so. Last thing I heard old Oswald had run off to Nazareth. After the unfortunate affair of the borrowed donkey.
Ho hum.
‘Let God arise, let his enemies be scattered: let them also that hate him flee before him.’
The Patriarch’s voice. Quite clear, surprisingly. Drifting out of the church like a wisp of smoke. Like the insidious smell of chicken manure. High and thin and strained. Not the kind of voice to reassure you in the face of bloodthirsty Infidel armies. Not exactly the ringing tones you’d expect. Makes you wonder if God will even hear him, let alone deliver us all from the raging heathen.
We’d be better off at home, if you ask me. Packing our clothes and pots and jewellery and a spare pair of boots.
‘. . . Because of thy temple at Jerusalem shall kings bring presents unto thee. Rebuke the company of spearmen . . . scatter thou the people that delight in
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