Richard Blake - The Curse of Babylon

One of the men pushed his bearded face above the doorframe to see where I’d gone. ‘Come back, you fool!’ he shouted. He stretched a hand forward and scrabbled on tiles about nine inches from me. Deep inside the building, someone was shouting for Simon.

I wanted a triumphant cry of ‘Fuck you!’ All I managed was a faint squawk, followed by another wave of panic as the man pulled his hand back and I saw what seemed to be my one chance of staying alive move out of reach. He stretched forward again, this time only dislodging one of the tiles. I saw it slip out of sight. What seemed an age later, I heard it strike something solid in the yard. I pressed my sweating face closer against the roof and forced myself to think. Now, the tile peg that had got itself tangled in my inner tunic snapped and, if I didn’t move yet, I had the awful feeling that one breath would send me on my way. Willing my wrist not to move, I dug the fingers of my left hand underneath one of the tiles. It snapped halfway up as if it had been made of dried mud and slid down with a clatter, ending in a silence that set off a dull roaring in my head. I controlled myself and got my fingers under what remained. This time, it came fully away, and there was a three inch gap where the tile below didn’t cover. I plunged my whole arm down, dislodging more tiles, until I was clutching at one of the more solid battens. With another ripping of silk, I pulled myself into a sitting position and recovered a semblance of nerve while staring across a sea of other roofs, until the view was blocked by the clouds of steam that rose above the tanneries.

‘Fuck you!’ I did now cry. ‘If you want me, you come and get me.’ No answer. In place of another grab at me, there was a splintering of wood in the room directly below me. I looked forward. I was just about level with the walkway. If I dithered here much longer, those big men would grab hold of my legs and pull me back inside. I bit my lip and edged forward to where the tiles were unbroken. My stomach was twisting into funny knots and I wondered if I’d find the nerve to jump straight down. Once I was away from where I’d been able to hold on, though, it was like going down a children’s slide. Gathering speed, and attended by a clatter of more dislodged tiles, I was over the edge before I could realise the full madness of what I was doing. After a moment of nothingness, I hit the walkway chest first and with a loud smack that trailed off into an echo that reminded me of a plucked harp string.

The walkway had no upper ropes for holding on. Using it was a matter of acquired balance. On instinct, I’d spread my arms and legs as I hit. Now, fighting for the breath that had been knocked out of me on impact, I joined my hands underneath the slats and got my feet together. More shocked than scared, I held on grimly and waited for the whole slender things of rope and rotting wood to stop swaying like a branch in the wind. ‘Stiff upper lip — stiff upper lip!’ I kept telling myself, for some reason in English. It didn’t work. I wasn’t as high up as the windows of my sleeping quarters. But there’s a difference between standing on a rising sequence of brick arches that have survived a century of earthquakes, and looking through the two-inch spacings between wooden slats that are only eighteen inches long and half as much wide. I clutched harder and was aware of the still-dancing image, so very far below, of men who ran about, shouting and pointing up at me.

But I heard more shouting behind me, and I forced myself up on hands and knees to crawl across the void that separated me from the far building. Other slats disintegrated as I passed over them. I thought, the whole way, I’d tip over or go through. I focused on the slats a foot in front of my nose and did my best not to see the impossible distance they kept me from falling. Men shouted from the building I’d left. Because no one dared follow me, the cries grew fainter as I made my way steadily forward. Below in the yard Simon was in sight again and was ordering men into the far building.

I’d not be staying in the far building. I pushed past a couple of curious boys and an old woman, who’d woken from their siesta, and made for the next walkway. I was already a quarter across it and wondering if the next building would allow a choice of further escapes, when on the far side two men with the dark beards of Syrians stepped forward from the shade and raised their swords in silent warning.

I turned back. I was still on the last slats when another man appeared in front of me. ‘You’re going nowhere, my lad!’ he snarled. He spoke to an accompaniment of approaching feet on the stairs. ‘You’ll come quietly if you know what’s good for you.’ He would have spoken more. But I now had my sword out. As he went for his own, I lunged forward and ran him through in the lower belly. I got up unsteadily, grabbed him by his beard and kicked him downstairs. Screaming and tumbling head over heels as he went, he crashed into more men who’d been hurrying up to join him. I was having a good day with the body on the staircase blocking move!

I turned back to the walkway. One of the men at the far end had a better sense of balance than I had and was already halfway towards me. I wheeled about and looked frantically for some other escape. I could go up the last flight of stairs to the roof but I didn’t expect there to be any way off that. I could hear more men coming upstairs to join the two who were untangling themselves from the dying man I’d thrown at them. I went down a step and slashed at them with my sword. They fell back and looked round for the approaching support. I put my sword away and jumped back to the entrance to the walkway. I bent down and took hold of the two ropes that secured all the slats. I lifted and pulled them, and watched the Syrian I’d surprised throw himself forward to catch hold of the walkway. I pulled again and sent an undulating motion towards him. He missed his hold and fell headfirst, screaming all the way. He landed in a mass of filth and, alive though injured, cried piteously for help. His colleague stepped back to safety and waved his sword again.

‘Simon wants me alive,’ I said softly in a voice that shook like sobs. ‘He wants me alive.’ I waited for the swaying walkway to stabilise, then made myself get down again on all fours and crawl carefully forward. The seam of my inner tunic had split and its silk was slithering down my forearms. If only I’d been brave enough to lift my hands off the ropes, I’d have pulled it free and sent it billowing towards the ground — even in the state I’d put it, it was another windfall for some lucky pauper.

I was ten feet away from the building I’d left, when I heard Simon’s voice behind me. ‘And does My Lord think he’ll get very far?’ he sneered.

I stopped and sat astride the walkway. As Simon barked an order at the man far behind me, I swung my legs until no one with any sense in his head would have dared follow. The ropes creaked alarmingly and there was a sound of snapping wood far behind me. I pretended not to hear this. ‘Hello, Simon,’ I said with a bright smile. ‘Do you fancy joining me? You get a lovely view from out here.’

He looked at the swaying walkway and moved back a step. ‘You can’t stay on that thing forever,’ he said with a nasty smile of his own. ‘You might as well make it easy for all of us. You have the power to make this a very civilised transaction. If you come over and take my hand, you can seal a note to your secretary telling him where the object is and directing him to bring it to us. You can then go free. If you want to make it hard for yourself, I can send a message of my own — wrapped about your left hand.’ He brought out a villainous laugh and looked round to make sure his men had heard him.