Overtime (20 page)

‘Roomier,' said the voice. ‘There's a bit over there, where the draught comes in, where you can almost stand upright. Talk about luxury.' Guy realised, with a feeling of intense horror, that the voice wasn't being ironic. Far from it.

‘Well,' he said, ‘it's been terribly nice meeting you, but, oh
gosh,
is that the time? I really ought to be getting along.'

He edged back towards the door, which wasn't there. He made a swift but thorough search for it, using his sense of touch, and arrived at the conclusion that the door had slung its hook, good and proper. He started to howl.

‘Now then,' said the voice, and two hands grabbed him firmly by the shoulders. ‘You'll upset yourself,' the voice said. ‘It really doesn't help, you know, and you'll disturb the guard. He likes to have his afternoon nap about this time of day, and the poor fellow has a hard enough time of it as it is ...'

Guy stopped in mid-shriek. Whoever this lunatic was, he was actually concerned about the guard's well-being. You could hear it in his voice.

‘I mean,' the voice went on, ‘I don't suppose he gets paid very much, and it's not much of a life for a chap, sitting around in dark corridors all day making sure people don't escape. I think he bears up terribly well, in the circumstances. Nice chap, too. Collects butterflies, so he told me once. Or was that his great-great-grandfather ? One tends to lose track, you know.'

Guy found that he no longer wanted to shriek; a succession of low whimpers seemed much more appropriate. He could tell that the owner of the voice approved.

‘Good man,' he said. ‘If I may ask, and please don't think I'm prying, but, er, how did you get here?'

‘Um,' Guy said. This wasn't going to be easy. ‘You're not going to believe this,' he said, ‘but...'

‘Don't tell me,' said the voice. ‘You found my tunnel.'

‘I'm sorry?'

‘You came from the other cell,' replied the voice. ‘Did you find the tunnel I'd been digging?'

Guy decided to take the line of least resistance. After all, there was relatively little of value that he could learn from a man who'd been in prison for the last ten centuries. ‘Yes,' he said, ‘that's right.'

‘I think I see,' said the voice. ‘You came through my tunnel, thinking it led to the ... the ... whatsitsname, outside, and then when you found it just came here you were disappointed - naturally enough - and then, well, went off your head a bit. Is that it, more or less?'

‘Yes,' Guy said. ‘That's it exactly. Where did I just come in by, do you think? It's hard to get your bearings in the dark.'

‘Do you think so?' the voice said. ‘I find it hard to imagine it not being dark, to be honest with you, but perhaps that's just me getting set in my ways. I think you'd most likely have come in through there, over where the draught comes from. Nice draught, that, don't you think? Did you have a draught in your cell, may I ask?'

‘I beg your pardon?'

‘Your cell,' the voice repeated, ‘the one you've just come from.'

‘Oh yes,' Guy said. ‘Yes, it had a draught. Lovely draught. Like this one, only better.'

‘Really?' There was just a tiny spark of envy in the voice. ‘Well, that must be nice. But I mustn't complain. This draught is perfectly adequate for my needs, perfectly adequate.'

That seemed to conclude the conversation for a while, and Guy began to feel uncomfortable. He edged towards the draught, found the wall, and began pawing at it again. It was smooth and continuous; no sign of any door. He felt another series of howls germinating in his stomach.

‘Did you have a rat in your cell?' the voice asked.

‘A rat?' Guy said. ‘No, I can't say I did.'

‘Oh dear,' the voice said, ‘I am sorry. I do find they're such a comfort, rats. I've always had rats, for as long as I can remember. Mind you,' the voice continued, ‘it might be nearer the mark to say the rats have had me; it's sometimes hard to know which of us is the master and which is the pet!' There was a mild little laugh. ‘Terribly independent-minded creatures, bless them. Ah well!'

The voice seemed to have subsided into a sort of reverie - doubtless contemplating the infinite variety of rats, or something of the sort - and Guy could feel the panic creeping back into the silence. He wasn't having that; on the other hand, he didn't want to start talking about rats again, or draughts, or anything else of the kind. He decided to sing something.

‘Do you mind if I sing?' he said.

‘Sing?' replied the voice. ‘No, please, be my guest. I haven't heard singing since - oh, what was that chap's name? He was a relief warder here about, oh, six hundred and thirty years ago now, it must be, or more like six hundred and fifty. He used to sing sometimes when he brought the food ...'

‘Really,' Guy said. He didn't want to know about six hundred and fifty years ago; it sounded rather depressing. ‘Well then,' he said, ‘I'll sing something then, shall I?'

‘Thank you,' said the voice, politely.

So Guy cleared his throat, and wondered what on earth he could sing. He had just decided on
They Say There's a Wimpey Just Leaving Cologne
when a sound came from outside. A distinctly familiar sound; a voice singing. It sang:

Guy's mouth fell open. Blondel! The voice was unmistakable, and the song - well, he'd heard it rather a lot lately. It had to be Blondel.

For a split second, Guy wasn't sure whether or not he could remember how it went on. Then he started to sing himself; loud, hoarse and flat.

‘Excuse me,' said the voice. ‘May I just ...'

Guy hurled the last words of the second verse out of his lungs and waited for a breathless, desperate instant; and then Blondel's voice came back, closer now and loud, clear and joyful.

The voice cleared its throat, with a sort of different urgency, and said something, but Guy wasn't listening. He was singing, very badly:

and scrambling on to his hands and knees as the door flew open, letting a dim, pale light - starlight, perhaps, or a very thin moonlight - into the cell. ‘Blondel!' he shouted, ‘Is that you?'

‘Oh,' said Blondel, outside. ‘Is that you in there, Guy? Come on, then, we haven't got all day.'

Guy hurled himself at the door, which had already started to close, all of its own accord. He just managed to get through before it closed, with a very assertive click, and faded away, as suddenly as it had appeared.

In the cell, there was a very long silence. You could plainly hear the sound of a rat, snuffling about, scratching its ear plaintively and making a little, high-pitched whining noise, as if demanding to be fed.

‘Oh,' said the voice. ‘Oh well, never mind. Here, ratty, nice crusts! Who's a
good
ratty, then?'

 

It was a cold morning, that fateful day beside the banks of the Rubicon, the little river which divides the province of Gaul from Italy, and Julius Caesar wrapped his cloak tightly round his neck. He didn't want anybody to see him shivering and think he was afraid.

‘Everything ready?' he said to his commander of cavalry. The soldier nodded in reply; he didn't feel like talking. The whole army was unnaturally quiet, as if they somehow knew that the history of the world was about to be changed.

To be absolutely accurate, they did know that the history of the world was about to be changed; it was only the nature of the change that was going to come as a complete shock to the whole lot of them, Julius Caesar included.

Just before noon, Caesar summoned his most intimate and trusted friends and supporters to meet him. Rain had set in; the cold, wet, malicious rain of Gaul which Caesar was only too familiar with. He pointed to a stunted oak tree that offered some vestige of shelter from the elements, and it was there that the historic council of war was held.

Caesar was, of course, bald; although, as his one concession to vanity, he took great pains to comb his remaining hair forward over the top of his head. The rain, however, threatened to wash his coiffure down over his ears in a long, soggy tress; he borrowed a leather travelling-hat from a trusted freedman and crammed it down over his wide temples. The rain fell off the brim in a steady drip.

‘Friends,' Caesar said, ‘we've come a long way these last ten years. First, we had to sort out Ariovistus; the man was a menace, more a wild animal than anything else, and it was our duty to deal with him once and for all. That led to a confrontation with the Bellovaci; and no sooner had we put them in their place but the Nervii rebelled; that involved us with the Veneti, and that meant taking on the Germans, and then the Britons. No sooner had we smashed one lot of them than another mob of the brutes appeared out of nowhere, just when we thought it was safe to go home. Yes, it's been a long haul.'

Caesar paused and wiped the rain out of his eyes with the back of his hand. His face was tired, they noticed; as if ten years' strain was suddenly taking its toll. They leaned forward to catch his words against the dull whistle of the wind and rain.

‘But now it's over, thank the Gods; and let me tell you, I've had enough. Now there are a lot of irresponsible idiots in Rome who'll tell you that all along I've been planning to make myself Emperor, and all this fighting and conquering in Gaul has simply been a preparation for a military coup. They say that as soon as Gaul is quiet, I'm going to lead my army across the Rubicon and into Italy, on to Rome itself.'

Caesar grinned. This was the moment he'd been waiting for.

‘Well, the reason I've called you all here today is to make it absolutely plain that I have no intention - no intention whatsoever - of making myself Emperor. You know as well as I do that if a single one of my men were to cross that river, it would mean a civil war; and all my life has been devoted to preventing that. I'm going back now, lads; I'm crossing the river, but I'm going alone. You're all to stay here and wait for the Senate to send you a new Governor. That's it. Dismiss.'

Caesar's staff stared at each other, unable to believe what they were hearing. For as long as any of them could remember, they had all been convinced that it was only a matter of time before Caesar made his move; and now here he was, throwing it all away. The hardest part of it was that they all knew, in their heart of hearts, that it was the right decision. If Caesar's army crossed the river, the world would never be the same again. Now that the moment had come, however, they were all so thunderstruck that none of them could move. They stood, rooted to the spot, waiting for something to happen.

And happen it did. A tent-flap in the quartermaster's tent was thrown back, and two men walked out. They looked different from all the Roman soldiers milling about in the camp; one of them wore a brown sheepskin jacket, and the other a rather travel-worn scarlet doublet and hose. A number of legionaries turned and stared at them dubiously.

 

‘God, I'm glad you showed up,' Guy said. ‘I was beginning to get worried. Thanks.'

‘Think nothing of it,' Blondel replied. ‘At least that's one of you found. Pure luck, really.'

‘Was it?'

Blondel frowned. ‘I don't know,' he said. ‘There I was on Aegina, having a rest before pressing on and getting back to my schedule - we're terribly behind; by the way; as soon as we can get back on to the main line we're going to have to put in a bit of overtime, I can tell you - when I saw this bloke I know.'

‘How do you mean?' Guy said.

‘A bloke I used to know,' Blondel repeated, ‘at Richard's court. He was dressed as a Greek traffic policeman, but I'd know his face anywhere. Used to be something or other in the kitchens. He just sort of waved at me - you know, the way you acknowledge someone you see in the street - and went on. Well, I followed him, naturally, and the next thing I knew I was standing under this - well, post office. So I started to sing. And then you sang back, and this ...'

‘Door?'

‘... Pillar-box opened, and I went in and found you. And here we are. Where are we, do you know? I just followed the arrows up the tunnel. Looks like an army camp of some sort to me.'

‘Could well be,' Guy replied. ‘How do we get out of it?'

Blondel looked round. ‘Don't be in such a hurry,' he said, ‘I don't think I've been here before, not in a long time. In fact,' he added, smiling at a legionary who was giving him a very suspicious look, ‘not ever.' The legionary shrugged and went back to polishing his shield with olive oil.

‘The odd thing,' Blondel continued, strolling towards the enclosure where the siege engines were parked, ‘was that I'd heard someone singing the song before that.'

‘Did you?' Guy asked. ‘Where—?'

‘In the Archives,' Blondel replied. ‘Now that was peculiar. I must have ended up there when I went back after you into the timequake; all the escaped time from the quake - what you might call the lava - got swept up and dumped in the Archives, and I sort of got swept along with it. I wandered about for a bit until I found an oil rig—'