Lies Sleeping (Peter Grant, #7)(50)

‘I was looking for some information,’ I said.

‘Indoor plumbing,’ he said. ‘It’s going to be big.’

‘And you wonder why no one takes you seriously.’

‘Seriously enough that you’re willing to pony up to have a chat.’

‘What did you think of my gifts?’

He cocked his head at an angle and then shook it slowly from side to side.

‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘But giving what it must be costing Mrs High and Mighty Muckity Muck to send you here, they must have been princely gifts indeed.’

Which was interesting – it never occurred to me that transporting me here, wherever here really was, would cost Lady Ty any effort. Something to think about later.

I still felt out of breath and tried to inhale deeply a few times to clear the feeling. As I did, I noticed a young white woman in a garish blue and red check skirt and a loose linen tunic emerge from one of the roundhouses. She paused to glance curiously at me before nodding and smiling at Tyburn. They exchanged pleasantries in a language that could have been Ancient British, or gibberish for all I knew, before she headed off over the rise in the land.

A pale young white man emerged from the same roundhouse, and gave me a similar once-over to the woman before waving a greeting to Tyburn and heading down the slope towards the river a few metres downstream of where we stood.

This man was dressed only in what were obviously his last chance trousers, the pattern faded to a light yellow and orange check and held up with a rope at his waist. He was shirtless and torcless and carried a metre-long spear over his shoulder. The tip, I noted, had a sharp point and double barbs and, judging from the whitish yellow colour, was carved from bone.

‘Do they know who you are?’ I asked, as we watched the young man wade into the river with his spear.

‘Of course they do,’ said Tyburn.

The young man took position a couple of metres out into the current with his spear held ready to strike.

‘Who you really are?’ I said.

‘They have a much better idea of who I really am than you do.’ He held up a hand for silence. ‘Wait for it,’ he said softly and then – ‘Fish!’

The spear darted down and I saw it tremble as it struck. The young man leant on it to make sure of the kill before squatting down to pick the fish up with both hands. It took both hands because the thing was half a metre long and thrashing around vigorously. The young man wrestled it through the reeds and up the slope to dry ground, where he plonked the fish down, picked up a rock and gave it a good smack. Then again, to be on the safe side.

Once he was satisfied that the fish was thoroughly dead the young man hoisted it to his shoulder and, pausing a moment to nod respectfully at Tyburn, carried it up towards the houses.

‘What, no tribute?’ I asked.

‘Don’t be daft,’ said Tyburn. ‘What do I want with a bit of raw fish?’

‘Really?’

‘Really. I’m going to pop up later and have it when it’s cooked.’

‘Cushy,’ I said. ‘What does he get out of it?’

‘He got a fish, didn’t he?’ Tyburn grinned. ‘A big fish.’

‘And you arranged that. How?’

Mysteriously,’ he said. ‘Have you ever considered becoming a god?’

‘I don’t fancy the hours.’ I wondered if he was being serious.

‘You get a free fish supper.’

There was a tightness in my chest that no amount of breathing seemed to help. I had to fight not to pant – soon I was going to have to fight not to panic.

‘You can’t catch your breath,’ said Tyburn, ‘because you’re asphyxiating. Sooner or later Her Sewership will have to pull you out – hopefully before you go into cardiac arrest.’

‘You could have told me this earlier,’ I said.

He smiled and opened his mouth but I cut him off – I’d wasted enough breath already.

‘Mr Punch,’ I said. ‘Where did he come from?’ I held up my hand. ‘And if you try to tell me he has roots in the sixteenth-century Italian commedia dell’arte you’ll be amazed at how long and painful the comeback will be.’

‘Are you sure?’ he said. ‘It’s a sad story.’

‘I’m the police, Ty – they’re all sad stories.’

‘Imagine this geezer,’ said Tyburn. ‘Let’s call him Cata. He’s like the fifth living son of an Atrebates sub-chief, a bit weedy, raised to ride a chariot and handle a spear but you know, heart’s not in the family business. Only a teen when the Romans turn up and his old man goes, “Fuck me, underfloor heating? That’s the shit for me!” and they all go Roman faster than a Basildon girl in an Italian discotheque.

‘Now you’re thinking about the glories of Rome and all that painted stonework, but back at the start London’s essentially a bridge with a shanty town attached. Not that it stayed that way with all the silver denarii flooding in to pay the legions. There’s three legions, remember. That’s fifteen thousand men, plus the same again in auxiliaries. And these are professional soldiers, so they like to get paid. And they like to get fed too. Anyone with a couple of acres, a plough and some manpower is going to be coining it. Hence docks and warehouses and some tasty new dwellings. Still wattle and daub, but in the modern rectangular style where you get separate bedrooms and don’t have to shag in front of the rest of the family.’