The Paradise Ghetto

by Fergus O'Connell

  The ladybird disappeared amongst the innumerable stalks of grass. It must have appeared like a vast green world to a creature the size of a ladybird.

  And that was when Birkita saw the first column of smoke.

  Banning had seen it too and came running. They estimated it was somewhere between a day and two day’s ride away. Banning said that he would take his horse and go northwest and try to find out what was happening.

  ‘If it’s coming our way, we must go to the Haven. I should be back before sunset.’

  ‘Be careful,’ she said, embracing him and kissing him on the cheek.

  But he wasn’t back before sunset. And before the sun had gone down, several more columns of smoke had risen into the sky so that the red and gold layers of cloud lit by the setting sun were as though dirt had been thrown on them. And the other thing was that the columns of smoke were coming closer.

  With night, the pillars of smoke were replaced by sparkling clusters of yellow light low down on the ground. They looked as though stars had fallen to earth and begun to burn. Birkita stayed awake all night sitting in the ladybird grass along with her dogs, looking to the northwest. Back in the village, children and old people tried to catch what sleep they could. But very few slept. Maybe the smaller children. Everybody else was seized with an almost palpable feeling of dread.

  ‘Where is Banning?’ they asked.

  The short summer night gave way to dawn. The unfolding light in the east was in stark contrast to the blackness that now smudged the north-western horizon. Birkita felt the hoof beats long before she heard anything. There was the faintest vibration transmitted through the iron-hard soil – hardly heavier than ladybird feet. She turned onto her stomach and hugged the earth. She could feel it now in her chest, like a second heartbeat.

  Now she wasn’t sure whether she was feeling the sound or hearing it, whether it was coming closer or becoming louder or both. She sat up. Sun was already up, sniffing the air. Moon rolled slowly from her side onto her stomach. Birkita gazed into the distant black that was slowly becoming grey. At first she could see nothing but then it was as though the horizon was bubbling or boiling. Something was moving. Coming closer. Becoming bigger. Moon hoisted herself up onto her feet and began to sniff the air. Sun’s tail, which had been up and wagging furiously, stopped. Moon turned her head slowly, scenting an arc from west to north.

  And then Birkita smelt it too, carried on whatever breeze there was. Through the sharp stench of burning came the acrid smell of sweating horses.

  Chapter Two

  The Haven (Julia)

  All during the night, while she had stayed awake and watched the distant fires twinkling, Birkita had endlessly gone over her three choices.

  None of them was good.

  She could stand and fight. But that would be pointless. She would be dead within minutes – not that she feared death – and then who would protect the village? Even if Banning got back and they fought together, they would be no match for a troop of Roman soldiers – which is what she assumed was coming now. She tried not to think about what this meant for their hopes and dreams of being free again – and for those from the village who had gone to fight the last great battle. What had happened to her parents?

  The second possibility was to try and flee. But even if they left all the animals behind, with children and old people on foot, the Romans would be upon them before they knew it.

  Finally, there was the Haven.

  The Haven was an old underground tomb dating from the time of the ancestors. It was in thick woodland not far from the village. Some time in the past, long before anybody now living had been born, the interior of the tomb had been expanded – presumably to take further burials. But for whatever reason, there had been no more and now, with its remote location and tiny, hidden entrance it was a refuge, a place that could hold all the villagers, where they could hide and be safe.

  It had never been used in living memory and Birkita had her doubts about it. If the Romans did find them there, they would be cornered like rats in a pit. Still – it wasn’t like she had another choice.

  With first light, she told the villagers they were going there.

  ‘What about Banning?’

  ‘Where is your brother?’

  ‘What does he say?’

  ‘Let us wait until Banning comes back.’

  ‘There’s no time for any of that,’ said Birkita. ‘Didn’t you see the fires? Can’t you smell the smoke? The Romans are coming. Who knows when they will be here?’

  Reluctantly, the villagers began to move – old people, women with babies or very small children, pregnant women, children too young to go to war who had been left in the care of others while their parents went to fight.

  Some began to round up their animals – chickens, goats, dogs, sheep, cattle, pigs.

  ‘No,’ insisted Birkita. ‘There’s no room for any of them.’

  ‘The Romans will have them.’

  ‘Would you rather they have your children?’

  ‘Just the small ones then – the chickens and the dogs.’

  ‘No. Chickens will squawk. Dogs will bark. We must be silent as ghosts. So you must kill your dogs – otherwise, they will follow you and betray us. And by all the gods, hurry. Please hurry.’

  By mid-morning, all of the villagers were inside the tomb and only Birkita with Sun and Moon was still at the village. She released all of the animals from their paddocks. Ignoring their sudden freedom they just continued to graze placidly in their slightly newer surroundings. She took one last look around. It occurred to her that if the village was going to burn anyway, she should do it herself. If she did, the Romans might think that some of them had been there already and might bypass the place altogether. It was a slim chance but it was worth taking. Quickly, she took a torch from one of the huts, plunged it into a fire and then began to work her way around the twenty or so huts that made up the village. Soon the tinder-dry straw of the thatch was ablaze.

  There was no wind so the black smoke swirled around her making her cough. Orange flames roared into the sky. Scattered around in front of the huts, the bodies of dead dogs lay on their sides. Their fur – white, black, brown – was speckled with red. With the smoke and fire and corpses, it was like the end of the world. Her two dogs were on either side of her. Sun sat staring at the flames with great interest, Moon looked up at her quizzically. The next thing she had to do broke her heart.

  She drew her sword and with two quick movements, killed her dogs. Sun never knew what hit him. With Moon, Birkita knew that for however long she might live, she would never forget the look of sadness and confusion and fear as the sword came scything down.

  Birkita was just backing out through the gate of the stockade that surrounded the village when she saw something white moving on the edge of her vision.

  It was a dog.

  Banning’s dog, Bran – his favourite. Why hadn’t Genovefa, her brother’s wife, killed it?

  ‘Bran,’ she called gently. ‘Here, Bran.’

  The dog knew Birkita. If she was in her brother’s house, Bran would lie at her feet and let himself be petted. Bran always came to her and would lie there for hours provided she kept petting.

  ‘Bran,’ she called again, a little more loudly and insistently.

  The dog looked at her.

  He knew.

  He gazed at her steadily for what seemed like ages and then turned away, disappearing between two flaming huts.

  There was no more time to follow him. She had to get to the Haven herself. She began to run towards the woods.

  The burial chamber was reached by a narrow passageway a couple of spear lengths long. The actual entrance to it lay hidden under the overhang of a huge boulder as big as a hut. If you didn’t know it existed, it was impossible to see the entrance from outside. To get into the Haven someone had to crawl under the edge of the boulder. When their head and upper body were under the rock, and just when it seemed like they wouldn’t be a
ble to go any further, the entrance appeared. It was a masterful piece of concealment. Birkita crawled in now. Once inside, she was able to walk, crouching, along the passageway that sloped gently downwards to the room. Here, there was headroom and she was able to stand up fully.

  There were about fifty people in the burial chamber itself. It was about half the population of the village. There was room for everyone to sit down but not much more than that. There were a couple of buckets in the corner for pissing and shitting. People had brought food and water to last maybe a couple of days. It should have been cool under the earth even in summer, but with the concentration of people it was already hot and starting to stink. There was a deathly silence as everybody strained to hear. The place was lit by a single torch so that the wavering shadows and pools of darkness and the pale faces of the people made it look like a vision of the underworld. The miasma of fear was almost palpable.

  It wasn’t long before they heard horse hooves – a lot of them. They approached quickly and soon Birkita could hear men’s voices and horses snorting as they stopped. An order was given – it was in the Roman tongue so she didn’t know what was said – but the men outside went silent. A horse whinnied and then the sound was cut off – Birkita could picture reins being pulled savagely.

  A seemingly endless silence followed. Birkita could hear her own heart beating.

  A child whimpered and was hushed by its mother.

  Then came a soft rustling at the entrance. Birkita drew her sword and stepped forward. She braced herself, standing at this end of the passageway ready to meet the attacker. She steadied her shield.

  Whatever comes.

  A few moments later Bran came bounding happily into the chamber.

  Birkita groaned.

  Some of the children laughed and were cut short by their parents.

  Now came another rustling, still soft but louder. Bigger. This was a man.

  Birkita readied again. The passageway was only wide enough for a man and so the Romans would get no value from their numbers. In addition, they would have to crouch while Birkita could stand upright. This would be a succession of one-to-one fights. She would fight until they overcame her. Her eyes strained, peering along the dark entranceway, prepared for whatever might come out of the gloom. She would feint for the Roman’s face and when his shield jerked upwards in a reflex, she would stab him in the belly. The first body would partly block the passage meaning that whoever came after him would have to clamber over him and this would make it easier for her to get the second one. And so on with the third and fourth.

  That would be until they tried something different. The Romans always had something different. More awful. She tried not to think what that might be.

  As all this was going through her head, a figure appeared and Birkita very nearly stabbed her brother.

  Banning carried no weapons. His face was smeared with blood and he held up his left hand as though clenching his fist. A blood-soaked rag was wound around it and rivulets of blood ran down his arm and dripped onto the ground.

  He was crying.

  ‘Banning!’

  ‘I thought I had outstripped them ... but more of them surprised me at the village.’

  He winced as a spasm of pain passed through him.

  ‘They cut off my fingers, one by one ... I was happy to die ... I wasn’t going to tell them anything ... but then they saw Bran. “The dog,” they said. “The dog will lead us to them.” They said they would pour liquid fire in if you didn’t come out. You must come out ... otherwise you will all die.’

  ‘We will die anyway.’

  He shook his head.

  ‘They said not.’

  Birkita spat. ‘You would take the word of a Roman?’

  ‘You will all die for certain if you don’t.’

  Birkita wanted to hold her brother – just for a few moments. But he turned away, back the way he had come.

  ‘Come,’ he said, in a voice wet with tears.

  With Banning leading and Birkita second, they emerged blinking into the sunlight that spilled into the clearing. Birds were singing. It took a few moments for Birkita’s eyes to adjust to the dazzling light. As they did she saw that they were encircled by Romans on horseback with spears lowered, forming a hedge of steel. The Romans started to talk amongst themselves. They laughed as the villagers emerged one by one.

  A heavily built Roman removed his helmet. He had a round head with a heavy, red face, reminding Birkita of a bull. He issued an order and three soldiers dismounted. One went to her, indicating that she should hand over her sword. She hesitated.

  ‘You have to,’ said Banning, standing beside her, his voice shot through with pain. ‘If not, the killing will start.’

  The bull Roman looked down at her. He had bushy eyebrows, probing eyes and a nose that made Birkita think of an axe. He said nothing but the question he was asking was eloquent. What are you going to do?

  Birkita dropped the sword.

  The bull Roman said something and his men laughed. He looked away from her as though discarding her. A soldier took her sword and shield and threw them between two horses out beyond the spear-hedge.

  Then the three soldiers began to separate the old people from the rest, pushing them with the flats of their swords.

  Banning spoke to the bull Roman.

  ‘You said we would come to no harm.’

  The bull Roman looked at another soldier who appeared to translate what Banning had said. The bull Roman smiled and said something. The translator too smiled.

  To Banning he said, ‘You will be walking far. My decurion says that the old people will not be able to walk.’

  Just then, they heard the sound of more horses and wheels moving over the forest floor. An open-top wagon pulled by two horses emerged from the trees and stopped just beyond the circle of Roman horses.

  ‘Also the children and babies. Give them to the old people so that they can all be together.’

  The remaining villagers hesitated. No one volunteered their offspring. The three soldiers began to take them. They were gentle at first but when some mothers resisted, the soldiers slapped their faces and tore the children from their arms. Women shouted, children screamed, babies began to cry. A pregnant woman was punched in the belly. She fell onto all fours gasping in pain. Another woman tried to help her to her feet.

  When the children had all been placed with the old people, the bull Roman issued another order. A soldier drew a sheaf of short pieces of rope from his saddle bag and passed them down. The three soldiers began to bind the wrists of the remaining villagers. Birkita felt the hair on the back of her neck rising. She looked at Banning who seemed to be lost in a world of grief and pain. She held her hands out and the rope was tied savagely tightly around her wrists. The Roman who did it stank of sweat and horse and blood. He had bad teeth and his breath was vile. When he had finished he looked into her eyes and grinned at her. Soon everyone except the old people and children were tied.

  The bull Roman spoke again.

  ‘You,’ the translator said to Banning, ‘which ones are your family?’

  ‘Don’t tell him,’ hissed Birkita. ‘Don’t tell him.’

  But before Banning could do or say anything, Genovefa, his wife spoke.

  ‘I am his wife,’ she said almost haughtily. ‘And these are my two children.’

  The bull Roman seemed to think about this for a moment. Then, through the translator, he said, ‘I said I would release you and your family and I will.’

  15

  It hasn’t really gone like Julia or Suzanne thought it would. At different times they said that they would write on alternate days; that each would write their own character; that they would write every other chapter. They talked about how they would act out their characters’ conversations and then one of them would write them down.

  In the end it’s almost as though the story itself decided.

  Julia has been writing for a week. Each night, before going to sleep,
she has asked Suzanne if she would like to see what she has written so that she can check if it’s any good and whether she’d like to take over. Suzanne has always made the same answer: ‘If it’s flowing, keep going.’ But after two full chapters, Julia can’t wait any more. She needs somebody to read it. She needs to know. So on the last day of January, they sit on the edge of the mattress, knees up and blankets around them. Suzanne reads. Julia waits and watches her face nervously

  Shortly after she turns the first page, Suzanne looks up and smiles.

  ‘“Like a fat woman scrambling over a wall” – I love that.’

  Eventually, she is finished.

  ‘Well?’ asks Julia.

  ‘I like it. I want to know what happens next.’

  Julia looks at her expectantly. She needs more and Suzanne seems subdued tonight.

  ‘It’s so authentic. There was no point in it where it jarred, where it didn’t seem real and I was back there in Ancient Britain.’

  ‘You gave me good information,’ says Julia.

  But she still needs to know about the writing. She looks expectantly at Suzanne who finally says, ‘It’s a book I’d buy and once I’d bought it, if I’d read this far I wouldn’t stop until I’d finished.’

  Julia is pleased. No, it’s more than that. She’s overwhelmed. Especially when Suzanne finishes by saying, ‘I couldn’t pay you any greater compliment, Julia.’

  ‘So will you take over now?’

  ‘I’ve been thinking about that,’ says Suzanne. ‘And no, I don’t think so.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No. I’ll meet you in Pompeii.’

  16

  ‘So do you really not know who your character is going to be?’ asks Julia.

  It is later that night and the two girls lie in bed. Julia has managed to procure an extra blanket from the bed of somebody who died – she got there before anybody else did – and so they are warmer than they have ever been since coming here. They lie on their backs in the dark. It is after lights out.