Telegraph poles are heavy. Extraordinarily heavy. I suppose when you think about it, they’re a whole tree, minus the fluffy bits. If it wasn’t for Henry, and Maria’s mum, who has finally woken up, and the fact that one of the telegraph poles is shorter than all the others, we wouldn’t stand a chance.
We line up on either side of the pole.
‘So what’s the plan?’ asks Maria.
Everyone stares at Ursula, who points at me.
‘The plan is…’ I think for a moment. ‘The plan is: that we burst through this door, and keep running. However, if we spot Lucy, we stop, grab her, and keep running.’
‘But how do we get through the rugby soldiers?’ asks Maria’s dad, who still looks confused, although not half as confused as Maria’s mum, who keeps on staring at her hands and saying little prayers.
‘We blast ’em!’ says Henry, accidentally firing a load of Derf pellets at Ursula.
‘Ow!’ she says. ‘Henry, you’re such a…clot!’
‘Sorry,’ says Henry, looking at the floor.
‘Surprise,’ I say, remembering something Dad said about the Trojan Horse. ‘It’s just a question of the “element of surprise”.’
Henry manages to hold a Derf gun in one hand, and the pole in the other. I can’t – I have to concentrate on carrying the pole and jam my gun in my jeans.
We listen to the world outside the barn. The Romans are losing focus, chatting and singing rugby songs. Now’s our moment.
‘One…two…three, go!’ I whisper.
Bang!
The door flies open, and we run, bowling through the men lolling outside.
‘AAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGHHHHH!’ screams Maria. Sawdust floats around us like a swarm of flies, and we race out of the barn towards the loose boxes. A single Roman wanders towards us, leading a goat.
‘Lucy!’ yells Henry.
‘Bleeaat!’ calls Lucy and Henry veers so that the lone Roman becomes our target.
‘Aaaaaaaarghghghgh!’ we shout, closing on him.
‘Yow!’ he yelps, and runs off to the side. Lucy stands temporarily transfixed by the oncoming pole but as we close on her she sidesteps as if to gallop past us into the empty barn.
‘Stop!’ I scream. ‘Drop the pole.’
Henry grabs Lucy and we run, although Maria’s mum doesn’t know the meaning of run, so Ursula runs and the rest of us drag Maria’s mum over the yard towards the car park.
Behind us, the Romans are gaining, and they’re becoming more organised. They’re grabbing tools from the stables, and once again a fine collection of dustbin lids, and apart from Derf guns, we’ve got nothing that’ll stop them.
I skid to a halt on the far side of a small horse lorry. Everyone follows, Maria’s dad holding his chest, looking alarmingly pink; Henry immediately turns and fires Derf pellets at the oncoming Romans.
Ursula pulls out her camera and films around the side of the truck. A hail of well-aimed pitchforks hits the ground beside her. ‘There’s Mr Dent,’ she says, pointing at the image on her screen. ‘Look.’
She’s right. He’s there in the middle. ‘Try and reason with him,’ I say.
‘Mr Dent!’ she calls. ‘Mr Dent, this is Ursula Ross.’
For a moment the pitchforks slow down.
‘Mr Dent, you’re our teacher – and we’d like you to stop throwing things at us.’
There’s a silence from the Romans.
‘Bargainus?’ says one of them.
‘Bargainus,’ says Ursula.
‘Promisus?’ says the Roman.
‘Yesus,’ says Ursula.
BBBBRRRRROOOM, BRROOOOOM.
What? I look round for the noise.
It’s the horse truck, someone’s started the engine.
‘Quick, jump in,’ yells Maria from the driving seat. ‘There’s a door, there.’
I open the door into the part that a horse stands in, and we clamber in, shoving Maria’s mum into the corner with the most hay.
‘Go!’ I shout.
The truck judders backwards out of the car park, brooms and shovels thumping on the roof like scary rain. Maria takes the truck in a couple of reverse circuits, throwing us across the inside and pressing me against the tiny window, before finding a forward gear and kangarooing into the road.
I look towards the scattered Romans and the last thing I see of the riding stables is Mr Dent’s confused face darkening with fury.