Maria’s dad’s right – the barbarian hordes are back.
The first sign is a croquet ball flying through the window. As I fill my hands with lumps of coal to fire back, Maria’s brother, Amos, appears in the room.
‘What the…’ he says, staring at the broken glass. ‘I’ve just had a message from Marcus – something’s going down at the church.’
‘What?’ I ask, as another ball crashes through the glass.
Henry’s up against the bottom of the window, firing furiously through the broken glass, the Derf gun clattering.
‘I don’t know, he didn’t say – he just said to get down there.’
I lob chunks of coal out onto the drive, but I’m firing blind because of the cushions. ‘But we can’t even keep the Romans off your parents at the moment.’
‘Surrenderus!’ comes the cry from outside.
‘No way,’ shouts Maria. ‘Quick, Ursula, this way for the computer – it’s quite whizzy, my uncle bought it for me.’
Another ball flies through the glass, and Henry drops the Derf gun in favour of a cricket bat leaning up against the fireside. ‘C’mon, Sam, bowl it for me.’
As the contents of the garage fly through the window, Henry faces me, and I gently bowl the croquet ball at him. He whacks it hard and it flies out through the only whole pane of glass.
‘Yow!’ screams someone outside.
‘Yay!’ shouts Amos, firing walnuts through a gap in the cushions with an elastic band and the back of a chair.
‘Amos – text Marcus and tell him to get as many people as possible and come here,’ I say.
Crash.
‘And bring weapons, look in my room, bring Derf guns, anything that’ll help.’
Another croquet ball whizzes through an empty window frame.
Whack!
Henry returns it with force.
I bowl six large chunks of coal to Henry, who sends them hard towards the Romans.
‘He’s on his way,’ says Amos, shoving his phone in his pocket and searching on the mantelpiece for something to fire. He grabs a handful of wizened conkers and shoots them out one at a time. ‘They’re coming on bikes.’
I creep up to the side of the window and look out.
The Romans are lined up on ponies. Mr Dent’s still looking thunderous, and above me I can hear the vicar yelling at them. It’s not helping. Maria’s mother’s singing to the mirror in the hall, oblivious to the racket outside. They’ve got a cage, with what looks like a sleeping tabby cat inside.
Lions?
Is that what they were going to kill Maria and her parents with? I suppose you might die of cat breath.
‘Tell him the Romans are on the driveway. That there’s a hosepipe connected up on the side of the house,’ I say, as the Romans wheel out a strange machine made from a metal bucket, a wheelbarrow, bungees and a door. As I watch, Mr Dent empties a load of balls of string into a bucket of black goo. He hooks out one of the balls of string, now black and gloopy, and leans over the bucket. I can’t really see what he’s doing, but I think he’s striking a match.
‘Oh no,’ I say, watching the little ball of string ignite. ‘It might be Greek fire; I’m sure Dad told me about it. They’re going to firebomb us.’
The first flaming ball of string flies through the window, and although Henry makes a valiant attempt to strike it back, it just sticks to his cricket bat and goes on burning.
‘Aaaaaahhh!’ screams Henry, and lobs the whole bat out through the window.
‘Eeeek!’ squeals a Roman.
Another firebomb lands on the threadbare carpet. ‘Now what?’ says Amos.
I reach for a vase of wilted roses and pour the water over the little fire but it doesn’t make any difference, the water just evaporates.
‘Tar,’ says Maria, appearing in the doorway. ‘ Water won’t put it out – try this.’ She grabs a tapestry from a chair and drops it over the ball of flaming string. It might or might not go out, but we can’t see it any more.
‘Come down – look at the movie,’ says Maria.
‘I can’t leave,’ I say, ‘there are too many of them.’ A flaming broom crashes onto the floor.
While Henry and I stamp on it, Amos’s phone rings. We listen while he listens, the flames creeping around our shoes.
‘Yeah – just outside on the right? Really long – I think it’ll – yeah – could you spray some in here – we’re on fire. Great.’
Before he’s even put the phone back in his pocket, a blast of icy-cold water sprays in through the window and a hail of Derf pellets clatters onto the floor. I run to the edge of the window, and peer out. Behind the Romans, Ricky and his sister sneak past the back of the horsebox, followed by Will Katanga and some of Marcus’s friends.
‘Yyaaaaarghghghghgh!’ screams a Roman, caught in the spray, and a horse whinnies in horror. Two of the ponies take off across the vicarage lawn, dumping their riders under the monkey puzzle tree, while a third rears and gallops off out of the drive.
‘Yay!’ shouts Henry – but Mr Dent isn’t running anywhere. Calmly, he ties his horse to the horsebox and grabs a pitchfork. Marcus, who is holding the hosepipe, hands it to Ricky’s older sister and picks up a croquet ball. Behind him, Ricky races across the lawn towards the two runaway ponies, leaps onto one, and pulls a length of broken branch from a tree.
The pony, presumably aware that it now has someone who can ride on its back, calmly trots across the grass until it’s directly behind Mr Dent. Mr Dent is watching Marcus, who I suspect is wishing that Mr Dent was actually a virtual enemy, while Ricky is watching Mr Dent. Mr Dent raises his pitchfork. I don’t know if he means to run, or to throw it – but Ricky’s there, right there, crunching the branch into the back of Mr Dent’s head at such speed, Mr Dent doesn’t even turn.
For a second, nothing happens, and then, like some giant statue, Mr Dent crashes to the ground.
‘I think we’ll mop up now,’ says Amos, lobbing the smoking rug through the window. ‘Go on, go and do whatever it is.’