“That’s the pagan rune for Odin.” Lakshmi’s brows gathered.
“A lot of metal bands use runes in their art,” I explained.
Lady found a water pitcher and poured it over the back of Chuey’s neck. He shook his head as if whiffing smelling salts and worked his rosary. Chuey seemed to steady himself and looked out over the growing mob. “This whole place is straight-up crazy.”
“There’s a lot of good people in the Strata, too,” I said, “and they’re in just as much danger as the world above.” I turned to the luthier. “You may have to fight, but use the ward for as long as you can. We’re going down to try and restore her to what she was.”
The luthier shook my hand with an iron grip, then we hurried back through the curing pantry. I pulled my lantern and bow, played it to a bright shine, and we started down again into the dark.
The Steps from the Saxon Stratum were little more than earthen notches, and hardly that in some places, though we passed a few small alcoves cobbled with rocks. I stopped at one that had a small stone bench and sat down, my lamp dangling between my knees.
It felt as if ice picks had been stabbed through my temples, and my brain was swelling. Fragments of memory surged against my sutures. My entire network of soul scars burned inside me. And shards of bright gold light streamed through the gaps . . .
. . . Alone in my room, I get out the secondhand guitar I’ d bought at Sam Ash. I stop playing “Smoke on the Water” and begin writing a song for Mama . . .
. . . Church is standing with me at Hyde Park, where he somehow secured me a place to bury my dog, King, so I could visit him . . .
I’d brought King with me from LA. Hadn’t thought about him in years. Damn but I missed that dog.
Lady put her arm around me. “Your sutures have started to tear, Jack.
The wound is opening. I need to close?—”
“Thanks, Lady, but we don’t have time,” I said. “Help me up.”
We continued down until we reached a small portico in the darkness.
White pillars framed a set of tarnished bronze doors.
I traced the password and stepped into a dimly lit amphitheater. Rings of stone seating rose around a circular stage about fifty feet across. Much of the stone had crumbled and was overgrown with grass and weeds.
A few semblances sat on the stone benches, holding candles.
The scrape of my boot on the broad earthen stage reverberated back from the tiers of stone—great acoustics—but there was no music to strengthen me. Chuey wandered a few feet away, gasping, strangling his rosary beads, though he looked better than I felt. He’d always been better about letting things go than I had.
With Church’s help, I climbed the crumbling stone to the top of the amphitheater and peered south. A column of Roman soldiers marched in sharp formation on a razed field about a half mile from us. Beyond them, an encampment lay across the rolling hills.
“Londinium,” said Church. “The Roman Stratum.”
Cassius jumped to mind, but I tried to shake it off. He and I had known each other, what, four or five days? Stupid to go soft over it, even though we’d covered so much ground in that time. But damn it . . .
The long call of horns rose in the distance. The legionnaires broke formation and started marching in two lines toward us.
The sound of the horns did little to soothe my burning scar. I hummed a few lines of “(Don’t Fear) The Reaper,” hoping to relieve the aches, if only a little. No help.
We slumped back down the amphitheater steps, headed for the Steps again. “I’ve read about the Ancient Stratum in Henry’s books,” said Church.
“There is no sufficient preparation.”
I didn’t doubt it. When we reached Lady I asked, “How’s Chuey?” “He’s hurting,” she said, “but he’s cleared a few regrets.”
I glanced at him clenching his rosary and macuahuitl.
“But you also bear the weight,” Lady continued, “of stewarding us down the Steps. On this last descent, you need to focus on anything that might keep your mind from your wound.”
“That’ll be a trick.” Then, with Church’s support, I led us down toward the Ancient Stratum.
There were no steps, only a beaten path on a descending slope down what looked like an ancient mine. Here and there we passed the calcified skulls of creatures I couldn’t name, and stones arranged in patterns, which I assumed were grave markers. The entire descent smelled of old earth and stale air. Everything was so still and untouched that no dust motes shone in the light of my lamp. Even the silence felt old.
