Fantastic Metropolis

Back at the Abbey, the performance was still playing, to an empty Arena. The first show had ended, but the second, Evita Caesar, was packing them out, with the Id’s housekeeper, Lamia Lobb, in the starring role. It was pretty appalling and the third item on the bill, Seven Sacrifices for Seven Altars, was rumoured to be even worse. But we plugged our ears with grapes and hid behind the volcano. Actually there was a solitary spectator on the tiered seats, the Kaiser, who somehow had avoided the enforced exodus. He looked badly shaken up, I can tell you, almost as if he wished he was running the gauntlet instead. With that neck-brace, he wouldn’t stand a chance.

It soon grew too warm to stand next to the volcano, for the Id was filling it up with his captured lava. That’s what he’d wanted it for all along. Nothing like a domestic Pompeii to give a party the authentic ashen touch. When it was topped to the brim, we waited for it to explode, but it seemed rather reluctant. Maybe the Doric Column was still blocking the vent. Or perhaps pyroclastic flows are just lazier than they used to be. Anyway, the Id got so fed up with its refusal to erupt that he turned against Classicism and ordered the whole thing dismantled, together with every other ancient prop. I heaved a sigh of relief at this.

When his guards swarmed onto the Abbey’s roof to tear the togas from the gargoyles, I experienced a sudden shock. One of the stone figures resembled Engelbrecht, and I wondered whether he had been nabbed by the Gorgons after all, with a delayed effect glance, and moved to the eaves by the Id, but when I looked down I realised the diminutive fellow was right by my side, sparring with one of those water-clocks, a clepsydra. He jabbed its calibration into next week with his trident. All the other stuff, including the volcano, went into one enormous bag. The Id wanted a return to his former style, and I guess sacking Rome is the most Gothic act imaginable.