Gunner Kelly (7 page)

“With Latin?” Benje pointed the way.

“With English, actually,” Benedikt lied.

“You speak it jolly well now.”

Benedikt shrugged. “So … one day you will speak Latin very well.”

“ ‘Cept there’s no one to speak it to —

Latin is a language
As dead as dead can be.
It killed the Ancient Romans —
And now it’s killing me!“

They rounded the end of the church.

“But it will help you speak your own language.” Benedikt summoned up Mother’s view on the subject. “To learn a foreign language, you have to learn your own.”

“That’s what David says. Actually, I don’t mind Latin. But I’d rather learn French — or German, of course.” Benje amended his opinion hastily, out of consideration for his new companion, Benedikt suspected.

“German is a not-so-difficult language, I think.” Benedikt nodded, man-to-man. “But David is right—he is your schoolmaster?”

“No. David Aud—” Benje caught himself. “He’s just someone I know, that’s all.”

“Well, I agree with him.” That was interesting: David Audley was here, in the midst of them in the little village, and known to them—known to Mr Cecil, and known to Benje, and certainly known to Miss Becky … But someone had told Benje not to broadcast the fact of his being there.

They were approaching a stile set in the churchyard wall.

“We go over here …What’s your job then—what do you do, if you’re not a schoolmaster.” Benje gestured towards the stile. “Were you ever in the army?”

“No.” He set his hand on the wall. It was odd how much the lie cost him—how much he would have liked to have won Benje’s good regard, as he surely could have done with the truth, boys being what they were the world over, whatever they might think later in their student days. “My eye-sight is not good, unfortunately. And I have flat feet.” He swung himself up, over the stile. “They would not have me.”

“Hard luck.” Benje commiserated with him. “We’ve got a boy like that in our form—he can’t play cricket.” He looked over his shoulder. “But Darren can’t play cricket either— he can see perfectly well, but he can’t hit a ball to save his life.”

“Cricket’s a boring game,” said Darren dismissively from behind them. “You were lucky—I don’t expect they tried to make you play it, Mr—Mr …”

“Thomas,” said Benedikt. If they called David Audley ‘David’, they must learn to call him ‘Thomas’. He was more than half-way to getting through to them now, and if he could get on Christian name terms he would be all the way.

“There’s the villa,” said Benje, pointing.

The field sloped gently away from them, down to a belt of trees which must mark the course of the stream which ran the length of the valley between the ridges on each side.

It was a typical Roman site—that was what had been said of it—sheltered and watered, just the sort of place the Romanised Britons, if not the Romans themselves, would have been encouraged to choose in all the confidence of Roman peace, with no thought for defence behind the shield of the legions.

He looked round, to try and get his bearings. Somewhere on his left, up the valley, ran the line of the Roman road from the coast, and ‘Caesar’s Camp’ might well be its marker, if the name meant anything more than peasant legend.

He came back to the excavation itself, on the furthest side of the field away from him, almost under the trees. Clearly, it was not far beyond the exploratory phase of the trial trenches to establish its general shape—even the two temporary huts, erected presumably to house finds and equipment respectively, had a brand-new, unweathered look; nor was much work in progress, with only a man and a youth in sight, squatting beside a grid cut in the turf which was partially covered by a great sheet of yellow plastic.

“Come on,” said Benje. “They won’t mind as long as you’re with us.”

They were half-way across the field before the man stood up, and became instantly recognisable.

“Who is that?” asked Benedikt innocently. “One of the archaeologists, is he?”

“Mmm …” Benje nodded.

“Yes,” said Darren, coming up on his other side. “But you didn’t tell us what you do. You’re not a schoolmaster—?”

“I am a civil servant.” The youth was standing up now. “I work for the government.”

“Are you on holiday?” Darren was really becoming rather tiresomely inquisitive.

“Yes.” But it was the youth who was coming to meet him, not David Audley. “I am with the embassy in London—or, I will be from next Monday. I am just starting a tour of duty in England, you see—”

It was not a youth—it was a girl—a young woman—

Miss Becky.

A heavy thumping sound diverted his attention momentarily, coming from the margin of the trees beside the huts, just to his right: the front half of a horse appeared through the foliage—it tossed its head at him, and then swung round on its tether, stamping the ground with its hind legs and flicking its tail at him.

“Can I help you?”

Cool, educated voice, too full of confidence and self-assurance to allow any other emotion room in it: Miss Becky for sure—Miss Rebecca Maxwell-Smith, only twenty years old, but already very much the Lady of the Manor on her own land, the undisputed mistress of Duntisbury Chase.

“His name’s Thomas—Thomas Wise—
Vise
—
Veese
—
Veese-hoff
—” Benje gave up the attempt in despair.

“Wiesehöfer.” Benedikt met her gaze directly, and the sympathetic half-smile he had conjured up on Benje’s behalf almost died on his lips, because the look in those pale blue-grey eyes—more grey than blue—transfixed him: where that voice was neutral upper-class English, those eyes had the duellist’s look in them, of pistols-at-twelve-paces and then the churchyard behind him. “Thomas Wiesehöfer.”

“He’s German,” said Darren.

“He’s come to see the villa,” said Benje.

“He’s a civil servant,” said Darren. “He’s on holiday.”

“He’s an expert on Roman villas,” said Benje. “They’re his hobby—like stamp-collecting, Becky.”

Her eyes left Benedikt, softening suddenly into more-blue-than-grey as they switched to each of his defenders in turn. “Oh, yes?” She smiled. “And he drives a Mercedes with CD plates?”

Benedikt glanced sideways, at Benje, and made an oddly moving discovery: just as there was an emotion described as hero-worship, which he had seen on very rare occasions in the faces of men and boys for other men and other boys, so there was also one of
heroine-worship
, quite devoid of any sexual undertones, which a boy at least (if not a man) could have for someone of the other sex … Or which—he glanced quickly at Darren, and found no such look there—or which, anyway, this boy Benje had for this young woman, Miss Becky.

“You know about him?” Benje didn’t sound put out by his heroine’s omniscience, it merely confirmed what he already believed, Benedikt guessed.

“I am not… most regrettably, I must admit that I am
not
an expert on Roman villas.” He would have to beware of Benje’s loyalty—it might be safer to cultivate Darren; but meanwhile he must head off that misapprehension. “Roman roads are more my … my speciality.” He smiled shyly at Miss Becky, and was relieved to find the remains of her softened expression still visible. “Miss Maxwell-Smith?”

“Yes.” Without that coldness behind the eyes, and even with her hair severely pulled back into a pony-tail, she was quite a pretty girl, though she fell well short of beauty—it was a face with character bred into it, but at first sight he could not decide whether the jaw-line betrayed self-will and obstinacy, or determination and constancy.

“I am passing by … on holiday, as my friends here have said, before I take up my post in our embassy in London.” He paused, and blinked at her as though taking time to sort out his English. “I am going to Maiden Castle, near Dorchester … and to see the country of Thomas Hardy.” Another pause. “But in London I was told of your villa, Miss Maxwell-Smith, by … by Professor Handforth-Jones, of the Society for the Advancement of Romano-British Studies.”

He had not intended producing Professor Handforth-Jones, like a rabbit out of the magician’s hat, so early in his introduction. But Audley had come up behind her as he spoke.

“Tony Handforth-Jones?” Audley rose to the name.

Rebecca Maxwell-Smith half-turned, half looked up to the big man. “You’ve heard of him?”

“I know him. He’s a good friend of mine—and a damn good archaeologist too. But he’s more into military sites in Scotland at the moment—Agricola’s line-of-march, and the location of Mons Graupius, and that sort of thing.” He nodded at her. “But he’ll have heard of your Fighting Man, for sure.” He gave Benedikt a nod. “Hullo again.”

Rebecca Maxwell-Smith looked from one to the other of them. “You’ve already met?”

“We’ve met.” Another nod. “But we haven’t actually been introduced. The Mercedes with the CD plates—I told you.”

“Oh!” She caught her mistake skilfully. “How silly of me! Yes … well… Mr Wiesehöfer—this is Dr David Audley, who is helping us with our excavations.”

“ ‘Helping’ is hardly the word.” Audley shook his head. “I’m no archaeologist—and Roman Britain isn’t my field… . The truth is, I’m a wheelbarrow-wheeler, and a cook-and-bottle washer, and a hewer-of-wood and drawer-of-water, is what I am, Mr Wiesehöfer. Not a professional.”

He had the build for manual work, thought Benedikt, smiling back at the disclaimer. But he was also a professional in another field, who wasn’t prepared to compromise his cover by lying about his qualifications for being here in Duntisbury Chase, even for the benefit of an innocent foreigner.

“Dr Audley.” He nodded again. It would be interesting to probe that cover further, to find out how Audley accounted for his presence. But it wasn’t in Thomas Wiesehöfer’s own cover to show such curiosity yet.

“If you want to see the villa—here it is,” Rebecca Maxwell-Smith gestured around her. “We haven’t got very far with it, but of course you’re welcome to see what there is of it.”

“This is the end of the preliminary reconnaissance operations,” explained Audley. “The big effort starts next spring.”

“Ah, yes.” What Audley had not added was that the reconnaissance had ended prematurely, somewhat to the archaeologists’ irritation. At first, after the General’s death, they had been allowed to carry on, with only the loss of a single day for the funeral. But then Miss Rebecca Maxwell-Smith had very recently indicated her wish that operations should cease for the time being, with the promise of generous financial aid the following year when she had full control of her inheritance. And with the estate trustees already obedient to her strong will, there was nothing the archaeologists had been able to do about it except to register their disappointment publicly—and their mystification at her change of heart privately. But Thomas Wiesehöfer ought not to know any of that.

He looked around. “But you have made discoveries, so I have been told.”

“Oh yes.” The girl nodded. “They have a fair idea of the extent of the buildings, as far as the trees.”

“They’ve uncovered the edge of a pavement over there—” Audley pointed “—and it just may be an Orpheus one, too.” He watched Benedikt covertly as he spoke.

“An Orpheus pavement?” Benedikt obliged him quickly. “I have seen fragments of such a pavement not far from my home, near Münster-Sarmsheim, also discovered recently—not as large as your great pavement at Woodchester, of course …But there are many villas in the territories of the Treveri, so there is always hope.” He smiled at Audley. “I may see this find, perhaps?”

“I’m sorry—it’s been covered up again,” the girl apologised. “To protect it from the frost during the winter.”

“Ah yes!” He transferred the smile to her. “And I’m afraid our Fighting Man isn’t on view, either.” She shook her head sadly. “They’ve taken him away for detailed study—they didn’t want to risk leaving him, once they’d found him. Did your friend in London tell you about him?”

“Professor Handforth-Jones? Yes … that is, he spoke of a warrior. I did not quite understand … but a warrior, yes.”

“We call him our Fighting Man.” She pointed to a larger area of excavation. “He was found there, in what may have been a barn. They think he was a Saxon, judging by his equipment.”

“A burial?” He nodded. “It was the custom sometimes, was it not… of the Saxon invaders … to bury dead persons in such ruins?” That was what Handforth-Jones had said, anyway.

“No.” She frowned for an instant. “I mean, it may have been their custom—I’m not a historian. But, what I mean is, they don’t think
he
was buried—deliberately buried.”

“It was pure luck, really,” said Audley. “They were digging one of their trial trenches, and they hit the remains of this chap straight away, under the fallen debris of the roof—and just the way he’d fallen, too—sword in hand—
literally
sword in hand.” He paused for a moment, staring not at Benedikt, but across the field towards the area of excavation which the girl had indicated. “Or … what remained of the sword and the hand, anyway … and everything else he died with, so they think— helmet of some sort, and a belt with a dagger, and maybe some sort of crude cuirass even … Right, Becky?”

The girl nodded. “They’re not sure about that. They said it was much too early to be certain. But they did get very excited about him, and they were tremendously careful about lifting him out—in the end they undercut him, and raised him in one piece … What they think—well, they don’t go as far as saying that they think it, but it’s one theory—is that the barn caught fire, and fell on him … when the villa was sacked. Because they found evidence of fire, both there and in another trench, over on the other side.” She pointed. “And the way they thought it might have happened is that he was killed in the barn
here
, but in all the confusion no one saw that—or no one lived to tell the tale, anyway … And the barn caught fire, and fell down, but maybe it was empty, so no one picked over the ruins, like they would have done with the main buildings—or, it could have been at night that the villa was sacked … But they didn’t see what happened to him, one way or another, anyway. He just disappeared.”