— it was something about the Germans being different . . . not dummy1
having Druids or making sacrifices — and then cut his losses.
“You are a Latin scholar — ” He cut off the statement as it doubled Darren up with laughter.
“Ha-ha-very-funny,” said Benje to his friend. Then he sniffed and turned to Benedikt. “He thinks it’s a joke that I had to learn a whole flipping page of Caesar — King Edward’s is a very old-fashioned school — everyone says so.” He blinked suddenly. “If you want to see the villa I can show you the way. It’s just the other side of the church.”
“Thank you.” Benedikt leaned forward slightly towards the boy. “I went to an old-fashioned school too — I had the same trouble.”
“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!“
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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, dummy1
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.
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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—
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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.”
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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.