Roll of the Dice

‘Hey, Tommy, pass me the paper, will you?’
Tommy passed the paper and withdrew into his trench coat. His breath smoked up in the late afternoon air, and he hid his hands in his coat-sleeves.
‘Any news from home?’
‘Nothing much. My cousin Ed’s joining up next month.’
‘Tell him to wait. This one looks like lasting a while yet.’
‘Hasn’t much choice, has he.’
‘Young Frobisher bumped himself off, I hear.’
‘How?’
‘The usual. Cleaning his gun.’
‘Poor devil . . . Could do with a cuppa.’
‘How much longer now?’
‘Half an hour.’
A grunt from Tommy’s colleague.
‘Gives me the horrors, this cold.’
‘Me too.’
‘I’ve been getting nightmares about it.’
‘Oh?’ Tommy showed genuine interest for the first time.
‘Yes. Dream I’m waist deep in ice, can’t move, and there are wolves creeping down towards me . . . ‘
‘And then?’
‘Then I wake up, all of a sweat, and it’s back to the trenches, innit. Tea. Breakfast. Ugh.’
‘Oh.’ Tommy noticeably lost interest. His fellow guard, Ted, was somewhat piqued at this and showed it.
‘Well, dreaming of wolves ain’t exactly convivial, is it?’
‘I didn’t say it was,’ replied Tommy, surprised.
‘Well, then . . . ‘
‘I just thought it would be . . . different, that’s all.’
‘Different? Different from what?’
‘Well . . . ‘
‘Yes? Come along, I’m waiting.’ Ted, fully riled, was becoming belligerent.
‘Nothing.’
‘What nothing? You’re not going to tell me you don’t get nightmares here?’
‘No. But they’re not. . about wolves.’
‘What then?’
‘They’re just a bit stupid.’
‘I’ll be the judge of that.’
‘They’re not important.’
Ted folded the newspaper up very definitely and placed it under one arm.
‘When a fellow says something is not important,’ he commented somewhat acidly, ‘he usually means the opposite. Out with it. Don’t want any more Frobishers here, thank you very much.’
‘They’re not . . . worrying . . .just a bit funny.’
‘Make me laugh then. Just what I’m in the mood for.’
‘I mean . . . ‘
‘Look, just get on with it, will you? We’ve got another twenty minutes here.’
‘It’s just . . . when you said you’d been getting nightmares about the cold, I was reminded about my knees.’
‘You’ve been dreaming about your knees?’ Ted looked as if his wish for entertainment might yet be fulfilled.
‘I dreamt I was cold. But it was my knees that felt it mostly.’
‘Don‘t tell me. You dreamt you’d forgotten to put your trousers on. I’ve heard of people dreaming that.’
‘No, it wasn’t that.’
‘Explain, then.’
‘Well, it’ll sound loopy-like . . . it was the uniform I was wearing. It was some kind of tunic, with a cape, and some kind of metal covers on my chest and shins.’
‘And?’
‘Well, there was somebody else walking towards me, and he was wearing the same kind of uniform, red tunic, and metal plates and a cape. It was bitter cold. I remember that part well.’
‘What happened? Why was he walking towards you?’
‘I think he was the second, coming to take over from me. Just like Perkin does with us every afternoon. It’s just my imagination running away.’
‘Very likely. Here comes Perkin now. He’s early. Just in time, Perkin. Tommy here’s been dreaming about you.’
‘Shut up.’
‘Come on. Time for that cuppa.’

* * *

The red tunic was not as thick as it could have been. The cloak was good about the shoulders and chest, but his knees this time were, if anything, even colder. The other guard was marching up towards him, swinging his arms against the damp chill. He was speaking, and although the words seemed blurred, Tommy understood the general meaning: there was to be a change in the time. Every four hours, instead of every six. An extra cohort had arrived in town, so there would be more sentries.
The images faded away now, followed by darkness, and finally the sensation of being shaken. Tommy woke up.
‘Come along. The Captain’s called us out. Got some new orders for us.’
Tommy shuffled into his coat and jammed his cap down over his ears, pictures of the man in the red cloak still jumping in and out of his head.
The new orders were simply a change in guard duties with the objective of making everything and everyone more efficient. All it seemed to make in the heads of most of the soldiers was more confusion and grey boredom.
At midnight Tommy went back to his bunk thankfully, and slept again.

* * *

This time he was playing dice, and there were two others with him, one of them with some kind of helmet under his arm. Not the regular army issue - more the kind you might have seen at posh fancy dress parties in London hotels, where someone goes dressed as a Roman general. This helmet had a fringe of sorts running over the crest. Tommy sensed a feeling of respect for the man holding it. They threw the dice. Tommy threw a six. This seemed to mean he had won another go. He threw another six. His companions were leaning forward, watching intently. Finally Tommy threw a four, and there was some feeling of relief. There were coins pushed over to him, which he accepted. A lot of the coins had the picture of a man fighting a lion. He swept them off the table into a leather pouch.
He was awoken by the sound of Ted falling over a campstool and swearing.

At some point during the day, someone suggested a game of cards. As everyone failed to agree on the rules of any one game, they ended by devising their own. It involved the collecting of a certain sequence of cards. This sequence, as far as Tommy could make out, consisted of either one King and two Queens, or vice-versa, and certain numbered cards. Dice were required as well. Only one was found to be sufficiently legible, and with this they played. After the first few rounds, some of the fellows started putting coins or cigarettes on the table. The amounts were pitiful, but the enthusiasm was quickly stoked even so, and the group became totally absorbed.
The betting became more serious - food rations, two hours or more off guard duty, relief from the odd job here and there. These were high stakes indeed, and the die tumbled ever more frequently. Finally, they forgot about the card game altogether and concentrated on the betting: a bottle of whisky filched from somewhere and no questions asked. Two of them sorted out the picture cards from the numbered ones, then those numbered one to six from the rest.
The one to six cards were then shuffled and placed face down on the table. Everyone agreed that the first three numbers drawn from the pack should decide the three winning throws of the die. It fell to Tommy to draw the cards, ‘- as he’d been dozing more or less since they’d begun, it was time he did some work -‘, and he drew the cards, one, two, three, and laid them out face up.
‘Six of spades, six of spades, four of spades,’ read out Ted loudly, failing to notice Tommy’s hand start.
‘Spades is unlucky, isn’t it?’ asked one of the others. ‘That’s clubs,’ argued another, and a mild dispute broke out until Ted collected the cards briskly up and put the die firmly on the table. ‘Six, six, four,’ he repeated. ‘Who’s to throw first?’
Everyone hesitated. One of the arguers grabbed the die and threw. ‘Six,’ he said triumphantly, then threw again. ‘Another six!’ he cried. Some of the other players shifted in their seats. ‘Last throw,’ said the thrower. The die spun on the table and jumped slowly to a halt. There was a pause as everyone craned forward to see the number. Then a general sigh of relief, as they saw the number was - two.
And so it went on. Six six one, six three four, six six five . . . Tommy somehow came last. The feeling about him was tense, yet he moved as if still half asleep. He threw with hardly a sign of interest on his face. He threw a six. Nothing new in that. He picked up the die, and rolled again. Another six. Everyone leaned forward. He took the die up for the last time, blinking hard and frowning in a puzzled way. His hesitation caused some of the others to fume a little. ‘Come along, Tommy. We’ll probably throw a second time if no one gets it.’
Tommy threw. The die kicked sulkily about on the table top before coming to a standstill.
‘Four!’ yelled everyone, and then there was some loud laughter.
The bottle of whisky was duly fetched, and naturally did not remain all Tommy’s for long. Apart from willingly admitting that he hadn’t much head for the stuff, he wasn’t one to hoard things to himself. Except for his more recent dreams. He doubted anyone would be interested in listening to any more of them, and besides, they held a secret fascination for him, which made him reluctant to share them.
However generously he might have offered the bottle round, he still ended up drinking a fair amount. Being filched property, it had to be hid fairly frequently, as various orderly officers were in the habit of making unexpected rounds. Ted came up with the idea of a pair of boots under his bunk. Various suggestions were made as to what might happen to the liquor if it was left in Ted’s boots for too long, but these were treated with due contempt and their originators told to naff off. Whatever they did with the bottle was by now a matter of complete indifference to Tommy, as he had now succumbed completely to its influence and had to be put to bed. Or rather, heaved unceremoniously onto his bunk and left there until he should come round. It being by now close on two in the morning and his night off from guard duty, he had a narrow escape in one sense.
This time he was back at a dice game. Either the same one, some hours later, or a completely different game altogether. His companions were as before, however, including the man with the helmet. This time he noticed wine jugs on the table, and there seemed an air of conviviality. Possibly the game went on for a long time, possibly it had only just begun - the next moment however, a sudden altercation broke out of some kind - Tommy became involved in pulling two fellows apart in the middle of a brawl. There was general confusion and pictures ran together, but the final part was very clear: a man of obviously senior order coming in and shouting above the noise. Whatever the words might have been, the meaning seemed to be generally grasped in a second, as every man reached for their weapons, armour or anything else to hand and ran out from the room. In the dream Tommy felt a sure sense of where he was going, and it seemed to be connected with a wall of some kind, a wall that would need to be reached, and then climbed over . . . He woke sharply as usual, and found himself trying to climb the bunk bed above him. Ted, fortunately, was not in it at the time.
That evening, when the all clear had been given, the whisky bottle was brought out again and received with gleeful discretion. Various attempts were made to measure the level remaining and Ted made some sharp comments. Tommy only took a couple of mouthfuls this time and nearly choked. He sat and watched as the level of the whisky fell and the level of joviality rose. The trouble started at the other end of the room. Two younger fellows were suddenly involved in a dispute. There wasn’t time to calm them down before they were grasping each other by the throat, scuffling and rolling on the earthen floor. The others intervened, and Ted quickly hid the sadly depleted remains of the whisky, now little more than a souvenir bottle. Chaos was still reigning when one of the guards came thumping in, knocking a chair over and shouting something. Tommy only just made sense of the words - more because of the urgency in the voice than anything else -, words they had been waiting for with increasing expectancy and dread over the last few weeks. Emergency summons to go up into the early dawn and advance. The guard paused only slightly to blink at the debris and crumpled men now more or less on their feet, but didn’t have time to finish, as everyone dashed out, grabbing coats, helmets and bayonets. Tommy got out into the trench and made for his post. He would have to put the ladder up and climb . . . there was a particular spot along the ridge, there, over to the left, like a wall – the wall – they had to breach it, didn’t they? . . . He would have to climb up, climb up over it . . . and . . .and . . .

* * *

‘Bed 17 is thrashing about again, Dr Thelmes.’
‘Might need another shot of morphine, then. I’ll come and see him in . . . five minutes.’
‘I’m worried about giving him any more, doctor - he’s had well over the limit, but he’s thrashing about something wicked. And talking funny as usual.’
‘Talking, is he? I’ll come along.’
Thelmes turned to the officer standing nearby. ‘That’s the lad I was telling you about. Tommy Brent. Brought in with concussion. As I say, my Latin’s rusty, but I know you were up to your eyebrows in Livy and whatnot until war broke out, you should be able to make better sense of it.’
Lieutenant Felham followed the doctor down the corridor, puzzlement mixed with disbelief.
‘We’re crowded as always, but even so we’ve had to put him in a room of his own, to keep him as far away from the others as possible – keeps them awake at night, you see, . . . and bothers some of them . . .’
The doctor spoke intermittently over his shoulder as he walked and suddenly turned left to open a door.
It was a small enough room, apparently used previously mainly for storage. In the bed, with head bandaged and eyes closed, lay Tommy, now twisting agitatedly, with one arm held up defensively while the other swiped violently at the air.
‘Your nurse said he was talking as usual - I take it he does so quite often?’
‘Fairly regularly, yes. He goes through periods of violent agitation, as you can see at the moment, in the late afternoon, and again in the evening, followed by comparative quiet. He occasionally shouts when he’s moving about, but not from any physical pain that I can make out - he was luckier than some, it’s only his head has taken a bit of a battering, poor devil - but it makes the nurses nervous, obviously, . . . then his movements gradually slow down and he starts talking . . .this language that none of us can make head or tail of . . . pretty unnerving at times. I thought I heard him say something like ‘galeae’ and ‘ludens’ the other day, quite clearly. Perhaps you can work it out; if it is Latin, that is. From what I’ve been able to find out, he’s hardly your Oxford don type. Perhaps he’s a spy, but it’s not German he speaking. . ’
Tommy’s arms had fallen limp on the bed cover. His head lay still. He started to murmur. Felham leant across to hear better. Thelmes busied himself with getting a chair, and then made a quick check of the other wards. He returned to find Felham seemingly absorbed in the patient’s unconscious ramblings. At the doctor’s approach, Felham looked up distractedly and asked for some paper and a pen.
He then spent a good hour or more transcribing what he heard as it came from the patient verbatim, until finally Tommy returned again to the world of total oblivion.
‘I’ll come again tomorrow,’ Felham told the doctor. ‘It might be more a case for your men in Harley Street, though.’

He did come the next day, and for several days after that, at roughly the same time, and sat again with Tommy for close on an hour, watching him for any sign of movement. He had not long to wait before Tommy went through the same routine as before. Felham observed his movements closely, apparently fascinated by something he saw in them, and noted down every word that the patient uttered, before calling on Thelmes.
He laid some papers on the doctor’s desk and drew up a chair. Thelmes finished what he was writing, placed his file to one side and settled down to listen. Felham, in spite of his uniform and military bearing, managed somehow in a matter of seconds to shrug most of that off, and to reassume some of the qualities of his lecturing days, before 1914 had come and whisked him away from the Department of Classical Studies.
Thelmes looked eagerly at the papers. ‘So you took notes, I see. Is it Latin, then?’
‘Part of it is. Even allowing for the possibility that he’d studied it somewhere, the fact of his suddenly coming out with it while unconscious would be interesting enough. The more staggering part is, the rest of it is a language that has never been taught at any school, no matter what the calibre, in the whole of Blighty. It is in fact only known to a few dried up old academics and students of the classics like myself. Originally a dialect, it was spoken by soldiers of the Roman Empire, many of whom were enlisted from its farthest limits. It has since become known as Ladino, and is only spoke in adulterated form in a remote part of Northern Italy. Now, I have made inquiries, and I can find no hint anywhere of Private Brent having been anywhere near a Department of Classics, even a university, and certainly not anywhere in Italy. I may go further and say, that he quite definitely has had no opportunity of gaining such a perfect knowledge as he has of the language we have heard him speaking in while unconscious.’
Thelmes, blinking rapidly, picked up the papers and skimmed through them.
‘There’s no chance you’re larking about, I suppose?’
Felham stared at him blankly, and the doctor remembered belatedly the officer’s lack of humour. Thelmes grasped at the next possibility as a means to finding safe land again. ‘No chance he could have read up some old text books from somewhere?’ he suggested rather weakly. Felham now stared at him rather as a patient lecturer would when confronted with dim-witted but conscientious student fluffing a very basic point of grammar.
‘I think it fair to say, he would have needed to do rather a lot more than merely read a few old school books.’
He turned to another paper. ‘I sat with him again this afternoon, taking down everything he said, and have made a rough translation.
‘Once he is in full flow, he speaks coherently enough, and describes everything as he sees or experiences it - rather as one does when thinking aloud.
‘On the two occasions I have listened to him, he is describing the aftermath of a battle - the burial of the dead, the tending of the wounded, the cold, the lack of food - and the details are perfectly clear in each case, down to the coins, the type of food, the clothing and so forth.’
‘What are you trying to say, exactly, Felham?’
‘I’m not trying to say anything. I refuse to try and explain the more unusual aspects of this case. I am intrigued by it, however, and will visit him again if I have the time. What do you propose to do with him?’
Thelmes sighed. ‘We’re treating him only for concussion at the moment. But if this goes on we’ll just have to invalide him out. I know of places that might be better able to deal with him than we are.’
He looked briefly over the sheet of paper Felham had indicated.
‘Does it really exist, this place - Heracleum ?’
‘There are probably several of the same name dotted about all over Europe, underneath the foundations of towns and cities, or in plain fields and countryside such as where we are now. The fact we have not yet discovered every single outpost of the Ancient Roman Empire does not preclude the existence of such a place.’
Thelmes chuckled. ‘ You’ve been going over your old lecture notes again, I see. No doubt, if we ever get out of this hole, you’ll be digging up other people’s back gardens again.’
There was the sound of running feet, and a frantic knocking on the door. A breathless nurse was admitted. ‘It’s number 17 again,’ she panted, ‘he’s trying to walk. And he’s shouting again.’
They reached the ward opposite Private Brent’s room in time to see two nurses and one of the better off patients restraining a vociferous Tommy from climbing through one of the windows. They got him to bed eventually but he was still shouting. It sound like the same word or phrase being repeated at brief intervals. After they had sent him to sleep, the doctor turned to the officer inquiringly. The lieutenant nodded and obliged with a translation again. ‘A sudden attack. 260 dead. It’s the number he keeps repeating. 260.’
There was heavy shelling that night. If reactions had not been so fast, the number of casualties might have been much higher. Lieutenant Felham ended up one of the more serious casualties and was invalided out. He did not hear until several weeks later the exact number of deaths along his own line of trenches. The lists came in as he was convalescing somewhere in the West Country. 260 dead, he read, another 57 wounded, one lieutenant Felham invalided out with shot wounds and heavy concussion.
Much later on, Thelmes visited him. ‘Heard anything about Private Brent ?’ Felham asked casually. ‘Yes. Nothing very interesting, I’m afraid. Once he reached England, he was out for a time, then came round right as rain, and can’t remember a single blessed thing about the business, from being knocked on the head to waking up in the convalescing home. Bit of a disappointment, really, I was becoming quite intrigued. I don’t suppose you kept those notes you made while you sat with him?’
Felham looked puzzled, and Thelmes changed the subject, not wanting to over-tax him.
Felham asked ‘Where did they take him then?’ and Thelmes told him.

* * *

Summer, 1923
Dark was closing in. The photographers had packed up and left. There had even been a camera crew. This had not pleased the professor much but then interruptions of any kind were liable to set him off. One of the journalists was still hovering near the site, making notes. He turned a few pages back to run through what he had written. ‘Archaeological find. Roman city comes back to life. Professor R.Felham, (referred to as ’Old Arky’ among his staff): classical scholar and archaeologist, has brought to the light of day the ancient city of Heracleum, after two years of research and digging.’ When questioned on the exact clue that had led the Professor to look in that particular part of the French countryside in the first place, the archaeologist had shown a certain reluctance to go into detail. He had in fact shied away from the question. An irritable old cove. Ex-army, war-battered, very academic and dry. Men such as he belonged to a class of their own, with their own specific rules and ideas, and very little patience for the whims and caprices of others.
The journalist hesitated. He’d noticed some younger fellows working on the site earlier on, and was pondering over the possibility of drawing them out a little. As he paused, two of them passed him by, talking quietly. The journalist watched the direction they took, towards the village, and followed them slowly.
Aylmes and Landon had left the site to replenish supplies; whenever a member of the team undertook the chore, it was an unwritten rule to stop off at one of the village watering places on the way back. There was one such tavern the group had made a particular haunt of their own – it was conveniently placed near the site, and the interior of wooden panelling put one in mind of the local pub at home.
They sat themselves down; Aylmes, whose French was just adequate, ordered and then leaned back heavily in his chair.
‘Oh, yes,’ he said suddenly, remembering something. ‘Who is it keeps on whistling? He was at it again this afternoon, and just before we packed it in.’
Landon looked up vaguely. ‘I don’t know. Hadn’t noticed. Old Arky was more twitchy today,
though. Think it was the reporters bothering him.’
‘It’s really beginning to get on my nerves,’ went on Aylmes. ‘Same damn tune all the time. One of those things soldiers whistle when they’re on the march. Over and over again.’
Landon changed from vague to vaguely puzzled. ‘Funny. Don’t remember hearing anything in particular. But then, those press people were making so much clatter . . . One of them stepped on one of my brushes, the silly dog.’
‘Clumsy oaf. Ought to be shot.’
‘At dawn, and without reprieve. Where are those drinks?’
The journalist sat in a corner as much in the shade as possible. He had slipped in unobtrusively after them, and was waiting for a moment to play a small card, unsure whether it would pay off.
Halfway through their drinks, Landon thought of something. ‘Tell you what’s been puzzling me,’ he started. ‘You know Arky’s been working every night on the site on his own. Just this week he started asking people questions.’
‘I noticed that. He asked Fowler and that artist fellow, Redfern, something about whether they’d seen somebody tampering with things on the site.’
‘That’s it. Anyway, Curtis thinks he’s got the wind up about something. Arky’s been asking people to stay with him on the site after dark; more or less until he’s finished working. Last night he asked Curtis. Curtis had to do something in the village, so that meant leaving Arky on the site for an hour or so, alone. He said the old boy got quite edgy about it, but anyway, he let him go. When Curtis got back to the site, there was only Felham’s lantern on in the basement of that place we dug up - what looks like part of the barracks - but by some trick of light, he thought he saw two shadows, instead of one. Well, that happens with lamps; but he was quite certain that he could hear Arky talking, as if to another person, only not in English. And he swears it wasn’t in French, either. And when he got nearer to the place, Arky suddenly stepped out, jumped when he saw Curtis, and then went on as if nothing had happened.’
‘Who was it in there with him?’
‘Curtis went and looked, and is quite adamant nobody left the site while he was there. The lamp was there, but that was all. What I don’t see is, if there’s an intruder, why Felham doesn’t just call in a few gendarmes. Anyway, it’s my turn tonight. We’ll see if anybody tries anything then.’
‘If they do, you’ll duel them to death with your brushes and pencils, will you?’
‘Finish your drink, you silly ass, and shut up.’
The journalist returned the next afternoon to the site, scenting a possible discovery after all. There was another group of reporters today, so he was able to camouflage himself with them. He soon spotted Aylmes and Landon, because they were standing a little apart from the rest, looking anxious. Professor ‘Arky’ Felham made an appearance, bristling and brusque as before, and went back to his work. The rest of the team carried on. There was a different feeling about the place, the journalist noted. Something not quite open, as if the people there wanted to talk but couldn’t. He felt it especially about the two men standing apart. He spent no more time hovering, but went up to them, feeling particularly fortunate that he had some valid reason to do so.
‘Hullo, you won’t remember me,’ he started, quite familiarly.
‘You were here yesterday, weren’t you - with the other crowd,’ returned Aylmes quickly.
‘Yes, but I didn’t quite mean that. Clare College, ‘21, Classics. You got distinction, and you,’ turning to Landon, ‘Honours. I did rather less well, which is probably why I’m in this kind of caper.’
‘I remember you -‘ exclaimed Aylmes, recognition taking him by surprise.
He started searching for the name.
‘Stratton, isn’t it?’ supplied Landon.
‘That’s it! Still bowling left-handed?’
‘I’ve probably forgotten how to bowl altogether by now.’
‘Look, if you’ve come to quiz us -‘began Landon, warily.
‘I won’t make any trouble. I am interested to know what’s going on, though.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘There’s something biting Felham, isn’t there?’
‘He’s always like that.’ Aylmes was being defensive, and Landon was wiping his forehead, but that was probably the heat. He didn’t look well however.
‘Seems to me he’s a man with something bothering him. Not having difficulties raising funds, is he?’
‘Sir Harry’s visiting the site next week, as a matter of fact,’ replied Landon, rather stiffly.
‘It’s all right, I’m not looking for that kind of information. It’s something to do with Felham, but not connected to the site – at least, I don’t think it is. Have you ever heard him mention someone called Tommy Brent?’ Aylmes and Landon began to look interested.
Stratton made a final go. ‘Look, you’re sweltering here, and not able to get a thing done with
all these wretched camera people tripping over everything; why don’t I take you for a drink? You look done in. Then I can tell you why I am interested.’
To his mild surprise, they accepted with some eagerness, and walked away from the spot at some speed.
‘So you know Felham already, then?’asked Landon as they settled down in their chairs. The innkeeper nodded at them and brought their order over.
‘Not directly, no. But I know of him. It all started a few months ago. A Dr. Thelmes came into the office, wanted to see the chief editor. He knew all about the dig, even at that early stage, and said he needed to talk to someone about Felham. The editor who was too busy, so I offered to listen. He was ex-army, had been with the medical corps on the Front. He had a story about one Tommy Brent, brought in suffering from concussion, only there had been something deuced odd about it. There was a fuss made, because he started rambling on in some kind of old Latin; the doctor knew Felham’s background and asked him to come and see if he could make any sense of it. It seems he did. Thelmes saw him on various occasions, sitting at Brent’s side, taking notes. He took quite an interest in the whole business, even asking where Brent would be taken.
‘Anyway, Brent was taken to some special place they had in the country, near Devon I think, and there he went into a coma. After that, he came round, and seemed right as rain; but there’d be relapses. He was considered out of it, and then the War ended, Thelmes returned home to his practice, but was suddenly called in to cover a colleague – at the very place where they’d put Brent. To his surprise, Felham was also there. Apparently, recovering from shell shock; Thelmes has his own opinion about that as well.
‘He didn’t think anything of it at first, but he discovered Brent was having relapses more and more often. He had been doing quite well apparently, but then, not long after Felham’s arrival, he started going back into these trances, talking in this strange language again. Nobody could make anything of it except Felham, who would always be hovering nearby, notebook and pencil at the ready. There was something – almost relentless about him. Every time Brent relapsed, there would Felham be, taking notes – on one occasion Thelmes saw him questioning Brent, even shaking him roughly if he fell quiet.
Thelmes sought – and failed – to have Felham moved to another; there grew a coldness between them; Thelmes, on guard, watchful – Felham, acquisitive, cold, secretive. Thelmes says he cannot quite prove it, but he is convinced Felham was using hypnotism on Brent, inducing these trances. He wrote out a brief account, some notes – of course, it wouldn’t stand up in a court of law – but it certainly is food for thought.’
He pulled out a few yellowing pages from a notebook, and indicated a paragraph. ‘He says here, that the name Herculaneum is mentioned several times – he saw it written on some of Felham’s notes later on. And look here –‘
They craned over to read the text.
‘ . . . the subject (Brent) maintains that 260 soldiers were killed – very same spot as our main Trench – he describes clothes tolerably accurately – everything in place; helmets, tunics, the emblems on the shields and the eagle; barracks, from all accounts; today, he was almost able to give precise location – T. came in, ended session . . .’ Then, further on:
‘ . . .today, B. gave exact location. It may be he re-invents his own experiences as happening to someone else – transference,(see papers on); but, the details . . . I can go and see for myself; if Sir H. needs more evidence, I shall find it.’
‘A lucky coincidence. What brought you here, though?’
‘This dig. A good story. As I say, Dr Thelmes felt strongly enough about what he saw to want to tell someone. He realised my paper would be sending someone over here, and wished to make known what had happened to Tommy Brent.’
‘And what had happened?’asked Aylmes quietly.
‘He was found in the rose-beds with a broken neck. Apparently jumped from a window, or perhaps the roof. No witnesses, no letter. Thelmes had had to go to the station to oversee new arrivals; they were typically short-staffed and over-run. He felt responsible, but inquiries produced nothing - the fact there was no letter might not be much in itself anyway - Brent was no great letter-writer. Thelmes remained convinced however, that Felham was at the bottom of it all, that he’d either driven Brent too far, until he broke – or that he’d even engineered the whole thing.’
‘So from hypnotism to murder now.’
‘Thelmes become more suspicious when Felham virtually discharged himself within weeks of Brent’s death; then he found some old notes Felham had left in a basket – and next came news of the dig. He drew everything together into a rather intriguing theory, which I though was worth following up.’
His two companions sat quietly, mulling over what he had told them.
‘I have to say,’ began Aylmes after a while, as he leaned back in his chair, ‘this whole place is beginning to make me nervy. And Landon.’
‘I still say it’s a touch of sun. Playing silly tricks with us.’ Landon pushed back the hair from his forehead. Inside the tavern, his pallor was even more noticeable.
‘I admit I may have mislaid a few brushes, or put the odd artefact in the wrong place, but I would like to know how the sun can make us both hear phantom whistling.’ Aylmes started his drink irritably.
‘Suggestion,’ continued Landon. ‘You mentioned it yesterday, so I heard it today as well. I’ve read about such things happening.’
‘I’m not satisfied. Same bloody tune, as well. Driving me potty. And it doesn’t explain Arky asking people about things being moved. We can’t all be so absent-minded all at the same time. And it doesn’t explain shadows on walls, or Arky talking to himself, all after the sun has been set a good two or three hours. Heatstroke my foot. It’s not that damned hot.’
Stratton had thought he would need to ask questions; but the other two seemed to want to talk; sometimes, he wondered if they were even aware he was with them. He sat and waited.
‘I was a bit shaken last night, that is true. I was so certain there couldn’t be anyone there.’
‘Well, there wasn’t.’
‘There must have been. He was playing dice with . . . whoever it was. I could hear the dice rattling. It must be the same ones he dug up last week. Anyway, there were definitely two shadows.’
‘One minute, we’re suffering from the sun, the next, there’s an intruder on the site. Make up your mind.’
‘Well, both, then. The sun’s making us hear things, we’re getting a bit careless, and in the evenings, Arky gets bored and starts playing dice.’
‘With somebody you can’t see.’
‘I must have been mistaken in some way. Otherwise, he’s gone completely mad, and is sitting there, playing dice on his own, which is not a possibility I care to think about.’
‘So you’re quite happy to keep vigil with him tonight again?’
‘I didn’t say that either.’
‘Why don’t we all three go?’ interposed Stratton finally.
Aylmes chuckled. ‘What’s your verdict, then - are we ready to be locked up?’
‘I’m curious. Unlike you, I haven’t been slaving away for weeks in the boiling heat on a dusty old city, so I have no excuse at all for hallucinating.’
‘We’d better get moving, then, he likes us to be there before sunset.’
It was already dusk when they set off; as they tramped towards the site, Stratton asked ‘What was that about things being moved?’
‘Oh, well, it could be coincidence. But it seemed to become more noticeable last week - and I’m not certain it wasn’t happening before then,’ started Aylmes doubtfully.
‘As far as I’m concerned, everything started after Arky found the dice,’ interrupted Landon decisively. ‘He showed them to us in the morning. In the afternoon, I heard him asking two of the fellows if they’d noticed anyone around the place who shouldn’t be. He complained about something having gone missing, and a couple of artefacts turning up where they hadn’t been left. As though someone had been there, moved some things and possibly walked off with a few others. They hadn’t seen anyone, of course- any more than you or I.’
‘Just yesterday,’ picked up Aylmes, ‘it was my turn - I mean, I found on two distinct occasions that my tools had been moved while my back was turned; once, I moved away to pick up a brush, another time I only happened to look up across the work area for less than a minute, and on both occasions I found various things had been thrown about at random. It struck me as odd the first time, because I hadn’t been aware of anyone being in my area, even if they’d wanted to play some kind of practical joke, which I can tell you, none of us are in the mood for. The second time, I started asking questions too. And before that, there was the whistling. That’s been going on all this week, only nobody else seemed to notice it until this afternoon.’ He pointed at Landon.
‘It gave me the shivers. Whistling’s always a bit eerie, I find, but on top of last night,’ Landon paused in the street.
‘This is the best bit,’ commented Aylmes drily.
‘Well, as I told you before, I actually heard dice being rattled and thrown onto a table. Quite fast, too, as if in the middle of a game; I’d reached the site a bit late, and was making my way to Arky’s patch - it’s one of the ‘rooms’ we uncovered early on at the dig, and he’s made it more or less into a cubby hole for himself, with a bit of tenting and so forth - and I distinctly heard the dice, as though two people were playing. I thought Arky had found someone else to stay with him, so I went to join them. Then the lamp showed up two shadows on the wall behind, and one of them gave me quite a shock at first, because he seemed to have some enormous, deformed head on his shoulders. Then I realised it was the shape of a roman helmet.’
‘Well?’ said Stratton as Landon halted again.
‘We haven’t uncovered any Roman helmets yet. Apart from the unlikelihood of anyone of us actually wearing one . . . anyway, that stopped me short for a moment, and that was when the lamp went out. I had my torch, so I held it up, and asked if Felham needed any help. He came out quick enough then, and seemed quite at ease. ‘Oh there you are,’ he said, but seemed quite relieved. Now, Curtis told me that something similar had happened the night before, so I kept my eye on the spot, but nobody else came out. Felham said his lamp was a bit faulty, and took my torch. I followed him in there close behind, you understand. There was no possibility of anyone getting out by any other way. But there was definitely no one else inside.
‘So I stayed up, cataloguing with Felham for another hour or so, before we packed it in. He’s in a fret to have as much as possible ready for when Sir Money-bags Harry arrives, which is partly the reason he goes on so late. I think. Anyway, nothing else happened, until this morning when I heard the whistl - ‘
All three jumped as a terrific shout was heard. They had reached the dig, and saw by a faint glow where the professor must be. There was another shout, again from the same direction, this time quite triumphant, and the sound of a chair falling over.
They ran across the ground, stumbling over various bits and pieces, and clattered into Felham’s room. They found him on the floor by the chair, his face still shouting, although all the breath had left his body. On a low table in the middle was a set of worn-looking dice, which Aylmes and Landon recognised as the ones excavated less than a week before.
In the end Stratton was able to make something of a story after all. Although the doctors pronounced Felham’s death to be the result of heart failure (probably due to over-work), it didn’t take long for stories of a haunted roman town to circulate, and visitors were soon queuing up in droves to see. Aylmes and Landon kept their heads, as newly instated re-placements should, and were rewarded for their diligence by the outstanding recovery of a Roman soldier’s remains, in a reasonable condition, down even to his helmet.
But the fact that he was discovered buried almost exactly under the spot where Felham had fallen somehow did not reach public attention.
Likewise, Felham’s Journal, found among his effects, failed to reach the front pages. After careful perusal and discussion with Sir Harry, it was replaced in his trunk, under lock and key, together with his notes on the finding of the Roman town of Heracleum.
The most disturbing entries were on the last pages before the Professor’s death. There was one personage he referred to as ‘The Visitor’, who would play dice with him every evening, in exchange for valuable information – if the Professor won.
‘ If I lose, then He (the Visitor) will take all. I do not care for the tone in which he says that. Does he mean more than he says? All – as in, all that I have found here? All those items which he says belonged to him before? Or does he mean ALL – everything – that I have? My life included? Enough of this, he has much he can tell me, there is no doubting the accuracy of his descriptions, for we have found everything to date by following his instructions . . .
‘From one casual incident, an almost whimsical attempt to see for myself, all this has come about; had the soldier T.B. not been susceptible, or sensitive; had he not then been concussed; had I not been called to his bedside; had I not taken the trouble to link all the clues together, we might not now have made the momentous discovery that we have made. Unfortunate about his death; still, I had pieced enough together. No doubt T. and others of similar limited views would blame me for his death; to tell the truth, no one could have foreseen the effect of his later trances. Such are the fortunes of men . . .’
And then, further on, the Visitor reappeared.
‘ . . . he tells me such details, while we throw the dice: I am horrified, yet fascinated by the situation I find myself in – am I insane? I think not – from what I observe of the others, they have seen a part of it. He goes when the others approach, however. I cannot stop now. Tomorrow. He is to tell me where . . .’ Here Felham had been interrupted, had laid down his pen and never picked it up again.
The dig continued for a while longer. Nobody cared to work long hours there; a cloud hung over the whole enterprise.
One more detail was duly noted: a few items from the recent War were found, as chilling as they were pathetic, caught up in the rubble from a collapsed trench; an empty whisky bottle in a boot, and some half-rotted playing cards, preserved under a piece of wood.