by Paul Capon
“You think you’ll get back?”
“Sure,” Boyd said, and he wished he felt as confident as he sounded.
The bath was smaller than the boys had imagined, but they had it to themselves. It was a wonderful relief to get rid of the dirt and sweat that had accumulated in the course of their adventures. There was a hot room where they steamed gently until they were the color of lobsters, there was a warm room where their servant prodded and pummeled and massaged them until they felt as if they had been put through a half-dozen mangles, and there was a cool room with a sunken bath at its center in which they swam lazily, gradually recovering from their experiences in the other two rooms. The whole process took about an hour, and they were just getting their clothes on again when Titus burst in in a state of agitation.
“His Imperial Majesty wishes to see you right away,” he panted. “You’ll have to postpone your prantee.”
“Prantee?” queried Tom.
“Lunch,” explained Titus impatiently. “You’ll have to have it later.”
“O.K.,” said Boyd. “Where are the girls?”
“Waiting for you. Now hurry up!”
There was something annoying about Titus’s way of saying “Hurry up” that impelled the boys to move slowly, and, by the time they had tied their shoelaces and combed their hair, Titus was hopping with exasperation.
“Have you no manners?” he inquired. “It’s a serious offense to keep the Vice-Emperor waiting.”
“He kept us waiting,” drawled Boyd. “Besides, he’s your Vice-Emperor, not ours.”
“Exactly, and I’m the one who will suffer for your dilatoriness.”
“Brother, you’re breaking my heart,” Boyd assured him, as they moved into the corridor.
Something had changed the mood of the palace from one of dignity and calm to one of agitation. Before, except for an occasional servant, they had seen almost no one in those acres of corridors, but now it was different. Worried-looking men stood gravely discussing some matter, togaed court officials with documents in their hands were scurrying back and forth, and in the atrium a military guard was drawn up as if in attendance on some high-ranking officer.
Tom asked Titus what was happening, and to his surprise Titus proved to be quite forthright in his answer.
“An emergency,” he said. “The rural slaves are becoming restless.”
“Slaves?” faltered Tom.
“Yes, slaves,” said Titus, sneering. “Those graceless scoundrels in baggy trousers.”
Also in the atrium were Ruth and Jane, looking clean and pink and tidy. They were standing by the great statue of Cornelius the First, and, when they saw the boys, their faces lighted with relief as if they had given up hope of ever seeing them again, and were now reassured.
“We had a wonderful bathe,” said Ruth, “and now we’re starving, but they say we can’t eat until we’ve seen the Vice-Emperor again. Personally, I’d rather have lunch.”
“Follow me,” snapped Titus. They had not gone far before they realized he was taking them to a part of the palace more formal and imposing than any they had seen so far.
“You are coming to the state apartments,” he told them. “The room in which His Imperial Majesty received you before was his private study and the audience was an informal one. This will be different.”
As he spoke, four soldiers armed with pikes appeared at the far end of the corridor. One of them roared a command and rapped the floor with his pike.
“Get back!” gasped Titus in anguish. “It’s the General!”
He thrust the foursome behind him into a recess between two pillars. The soldiers clumped down the corridor with their pikes on their shoulders, and a moment later came the General himself, attended by two aides.
He advanced portentously, and at first glance he was an impressive figure. He must have been nearly seven feet tall, his height increased by the scarlet plumes of his helmet. He wore breastplate, greaves, a scarlet cloak and enough gold to back an international loan.
Unfortunately the effect was somewhat spoiled by his face, which was big and florid and undeniably stupid. His tiny eyes and big face bulging beneath his helmet gave him so much the look of a pig stuck in a coal scuttle that Ruth was attacked by a fit of giggles and had to hide behind Titus until both the fit and the General had passed.
“Our commander in chief,” whispered Titus, trembling. “Dux Britanniarum — the Duke of the Britains. He has just had audience with His Imperial Majesty.”
“My, things are sure hopping,” said Boyd. “Are the slaves likely to riot?”
“Not if they know what’s good for them,” said Titus. “There was an uprising in the time of the Emperor’s grandfather, and every man-Jack of the slaves had his ears and nose cut off whether he took part in the revolt or not.”
Outside the Emperor’s door there were a military guard and an official wearing the toga praetexta, or purple-striped toga, who ushered the foursome into the audience chamber.
The Vice-Emperor was no longer an unassuming little man in a gray business suit. Every possible effect had been employed to lend him authority and grandeur. Wearing a purple toga, he sat on a heavy, gilded chair at the far end of a lofty and awesome room. In front of him stretched an expanse of marble which the group had to cross. When at last they reached the dais, they felt hardly bigger than mice.
They bowed. The official in the toga praetexta introduced them briefly in dialect, and was dismissed with a wave of the imperial hand.
The Vice-Emperor looked closely at each of the four in turn and, as the door closed on the official, said, “Children, you came to Sutterranea as trespassers, but we welcome you as friends. We hope you will find happiness in our community and will grow up to lead useful and productive lives. For the present, you will be given comfortable quarters at the University, and arrangements will be made for your education.”
“But, Your Imperial Majesty,” said Tom, “we understood we would be allowed to return home.”
The Vice-Emperor smiled benignly and shook his head. “No, it’s out of the question for you to leave Sutterranea,” he told them. “As long as you co-operate, you will be well treated and looked after, and there is no reason why you lads should not enjoy honorable careers in any one of the professions — perhaps as lawyers or doctors or teachers. Since you are not of the blood, you will never attain full citizenship, but that is a small disadvantage in comparison with all the benefits that can accrue.”
He fixed his gaze on Ruth and Jane. “As for you girls, you are in an even more fortunate position since, when you grow up, there is no reason that you should not marry into the gens Cornelia and move in the highest circles in the land. Your sons will be Cornelians and you will be accorded exactly the same honors as if you had been born into the gens.”
Ruth did not seem impressed. “Please, Your Imperial Majesty, our parents will be in a dreadful state of worry about us — ” She was interrupted as the official in the toga praetexta burst in and made an agitated announcement in dialect.
The Vice-Emperor answered calmly and turned to the foursome. “You will have to excuse us,” he said, “but we are experiencing certain labor troubles. The employees in one of the outlying districts have risen against authority, and we shall have to give the matter our immediate attention. Personally, we are sorry to conclude this audience, which we were finding most interesting.”
The four bowed deeply and were backing away with surreptitious glances over their shoulders to make sure they weren’t about to bump into anything when the Vice-Emperor stopped them.
“Ah, one more thing,” he said. “We must ask you to give us your watches.”
Tom and Boyd exchanged glances. “Our watches?” asked Tom.
“Exactly,” said the Vice-Emperor, holding out his hand. “The private ownership of a watch or a clock is strictly forbidden. In Sutterranea we-” he indicated himself — ”decide what time it is!”
There was nothing the boys could do except
hand over their watches. Tom had had his only since the previous Christmas, and already he was wondering how he would explain its loss to his father. He felt that to say it had been stolen by a Vice-Emperor would sound unconvincing.
CHAPTER 11
There was a tall, white tower near the University building, one of several in the valley. When the foursome had had their lunch and were relaxing on the veranda of their new quarters, they saw a soldier approach the tower and climb the steps to its summit. He held a long, silver trumpet with a scroll rolled around it.
“I’ll bet he’s a herald,” said Ruth, “and he’s going to read a proclamation.”
She was quite right. As soon as the herald reached the top of the tower he blew a high, clear note that echoed round the valley.
“He must be the local Louis Armstrong,” Boyd commented. “That was some note!”
The herald opened the scroll, then shouted, “Heus! Heus! Heus!”
“Tom, what does heus mean?” asked Jane.
“Exactly what you’d expect. ‘Hark ye,’ or something of the sort.”
The herald read the proclamation slowly and sonorously. As far as Tom could judge, the document was worded in classical Latin rather than the vernacular, but the pronunciation was so different from that of his Latin master that he was unable to make out more than a fraction of it.
“What’s it all about?” asked Ruth as the proclamation ended.
“It has something to do with a public holiday,” Tom told her, “but it’s a bit puzzling. He mentioned the Saturnalia, but that was a winter festival and now it’s June — ”
“Maybe it sort of slipped,” put in Boyd. “These folks have no way of figuring time, so I guess a festival could easily slip a few months in fifteen hundred years.”
“I suppose so,” agreed Tom. “Anyway, I certainly heard the words feriae, which means ‘holidays,’ and ludi, which means ‘games.’ So it looks as if there’s going to be a party. I suppose the idea is to keep the slaves from thinking of their troubles.”
“But will the slaves be invited to the party?” asked Jane.
“If it’s a Saturnalia, they will be,” said Tom. “You see, in Imperial Rome the Saturnalia was the slaves’ big moment. For the week it lasted, everything was turned topsy-turvy: the slaves ate at the master’s table with the master and his family waiting on them, and so on.”
“Boy! That’s something I’d like to see,” Boyd said.
They had had a large lunch, and altogether they had no reason to complain of Sutterranean hospitality. Even their rucksacks had been returned to them with contents intact although they bore signs of having been examined. They were agreed that, if it were not for their parents’ anxiety, they would be quite happy to spend their entire vacation underground.
Suddenly the door opened, and a young man came into the room. He looked around as if surprised to find no one there. The children noticed that he did not seem to belong to any of the three classes of Sutterraneans they knew about — he was not slave, soldier or Cornelian. He was in his early thirties, and instead of a kilt he wore a very old pair of corduroys with his tunic tucked into them like a shirt.
Tom got up and went to the door that led from the veranda to the living room.
“Excuse me, but are you looking for us? We’re out here.”
The stranger grinned. “Why, hello!” he said gaily. “Mind if I join you? My name’s Charles Owen, and I’ve been asked by the palace to look you up.”
“You’re English?” asked Tom, incredulously.
“Half English and half Welsh,” said Charles Owen, coming to the veranda. “So you’re the four who have caused all the trouble!”
“What trouble?” asked Ruth.
“Slaves rising, authority flouted, stones thrown at centurions — oh, make no mistake, you’ve certainly put the cat among the pigeons! Anyway, tell me your names.”
“Jane and Boyd Wheatley,” said Tom, introducing the twins. “And this is my sister, Ruth Risdon. I’m Tom Risdon.”
Charles Owen glanced at him. “No relation, I suppose, to Dr. Tom Risdon of Harefield?”
“He’s my father!” said Tom, astonished.
“Why, do you know him?” put in Ruth.
“Certainly I do. He pulled me through pneumonia when I was ten, and I’m not so sure he didn’t bring me into the world. You see, I was born in Stowbridge. My father was a lawyer there.”
“Then how on earth did you get to Sutterranea?” asked Ruth.
“I was kidnapped,” said Charles Owen simply and sat down. “By the way, have you seen the Lady Marcia? I was expecting to meet her here.”
“She hasn’t been here,” said Ruth. “We met her earlier with the Vice-Emperor.”
“So she told me on the telephone. Oh, well. She’ll be along, I expect.”
“Is she a friend of yours?” asked Jane.
“Yes. We’ve known each other for years. When I first met her, she wasn’t much older than you are.”
Ruth gazed at him wide-eyed. “Then you’ve been here a long time, haven’t you?”
“About nine years,” said Charles, “although I first met her at Ridgefield Manor. I think it would be best if I told you the story from the beginning, don’t you?”
“Sure,” said Boyd, “but I’m still trying to figure how we have had anything to do with the slaves’ rising. Can’t you just tell us that first?”
“I could, but I think it would be better if I told you the story in my own way, then you’ll see why your arrival had such a startling effect — ”
He broke off as another trumpet note echoed down the valley, and looked toward another tower from which the herald was preparing to read the proclamation again. “I wonder what all that’s about?” he said, half to himself.
“He’s only announcing a holiday, or something,” Ruth told him, impatient to hear his story.
‘‘A Saturnalia, I think,” said Tom.
For a moment Charles Owen looked startled. “So they’re going to hold it, are they?” he said, and his expression was grave. “I wish Marcia would show up.”
“Is the Saturnalia important, then?” asked Tom.
“Very much so,” said Charles, “and I’ll explain it shortly, but first let me tell you how I come to be here.”
Charles, it seemed, had had much the same sort of childhood as Tom and Ruth. Stowbridge was his hometown, and he knew Ridgefield, Harefield, Orleigh and, of course, the cave. The legend of the cave had fascinated him, and throughout his school years he had done quite a bit of research on the subject. He had discovered that the last Count of the Saxon Shore, a Roman general named Cornelius, had had a villa on the land where Ridgefield Manor now stood, and he thought it likely that Cornelius had had his military headquarters at the fort which was known to have been located on Orleigh Cliff.
“No professional archaeologist has ever been much interested in the site of the Orleigh fort,” said Charles. “Still, I had a theory about the fort; and for ten years, from the time I was thirteen until I was twenty-three, I spent my spare time collecting evidence. It struck me as highly likely that there was an underground passage, or system of passages, connecting Orleigh with Ridgefield Manor. There were all sorts of local beliefs and superstitions to suggest that that might be so, and finally I had enough data together to form the basis of a pamphlet that I intended to call ‘The Last Foothold of the Romans in Britain.’ I was hoping the pamphlet would come to the attention of archaeologists and result in the fort’s being properly excavated.
“Before I published anything, I was anxious to explore Ridgefield Quarries, so I wrote to old Squire Cornel asking him what were the chances and enclosing a rough draft of my pamphlet. I didn’t really suppose that he would let me visit the quarries, but there was no harm in trying, and I was astonished when I received an extremely civil reply inviting me to spend a week end at the Manor.
“I know now that my letter and the pamphlet scared the daylights out of him. I had made no secret
of the fact that my main object was to get the archaeologists interested, and the last thing in the world he or any of the Cornelians wanted was people poking about Orleigh. And so I was invited to Ridgefield.
“The week end started quite normally. My host seemed a pleasant old gentleman, not nearly so formidable as his reputation, and at lunch I met a son of his — not the Vice-Emperor, a younger son — a nephew and his favorite great-niece Marcia.”
“Do you mean the Lady Marcia?” Ruth asked in a surprised voice.
“Yes, of course. Well, as I say, we had a perfectly ordinary English lunch. I remember thinking that the Squire had an unusual number of servants, but then I knew he was very wealthy and didn’t think much more about it.
“After lunch the Squire remarked that he usually took an afternoon nap. I decided to amuse myself in the library, thinking I might find some interesting old records of Ridgefield and Orleigh. When I got there, I found Marcia curled up in an armchair, reading. At that time she was a very shy and leggy fifteen, and at first she just went on reading. As it happened, I did find some manorial records of Ridgefield, and I was studying them when Marcia came and looked over my shoulder and asked what I was doing. I told her and went on to explain my theory of an underground passage connecting the manor with Orleigh. While I was talking, I realized that something seemed to be bothering her. Finally she blurted out, ‘Look, if I were you, I wouldn’t stay here another minute! Oh, please listen to me — get away from here just as soon as you can!’
“Well, naturally this outburst took my breath away. I pretended to laugh and said, ‘But, Marcia, what’s wrong? Why do you want me to go? Don’t you like me?’
“ ‘I do like you,’ she declared, ‘and that’s why I want you to go. You’re not safe here!’ And with that, she went as red as a beet, burst into tears and ran from the room.
“I could only suppose I’d been dealing with a hysterical schoolgirl, but, even so, it was strange. I was still pondering the incident when a footman came in with a tea tray. In very poor English he told me his master had thought I might prefer to have my tea in the library. I thanked him and sat down and poured myself a cup of tea.