Authors: Lady Hilarys Halloween
James chuckled. “I think he had an inkling, despite what he categorized as my lamentable lack of enterprise.”
“Your lack of—”
“Yes, according to him, we should have been wed long ago.” He prudently chose to omit Rufus’ advice on the baking of buns.
“Was he truly a gift, then?” murmured Hilary wonderingly.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Nothing,” said Hilary with a shaky laugh. Perhaps one day she would tell him of her childish seedcake prayer and the ancient, imponderable forces she had set into motion. Right now, she would let him continue to believe that a scientific miracle had brought them a traveler from the past and subsequently returned him to his home. “But I think you are right, my love. Halloween is almost over, and it is time we left this realm of mystery and witchery to return to the real world.”
“As long as my real world contains you, I have no objection, my love.”
As the curricle moved off once again, Hilary glanced over her shoulder once more at the Roman tower, a ghost of vanished centuries, gleaming palely in the moonlight. She breathed a swift, silent prayer of thanks to whatever deity had seen fit to bless her on this magical All Hallows’ Eve, and to the handmaiden who had served her for so many centuries.
Epilogue
The disappearance of Rufus caused little stir in the neighborhood. He was, after all, a foreigner and thus of no account. Mordecai Cheeke was another matter. It was Sir Harvey Winslow, Cheeke’s host, who first reported him missing, and the full magisterial resources of the shire were brought to bear in the disappearance.
Mordecai had apparently found it prudent that evening to conceal his intentions even from his servants. The stable hands at Benchley Park, Sir Harvey’s abode, knew only that he had taken out his curricle, giving no clue as to his destination. The head groom at the Park made no mention of anything extraordinary in his appearance, so he must have donned his King Arthur apparel just before arriving at Whiteleaves.
After a hurried conference among the witnesses to Mordecai’s contretemps with the forces of nature and science, it was decided that there was no reason for them to come forward with the truth. After all, who would believe them? There had been no criminal intent, James pointed out, if one discounted Jasper’s rather pointed hostility. Cyrus averred that he would just as soon avoid any tedious inquiries into his part of the program. One never knew what pettifoggery might come forth from the minions of the law, whose views on scientific experimentation sometimes bordered on rank superstition. Robert’s contribution to the discussion was the opinion that there was nothing anyone could do to bring the fat little weasel back, anyway—which was all to the good.
Hilary attended the sessions among the conspirators, but merely nodded serenely and said that she would be pleased to concur with whatever the gentlemen decided. She found herself wholly occupied with the parade of visitors that appeared at Whiteleaves in the wake of the Halloween Ball to wish her happy and to offer suggestions for her coming nuptials. In all the investigative flurry that took place during the weeks following Mordecai’s departure into the past, no hint of a connection was discovered with the presence of his most notable rival in the neighborhood. It would be unthinkable, in any event, for anyone to question the eminent James Wincanon in such a matter.
Thus, the abrupt departure of Mordecai Cheeke from the haunts of men remained a mystery, much talked of in the neighborhood for years to come.
It was some weeks before Hilary and James, with Jasper at their heels, returned to the Roman villa. Jasper once more lent his dubious assistance. It was not until they had been working for some hours on the triclinium mosaic, frequently interspersed with more pleasant activity, that Hilary bethought herself of Rufus’ final admonishment.
She picked up trowel and rake and moved to the little shrine just to the north of the villa. There she worked in the area where she had seen Rufus digging, until she was obliged to turn her attention to Jasper, who was apparently trying to tunnel under a large rock nearby.
“Jasper,” she scolded gently, “what have I told you? Why, what in the world ...” she exclaimed, bending for a closer examination. “James!” she called suddenly. “Come look at this.”
When James reached her side, she pointed silently at the rock. Following her direction, he was astonished to see his own name etched faintly in its surface, accompanied by a crooked little arrow, pointing straight down. The scratches had been made recently.
He exchanged a glance with Hilary.
“What in the world can this signify?” she queried. “Do you suppose Rufus carved it? And to what purpose?”
“Ump. I have no idea, but I suppose there is one way to find out.”
He picked up a shovel and began digging in earth that seemed freshly overturned. It was not until he had progressed to more than a foot below the surface that a dull chink signaled the presence of something metallic below the soil. A few minutes’ more digging and much tugging brought forth a chest, about four feet square. It was made of wood, most of which was rotted away, but was so heavily banded that for all intents and purposes, it was constructed of iron.
“Oh, my,” gasped Hilary.
James anticipated some difficulty in opening the chest, but to his surprise, the clasp opened and the lid swung up effortlessly.
“It looks to me,” James mused aloud, “as though someone opened this not too long ago.”
“Rufus!” exclaimed Hilary.
“No doubt, and—good God, look at this!”
Reverently, he drew from the chest an object wrapped in a heavy oilskin. Unwrapping it, he drew in a sharp breath. Hilary fell on her knees to the earth beside him.
“It’s—why, it’s a helmet!”
“Yes, and extraordinarily well-preserved. And look here. Tucked in with it. A
pugio—
a dagger. And—yes, it is the one Rufus wore at his side.” He ran his fingers along the hunting scene carved on the shaft. “I believe,” James murmured, “the helmet, too, must have belonged to Rufus.”
“Yes! Do you remember the day Rufus spent so much time here, near the shrine? He must have uncovered the chest then and realized that he, himself had buried it after his return from our century.”
“No wonder he was so sure he would be sent back home safely. Oh—here’s something else,” he observed as a small object fell to the ground to lie glittering in the morning sun. Picking it up, he examined it carefully and then began to laugh. He handed it to Hilary, who after gazing at it, puzzled, for some moments, also uttered a delighted whoop.
“It’s a quizzing glass!” she cried. “And bless me, if it isn’t Mordecai’s.”
“Good old Rufus! He sent us a message to let us know that Mordecai made the journey as well. One can assume, I think, that he arrived in one piece.”
“I wonder what became of him after that?”
“I neither know nor care, except to hope fervently that he ended up as a slave to a tyrannical master.”
James rummaged further, giving a startled cry as he drew yet another wrapped parcel from the chest.
“Dear heaven!” breathed Hilary, as the sunlight glinted dully from an assortment of metal objects. “James—this is badly tarnished, but I’m sure it’s—it’s a cache of crafted silver!”
Indeed, on further inspection, the package proved to contain two large silver trays, three smaller ones, four serving bowls, a half-dozen goblets, and several spoons. Through the grime and oxidation of centuries, the metal was still clearly identifiable.
“But where do you suppose Rufus got all this?” Hilary frowned in disbelief. “It would have been worth a fortune then. It would be costly even today,” she added.
“And why would he bury it here?” James continued. He glanced again into the hole created by the removal of the chest. “Wait— there’s something else down here as well.”
Reaching into hole, he brought forth two marble slabs, one large and one small, and both were inscribed. James ran his fingers over the markings on the smaller.
“It says, ‘My father instructed me to place this replica of his tombstone in this hiding place. He said to give his most—um— heartfelt greetings to James and Hilary and perhaps he will see you someday in the Elysian fields, where happy spirits roam. In the meantime, he hopes you will find a use for these tokens of his regard.’ It’s signed, ‘Marcus Minimus Rufus of Corinium.’ “
James exchanged a long, wordless look with Hilary before picking up the tombstone.
“
‘DIS Marcus Minimus Rufus,’ ”
he said. “
‘Amicus Hadriani Caesar.’
Well, well—friend of the Emperor Hadrian. Apparently our old friend rose in the world after his return home. Let’s see,” he continued, stooping over the tombstone once more. “
‘Veteranus Legio IlAgustus Annorum LXXX.’
Good Lord, Rufus lived to be eighty! Or at least thereabouts. The Romans used to round the age off to the nearest five years.”
“ ‘HFC,’ ” said Hilary, reading the last line of the inscription. “What does that signify?”
“It stands for
‘Heres Faciendum Curavit,’
or ‘His heir had this stone set up.’ ”
Hilary sighed happily. “Rufus and Maia did have a son together. And from the looks of it, one who must have been most dutiful. A source of great pride to his father, no doubt.” She picked up the helmet and laid her cheek against it. “And, he did live to be an old man. I’m so glad. Oh, James, he knew what an archaeological find these things would be. Every other Roman helmet I’ve seen from this time period is incomplete, with pieces missing and marred by scratches and gouges. This one is whole and beautiful. It is a treasure. Just think what it will look like when it’s polished.”
James took the helmet in his hands. “It was his parade helmet, made for show and not for fighting. See—it is carved with battle scenes and would cover nearly all of the warrior’s face. It’s a beauty,” he whispered. “I wonder if he made it himself?”
“It certainly seems more than likely.”
“The detail is astonishing. And the silver”—James gestured to the serving pieces—”will make a magnificent display in the British Museum. But”—he bent to peer closer at one of the large trays—”Hilary, see here! The reliefs appear to be mostly mythological subjects, but look at this man. He’s obviously a farmer, standing before his villa and if that villa isn’t this villa, I will personally eat this shovel. And the dagger at his belt—it’s the one Rufus left for us here.”
He lifted the dagger, comparing it with its silver counterpart.
“Good heavens.” Hilary, too, bent to examine the dagger. “Do you suppose Rufus was trying to tell us that he became so successful that he was able to purchase this place? Maia must have been ecstatic!”
“Well, his tombstone does say ‘amicus Hadrian Caesar.’ The old sly boots must have taken advantage of his childhood relationship with the emperor. Hadrian must have seen fit to grant him some sort of munificence.”
Hilary moved close to rest her head on James’s shoulder. “I’m so glad to know life turned out well for him—and Maia. I wonder if he didn’t purchase this particular villa just so he could bury these things to speak to us through the ages, knowing we would find them.”
James hugged her lightly. “Or perhaps he was the builder. What a mystery is the circle of time. Rufus visited the future and left a message for us to find a treasure that had not even been created yet.” He turned to press a kiss on her temple, just there where a silky feather of red hair covered a fluttering pulse. “Do you suppose, my love, man will ever invent a machine to carry him back and forth between the ages?”
“James, you go too far.” Hilary sniffed, at the same time nestling closer in James’s arms. “Next you will be thinking men will fly to the moon someday.”
James gazed skyward and for a moment, his eyes narrowed. “A ridiculous notion, to be sure, my love,” he murmured, turning her in his embrace to give more careful attention to the little curl and its surrounding terrain. Jasper, eyeing them through half-closed eyes, gave a weary sigh and rolled over to dream doggie dreams of lame rabbits and meaty bones, uncaring of the cosmic events that had taken place over his massive head.
Copyright © 1998 by Barbara Yirka
Originally published by Signet (ISBN 0451194993)
Electronically published in 2008 by Belgrave House/Regency Reads
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This is a work of fiction. All names in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental.