by Paul Capon
“And that, as they say in the movie thrillers, is the last thing I remember about my visit to Ridgefield Manor.”
“The tea was doped,” Boyd stated rather than asked.
“Exactly,” said Charles, “and, when I came around, I was in Sutterranea. In this building, as a matter of fact, and in the apartment that I still have. Of course, it was days before I had any idea of the location of Sutterranea, but in due course I was visited by Titus Cornelius Cinna, the chap you know as the V-E’s equerry, but who was then a sort of palace odd-jobs man. He told me that I might as well get used to the idea of never seeing the outside world again. He assured me that escape was impossible and named a few examples of other men who had arrived in Sutterranea from the outside world and had never returned. There was a Dutchman in the seventeenth century, whom I shall tell you more about presently, and only about fifty years ago there was a French engineer, the man who built the little electric railway and installed the telephone system. He was brought in on the orders of the present Emperor’s father, who had great plans for turning Sutterranea into a technically modern community. He died before they came to anything much. His grandson, however, the present V-E, takes after him a bit, and now he’s playing with the idea of introducing television. He thinks it might keep the slaves amused.
“To get back to Titus, he told me the Emperor was most impressed by my pamphlet, and he thought I had a strong sense of history. So he commanded that I consider myself the official historian of Sutterranea with instructions to write a complete history of the place. None had ever been written, but that isn’t surprising when you realize how low the standards of education and scholarship are down here. This building is supposed to be the University, but there aren’t any professors except for a few old gentlemen trying to foretell the future by examining the insides of chickens, and there aren’t any students. Ninety per cent of the population is illiterate, and those few Cornelians who have any education have acquired it abroad, mostly in England.
“So I was to be the official historian and live out my life in Sutterranea. Curiously enough the prospect did not dismay me nearly so much as you may think. For one thing, I never doubted that one day I would escape; and, for another, since my father had died a few months before I was invited to Ridgefield Manor, I had no close family or friendship ties. The Emperor had ordered all Sutterranean archives and records put at my disposal, and I had his full authority to move about freely and question anyone I wanted to. Of course, as far as talking to people was concerned, I was lucky to have a knowledge of Latin.
“I learned that, when the fort on Orleigh Cliff was burned by the Saxons, Cornelius retired into Orleigh Cave with all the soldiers he could muster — two or three hundred is my guess — and, as you know, the cave links up with Ridgefield Quarries.”
“Have the Cornelians managed to hold the Ridgefield land without a break ever since they came down here?” asked Ruth.
“No. The Saxons grabbed it, and it was hundreds of years before the Cornelians got possession again. During those centuries getting in and out of Sutterranea was a very difficult business and was mostly done by way of Orleigh, thereby giving the cave a reputation for being haunted. It wasn’t until the thirteenth century that they got Ridgefield back quite simply — by purchase. They’re well aware of how important Ridgefield is to them — it’s their window to the world as well as the key to Sutterranea — and that’s why the reigning emperor always lives there officially while his son, the vice-emperor, lives down here.”
All the time Charles was talking, he had been growing increasingly uneasy, and now he went to the railing of the veranda and gazed down the valley in the direction of the palace. “What the deuce has happened to Marcia!” he muttered. “She should have been here ages ago.”
“Do you want to see her about something special?” asked Ruth.
“Very much so.”
He did not enlarge on this, but turned away again and gazed anxiously down the valley. Tension was in the air, and in the neighborhood of the arena slaves scurried around like so many ants. Grandstands were being built, and down the long winding path into the valley came an endless stream of donkeys with pack loads nearly as big as themselves.
“Refreshments for the slaves attending the Saturnalia,” explained Charles.
For some time Boyd had been sitting silent, trying to absorb all that Charles had told them. Charles was not an easy man to get to know, and his appearance suggested part scholar and part man of action. He was tall, he looked strong, and his movements were quick and energetic; but for much of the time the expression on his dark, handsome face was dreamy, making it difficult for Boyd to decide whether he was likely to prove a useful ally or not.
Charles moved from the railing and sat down. Boyd turned to him.
“Say, Mr. Owen,” he asked, carefully keeping his voice low, “what are the chances of escaping? I mean, have you ever tried it?”
“Not yet,” said Charles, also speaking quietly, “but for a long time I’ve been working on a scheme, and now I’m practically ready. I’d planned my escape to coincide with the Saturnalia, and that’s why I’m a bit jumpy. I don’t know where Marcia is, and she’s very much involved in my plan.”
“If you do escape,” whispered Ruth, “may we come with you?”
“That’s one of the things Marcia and I have to discuss,” Charles told her, “but I feel the whole scheme would have a greater chance of success if you four stay here while I escape and get up a rescue party — ”
“Oh, no!” protested Ruth. “I’ll bet you’d be glad to have us with you. Besides, Mummy and Daddy will be worrying themselves to bits.”
“No, they won’t,” Charles assured her. “Because the first thing I’ll do when I get out is telephone them. What’s the number?”
“Harefield one-seven-seven-three,” Tom told him. “The year of the Boston Tea Party, to make it easy for you.”
“I wish you hadn’t said that!” Charles laughed. “Now I’m quite sure to ring Boston one-seven-seven-three. But don’t worry, I’ll remember it all right.”
“If the Vice-Emperor knew Marcia was helping you to escape,” said Jane, “what would he say?”
“It isn’t what he’d say that worries me, but what he’d do. I strongly suspect he would have her put to death.”
Jane was understandably shocked. “Put to death!” she gasped.
“You must remember we’re dealing with Romans. They were a pretty callous lot, and fifteen hundred years of living in a hole in the ground hasn’t improved their tempers at all.”
“But she’s his cousin! He sounds horrible.”
Charles smiled. “A vice-emperor can’t let such consideration stand in his way!”
“I’m for escaping!” said Jane, making the others laugh. ‘Now tell us why our arrival disturbed the slaves so much.”
Charles settled himself more comfortably and said, “Well, the slaves have been restless for a long time now, and I’m partly responsible for it. I’ve spent a great deal of time with them, ferreting out their traditions, taking down and translating their folk songs and so on — ”
“Sorry to interrupt,” said Ruth, “but do the slaves know anything about the outside world?”
“Virtually nothing,” Charles told her. “In effect the only people who know anything about our world are the Cornelians. A few trusted household slaves are taken from the palace to work at Ridgefield Manor from time to time, but that’s all, and, once a slave goes to Ridgefield, he never returns to Sutterranea.”
Charles went on to tell them how appalled he had been to discover organized slavery on England’s doorstep, or under its door mat, so to speak, and he was even more horrified to learn that the slaves were being systematically cheated on a huge scale.
“Out of all the fifty-three emperors,” he said, “only one has ever shown the slightest interest in the lot of the slaves, and for his pains he has gone down in history as Cornelius the Dreamer.
“He passed some new laws, no doubt inspired more by a desire to get the slaves to work harder than by kind-heartedness, but, even so, they were a step in the right direction. He revived the Saturnalia as an annual festival and made it clear that he was reviving it solely in the interests of the slaves. For instance, at each Saturnalia every slave was to be given a new shirt or blouse and a pair of trousers, but most important he ordained that at each Saturnalia five out of every hundred slaves — those who had given the longest service and the least trouble and had worked the hardest — were to be granted freedom, and throughout the Dreamer’s reign that law was strictly observed.
“However, he was no sooner dead than the new emperor started to cheat. He was afraid to repeal the laws outright, so he simply started to lengthen the intervals between Saturnalias. He could safely do it since no slave had any means of telling time. In a land where there is no sun or moon, no summer or winter, no day or night, who can keep a calendar without a clock? In Sutterranea it’s illegal, on pain of death, to own even the crudest water clock.
“Well, as far as stretching the intervals was concerned, each emperor grew bolder than the one before him. You’ll realize how much the slaves have been cheated when I tell you that in the nine years I’ve been here there have been two Saturnalias. This one will be the third, and it’s at least three years overdue. Yet it’s only recently that the slaves have suspected that they are being cheated — some of them still don’t believe it — and they’ve gone on, quite confident that hard work and long stints will finally win their freedom.
“Of course, the majority of them never are set free. At each Saturnalia a few, a very few, are really freed. Most of the tradesmen working in the Valley — the gardeners and the carpenters and the masons — were once slaves. All the others are actually the victims of a swindle so mean it is almost unbelievable. During the Saturnalia they are feted and congratulated and made much of, but as soon as it’s over they are taken to the Dark Lands where they will eke out the rest of their lives in chains.
“So, as I went about collecting facts and making notes, I did all I could to cheer the slaves, even telling them they would soon be freed. I was much younger and more optimistic then. I thought it would be only a matter of months before I escaped. News travels fast among the slaves, and I became a prophet in their eyes. A legend sprang up concerning a liberator who would come to Sutterranea. He would overthrow the Cornelians, slay the soldiers and free the slaves, who would then live happily in Sutterranea forever and ever.
“Well, the legend grew over the years, and then — ” Charles grinned at his audience — “you four turned up. As liberators you were not quite what the slaves had visualized, but the train driver had no doubt as to your identity because two of you wore watches. Since only emperors and vice-emperors wear watches, it followed that you must be at least the equals of those exalted beings and quite probably their superiors. Time is a mysterious thing to the slaves, who have no way of measuring it. To them it’s something controlled by an emperor by means of a little box strapped to his wrist, and they believe that no liberator will stand a chance unless he wears one, too.
“The news of your arrival spread like wildfire — the train driver saw to that — and every one of the slaves was waiting to hear of the Cornelians’ defeat.
“At that point the Vice-Emperor made a tactical error. He sent you over Sutterranea in the helicopter to show you that escape was impossible. As you flew low over the countryside, you were glimpsed by some of the slaves, and they jumped to the conclusion that the Cornelians had you in their power. Then, when you were flown over the great crater, they feared the worst. Here the death penalty is exacted by hurling the victim into the crater, and the slaves were certain that was what had happened to you.
“Desperate and furious, they started to rise against the military. Now, obviously, the Vice-Emperor has decided to relieve the pressure by holding the Saturnalia in a hurry. What happens next is anybody’s guess.”
“Why are the soldiers armed only with swords?” asked Jane. “You’d think they’d have rifles, wouldn’t you?”
“Oh, no,” said Charles, smiling. “The Romans have found swords and spears adequate for thousands of years, and the Cornelians see no reason to change. They have always kept the military strong enough to control the slaves, but too weak to threaten them, the Cornelians.”
“But the commander in chief is a Cornelian, isn’t he?” said Ruth.
“Yes, and so are all the officers above the rank of centurion, but even they don’t carry firearms. You see, in Sutterranea everyone is scared of everyone else, and often with good reason.”
While speaking, he shaded his eyes against the glare and gazed down the valley toward the palace, but there was still no sign of Marcia. Preparations for the Saturnalia were well advanced. Soldiers were pitching tents on the central lawn, and over everything hung an air of nervous expectancy, as though a storm were about to break.
“I wish I knew what is keeping her,” muttered Charles. “But I’d like to hear your story while we’re waiting. How did you get here?”
Tom launched into an account of all that had happened since they crawled through the hole in Orleigh Cave. When he started to explain how they had got through the flooded tunnel, Charles looked up sharply and interrupted him.
“A rubber dinghy. Do you have it with you?”
“Yes. When we got through the tunnel, we let the air out and packed it in Ruth’s rucksack.”
“Good!” said Charles. Just then he caught sight of Marcia hurrying over the lawn toward them. Even at that distance they could see that her face was white and drawn.
Charles jumped up and went to meet her at the main doors. “I’ll only be a minute,” he said, but he was much longer than that, and the foursome became anxious.
“They can’t have forgotten us,” muttered Ruth uneasily. “Shall we go and look for them?”
“Better not,” Boyd said. “What I want to know is, why is Charles so pleased to hear we have a rubber dinghy?”
“I suppose, Ruth, it is in your rucksack?” asked Tom. “You’re sure the Sutterraneans didn’t pinch it?”
“It’s there all right,” Ruth assured him. “I’ll get it.”
She went into the sitting room. The dinghy was a tight fit in the rucksack, and she was struggling to get it out when Charles and Marcia came in. Charles’s expression was as worried as Marcia’s, but he brightened when he saw what Ruth was doing.
“Oh, good,” he said. “Here, let me help.”
He pulled the dinghy free with a jerk and examined it. “This solves a big problem,” he remarked. “You’re sure it doesn’t leak?”
“It doesn’t leak,” said Ruth, “but it won’t hold six people. Three of us are almost enough to sink it.”
“We’ll manage,” said Charles as they returned to the veranda. “I have one, and mine is bigger.”
Marcia was on the veranda. She glanced around as Charles and Ruth came out. “Charles, I’m trying to convince these three they should get some sleep,” she said. “That is so, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” said Charles sternly. “Look, kids, there isn’t time for any discussion or explanation, so simply listen. Something has happened that makes it essential for us to escape as soon as possible. Marcia and I still have a few preparations to make, and we have to move fast. The best way you can help is to get some sleep, and I mean that. You’ve a long, long haul in front of you, and at the moment you’re tired out. Now, do you understand?”
The foursome, impressed by his seriousness, promised to do as he asked.
Marcia put an arm around Jane and gave her a little squeeze. “You’ll be all right as long as you do as Charles says,” she promised. “Get some sleep!”
Charles left ahead of Marcia, taking the dinghy with him, and the group watched him stride away on the path beside the broad, slow-running river. Marcia gave him about a hundred yards’ start, then she left after exacting a final promise from the fou
r to get some sleep.
“I know a secret!” Ruth sang as the door closed. “I can read Marcia like a book. She’s going to marry Charles!”
CHAPTER 12
Tom slept deeply, then woke suddenly, every sense alert. A sound like the roaring of the sea filled his ears. He sat up in his bed and listened. The noise came from the valley.
Quietly, so he would not wake Boyd, he climbed out of the high, ornate bed. He had slept in his clothes, and now all he had to do to be fully dressed was put on his shoes. Heavy curtains designed to shut out the glare from the crater also shut out the air, and the room was as hot as a greenhouse.
Tom went into the main room. The girls’ door was ajar, and he saw that Ruth was still sleeping, but Jane was sitting up, listening to the noise coming from the valley.
“What’s happening, Tom?” Jane asked in a whisper.
“I don’t know. I’m going to find out.”
“May I come?”
“Yes. Come on.”
Without troubling to put on her shoes, Jane joined him, and they went to the veranda. The whole valley had been transformed. All the far end — the area around the palace — was crowded with people and soldiers. On the lawns more soldiers marched and countermarched, some units bearing eagle standards, and in a space near the arena an orchestra of more than a hundred musicians was playing noisy, exciting music. The crowd around the palace was made up mostly of slaves, and more slaves were pouring into the valley, streaming down the zigzag path and kept in order by soldiers armed with pikes. Everywhere fluttered flags, banners and bunting.
At the palace the guards were struggling to keep the great flight of steps clear of people. With their spears they forced the slaves back again and again, but they were clearly under orders to be as gentle as possible.
“What are they shouting?” Jane asked.
Tom shrugged. “It’s just noise to me.”
“Do you think they sound angry or happy?”
