She ended the call and dropped the phone back into her bag. She inhaled deeply, caught the faint scent of semen, and smiled at a very embarrassed looking man in a suit who was trying to cross his legs awkwardly.
"Men," she said to no-one in particular. "Complete idiots."
A glass was set down on the table in front of her. She looked up and saw a young man, blushing deeply, standing there.
"Um," he started, seeming tongue-tied. "Um, ah, I wondered..." He shrugged and somehow managed to blush even redder. "Would you like to have some, er, some lunch with me? My treat."
She looked at the glass. She could see from the colour that he'd brought her white wine, but it smelled of oaky, indifferent chardonnay, which she detested. She looked back up at him, and smiled sweetly.
"Oh, you are a sweetheart, you really are," she said. "But no, sorry. I've only just eaten."
She swallowed the last of her Samian wine, and walked out of the door.
Chapter 6
Bristol, England: 4 April, Last Year
Maxwell Coupar checked his watch for the umpteenth time. He was waiting for someone, and her lateness was irritating him, though he did not let it show. Instead, he was performing for the audience of passers-by, who kept glancing his direction in recognition of his status as a minor celebrity. He was dressed in brown tweed that was old fashioned enough to make a deliberate statement, and this, with his lopsided grin and floppy brown hair, was distinctive enough that people knew he was someone, even if they struggled to recall his name. He heard the odd whisper of, "It is him! It's the history man off the telly!" and even the occasional, but erroneous, "Isn't that the actor? Him on Bridget Jones?" But he stood his ground, smiling at anyone who looked his way, projecting an air of infinite patience. At last he saw her coming.
"Darling!" he exclaimed, stretching the vowels and both arms into an expansive greeting. "My darling Amanda! How are you, my love?"
The woman reciprocated with a big hug and the ritual near-miss double cheek peck of the English. "Maxwell, darling! It's lovely to see you again."
"Thank you for sparing the time to meet me," said Maxwell. Although he smiled his endearing lopsided smile as he said it, Amanda knew he was annoyed that she was late. Good, she thought, he'll be on the back foot now. He leaned in close, conspiratorially, and asked, "And where are you taking me for lunch, angel?"
She flashed him a knowing smile. "Broke again, Max?"
"Maxwell," he corrected. "And you're the one with the tax-deductible expense account, right?"
"Over here," she responded with a smile, and led the way to a coffee shop. "I'm afraid my time is short, dear." The message was clear: he was not important enough for her to lavish that expense account on him. She gestured to a table in an alcove of the coffee shop. "Grab that table, darling, and I'll get in some coffee and toasties."
As soon as she looked away, his expression slipped into a scowl as he thought, she's going to make this difficult. He quickly restored the look of boyish enthusiasm as he sat. He caught sight of a pretty young lady looking at him curiously, certain she should know who he was, so he helped her out with the trademark gesture of pushing his long hair behind one ear while flashing the lopsided smile. He was pleased to see recognition dawn in her eyes as they shared a smile. Then Amanda returned bearing two large cups of cappuccino and a number.
"They'll bring some food in a few minutes," she said. "Now, Maxie, darling, you said you had something new for me?"
"Maxwell," he corrected. "And, oh boy, do I have a proposition for you!"
She smiled sweetly, and said, "I think that's exactly what you said when you sold me on your Colchester series."
"Really? Well, you know what they say - you can't keep a good cliché down."
"I'm still annoyed by that Colchester thing, you know. We lost quite a lot of money on it."
He faked a look of astonishment. "Surely not! I mean, the BBC did take it up, and PBS America."
"We sold them an eight-part series, delivered them a four-parter, that was padded out with footage of 16 Air Assault Brigade and locals in fancy dress. They stuck it on after bloody midnight, Maxwell, and nobody watched past the first part. Six other networks pulled out of their deals. We had to give away rights to show some old 'History Man' episodes to repair the reputational damage. So yes, we lost on it. Hearing you have another proposition doesn't fill me with joy."
"Well, even so," he said, looking like a puppy that had been kicked. "It was hardly my fault. It was an innovative piece of historical detective work. I couldn't foresee that some leads wouldn't pan out, or that we wouldn't get permission for a fresh dig."
"So at great expense, we posed a bunch of questions, couldn't answer them, and padded it out by comparing a modern combined arms brigade with the Cohors Primae Vangionum."
"Wow! I'm pleased you remembered the name."
"I sat right behind you in lectures, remember? I let you copy my notes when you skipped tutorials. You have an annoying habit of forgetting that other people studied history too."
A waitress delivered toasted cheese and ham sandwiches, and Amanda took a big bite. "So," she started round a mouthful of food. "What's the proposition this time?"
Maxwell looked at his toasted sandwich with an expression of distaste, and pushed it one side. "It's a piece of historical detective work."
Amanda almost choked. "Again?"
"Trust me, you'll like this. We have a much firmer starting point than we had before. My team just excavated a new site in Bath -"
"Bath? There's nothing new in Bath. It's been done to death, Max."
"Maxwell. And this is new. A sinkhole opened, and we managed to get in there before the yokels from the local University. We found some exciting stuff!"
"You're a historian, so you think anything's exciting provided it's old enough. Define 'exciting' in a way that someone living in this century might recognise."
"Okay, let's get a bit of context first. You know how people like Julius Caesar made it fashionable to write stuff down about military campaigns?"
"Of course, the Gallic Wars. Same lectures, remember?"
"Of course. Well, the glory boys of the Roman Army of course were the Legions. Well off Romans would fall over each other to buy stuff about the Legions, because of course they were all Roman citizens. So we know a lot about the Legions. But of course the Roman Army wasn't just the Legions."
"I know. The Auxilia and Foederati outnumbered the Legions."
"There wasn't much of a market for memoires of the Auxiliaries, because of course they weren't Roman citizens, they were strictly second-class. As a result, while modern historians know a lot about the Legions, they know very little about the Auxiliaries. Very few facts, just a lot of assumptions."
"You found an Auxiliary's memoires, didn't you."
Maxwell winced, and complained, "You've ruined my big reveal." Then he shot her a smug smile. "But, while that's exciting, that's not all."
Amanda rolled her eyes. "Get on with it, then"
He leaned forward and lowered his voice. "There are some tantalising hints at a mystery.
"Many years ago, and by that, I mean a few centuries ago, a manuscript escaped the dissolution of the monasteries and somehow didn't get used as kindling. It was also dull enough not to be stolen. It was a copy of a list of Roman Army assets from the first century. In that list were all the Romans' bases, including the big fort at Canovium, modern Caerhun, in North Wales. Alongside it there were four little satellite fortlets, used as patrol bases, a couple of days march away. Now the interesting thing is that the list uses the singular for three of these, but for the fourth it seems to use the plural. To date, everyone assumed that this was a copyist's mistake."
Amanda started to look genuinely interested. "Go on," she said.
"The Bath documents mention the author being sent beyond Canovium to the forts - in the plural - by a river crossing. He helped dismantle the iron fort of Barba Magna, and move it to the west." Max
well sat back, and waited for Amanda's reaction.
"Barba Magna? Big Beardy? Who's he, and what's an iron fort?" she asked.
"This is where it gets really interesting," said Maxwell. "The only references I've come across to a Barba Magna in Roman Britain suggest he was the leader of a band of Gallic numeri exploratorum reporting directly to the provincial governor. The numeri were like the Roman equivalent of the SAS - they were ultra-tough, super-secret, used for special or highly sensitive operations, and the stuff of legend. We know next to nothing about them. As to what they meant by 'iron fort', I haven't a clue. Nobody would really build a fort out of iron, so I'd guess it was just a nickname for a very strong patrol camp."
"Actually, this might be interesting," said Amanda, thoughtfully.
"Interesting? That's quite an understatement! Think about it! At the very least, we have the makings of a 'day in the life' profile of the Auxiliaries. On top of that, we have a mystery to explore. Why would a crack SAS style unit be deployed in north Wales? It would have to be important, and probably highly sensitive. Why would they direct the building of a second forward operating base, where there was one already? Probably for a ramp-up in Roman forces for a campaign. A campaign that isn't mentioned in known historical records! That suggests that whatever was going on, it was kept highly, highly secret! This 'iron fort' - what, exactly, was it? And why was it taken apart at Barba's direction and moved to the west? That suggests a rolling campaign, moving from Canovium into a forward operating base that was rolled to the west, pushing some enemy or other ahead of it."
Amanda opened her mouth to speak, but Maxwell held up a hand, and quickly added, "I know what you're going to say, that I've just spouted some assumptions, and all I have are questions with no factual answers. All I want is the chance to get those answers. If I get enough, then I have a very strong multi-part series for you: new insight into the operations of the Auxilia and the Numeri, a sort of historical CSI police procedural thing as we ferret out clues and move towards the truth, and the solution to the mysterious secret Roman operation in Britain. Win, win and win again! What do you think?"
"Well," she said slowly, "I was about to say that you just might be on to something." She paused, considering. "But so far all you have is a document found in Bath. That's not a lot. And I'll be honest, Max..."
"Maxwell."
"...We as a company are not prepared to embark on another Colchester fiasco."
Maxwell hissed in annoyance, but Amanda held up a hand to stop his reaction. "Maxwell, we are not prepared to put cash up front to fund your adventures. My boss would skin me alive if I agreed to that. But I am interested enough to tackle it in a staged approach. Get some material together, outline how it might pan out, do some talking heads to camera, make some tangible progress. Then we can talk about funding again. In the meantime, I'll lend you a high-def camera - everything needs to be high-def these days - and you send me a schedule and weekly updates."
Maxwell looked offended. "If I could take this elsewhere..." he began.
"You can't. So don't waste my time. Five years ago, you wanted cash and you signed away your future media rights to get it. It's not my fault that your Brazilian bimbo cleared out your bank account on the way to the airport. That's down to your gullibility. So work with me here. Get me something worthwhile and we'll stage some payments."
He scowled. "She was a visiting professor, I thought we were in love, and throwing that at me is just not called for."
Amanda snorted. "You were never very good at listening to your friends, were you. That was just a reminder that sometimes, your old friends are right, and you act like a fool. I'm right, so don't be a fool. Where do you want me to send the camera?"
Without another word, he pulled a card out of his wallet and slid it across the table. Amanda picked it up. "I have to go," she said, and stood up. She pointed to the toasted sandwich sitting cold and forgotten on his plate. "Going to eat that?" He shook his head, so she scooped it up and took a big bite on her way to the door.
Maxwell sat silently for a moment. That didn't go too badly, he thought. A little painful, but after Colchester, that could have gone a lot worse.
He looked across the room and caught the eye of the pretty young lady, tucked his floppy hair behind his ear and grinned his trademark boyish lopsided grin. He walked over to her table. "Hi," he said with a smile. "I could swear we've met somewhere. Is your name Linda?"
She smiled back. "No," she said with a laugh. "And I'm sure you knew that already. I'm Victoria. All my special friends call me Tori. I hope you're going to call me Tori, too. You are, aren't you?"
"Of course - Tori," he replied. He felt his pulse quicken with growing desire as he watched the tip of her tongue swipe across her full lips. "My name is ..."
"Maxwell," she supplied. "I've seen you on TV, haven't I."
Maxwell smiled his best boyish smile. "Do you fancy joining me for dinner?" he asked.
She smiled back and desire raced through him, so that he almost trembled. "If breakfast is included too," she said softly. "I do like a hearty breakfast. Something I can really ... get to grips with."
He let out a breath that he had not noticed holding. There was something unbelievably attractive about this woman, and he felt a stirring below his waist in response.
The day - and the coming night - could only get better.
Chapter 7
Anifail Island, North Wales: 10 May Last Year
A rigid inflatable boat slowly manoeuvred in towards the rocks at the foot of the hundred-metre cliff on the north coast of Anifail Island. It was moving slowly, cautiously, because of a fog that had gathered at dawn and steadily thickened as the morning progressed. Now, approaching noon, the fog was showing no sign of clearing.
Aboard the RIB, there was a brief debate between the passengers - four teenage Explorer Scouts and two members of the Scout Network - and the helmsman, a volunteer lifeboat crewman.
"Visibility's not good enough," said the boatman, Stan. "You shouldn't be taking beginners up a cliff in this."
The expedition's leader was Mike, a 24-year-old with several years' experience of climbing. "I don't agree," he said. "We can get 'em to the top and back down again, no bother. When you're climbing your focus is on the rock face right in front of you. Let's face it, most of this is a scramble rather than a serious climb anyway."
"No, I agree with Stan," said Gabrielle, his deputy. She, too, was an experienced climber. "You'll be able to see what's in front of you, but you also need to be able to pick out your route ahead up the cliff, and that means seeing a good twenty to thirty metres ahead. You and I might be able to do it, Mike, but we can't take the chance of the youngsters getting into difficulties. They'd find it enough of a challenge on a sunny day, but this too much."
"How about a compromise?" said Mike. "Gabby, you and I can go up, put in pitons and ropes to mark the route, then you come down and get them up as far as the tricky part, where I take over and get them up using a top rope. The fog should start clearing soon anyway."
"I don't know," Gabrielle said, obviously reluctant.
"Let's make a start," said Mike. "If we both judge that it's OK to carry on, then fine, we can carry on. But if either of us says no, then no it is. What do you say?"
"I suppose so," she answered. She looked at the four scouts, sitting quietly in orange life jackets, and she knew that they were quiet because they were uncertain, maybe even scared, about going up the cliff. She decided then and there that she would say, "No," to going up, but that she would humour Mike and let him get to the top himself.
Stan nosed the RIB in against the rocks so that she and Mike could scramble ashore with their gear. He pulled away, back out to deeper water and well away from the rocks. As she made her way to the foot of the cliff, she noticed how the rocks formed a breakwater, keeping the waves off the cliff itself.
"Hey, Mike, do think this is a man-made breakwater?" she called out.
Mike looked back,
and studied the rocks for a few minutes. "Maybe. Does it matter?"
"I just wondered why anyone would put a breakwater here. I mean there's nothing here to protect, is there? There's nothing at the top of cliff, so who cares if the cliff gets eroded?"
"Like I said, does it matter?" asked Mike.
"Guess not."
As Mike had said earlier, the lower part of the climb was a scramble, up scree that had built up through years of weathering of the cliff face. The climb became a little more challenging at a height of fifty metres or so, where the scree gave way to steep, bare rock. The rock face was uneven and fissured, making for numerous hand and foot holds, and plenty of opportunities to install protection for the beginners.
"Did you bring any chocks?" asked Gabrielle.
"Nah," said Mike. "But there are plenty of pitons. Knifeblades and angles are all we need." He hammered a Z-angled piton into the rock, clipped on a carabiner, and threaded it with rope. "And up we go!"
They proceeded, free-climbing upwards, with Mike leading and planting pitons, and Gabrielle following ensuring the rope was set and securely anchored. She had to admit that Mike had been right: it was a very easy climb, and the rock was so fissured that there was little need to look ahead to pick out a route. As they ascended, she had to admit also that the fog was thinning. She glanced down to see where the boat was, and was surprised that the sea below was invisible.
Suddenly Mike cursed, and swung himself to the side. Gabrielle looked on in horror as a slab of the rock face suddenly gave way, leaving Mike without a foothold. Worse, it tore away not only the piton Mike had just been hammering, but also the one beneath, to which she had just anchored the guide rope.
She gave an inarticulate cry, and tried to move sideways while simultaneously releasing the rope to avoid being dragged off the cliff. Rock slammed into her right shoulder, and she screamed as she felt herself falling.
Above her, Mike's flailing arm hit the cliff face and he managed to jam it into a wide crack, stabilising his torso. He scrabbled with both feet, and managed to get a foot onto something solid. He looked down, yelling Gabrielle's name as he saw her sliding downwards.
Island of Fog and Death: A sci-fi horror adventure Page 3
