which is cold, and dark, and draughty, and generally unpleasant . . .
instead of some agreeable American requisitioned premises, which Colonel Colbourne would certainly get, for the asking. Because he’s a great favourite with the Yanks, actually.’
Fred recalled his reception. ‘Because of his ... pigs?’
‘Otto’s pigs. And other things.’ Nod. ‘And because he insists that we all behave with unfailing politeness to our allies.’ Smile. ‘Also, he has a rich American wife, wooed on the Queen Mary before the war.’
‘He doesn’t sound . . . too mad, David.’
‘No? Well ... if I tell you that he believes he’s the reincarnation of Caesar Augustus – Julius Caesar’s nephew, who more or less invented the Roman Empire – ? The first Roman emperor – ?’ The smile became fixed. ‘Actually, he’s not really interested in Germany, A.D. 1945. It’s Roman Germania, A.D. 9, that he’s concerned with.’
He couldn’t be serious. ‘You’re not serious – ? Are you?’
‘No.’ Audley scratched his head. ‘Just. . . half serious.’
‘Half serious?’ Suddenly Fred remembered Colbourne’s irrational enthusiasm for photography’s revelation of the ancient past.
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‘How?’
‘How?’ Audley looked at him questioningly, and then at the doorway, and then came back to him. ‘We really ought to be joining the others now, don’t you think?’
Fred identified a mixture of hunger and despair in the young man’s expression, and knew that he shared the first, but not the second.
‘Of course. But just one thing, David –’
‘One thing – ?’ A glint of hope now. ‘What d’you want to know?’
In victory . . . caution. ‘You said Colonel Colbourne was . . . “our best cover”, was it?’ He paused for a fraction of a second before popping the vital question again, but now confident that he would get the vital answer.
‘Oh – Christ, yes!’ Audley forestalled him. ‘Everybody knows that Gus Colbourne’s only interested in one thing! The Yanks know it –
the bloody Russkis know it too, I shouldn’t wonder . . . Every bugger knows it, for sure! All he’s interested in is finding the long lost site of the battle of the Teutoburg Forest, where the Germans wiped out three Roman legions in the year A.D. 9 – where General Varus came unstuck.’
‘What – ?’ The young man’s bitter vehemence caught Fred unprepared in his moment of victory. ‘Varus – ?’
‘Varus. Publius Quinctilius Varus – “Varus, Fluch auf dich! Redde Legiones!” , as Otto says . . . Although Varus did have the grace to fall on his sword when all was lost, unlike von Paulus at Stalingrad, Otto also says.’
Otto says, like Amos says? With his mixture of German and Latin –
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Damn you, Varus! Give me back my legions! – What did it mean?
‘Now you’ve lost me, David – Varus?’ But then a spark of light, if not light itself, illuminated the incoherence momentarily. ‘Wasn’t he the Roman General who – ?’ The light flickered. ‘ That Varus
– ?’
“That Varus, uh-huh.‘ Audley nodded encouragingly. ’You know your Roman history, then?‘
The light guttered: any moment now it would go out, leaving him in a blind darkness inkier than before. ‘No.’ Everything Audley was saying was insane – ‘ He believes he’s a reincarnation of Augustus Caesar . . . Everybody knows that Gus Colbourne’s only interested in one thing . . . “Give me back my legions, Varus!” .
And yet, on second thoughts, it wasn’t. Because Audley had tried to warn him, and Amos de Souza had echoed the warning in his own way . . . And, finally, Colonel Colbourne himself had rolled their warnings up in his own confided statement, which somehow seemed to confirm everything: ’ All my officers are mad, quite mad.‘ ’No. But . . .‘
‘But – ?’ Audley seemed to have forgotten his hunger, together with his stutter and his simulated drunkenness. ‘Have you read I, Claudius?’
‘Who?’ The sharpness of the young man’s sidelong scrutiny sharpened Fred’s own wits, so that he instantly regretted the question.
‘It’s a book – by a chap named Graves. A poet, actually. But it isn’t a poetry book – you’ve heard of him – ?’ Audley was suddenly embarrassed.
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‘Of course I’ve heard of him. Robert Graves.’ Fred shared the boy’s embarrassment. ‘And I know about Varus.’
‘Yes. So it’s all in there – in his book, I mean. About the Romans –
about Varus getting the chop, eh?’ Audley relaxed again. ‘Sorry!
But I keep imagining that you’re one of Caesar Augustus’s men –
another Roman history expert in disguise, leading me on – one of his fellow loonies, recruited by him, like the Alligator. But you’re a Clinton recruit, of course – out of our little Greek encounter.’
The grin became lop-sided. ‘Silly of me. But put it down to hunger.
So let’s go and eat, then.’ He pointed the way.
The Alligator, thought Fred. And The Crocodile. And Colonel Caesar Augustus Colbourne. And now Publius Quinctilius Varus.
It was all too much – just too damn much! ‘You still haven’t told me what we’re really doing, David.’
‘Haven’t I? Nor I have! Mmmm . . . that’s right – you were just asking me about Gus Colbourne – ’ Audley looked past him and stopped.
‘Herr Hauptmann David, I can the meal delay no further.’ Otto bowed slightly to Fred. ‘Herr Major – ’
‘No, Otto – not “I can the meal delay”. It has to be “I can delay the meal”, in that order.’
Otto shook his head. ‘I cannot the meal delay, I am telling you.
The Colonel is come now, with Major Amos, at last.’ He fixed his good eye on Fred apologetically. ‘They have the United States Air Force hired. And I another pig must provide, in return.’
‘Okay, Otto. Tell them that Major Fattorini is just finishing his dummy4
drink – okay?’ Audley waited until the German had bowed-and-scraped out into the darkness before turning back to Fred. ‘Poor old Otto! Out into the forest again, with his trusty rifle. And he says it isn’t so easy now, with other people hunting meat on the quiet. Not to mention dangerous, with all sorts of rough DPs still on the loose out there, he says . . . But there! Where was I?
Colbourne, yes – “Gus” to the Yanks . . .“Der Kaiser” to Otto . . .
and “Sir” to us. And “Caesar Augustus” to himself . . . Yes, well what he’s up to is no problem: he’s hell-bent on finding the actual site of the Hermannsschlacht – or the Varusschlacht, if you prefer.’ He grinned at Fred. ‘The site of the battle in the Teutoburg Forest where Hermann’s Germans wiped out Varus’s Romans, in A.D. 9 or A.U.C. 762, if you prefer.’ Audley slipped his hand inside his battle-dress blouse. ‘What we’re after is somewhat different, in A.U.C. 2698 ... or A.D. 1945, as you and I might put it.’ He handed a leather wallet to Fred. ‘Go on – open it.’
It wasn’t actually a wallet, it was just wallet-sized: two pieces of scuffed and dog-eared stiffened cardboard, rexine-covered, held together by two snap-open metal rings.