‘Yes. That’s right.’ The Brigadier looked up too, nodding as he did so. ‘The Germans themselves killed him in the end, of course – a successful 20th July Plot, you might say ... But you’re right: this is “Arminius liberator” – Hermann, without doubt the liberator of Germany ... who ...“ – lacessierit” is a bit difficult . . .
“provoked” isn’t right. Although he certainly was provoking. What it ought to mean is “resisted”, even more than “hurt”. So let’s say “resisted” – “resisted the Roman people, not in their early days, like other kings and leaders, but at the very height of their power” –
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“florentissimum imperium” : I like that! – “at the very height of their power, with mixed fortune in battle, but in war undefeated”!’ The Brigadier nodded again.
‘Hmmm . . . not bad. Tacitus, of course – from his Annals. In fact, quite graceful, really.’ He looked at Fred. ‘The German translation’s underneath – “Armin, ohne Zweifel Deutschlands Befreier” – or am I insulting a properly educated mathematician twice over now? I suppose I am, at that!’
Thank you, Hermann! thought Fred gratefully. ‘No. My Latin’s damned rusty.’ Somehow the Brigadier had reduced himself to a human dimension. ‘And ... so this is the Teutoburg Forest, of course – where the battle took place, by God!’
‘Yes. And no.’ The Brigadier agreed and disagreed.
‘This is the “Hermannsdenkmal” – and this is the Teuto-burgerwald, haud dubie as Tacitus would say.
But whether this is the site of the Hermannsschlacht –
or the Varusschlacht . . . nobody knows. There are dozens of other possible sites, and the German scholars have been arguing over them for years. Not that it’s of the slightest historical importance – the site. As opposed to the fact.’
Fred saw his opening. ‘It is to Colonel Colbourne, I rather got the idea.’ Even, he was tempted irresistibly to presume on his “friendship”. ‘In fact, I think he’s going to organize the RAF – or the USAF – to conduct dummy4
a photographic reconnaissance for him in the near future.’ He grinned hopefully. ‘And isn’t this why – ’
He felt the grin freeze on his lips as he saw the Brigadier’s face and instantly amended what he had been about to say ‘ –actually, it isn’t a half bad idea.
Because air photography’s going to revolutionize archaeology, these next few years, so I’m told . . .’ The spreading cold reached his heart, and he trailed off, bitterly aware that he’d made the same mistake as the Liberator of Germany above him in pushing his luck –
proeliis-bloody-ambiguus – like a fool, only in his case, by talking too much, like David Audley.
‘You take Colonel Colbourne for a clown, do you, major?’
‘No, sir.’ Ordinarily he would have stopped there. But with this man, it was no good trying to say nothing: now, because he had already talked too much, he had to talk more. ‘Or, at least ... so far as the battle of the Teutoburg Forest is concerned . . . yes, I do.’ Instinct reinforced reason. ‘But successful barristers aren’t clowns . . . unless they want people to think they are – ’
that was an insight which hadn’t even occurred to him until this instant ‘ – and – ’ another insight hit him between the eyes, even more belatedly: a man like this wasn’t going to employ clowns to do his work. But he couldn’t say that – least of all when he still didn’t know what the work really was.
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‘And?’
Fred rejected ‘ and he has a DSO’, because a DSO
could mean everything or nothing very much. And the Brigadier himself had a DSO among his ribbons, anyway. But the Brigadier would never let him get away now. ‘Not after what I saw last night.’
‘Hmm – ’ The Brigadier didn’t move a muscle. ‘And just what did you see last night, major?’
Those last half-dozen words had been a mistake. But, once a man felt impelled to talk, then he inevitably made mistakes, even when he told the simple truth. In fact, even more so when he told the truth. So the Brigadier had caught him with an old trick – so to hell with the Brigadier!
‘I saw a man killed – an innocent man.’ Sod Brigadier Clinton – and all the rest of them! ‘I watched him die, actually.’
‘Innocent?’ The Brigadier’s head moved very slightly.
‘You knew him then?’
‘I never saw him before in my life.’ Steady! ‘But I believe he was chosen at random. Unlike “Corporal Keys”.’
‘Then he was killed at random. And you must have seen a good many men killed at random, major.’
‘In the war – yes. But – ’
This is war – ‘ The Brigadier caught his reply mid-air.
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’But I’m not going to argue philosophy with you. What else did you see?‘
The man was right. And he was also making the rules, anyway. ‘I thought I was in the middle of an over-elaborate, unnecessary, bodged-up . . . nonsense. But now I’m not so sure.’ Actually, they were back to original point-of-contact, before the Brigadier had become ‘friendly’. But he knew better now. ‘Do you want first thoughts, or second thoughts?’
‘I want the truth.’
Fred almost laughed. But then stopped an inch – or was it a mile? – short of it. Because he had had his ration of mistakes. ‘We went to take a man, from the American zone – out from under their noses. And a man they probably wanted too ... I don’t know ... but probably.’
He stopped there, not quite sure of himself. ‘No – not probably. They helped us, and they were going to double-cross us. Only we double-crossed them. Right?’
‘That pleases you?’
‘Yes. Rather to my surprise, it does, actually.’
‘Because your Greek friends have been double-crossing you, in Greece?’ There was the very smallest nuance of surprise in the Brigadier’s expression.
‘Notably your friend, Colonel Michaelides?’
That was mean – no matter how accurate. But at least it cleared the way for what Brigadier Clinton really dummy4
wanted in that ‘truth’ of his. ‘Partly that, I suppose . . .
but also partly because it’s comforting to be part of a double-cross which is itself double-crossed, but which still has a fail-safe extra built into it.’ Suddenly he knew what he wanted to say. ‘It’s rather like what happened to us in Italy once, along one particular stretch of road where we kept losing men – from booby traps.’
Brigadier Clinton stared at him. ‘Go on, major.’
Good men, Fred remembered. ‘But at least that had been the name of the game. There was this German –
German sapper officer . . . And their sappers were good, you know –’
‘I know.’ Clinton stopped him sharply. ‘They were all good, damn it! Don’t teach me to suck eggs, Major Fattorini: I’ve been sucking German eggs for eight years now. So I know the taste of them better than you do. Go on.’
‘Yes, sir –’ Eight years? But that was . . .1937–?
‘There was this German sapper . . . who was good with booby-traps – you were telling me – ?’ Clinton spaced each word from the other carefully.
‘Yes, sir.’ He would think about 1937 later. ‘At least, I think it was just this one man. Because when he set his booby-trap he always booby-trapped the actual trap.
But he knew we’d tumble to that, so he used to rig an dummy4
extra time-fuse under the first trap, which was quite independent of the second one, which he set not-too-obviously, so that a good trained sapper would spot that one first. And then, of course, our chap would lift them in reverse order, and . . . bang!’ He shrugged. ‘He was quite a character, I should think.’