The Lost Crystal: Key to the Ancient World of Thar Cernunnos

By Tony Collins

An archaeological dig in the English countryside might be considered the safest of pastimes, but not for Simon Tappins. His life is turned upside down when a dramatic discovery sends him back two thousand years into a world time forgot. He is plunged into a dangerous period of British history, a pivotal point when the Roman Empire is collapsing and Saxon hordes are invading, sweeping aside the last legions.
Simon is caught between the approaching Saxons and the ferocious but futile last stand of a Roman governor who, with the support of Germanic mercenaries, is intent on escaping with the wealth he has accumulated.

Through all this runs Simons quest to solve a mystery. Only the lost crystal of Thar Cernunnos has the power to take him back to his own time, but while clues crop up regularly, they are always enigmatic, often cryptic, and seemingly impossible to solve. However, it is his emotional involvement with native girl Senicca that presents the greatest challenge. If he makes the wrong decision now, in two thousand years time, the consequences will be fatal.

In accurate and fascinating detail many aspects of everyday life in these times are disclosed. The story explores what it was really like to live in a Roman town. The principal character experiences the sounds of the market place, the smells from the wine bars and food shops, and the choking smoke from the industrial quarter. But it is the people and their cultural and political organization which reveals the unique economic ambience of the town during this dangerous period.
The story also weaves a strange tale of unearthly powers of priests, the terrifying predictions of Celtic Gods and the struggles, perils and small triumphs of surviving in a time filled with savage conflict.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Apr 24, 2012
• ISBN: 9781467897211

Tony Collins

Tony Collins has spent more than fourty years publishing books and magazines, and has started several imprints including Monarch Books. He is the author of Taking My God for a Walk: A publisher on pilgrimage.

Book preview

Chapter 1

PROLOGUE

North-west Essex. Spring 1960

‘This is the Anglia television news, good evening from John Hall.’

‘And I am Lisa Johnson—here is Thursday’s news and sport from around your region.’

‘First the main story this evening. Reports are coming in on a dramatic incident in Great Casterford where earlier today farm worker Joseph Tappins made an extraordinary discovery.’

‘Yes, as Mr.Tappins returned to work following his lunch break, a flash of lightening arced over his head, dramatically striking a nearby building. Within seconds the structure was reduced to a blazing inferno. The 54 year old rushed to the spot but was powerless to put the fire out. As he turned to leave he heard a tiny cry, a sound he knew should not be there. When he went to investigate, he found far more than he had bargained for.’

‘What Mr.Tappins discovered in this Essex orchard was a new born baby wrapped in a fur stole, and apparently abandoned. With the child tucked in his coat, he ran through torrential rain back to the farm, where an ambulance was called and the baby was rushed to Caveley district hospital, where we can now go live to our reporter Kate Barton who is at the scene.

‘Kate . . . what can you tell us about the condition of the baby tonight?’

‘Well Lisa, I spoke to the senior registrar a few minutes ago, she said the baby was only a few hours old when brought here, and it seems he only survived due to the quick actions of Mr.Tappins.’

‘You say he . . . Kate.’

‘Yes Lisa, it is a boy, but one thing which has puzzled staff here, is how dirty he was when he arrived, they say he looked as though he had been buried in the ground! However, nurses looking after the baby say he is already making good progress.

‘Kate, is there any information regarding the mother, has anyone contacted the hospital or police yet?’

‘No Lisa, but of course as is often the case, she may be a young woman who is too frightened to come forward.’

‘So have the police said anything about these extraordinary suggestions that the child may have been buried in some way?’

‘Well no Lisa. I gather they have visited the site at Borough farm where the baby was discovered, but so far have not issued a statement. This is Kate Barton for Anglia television news and now back to the studio.’

‘Well we can now go over to Ted Lowe who is at Great Casterford, Ted, Mr.Tappins, quite a local hero then.’

‘Yes John he certainly is and I have him with me now. Mr.Tappins, what were your first reactions when you found the baby, I would imagine it was quite a surprise?’

‘It sure were a bit of a shock I can tell yer, me hands are still a shakin, look at them.’

‘Yes they certainly are, now Mr.Tappins.’

‘Call me Joe, son, I don’t stand on no ceremony, Roman Joe people round ere call me.’

‘Roman Joe, why is that?’

‘Well, cos I been finding Roman coins and things round ere fer years, mind you never nothing like this though.’

‘So tell us how you found the baby then Joe?’

‘Well I be goin through orchard, boss said spend afternoon pruning apple trees, it didn’t look like rain then or I would ave said, look ere gaffer it’s no good pruning in that weather’.

‘So what happened then Joe?’

‘Well it were strange really, it be two o’clock, I remember cos church bells were ringing. Well . . . you wouldn’t believe the flash of lightning it were so bright I . . .’

‘Tell us how you found the baby Joe, how did that happen?’

‘Well you see, just as I went to leave that burning byre, I heard this cry then I spotted a heap of freshly turned over soil. Strange that I thinks to me self. As I get closer I see what I thought be that fox I ben trying ta catch fer ages. I tell yer e’s a crafty one he even digs his way under fence to get at them chickens. A real crafty one that, he be cleverer than any man, and that be the truth of it.’

‘So it wasn’t a fox after all then Joe’

‘No it were not, it were fox’s fur alright, but inside were a little Bab, dear little thing it were too, poor little mite and it be so dirty an all.’

‘Why do you think the baby was so unclean then Joe?’

‘Dunno, but there were a freshly dug hole next to it, be that fox’s you know. Clever rascal e be, you know he . . .’

‘Well it is all a big mystery Joe, I gather people are calling you a hero, what do you think about that?’

‘No . . . , I be no hero, don’t know what all the fuss is about really, all you TV reporters an that. But that fox you know he . . .’

‘Thank you Mr. Tappins and now back to the television studio for the rest of today’s news.’

Nineteen years later

He was ambling, in no great rush as he strolled through the sleepy village of Great Casterford, an ancient place whose name had evolved from the Saxon settlement by the ford. This was where the road from Colchester had crossed the river Cam since Roman times. Simon had walked this way week in week out for much of his life, nothing around here ever changed, or so it seemed. He had long held a fascination for the stone cottages and flint walls, which like the church, had been built from materials robbed from the old Roman ruins nearby.

A foundling, he had been brought up by old Joe and his wife, but was now on his own, still he had many fond memories from those days. From a young age, Joe had taken him across the fields where the old Roman town had once stood. There was nothing left on the surface now, except a long chalky line where the Roman walls had once stood. Over the years they found pocketful’s of Roman pottery sherds, a few iron arrowheads and quite often a Roman coin, green from years buried in the soil.

Following a good education at the Kings school in Cambridge, where Latin was his favourite subject, he was now a translator for a publishing company. His main passion these days was archaeology and it was to a local meeting that he was headed.

Turning the corner, the village green lay ahead. Here, some of the oldest buildings were clustered inelegantly together, forming what was known as St. John’s Cross. Ducking his head he entered the Red Lion, a regular watering hole for locals and an ideal place to pick up the latest village gossip.

‘Another round over here landlord, I say landlord, when you have a minute, we will have another round over here.’

Simon hated it when the Major did that. Everyone else went up to the bar to order their drinks, but not him, no he expected table service. Everyone knew of his military background and the countless years spent in the Officers mess, even the casual observer would recognize that air of authority, the expectation of servility from the so called working classes.

The archaeology group regularly gathered here, especially in the summer months after a hard day working on a local dig.

‘Ah, excellent my good man, now I believe yours is the bitter’ roared the Major as he handed Simon his drink.

‘Right everyone, I say right everyone, pay attention now’ the Major bellowed in his usual loud and assertive voice, a resonance which demanded everyone’s immediate attention. The Major was a short portly character—his purple face betrayed his like for more than the odd tipple. As per normal, he was dressed appropriately. The blue blazer with its regimental badge, these days only just met in the middle, the buttons taking a great strain when he leaned back. His off white shirt with its starched collar sported a Masonic tie, knotted in a very correct way, and his ivory slacks had creases sharp but not precise for his rounded physique distorted his stature.

‘Well here we are again.’ The Major looked around making a mental note of those who were not present. It wasn’t as though these evening archaeology meetings were in any way compulsory, but he considered his get-togethers were part of the dig. A vital means by which the novice could appreciate what was going on throughout the excavation.

‘Good turnout chaps, and ladies of course.’ He chortled. ‘Now let’s see how we are doing on the orchard dig.’ He looked down at his notes, thumbing through the sheets for several minutes before finally tapping the sides to straighten the stack.

‘Well, we have had some excellent results so far, and as you know, we have uncovered a good stretch of the Roman town wall. Also the defensive ditch is producing a lot of pottery, well done there Reverend.’

Jonathan Wallace flushed at the mention of his name, for although he was a keen amateur archaeologist he felt an obligation to be discreet about it, after all, his parishioners might not entirely approve of their priest on his hands and knees doing something other than praying.

‘What we really need.’ the Major continued, ‘is some dating evidence for the Town walls. We know they were constructed sometime during the Roman period and possibly quite late, but we don’t know exactly when? ‘He looked wistfully up at the heavily beamed ceiling, a conversation piece for its many relics from an earlier age. He took a swallow from his large gin and tonic. ‘What was I saying?’

‘The town walls, you were talking about the walls Major’ somebody shouted from the far end of the table.

‘Ah yes the town walls, but even more important is our discovery of an east gate into the town, and surprisingly, it appears to have been blocked up! Explain that one if you can.’

No one answered, in fact no one dare presume to be so bold as to know more than the Major. He then became noticeably excited, a small smile formed on his lips. The Man rarely showed any great emotions, so they all sensed this was going to be something unusual.

He bent down and grabbed his briefcase placing it on the table beside him. Springing open the catches, he reached inside and removed a long piece of rusty iron.

‘Well Ladies and Gentlemen, what do you deduce from this?’ he challenged, eyeing each of them in turn, daring them to make a suggestion, but of course no one did.

‘This very fine spearhead is not as you might think Roman, but Anglo-Saxon.’ He proclaimed, fighting a smile. ‘So what was it doing buried just outside the East gate, the Roman entrance into the town?’

The Major paused to take another large gulp of his drink.

‘I think’ he said slowly and with a little uncertainty. ‘We can safely conclude that this is our first piece of Saxon evidence, and furthermore."

All of a sudden one of the local’s colourful characters, Jim Fletcher peered over the Majors shoulders.

‘You ben digging your little holes agin then Major?’

The Major totally ignored him, choosing to thumb through his notes. John Pearce the group’s honorary secretary made a cough in his fist then cut in ‘I was talking to Mr. Thompson the other day, that’s the farmer who recently invited us to carry out a dig at the Roman temple site on his land.’

The Major raised his eyebrows. ‘Ah, now this is more like it, go on man.’

‘Well, it seems his men were clearing fallen trees over at Tharswood and they found ditches which might suggest it was some kind of hill fort.’

‘You be careful talking about Tharswood?’ interrupted Fletcher. ‘Strange place thart, be haunted so some say, there be those who seen a soldier up there on horseback looking for his sweetheart. None of you never want to go up there, tis a dangerous place thart’

The Major snatched off his glasses and unfolded a tightly pressed handkerchief to vigorously wipe them ‘Yes thank you Fletcher, I don’t think we need to hear any more of your ridiculous wild stories, we deal in facts man, facts, not fairy tales.’

The meeting ended quite abruptly when the Major declared that an early start was in order for the following day, what’s more, he had high expectations that the excavation might finally produce an exciting development. Others were quite happy to stay awhile and enjoy the rest of the evening and let the Major worry about what revelations might or might not be uncovered the next day. After all, what possible excitement can one really find on an archaeological dig?

Chapter 2

THE DIG

The site of the dig was a dry, dusty plot of land which had been an orchard for longer than anyone could remember. The ancient fruit trees had been pulled out and the top soil mechanically scraped and deposited in the centre of the site where it formed a high mound. Houses were shortly to be built here however, as the spot was situated just outside the Roman town, this was considered to be a potentially important location.

Under a warm spring sun, small groups of men, women and children were scraping away at the parched soil. Some were working in the long trenches which had been opened up in the cleared areas, others in shallow depressions in the ground.

A group of onlookers were clearly fascinated by the sight and sound of burrowing humans as they scraped away at the stony soil, creating metallic tones with their steel trowels.

The Major realized these holes and features would mean little to anyone other than an archaeologist, and so was quick to lead the spectators around the site to show them the painstaking efforts involved in uncovering its history.

The Major halted his tour. ‘Excuse me Ladies and Gentlemen. You over there,’ the Major roared loudly, his finger waving furiously. ‘I say you, yes you, Bosworth isn’t it.’

‘Yes Major Sir.’ The youngster meekly replied

‘Tell me what is that in your hand son?’

‘It’s err, it’s just a trowel Major.’ The volunteer meekly replied.

‘There is no such thing as just a trowel lad that is a precision instrument when it is in an archaeologist’s hand, but you are using it like a chopper. Scrape the soil away don’t hack it to pieces. There might just be a piece of pottery buried down there which has survived the last two thousand years, that is until you came along.’ The major took great satisfaction in making an important point to visitors, even if it was at the expense of a new helper.

The Major turned to his visitors. ‘Now if you would care to come this way Ladies and Gentlemen, I think you will find it much more interesting over here.’

‘Everything all right in there Jonathan?’ the Major asked, nodding his head with a purposeful prompt.

‘Yes fine, the work is progressing very well indeed, thank you.’

‘You know,’ said the major turning to face his party, ‘Last week the Reverend here found a tiny brooch pin in this ditch, so small that most people would have missed it. So you see, this is why archaeology has to be a very precise art and requires considerable skill if the final interpretation from these remains is to be accurate.’ And now he would hit them with his favourite saying, his pièce de résistance.

‘I like to think an archaeological dig is much like a book. The layers of soil which have accumulated over thousands of years are similar to pages, each with something to tell us about the history of the site. But as these layers of soil are uncovered, they must be read in reverse order, that is to say, from the most recent times down to the earliest. But, unfortunately the book has many missing or damaged pages, so we must use all our skill to piece together the available evidence before it is lost forever.’

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The Dig

The Major had finished his standard spiel and left his visitors to watch the goings on, knowing full well they would soon get bored and leave

‘Now Simon, listen up and pay attention? Oh and by the way, happy birthday lad.’

The Major whipped out a spotted handkerchief and proceeded to slowly clean the lenses of his spectacles, a habit he often employed when deep in thought.

‘I rather fancy we may well have something quite interesting over there, come with me lad and have a look.’ He held out his arm gesturing Simon to follow.

‘Now as you know, this is where the road from Camulodunum once entered through the East gate into the Roman town, but for some very strange reason it was blocked up, anyway see what you can discover here, there’s a good lad.’

Simon was now quite alone, working to the left of the remains of the blocked East gate. The wall at this point had already been uncovered down to the foundations. The soil next to it was the natural surface which had existed at the time the wall had been constructed. However, a patch of disturbed earth had been puzzling the Major, and it was here Simon had been asked to examine. With trowel in hand he immediately uncovered pieces of broken pottery and fragments of animal bone mixed in with the earth. This was household refuse from one thousand six hundred years ago, remnants from past meals, along with pots accidentally broken and discarded here as rubbish.

By early afternoon he had removed almost half a metre of black soil and carefully put aside a quantity of pottery and animal bone and a rather fine enameled brooch.

When holding a seemingly insignificant piece of pottery in his hand, he felt exhilarated by the thought that it had been last touched by a Roman person, and all those centuries ago.

He spent countless hours’ day dreaming of what it must have been like inside that Roman town, a community whose walls had once stood high and formidable. He could well imagine the great East gate, its massive wooden doors opening to reveal fine buildings, shops and the market place. A maid would be chastised for breaking a pottery vessel, perhaps the same one he was digging up all these years later. But ironically she could never have realized how those broken pottery sherds would hold valuable clues to her world.

He could imagine great cohorts of soldiers marching behind the standard bearers with their heads covered in regimental leopard skins, legionary eagles held high proudly boasting achievements of past campaigns.

In his mind’s eye he was dazzled by the cavalry with their shiny armour glistening in the bright sunlight, scarlet cloaks down to their knees and long flowing plumes bouncing on steel helmets. In one hand they carried a long spear and brightly painted shield, the other reining the horse. The picture he painted in his mind was of such an exciting and bustling town, he could make it come alive within his imagination. Oh how he wished he had lived in those days, in fact he often felt as though he had, perhaps in an earlier life!

Suddenly the air turned bitterly cold and a peculiar light appeared—a strange metallic haze drifted in from apparently nowhere. The tops of distant trees were shrouded in mist, hanging like great cobwebs and resembling a photographic negative. Slowly, darkness followed, blocking out all except the surroundings closest to him. A flash of lightning cracked loudly above, making him to jump in alarm.

Then a massive electrical charge shot through his body delivering a series of violent impacts resulting in severe muscular contractions. His eyes could no longer focus on the ground, which was rotating around him at incredible speed. Now his past life was flashing by as images, like a flickering magic lantern show, but backwards.

The surface beneath his feet started giving way, as though it were crumbling under his weight. He experienced an accelerating impression of traveling through a great void into darkness beyond. Instinctively he felt for the sides of the pit in an attempt to steady himself, but his hands were making contact with nothing!

He continued falling into a deep dark void which was opening up beneath his feet, and then an abrupt landing brought him back to his senses. Looking up, he could make out a haze of light, no more than a dappled translucency, diffused by thousands of particles of fine matter which sprinkled on to his face, and then gradually the lightness turned to blackness.

The only thing he could see now was a glimmer of light revealing the outlines of a tunnel, dark and foreboding, which appeared to head under the town wall.

He began crawling on hands and knees, the rough surface hurt them and several times he knocked his head against the stony roof, but he blindly continued on until he came to a cavernous opening.

Taking stock of his situation he realized he could make out a distant glow, a curious yellow and green iridescence, a kaleidoscopic light show which seemed to beckon him towards it. As he got closer he could see the outlines of bars, dark against the bright light behind.

A pair of metal gates now barred his way. He stood up and grabbed them with both hands, shaking them aggressively, but there was considerable resistance to his pushing. Defeated, he slumped to the ground. The earth felt damp and within seconds coldness engulfed his entire body causing him to shiver. Musty air was rapidly filling his nostrils. It was an unpleasant fetid aroma of mould and humidity. He told himself to gather his senses because this was ridiculous, totally absurd. Scanning his surrounding he looked back to retrace his steps but the tunnel he had just come through had mysteriously merged with this strange chamber. Over in the far corner he spotted what appeared to be a skeleton propped against the wall, but bizarrely it appeared to be multi-coloured and pulsating in a very strange way. As he moved closer he could see the weird effect was being created by the kaleidoscopic light from the other side of the gates, giving the impression of movement.

The skeleton was not large and the bones were slight and gracile in build. The skull was small with tiny temporal ridges—he guessed it was perhaps a young person. On the neck lay an oyster shell, once suspended by a string which had long since perished. He was using all his store of knowledge to visually excavate these remains, yet it was several minutes before he noticed the expanded shape of the pelvis, that distinctive characteristic peculiar to the female sex for the function of child bearing. So she was a woman, but could she possible be from the Roman period? He somehow doubted it.

His searching eyes caught the distinctive green colour of patinated bronze. He carefully lifted it from the bones of the hand, and then turned it over in his palm. It was indeed a most curious piece and quite unlike anything he had seen before. The strange trinket was composed of two large rings joined by a round twisted pennanular bar, rather resembling an ancient torc. One of the rings had a disc set into it, a rock crystal with deeply moulded details. The corresponding round shank at the other end was quite empty, although it appeared to have been designed to hold a similar disc. Further exploration around the skeleton did not produce the missing disc so he concluded it had most likely fallen out and been lost elsewhere.

Tucking the trinket into his waistband, he wandered back to the gates. The two halves were green with patina, so clearly made of bronze and he suspected they were likely quite ancient. Another push against them produced the same resistance. He tried to force them open by thrusting his full weight against them, but after several attempts, it was clear they were not going to budge one little bit.

He spotted an oval escutcheon plate which he slid aside to reveal a narrow keyhole. Using the tip of his knife he tried to jimmy the lock but quite clearly, he was still getting nowhere. He looked back to the skeleton, had those gates barred her access as well, or had she passed through them before ending up there?

Wondering if there was perhaps a connection between the gates and the trinket, he unhooked the neckring from his shorts and turned it over in his hand. The end with the crystal disc was certainly of similar dimensions to the keyhole.

He carefully inserted it into the aperture, but it wouldn’t go in. He knew it couldn’t possibly be that simple even though it looked as though it should somehow fit. Turning the trinket over, he decided to try again, inserting it the other way round. This time the disc slid easily into the keyhole, he turned it to the left, but again a resistance, so he turned it to the right and this time it moved as it engaged with the mechanism, followed by the click of the lock as it ejected the bolt on the other side.

With a push the gates opened emitting a loud screech of grinding metal, a shrill, almost pitiful reverberation which echoed around the chamber.

After cautiously creeping through the opening, the gates instantaneously slammed with a deafening crash! Turning, he was intrigued to see the backs of the gates were a bright brassy colour, quite unlike the green corrosion on the other side. An awareness of an impending state of panic was creeping into his thought processes. He had a feeling of entrapment, of claustrophobia—he was in a hurry to re-open the gates, to retrace his steps in a bid to return from whence he had come. Feeling for the neckring, he untangled it from his shorts, and as though by magic, just like the gates that was now a bright brassy colour. Fumbling to insert the disk he realized to his horror that there was no vertical slot, only a horizontal one and he soon discovered the disk did not fit that opening. It was then he realized this was a cruciform lock. When he had opened the gates from the other side, there had been just a vertical slot which obviously matched the design on the neckring. But from this side, the keyhole was a horizontal opening with a pattern which did not match the disc in any way or form. So that was why there were originally two discs on this strange trinket, one to open the gates from this side and another one to open them from the other.

He smiled to himself, he couldn’t believe how stupid he had been, he could simply put his hand through the bars and open the lock from the other side, what an idiot, he really was.

But no matter how hard he tried, he could not push his hand between the bars. There seemed to be a barrier, an invisible substance and even though he could clearly see through the gates, he could not make any part of his body, or for that matter, the neckring, pass through them.

His eyes had at last fully adjusted to the brightness on this side of the gates, and he began to take stock of his new surroundings. The source of light was coming from a flaming torch set into what appeared to be a stone altar in the centre of the chamber. He looked upwards where the flames danced on the brightly painted ceiling, illuminating the strange cavern with a myriad of coloured images. The flickering light picked out a roundel portraying a grotesque head with bearded face and long flowing hair with ringlets of writhing snakes. Rams horns protruded menacingly from the skull, but it was the piercing eyes which disturbed him the most as they followed his every move. Images of clouds swirling amid angry black and crimson skies were interspersed with serpents and other fantastic looking creatures. In marked contrast the walls were far more tranquil, painted with faux windows looking out on peaceful countryside, with rivers, lush trees, distant hills and blue skies full of fanciful birds. He knew this could only be a Romano-British shrine, he could think of no other alternative as many similar religious structures had been excavated over much of Europe. But why was it concealed below ground? And more to the point, how on earth could a torch still be burning here? He could think of only one explanation, he had stumbled upon some kind of modern day druid den which was bizarrely utilizing a Roman shrine. It wouldn’t be the first time Druids had used an ancient site for their diverse activities, look at Stonehenge! Yes he decided that was the only possible explanation.

At the far end of the chamber thin shafts of light seeped from cracks between the planks of a wooden door, exposing the edges of three stone steps. ‘Outside will be the farmer’s field’ he muttered to himself as he climbed to the top ‘I must have gone under the Roman town wall by now.’ He mused. Pushing the stout wooden door with his shoulder, it opened far easier than he expected causing him to stumble clumsily out into brilliant sunlight.

Dazzled by the transition from semi-darkness to daylight, it took his eyes some time to adjust to his new environment. His assumption that he had travelled under the town wall had been correct, but where there should have been open fields of spring barley, there were none! Before him was a totally unfamiliar backyard with a thatched cottage enclosed on three sides by a high wooden fence. He tried to orientate himself, looking first for the position of the sun, then for any familiar landmarks further afield, but the fence was way too high. He just couldn’t understand it, he was certain there shouldn’t be any houses here. Perhaps he had somehow strayed further south where indeed some old cottages nestled by the bend of the river, homes of former Romany travellers, perhaps, he pondered, they were responsible for the torch in the shrine?

The cottage which formed one side of the small compound was strange to the point where it was quite primeval in appearance. As the sun raked down its walls, it highlighted a roughly rendered surface with traces of ancient white-wash. The stumpy walls looked as though they were about to buckle under the enormous weight of the thatched roof. There was no chimney and not a single window to be seen and even the heavily boarded back door did little to restore any sense of familiarity. In fact it was unlike any other cottage he had ever seen here in Great Casterford, or anywhere else for that matter.

He heard a distant bark and suddenly felt insecure as he realized he was trespassing in someone’s backyard, and one which looked far from welcoming. He decided he would have to scale the fence, and then he could make his way back to the dig.

Following his third inept attempt he finally managed to spring high enough to grip both hands onto the top rail of the fence. Desperately clinging on, he summoned every last ounce of strength to raise his body, grappling his feet against the boards until he was able to pull his frame up. Once firmly there, he dropped his legs over the side ready to jump to the ground.

Chapter 3

BEYOND EASTGATE

The sight that greeted his eyes, struck him like a flash of lightning. Blinking, he expected the mirage would go away, but it didn’t. Surely this is an aberration he told himself, it couldn’t possibly be real, but . . . it seemed he really was looking at a bustling town, and if he didn’t know better, he would have said it was a Roman town!

A high masonry wall enclosed the settlement on all sides. Turning around, sure enough there was the great East gate. It was no longer the ruin he had been excavating, but an arched and turreted gateway and far more impressive than he had ever imagined.

A long line of thatched cottages, each with its own backyard, delineated a road heading northwards until it reached a tall column in the distance. All the other roads converged at this point, indicating this was the centre of town, and most probably the market place.

Beyond that he could see substantial buildings with gleaming white columns and red tiled roofs dominating that part of the settlement. He realized the flickering reflections in the distance, was the last of the evening sun bouncing off metallic objects, and clearly evidence for the movement of people. But could these possibly be Roman people?

He was still quite unable to convince himself that any of this was for real. How could it be so when the town had ceased to exist all those years ago? The day before this had been no more than a field of ruins buried several feet below the soil, but now what he could see was most remarkable. A sight so surreal, it had to be the roots of all those dreams he had experienced over the years.

In marked contrast, a sea of thatched roofs occupied the western corner. Instead of cottages following roads in neat orderly lines, these buildings looked very much as though someone had plucked them up and then thrown them down again in a heap. This part of the town reminded him of old council allotments, they were little more than makeshift structures, typically held together with odd pieces of wood. None appeared to have windows and many were lean-to constructions built against the town walls. Smoke spiraled from a myriad of small fires, dogs barked and the muffled sounds of banging suggested some form of industrial activity not too far away.

So . . . this was what a Roman town really looked like. Enclosed within a protective wall, it contained the showy buildings in the north, but the larger part was very rustic in nature and much more like a mediaeval settlement.

He received a sudden jolt to his senses when a loud creaking sounded close by. Spinning round he caught sight of a horse drawn cart slowly making its way through the open East gate, a gateway which was certainly not blocked up, as had been surmised by the Major.

He watched the heavily laden wagon make its unhurried journey along the street before it turned left and disappeared out of sight.

The sun was now weak and rapidly retreating in the west where the sky was creating fantastic crimson impressionist forms. Twilight was just around the corner, yet time was standing still, for he sensed no urgency to resolve his situation. He was aware that every part of his body was tingling in reaction to the nervous elation at what his eyes were taking in, but all this just couldn’t be real. Pinching his arm produced the normal stinging sensation, but even then he was not entirely convinced that dreams were exempt from illusions of pain, in fact he knew they were not.

He heard a scuffling sound, quite close, he turned in alarm and the neckring fell from his shorts, landing with a metallic clink.

He swung off the wall to retrieve it but the drop was greater than he had imagined and he landed awkwardly with his legs sprawled beneath him. Loud footsteps, then dark shadows fell upon him. Rough careless hands assaulted him, large and desperate as they rifled through his pockets. He struck out with his right fist, but it was gripped and pulled violently behind his back. The strong smell of sweat