Colonel Butler's Wolf by Anthony Price Read Free Book Online Page B

uncommonly interesting.
    This was all the more unexpected after he had discovered from his chaperone, a gaunt Ministry of Works man named Cundell, that a vicus was not a formation of the Roman army, but their camp-followers’ village.
    Butler had encountered similar holes outside British Army cantonments in India, and did not cherish the memory. It was a sad commentary on the continuity of military life that the Romans had also had a hard core of deadbeats determined to get blind drunk, if not actually blind, and to catch whatever exotic venereal diseases the local native British girls were willing to sell. But to hear about such beastliness in archaeological jargon was an uninspiring prospect, so it seemed.
    And yet despite himself he was caught both by the speaker’s enthusiasm and by the agreeable absence of bullshit in his thesis. It seemed that Roman forts were not only dull—the rustle in the audience there suggested that some backs were being rubbed the wrong way; that might be the reason why the hall was so packed—but also only fit for unskilled labour. When you’d dug one, you’d apparently dug the lot, and those concerned with adding real knowledge must turn to the humbler sites.
    It might be arrogant, but it made sense, thought Butler. And more, as he listened it seemed to him that the archaeologist mirrored the virtues he admired most in his own calling— virtues of patience and objectivity that were far more desirable than courage and daring.
    That train of thought was brought unexpectedly on to the main line at the end of the lecture, when the speaker stepped from the rostrum and made directly for him.
    “Colonel Butler!” he exclaimed loudly. “I’m delighted that you were able to come tonight!”
    Whatever was up tonight, this wicked-looking prematurely-grey young man was part of it, evidently.
    Butler rose from his reserved seat in the front row of the lecture theatre, deliberately presenting his profile to the entire audience. It went against the grain, but it was half the object of the evening—to print name and face together in the right memories.
    “A great pleasure, Dr Handforth-Jones,” he bellowed. “Most interesting paper, most interesting. Very glad to be here. Time someone said what you’ve said—most interesting!”
    Their meeting in front of the rostrum suddenly became the focus of the People Who Mattered, with introductions flying. Butler found himself shaking hands with Professor Hookham, the president of the society, like a long-lost friend, and then with the celebrated Miss Sidgewick, in quick succession.
    Professor Morley—Colonel Butler , . . Dr Graham (watch out for him Colonel—he’s the author of a fat book on the Roman army)—Colonel Butler … Sir Mortimer Wheeler … Professor This … Doctor That … Mister The Other!
    He had never met any one of them before, but if any one of them recognised his false colours there was no indication of it; either the other Butler—he refused to think of the man as the real John Butler—was totally unknown outside his written work, or there were more in the plot besides Handforth-Jones. It was not important, anyway; all that mattered for him was that the onlookers should see what was happening. This deception must not only be done, it must be seen to be done.
    “Charles, come and meet Colonel Butler,” he heard Professor Hookham exclaim beside him. “Colonel, if you’re planning a descent on the Wall, as I gather you are, then Charles Epton’s the very man for you—he runs Cumbria’s study centre at Castleshields. Perhaps he could put you up for a week or two—“
    Remember Charles Epton, Butler. There’ve been Eptons at Castleshields for over 500 years, as many a Scottish raider learnt to his cost. They used to hang ‘em in droves, the Eptons did. But there’s been a radical streak in the last few generations: Hunt and Corbett used to stay there, and young Charles was in the International Brigade on the Jarama. You