The Shadowy Horses

"Yes."

"Yes." He coughed. "The thing is, I was clearing my desk up last Friday... you know how my desk gets, and people had begun to, well, say things... and anyway, I found the envelope you'd sent the photos in, and I was just about to tear it up when I realized there was a photograph still stuck inside it. Got wedged in the bottom somehow, against the cardboard backing, and I simply hadn't noticed ..."

"Howard." I cut him off again. "What are you trying to tell me?"

"I told you those sherds were Agricolan, didn't I?"

"Aren't they?"

"Yes, the ones that I saw were," he told me. "Of course they were. But this last one, darling... the one in the photograph I didn't see, it's entirely different."

Remembering the one sherd that I'd thought was younger than the others, I gripped the handset tighter, hoping. "In what way?"

"The rim pattern is quite distinctive, you know, and ... well, I'd have to see the actual sherd, naturally, before I could give it a positive date ... but it certainly couldn't have been made before AD 115."

My heart gave a tiny, joyful leap. "You're sure?"

"It is my job," he reminded me dryly.

"Not before 115?"

"Not a chance."

I smiled, not caring that he couldn't see it. "Oh Howard, that's wonderful."

"Helpful, is it?"

"You have no idea."

"You still owe me five pounds," he said. "As I recall, the bet was that you'd find a marching camp, and the word down here is you've found a good deal more."

He meant our digging team, of course, but the statement struck me personally. "Yes," I told him. "Yes, I have."

"Well, well," said Howard.

"What?"

"Nothing. Look, just send that sherd to me tomorrow, will you?"

"Right."

"And my fiver."

"And your fiver," I promised. "And Howard?"

"Yes?"

"If you're talking to Dr. Lazenby ..."

"Yes?"

"Would you tell him I'm not interested in Alexandria?"

A pause. "Are you ill?"

"No, I'm perfectly healthy. And perfectly happy, right here."

I did feel almost ridiculously happy as I rang off. Odd, I thought, how good and bad things always seemed to come at once, as if some unseen force were seeking balance. Peter, for all his brave exterior, had suffered today as no man deserved to suffer. And now, after all that, he was about to learn that Rosehill had been twice occupied—not only during the Agricolan campaigns, but later, after AD 115, around the time the Ninth Hispana had started its fateful march northwards.

It wasn't proof, not concrete proof, but still it was enough to make the archaeological establishment show some respect, however small, for Peter Quinnell. Even those who mocked his theories could no longer call him mad.

Not that he was entirety sane, I thought fondly, when I went outside to find him.

He was standing in the field, alone, a rather tragic figure with his white hair blowing in the wind, his jaw set high and proud. Like King Lear raging at the elements, only the elements by now were fairly tame, and Peter, while he would have made a smashing Lear, was only Peter. He looked around as I approached, and smiled wistfully.

"And they say the gods don't hear us."

"Sorry?"

"I've been pondering the truth, my dear," he said. "And here you are. In Latin, truth is feminine, is it not? Veritas. Verity." My name flowed out in his melodic voice like a phrase from a very old song, and he turned his gaze away again. "The truth is buried in this field, somewhere. But if I fail to prove it, can it still be called a truth?"

I considered the question. "Well... I can't see the Sentinel, and I've no scientific proof he exists, but I do know that he's there."

"Ah, but you did see him, didn't you? However vaguely, you did see him. Whereas I..." His words hung sadly on the shifting wind.

“Whereas you have a potsherd that dates from the end of Trajan’s reign," I said, and smiled as he turned again to stare at me.

"I beg your pardon? I have what?"

I repeated the statement, and told him about Howard's telephone call. "He said he'd be happy to give us a firm date, if we could send him down the sherd."

"Good heavens." He stared at me a moment longer, and then crushed me with a hug. "That's marvelous, my dear. That's absolutely—"

The slam of a car door interrupted us, and Robbie came running over the blowing grass with Kip bounding close at his heels. "Heyah," said Robbie. "We got Granny Nan. She's going to change her shoes, she says, and then come out."

"Wonderful," Peter said.

The collie brushed past us, tail wagging, and Robbie nodded at the field. "You found him, did you?"

I looked where he was looking, and saw nothing. "Who do you mean, Robbie? The Sentinel? Where is he?"

"Just there, where Kip is."

Not ten feet in front of us.

Peter looked, too. "Poor chap," he said. "I would have thought he'd find some peace, after what he did today. Putting things to rights, as it were. I would have thought that he could rest."

Robbie wrinkled his freckled nose, looking up. "He doesn't want to rest," he said. "He wants to take care of us."