The Shadowy Horses

"Yes," I murmured absently, still thinking. "Yes, he just might be, at that."

XVII

It was difficult to tell, from his expression, what he thought. He had that damned impassive Scottish face that could mask almost anything.

Taking a long drink from his newly poured pint he settled back and stretched one arm along the top of the padded bench, looking rather too large and too powerful for this small corner of the pink and pale wood dining lounge. He'd have been more in his element, I wagered, in the public bar, but the conversation drifting through the dividing glass door sounded decidedly rough, and David Fortune was nothing if not chivalrous.

He'd been in the public bar when I'd arrived, as a matter of fact, but a word from the cheerful waitress had brought him through with a half-finished plate of sausage casserole in one hand and a pint of dark beer in the other. He'd seemed almost pleased to see me. But that, of course, had been before I'd started talking.

Now his features showed nothing save a vague air of thoughtfulness. I shifted in my chair and sent him a smile that felt a little stiff.

"You think it's a silly idea," I guessed.

"No sillier than some." His voice was slow and measured. "No, I'm just surprised you'd think of it, that's all. I thought you didn't put much faith in ghosts."

"I didn't... don't." I frowned. "Not all ghosts, anyway. Just this one."

"Robbie's Sentinel."

"Yes."

"Because it's Robbie's?"

"Yes."

"I see." He took a long draft of his beer and eyed me keenly. “And so what you're saying is, you think we ought to ask him questions."

"Well, we know he talks," I reasoned, "and we know that Robbie hears him. I assume the ghost hears Robbie, too, though of course since they're speaking different languages there's no real proof of that. But I do think," I said, setting down my glass for emphasis, "I do think it's worth a try."

"And why is that?"

"Because of Peter. He's already talking about chucking the entire excavation, did you know that?"

"Aye." He spoke the single word without surprise. "It'd not be the first time, for him. He's been chasing the Ninth Legion since afore I was born, and he doesn't waste time on a trail that's gone cold."

"But is it cold?" I challenged him. “I mean, don't you think we owe it to Peter to examine every possibility?"

His eyes met mine with patience. "We've got the coins, lass. And the potsherds. Textbook evidence, for dating ..."

“Yes, I know. But just because the Romans came—and presumably went—in Domitian's day, that doesn't mean they didn't come back later, does it?"

It was David's turn to frown. "I'm not sure I follow."

"All right." Leaning forward, I tried to explain. "Suppose you're the commander of the Ninth Legion, and you've been ordered to march north to fight the Scottish tribes."

"I'd have had more sense."

"Be serious. So anyway, you march your legion north, along the road. If there had been a vexillation fortress here," I reasoned, "then there would have been a road. The Devil's Causeway, even—it heads up this way from York, and we don't know really how far north it went."

He conceded the point. "Go on."

"Well, you have to pitch camp somewhere, don't you? And if you chanced upon an old abandoned fortress ..."

"A vexillation fortress," he reminded me, "was not designed to hold a legion."

True, I thought. Only a part of the fortress held barrack blocks—the rest was given over to administrative buildings, workshops ... "But suppose the buildings were all gone. The Romans had a habit of destroying their camps, when they withdrew. That would leave you a nice level bit of ground, large enough for your legion to pitch its tents on, and protected by a lovely ditch and rampart."

"We've found no sign of later occupation."

"We've only been digging a couple of weeks," I said, defiantly. "It's a bloody big site. And a marching camp won't leave much in the way of evidence."

David settled back a moment, considering my theory. As he drained his pint he studied me above the upraised glass, as though I were a tiny item on his trowel, that defied classification.

"You're fair determined, aren't you?"

I set my jaw. "I just think we ought to make absolutely certain, before Peter packs it in."

"And we all find ourselves out of a job." His tone was lightly mocking, and I bristled.

"It's nothing to do with the job."

"Aye, in your case," he said, "I ken fine that it's not. Adrian, now, he'd miss the money, and I'd miss working where I can keep an eye on my mother, but you ..." He shook his head. "You've no such vested interest, have you, lass? I reckon it's the work itself you'd miss. And Peter."

Actually, I longed to say, it's you I'd miss. These past two weeks I'd grown to like the sight of David walking down the field to meet me; the low pleasant roll of his voice; the strong, sure movements of his big square hands. But admitting my attraction wouldn't help. If Adrian had taught me nothing else, he'd taught me that it wasn't wise to get involved with co-workers. Doomed to failure, those affairs were ... not to mention unprofessional.