Colonel Butler's Wolf

Butler resigned himself to the inevitable. Half a lifetime earlier he had been well down the Sandhurst list in Military History—it had been Economics and Map Reading and Military Law that had lifted him into the top twenty. But that half lifetime had also taught him not to be surprised at the jokes duty played on him.

'And just why am I going to Castleshields House, Sir Frederick?'

And come to that, Sir Frederick—just what is the significance of Neil Smith's measles and progress in Latin ? And why did Eden Hall burn for those ?

'You must be patient for a little longer, Jack. You have my word that we won't hazard you again without explanation— you shall have them all in due season. But first we have to put you into circulation.

You've got that in hand, Bob, haven't you?'

Stocker nodded. 'There was a paragraph in the Evening Standard at midday. And there'll be another in The Times diary tomorrow—it'll be written as though the visit was arranged long ago.'

There was nothing surprising about Stocker's pull in Fleet Street, where so many good turns were always being sought and done. But what would have happened if he had refused? The answer followed the question instantly: of course they knew him as well as he knew them, so they had confided from the start that he would do his duty.

'But tonight?' Sir Frederick persisted, prodding Stocker.

'Yes—well tonight, Colonel, is the quinquennial O. G. S. Crawford lecture at the Institute of Archaeology in Gordon Square. It's organised by the Society for the Advancement of Romano-British Studies and everybody who is anybody will be there. Just the thing for you, Colonel.'

Butler frowned. 'Just the thing I should avoid, I would have said.'

'Absolutely the contrary, my dear Butler. We have arranged a chaperone to protect you from outrage.

And to see you are introduced to the right people. Believe me, it's all laid on. And there's more to it than just showing you off—you must wear your uniform, incidentally, so everyone will notice you—'

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'Damn it! But I never—'

Stocker overbore him. 'This once, Colonel, this once! I know it's not the done thing, but there's a very particular reason why you must be there.'

Clearly there was no further point in questioning even small details of the operation; it had been all worked out by the experts, and there was some comfort in knowing that with Sir Frederick looking on the experts would be doing their best. But oddly enough there was something about this planning that struck a chord at the back of his mind—he couldn't quite place it, but in time it would come to him. And somehow it was not quite reassuring . ..

'What exactly do I have to do then?' he said carefully, purging the resignation from his tone.

'Tonight, Colonel—nothing. It will all be done for you.'

'Sit back and enjoy the lecture, Jack,' Sir Frederick smiled. 'You never know your luck—it may be quite interesting.'

V

SOMEWHAT TO HIS surprise, Butler found the details of the excavations of the vicus at the Roman fortress of Ortolanacum 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 dummy2.htm

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.