Colonel Butler's Wolf

all his life.

So precise that he ought to have seen through them from the start.

. . . Take three days on the Wall first, Butler—we can spare as much because the full session at Castleshields doesn't begin until Friday. Take your time and get the feel of it—in fact I'll send you some books and an itinerary— . . .

An itinerary! It had been that right enough. For on the face of it Audley simply wanted him to play the false Butler to the life, rubbernecking his way from Newcastle to Castleshields, stopping at every heap of stones and undulation in the ground to gawp at the pathetic remains of the greatest military work ever undertaken by the finest army in history—

. . . and you'll enjoy the Wall, you know, Butler. It'll appeal to your military mind . . .

Military mind—military bullshit! He should have known Audley better than that.

And yet, undeniably, Audley knew this Wall and had learnt his facts—and took it for granted that Butler was prepared to do the same.

Except that there was a world of difference between the facts in the books and the facts on the ground.

Because time, fifteen centuries of time, had not been kind to this Wall of Audley's with its seventy-six miles of battlements, its turrets and mile-castles and fighting ditches, its chain of fortresses and supply dumps and roads. Whatever they had been once, there wasn't much of them now for a plain man to see.

But if there was one thing the plain man understood it was a clear order, and the order encapsulated in Audley's itinerary was clear indeed: Walk the Wall, Colonel Butler.

So Butler had toured the Newcastle Museum and had dutifully admired the vallum crossing at Condercum, with the little temple of Antenocitius (for God's sake, who ever heard of Antenocitius?) which was wedged incongruously in the middle of a modern housing estate.

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Then he had shivered among the wind-swept footings of the granaries at Corstopitum (always use the Latin names, Butler— get used to them), and had climbed, tape-measure in hand, over the cyclopean stones of the Tyne abutment at Fort Cilurnum.

... a tiddler compared with Trajan's Danube bridge, but good for conversation at Castleshields, so don't miss the good luck phallus carved in relief on the s. water-face . . .

He had noted the phallus and had stared enviously across the river towards the ruins of the regimental bath- house of the Second Asturian Cavalry, wishing himself there and fifteen hundred years back in time, where there would have been hot running water and mulled wine and good conversation.

But if Fort Cilurnum had the feel of a good posting about it, snug in the shelter of the river valley, the same was not true of Fort Brocolitia.

Ten miles westward, along the road the General Wade had built right on top of the Wall back in Bonnie Prince Charlie's day, Fort Brocolitia lay in the middle of nowhere. And even Audley, the unmilitary Audley, seemed to have sensed that Brocolitia was a bad posting—

. . . the First Cugernians and the First Aquitanians in the 2nd century, the Batavians from the Low Country—at least they would have been at home at Coventina's Well, sw. of the fort. You'll need your gumboots for that. But the main thing is the Mithraeum s. of the fort—you can't miss it, even if it doesn't compare with the one under San Clemente in Rome and with all those you're supposed to know on the Persian frontier. But quite something up here in the back of beyond.

Note the vicus site beyond the Mithraeum, marked by a rash of molehills . . .

After Handforth-Jones's lecture any vicus seemed like home, and Butler had kicked his way from molehill to molehill, idly picking out tiny pieces of pot and tile and glass from the finely broken earth.

It had been at that point precisely in the itinerary that he had spotted his watcher.

The fellow was snugged hull-down in the dripping grass, above and to the left, and the knowledge of him was like a drop of ice-water between Butler's shoulder blades. For ten seconds he had stared down blindly at the molehill between his feet, knowing that he was naked in that open, treeless little valley—

as naked as those Chinese infantrymen had been on the Chonggo-Song.

Then common sense had reasserted itself. After two close calls in the last few days his nerves were fraying somewhat at the edges, but that was no excuse for abandoning logical thought.

So—it could hardly be a casual stranger up there, since no sane man would skulk on the cold, wet ground, but it could just as easily be a protecting friend as a watching enemy.

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True or false?

False. Friends did not need to watch so closely, especially when they knew exactly where he was.

He moved on to the next molehill, slowly.

An enemy then.

But not a murderous enemy yet, surely?

Eden Hall had not made sense: the fellow there must have panicked or exceeded his orders. The bridge at Millford was more to the point: he had been in full view of that rifleman for two or three seconds before he had grabbed McLachlan, at little short of point-blank range. And then the man had fired to miss.

True or false?

True. They had him spotted, and he was no use to them dead. He was much more worth watching. That was logical and he could take comfort from it. There was nothing even surprising about it; with the paper-thin cover he had, even Audley must have expected it.

Even Audley must have expected it!