The Orpheus Trail Read online

  Or almost. We had no children and at first I thought I’d find a home for Caesar, the cat, and close the whole episode of a married life that had once fitted like a slipper. But instead I found myself looking for him after a day’s work when I came home to an otherwise empty house, listening for the flip-flop of the cat door when he came in demanding food and attention while I worked at my desk in the evening or slumped in front of the television. I think he saved my reason and if sometimes I could laugh at myself, leading the life of an old maid with her cat, I had a job I loved and someone at least warm and breathing who cared whether I came home at night, if only to spoon out a tin of cat food.

  Now I settled down with him stretched out in front of the fire and opened Bede’s History at the index and looked up Saebert, hoping I’d remembered the name correctly. There he was on page 108. As I began to read I had that strange sensation again of not being alone or of being outside myself with someone else inside.

  The story was fascinating enough. Ethelbert of Kent who’d been converted by Augustine and his monks, sent by Pope Gregory as missionaries to the still pagan Anglo Saxons in AD 597, had married a Christian princess. Saebert, his nephew, had been won over in his turn by Bishop Mellitus, charged by Augustine with taking on the East Saxons, but ‘when he died his three sons who were still pagans,’ Bede said, ‘were quick to profess idolatry and encouraged their people to return to the old gods.’ Mellitus was sent packing and it was another generation before Saebert’s grandson was brought back to Christianity by St Cedd who founded monasteries at Tilbury and Bradwell-on-Sea. As I read, a whole world was opening up in my imagination, of petty kings and great halls where harpers sang stories of dead heroes, and firelight fell on gold, enamel and jewelled sword hilts or flashed from the blue glass jars whose use I couldn’t even guess at unless it was for holy oils to anoint a dying king. Beside the king a queen might have sat, wearing the gold pendant with its star of red garnets from the 1920s Saxon dig that we kept in pride of place on display at the museum but that had never really moved me until now. I knew that I would look at it with newly opened eyes tomorrow.

  Hilary Caistor had told me a story by Bede about a bird flying out of darkness through the hall into the dark again, and now I found that in the account of Ethelbert’s own conversion. It was a powerful image of our brief lives but I thought too I could see another meaning, that people themselves were like birds flying into our lives bringing light and music, as the dove descends from heaven shedding sunbursts in the moment of creation, and then night closes in again, leaving only an empty darkened theatre.

  Three months after my visit to the London Museum the story of our find was released to the press. Hilary warned me this was about to happen. I tipped off the local papers and made sure they covered the press conference. Then the phone began to ring. Members of the public wanted to know ‘when the king was coming home’. I had to apologise to Jean and Harry Bates for not keeping them up to date on developments. ‘Do you want me to tell people, the press for instance, how you two found the grave?’ I asked Harry. ‘It’ll probably mean a lot of intrusion in your lives, reporters doorstepping you, that sort of thing.’

  ‘We’ll talk it over,’ Harry said, ‘and let you know.’

  Then it was the chairman of the council’s publicity and tourism committee wanting to know why we couldn’t have ‘our king’ back.

  ‘You’d need to make special, very secure arrangements. As it stands the museum couldn’t cope. These objects would fetch a lot of money on the internet black market in antiquities.’

  ‘Local people have a right to know what’s been found under their feet.’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do and keep you informed,’ I tried to soothe him.

  ‘I hope you have the town’s interest fully at heart, Mr Kish.’ And the receiver was slammed down.

  I rang Hilary Caistor. ‘I’ve been looking into it,’ she said, ‘because we did discuss this before. How about a limited selection, including some of the more spectacular pieces of course, for a short period, say a month, while we study the long-term needs? Would that satisfy your people?’

  ‘It would certainly help.’ I hoped it might galvanise them into, at least, increasing my funding.

  ‘Should I come down and look at your facilities?’

  ‘Please do.’ I smiled at the unintended innuendo, glad that we weren’t using videophones.

  Over lunch at the Pier Hotel we discussed the problems. It would mean clearing a room of its existing exhibits, tightening up security, getting in some extra staff who would have to be carefully vetted. I wondered aloud if the chairman would provide the funds. ‘I’m grateful to you and the MOL,’ I said. ‘I’ll let you know how I get on. I’ll pop up and see you, if I may.’

  The chairman would find the money. ‘It’s only right for the town.’ I made it an excuse to see Hilary again; we were on first name terms now. I set about the arrangements ‘to bring home our king’ as the local press put it. It was to be a gala opening. I felt myself growing more excited each day at the thought of having those beautiful objects with their patina of a life lived, and a death, fourteen hundred years ago, still on them. At last the security van drew up in front of our building and the packing cases were carried inside. I left them as they were overnight. We would open them in the morning. I had the explanatory material, the postcards, booklets and leaflets all ready but I drew back from putting my hands on the things themselves. I needed a night’s preparation as if for some religious ritual, a time of purification.

  Caesar’s presence, his demands for attention and food, helped to calm me down. After all they were only artefacts like those I handled all the time. There was nothing, apart from their intrinsic value, any different about them from my beloved royal dancing pumps with diamond buckles a queen had worn. And yet I felt there was.

  In the morning I managed to control my excitement long enough to eat the proper breakfast Lucy had always insisted on. The presence of the team of two, responsible for our displays, ensured I appeared calm and in control. We unpacked the cases and gingerly lifted the exhibits into the light, arranging and rearranging them to show themselves at their best. In the small room we had been able to set aside for the exhibition the effect was almost overpowering, even to me who had seen them before.

  ‘London’s been very generous,’ Lisa, the team manager said. ‘Surely lots of people will want to see them.’

  ‘Let’s hope we can cope with the crowds,’ I laughed. Already the school visits were booked. That evening there was to be a reception for the press and the friends of the museum, the chairman of course, even the mayor. ‘I think that’s all we can do for now.’

  Locking the door behind us I suddenly had the feeling that there was somebody still in the room we had left, but, looking back through the glass door, I knew it was just an illusion brought on by the strange aura thrown off by the things themselves, and the simple beauty of the blue glass jars, the golden crosses, the gleaming buckle as bright as when it had been laid to rest belted to its owner’s waist.

  The reception had gone well. Everyone seemed suitably impressed. Jean and Harry Bates, who had decided to come out as the original discoverers, had been applauded and interviewed. I hoped they wouldn’t regret it later. The last question had been answered, the last guest gone. ‘I’ll lock up and set the alarms,’ I said to the receptionist.

  ‘Goodnight, Mr Kish.’

  ‘Goodnight, Phoebe. See you in the morning.’

  Now I could have the exhibition to myself. I went back into the room and began a slow inspection of the glass cases. At the one containing the gold pieces I stopped. A trickle of dust had caught my eye. It seemed to be spilling out of the gold buckle. I got out the keys, unlocked the case and raised the lid. The deposit of fine silt was small but unmistakable. The buckle consisted of a long triangular case, a hasp with the metal tongue attached to it and the oblong rim for the belt to be threaded through. The ornate case had a back and front sect
ion held together with three decorated round rivet studs like gold buttons. Perhaps one or more of these had worked loose on the journey, letting the thin trickle of dust ooze out between the plates. With a shock I realised that this might be the king’s own dust but I pushed the thought aside and went to get the gloves we always wear when handling objects.

  Snapping them on I lifted out the buckle. I would need a brush to clear the trickle away before the public were allowed in. I held up the buckle between the fingers and thumb of my right hand. A little more dust spilled onto my glove. I turned the piece over. More dust fell as if from a broken egg timer, only this one had been marking the passing of centuries not minutes.

  It seemed best to let as much of the brownish powder seep out as I could before putting the piece back in the display case. I picked up a leaflet and held it under the buckle until there was a little heap of the stuff and the flow stopped. I ventured a gentle shake. I didn’t want to come in the morning and find more earth to be brushed away. As I did so I thought something moved inside. I shook it slightly again and this time there was a sound, hardly more than the broken filament of a light bulb makes when shaken but unmistakable. Something was entombed within the body of the buckle.

  For a moment I stood there wondering what to do. Then I put it back on its display stand, blew away the dust and locked the case. My mind seemed to have taken on the sudden blankness of shock. Switching off the lights, I locked the door, set the security system and left the building, locking the door behind me; doing all the right things but on autopilot, in a kind of daze.

  Caesar jumped down from his preferred chair when I opened the sitting-room door, and the touch of his warm body against my legs as he wound himself about me brought back some feeling of normality. I poured myself a whisky and dry ginger and sat down to think, letting my fingers scratch between his ears and under his chin as he liked best.

  How should I handle this? Ask Hilary, came back the answer. Maybe she’s come across something like this before. And when I got through to her in the morning that was her answer.

  ‘I thought there was something more to that buckle. There was too much of it. After all you only need a tongue and an eye for fastening. Not that ornate body.’

  ‘What would it be then?’

  ‘Probably a reliquary of some sort, and hollow.’

  ‘And inside?’

  ‘Usually a bit of a saint’s bone or hair.’

  ‘Not hair. The noise was solid.’

  ‘But I would have expected bone to have dissolved, given that we don’t have any trace of a body.’

  ‘Except the tooth enamel. Perhaps the buckle protected it, whatever it is.’

  ‘But the dust got in.’

  ‘Yes, the dust got in.’

  ‘Should I come down and have a look?’

  ‘Please, if you can spare the time.’

  ‘For this, of course. It could be something really exciting, proving he was a Christian.’

  ‘Then it would have to be Saebert. Bede is quite clear as you told me.’

  ‘I’ll come down this afternoon. Then we can have a look when the public have left. Don’t let anyone else touch it.’

  ‘It’s safely locked away.’

  There had been a steady stream of visitors all day, including two school parties. The exhibition didn’t mean much to most of the children as far as I could see. Just a welcome break from the routine of school. But several of the adults, when I looked in from time to time, showed something of the suppressed excitement I had felt myself, even a little of the shock of last night.

  Hilary arrived at four thirty and we went along to what we were calling ‘The Royal Room’. The last visitors were drifting away. The museum closed at five and it was almost dark outside. ‘You’ve laid it out very well,’ she said.

  ‘That’s our Lisa. She’s really much too good for us. I’m afraid we’ll soon lose her. I’ve told the staff I’ll lock up tonight; that we’ve got some work to do here. So we shouldn’t be disturbed.’

  ‘Good. Let’s open the case.’

  Once again I unlocked it. We both put on gloves. Hilary lifted out the buckle. She shook it gently against her ear. ‘There is something in there. I heard a distinct knock.’

  ‘Would it be sacrilege to try and open it?’

  ‘It might be professional suicide.’

  But I felt that whatever was in there wanted to be seen, let out, almost like the genie from the bottle.

  ‘Aladdin’s lamp,’ I said.

  ‘You mean try rubbing it. Who knows what we might find. A pity it wasn’t opened during the cleaning process.’

  As she spoke her gloved hand was stroking the buckle.

  ‘Can you move the rim where the belt goes through?’

  She pushed at it gently with her forefinger. ‘I don’t know if it’s meant to move.’

  Suddenly the hasp holding the tongue and rim in place slid backward. ‘It’s the weld,’ Hilary said. ‘It’s come apart. I nearly dropped the whole thing.’ The fore piece had fallen away, leaving the buckle in two parts with a long slit open between the riveted plates.

  I took the hasped tongue and rim in my gloved hand. ‘Whatever is in there must have been inserted before the other part was welded on.’

  With a delicate thumb and forefinger she upended the rest of the buckle over her palm. There was a little flurry of dust. Then gravity did its usual trick and not one but two small objects, very small indeed, fell into her hand, one round, one square.

  ‘I’ll get a cleaning brush. Hang on.’

  Carefully we worked at the surfaces of the two little enclosures.

  ‘Perhaps the round one is a coin.’ There had been coins among the finds from the grave, two gold tremisses of the Merovingian kingdom in France, dated to the early 600s.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Hilary said. ‘Look, isn’t it some sort of amulet? Surely that’s the Chi-Rho in the middle. You know, the symbol of Christianity the Emperor Constantine saw in the sky before the battle he had to win on his way to Rome.’

  ‘In this sign conquer.’

  ‘That’s it. But the words round the outside look like Greek to me and I don’t know any, do you?’

  ‘Not even a letter, apart from Pythagoras in maths, you know, ∏r2. Or was it that thing about the square on the hypotenuse? I always got them mixed up.’

  Hilary turned the piece over and brushed at the other surface. A picture began to appear. There seemed to be some sort of musical instrument in the middle, like the harp we’d found in the dig but I couldn’t make out the rest of the figures.

  ‘What about the square thing?’

  She brushed at it carefully. ‘It’s gold, very thin, a little folded sheet like a piece of paper and what looks to be more Greek letters. A prayer perhaps or charm. What do we do now?’

  ‘We put the two pieces of buckle together as if they’re still joined and lay them on the display stand. And we wrap the two inserts in cotton wool and lock them in the safe. Then we go and have a drink at the Pier while we decide what to do next.’

  Circa 1300 BC

  Hymn to the Lord of Lords, God of Gods Ahuramazda

  Tell me truly, O my Lord, this I ask:

  Who was the creator, the First Father of the Divine?

  Who laid down the pathway for the Sun and Moon?

  Who causes the moon to wax and wane again?

  How I long to know my Lord.

  Tell me truly, O my Lord, this I ask:

  Who established the earth firm below and kept the sky

  From falling? Who made the trees and the streams?

  Who yoked the swift winds and rushing clouds?

  How I long to know my Lord.

  Tell me truly, O my Lord, this I ask:

  Who in His kindness made darkness and light?

  Who in His goodness made sleep and waking?

  Who ordered morning, noon and evening?

  How I long to know my Lord.

  The Avesta of Zoroaster


  ‘I think I should photograph our finds,’ I said to Hilary when I rang her the next morning. ‘Then we can get a preliminary reaction to what we’ve got before letting others loose on them.’ I knew that the Museum of London would want to take them into custody and I wasn’t prepared to give them up yet. I reasoned that, at the moment, they were alright where they were. Only the two of us knew of their existence, no one else had access to the safe without my permission and no one could remove anything without signing for it. ‘I’ll email them through to you today, but I’d rather you didn’t let anyone know where they came from at this stage if you can.’

  ‘I think I can manage that. I’ll have to let someone see the pictures or they won’t be able to help but I can probably keep the provenance quiet – though not for long.’

  The safe was in the basement. I let it be known that I wanted to photograph the little gold crosses, removed one from the case and shut myself in with our digital camera. As a precaution I photographed the cross first. Then I took the two objects from the safe, set them up and shot as many close-ups of the surfaces as I could, sorry that I didn’t dare open up the folded gold sheet to see if there was more writing on the inside.

  Selecting the best images, I loaded them onto my personal laptop and sent them off. It was a risk that had to be taken. Ordinary post was too slow. But the longer it took to identify the texts the more I endangered both Hilary’s job and my own. It was our duty to own up to the finds which were part of a discovery of national interest, although as grave goods, they couldn’t be declared treasure trove. Indeed the question of ownership was technically rather complicated since they had been found on council land but the Bateses had been the discoverers. Jean and Harry had generously renounced any claim to the objects but would that stand up in court if they changed their minds?

  I didn’t really care about my career. I was sure I could always do something else but I was concerned for Hilary who was much higher up the scale in a job she obviously liked and that would be hard to replace.