Ring of Fire III

Stone Harvest

May 1635

Flagged iron stakes dotted the slope above the village of New Hope. Along a section of stone wall, red flags marched. Patterns of green and yellow flags flanked the wall and two lone white flags fluttered in the near distance.

“The red flags mark the walls we’ve found,” Mike Tyler said proudly. “Each yellow flag shows what we think is the interior of a separate room or structure. Green indicates open areas between structures.”

“What then do the white ones mark?” asked one of the men standing beside Mike. Ernst von Weferling’s face showed real interest. He had sought out Mike the week before, asking questions about up-time archaeology and about a tour of the dig. That’s when things started getting complicated.

To von Weferling’s right stood short, plump, and unhappy Oscar Clausnitzer. The man reminded Mike of a garden slug, oozing discontent in place of slime. Bruno Glasewaldt, as thin as Clausnitzer was plump, fidgeted next to Clausnitzer. Glasewaldt hadn’t said much this morning beyond complaining about how early the tour was.

Two days before, Glasewaldt and Clausnitzer had introduced themselves as antiquarians. Having heard about the upcoming tour they expressed their eagerness to join in. This morning, when Mike appeared with the hotel’s surrey instead of an up-time car, their enthusiasm had waned but they still insisted on coming along.

The fourth man, Leopold von Alvensleben, stood slightly apart, frowning. Despite his professing to be a collector of antiquities he looked, dressed, and acted more like a general surveying a battlefield. Mike knew nothing about the man beyond his polite request to join the group going to the site this morning.

“The white flags mark features we discovered but haven’t examined yet. So far we think that this site has been occupied by two distinct groups.” Mike walked to the nearest set of flags. This section of wall stood roughly two feet tall by six feet long. A wooden box sat on top. Mike took several potsherds from the box and presented them to his audience. “We found these here, in what was probably a kitchen. These red pieces might be Roman dinnerware. Expensive Roman dinnerware.” He held out half of a shattered bright red ceramic bowl to the men. “This site isn’t Roman, but it’s possible that a collector of curiosities lived here.”

“Not Roman?” von Alvensleben snarled. “Who would bother if it isn’t Roman?” He paused for a moment, peering intently into the excavation square. “Gold! You have information about coin hordes. Where are the coins?” He drew himself up, face flushed; the riding crop in his right hand beating a tattoo against his boot.

“We haven’t found any coins and I don’t think that we will,” Mike protested. “We’re digging here because no one knows who built these walls.”

“Do you think we are stupid? If this isn’t a Roman ruin,” Clausnitzer growled, “then the only reason to dig here is that you know of other valuable items buried here.” The little man glared at Mike and added, “Who do you mistake us for?”

“He mistakes us for fools,” Glasewaldt said. “To be taken in by a few pieces of broken pottery he’s picked up from a village’s trash pit. Show us what you’ve really found. If not coins, perhaps marble statues?”

Mike’s temper rose. Yesterday they had seemed to understand that archaeology was about knowledge, not finding treasure. These broken bits of pottery told him more about the inhabitants than a gold coin could. He fought to keep his voice even.

“There aren’t any statues or gold coins or anything of monetary value here. If there ever was anything like that. Anything valuable was taken when this place was abandoned.”

“Don’t think that you can fool us. Herr Clausnitzer has the right of it. Either this place is Roman or there is something of value hidden here. You must have secret knowledge about this place,” von Alvensleben snapped. “I see nothing more than a pile of rocks pulled from the fields. An old house or barn, perhaps. What sources do you have? How did you know that there was Roman treasure hidden here?” The whip continued its staccato beat on his boot.

“I said it isn’t Roman. The stone work on the remaining walls does look like Roman work, but we’re well outside the area that the Romans controlled. The original builders might have had some contacts with the Romans.” Mike offered the red bowl again. “This Roman pottery indicates that at some point there was contact or trade with the Romans.”

“Trash! You’ve shown us nothing but bits of worthless trash!” Von Alvensleben reached out and knocked the remains of the bowl to the ground. His booted foot smashed down on it, shattering it into tiny pieces.

“Get the hell off my site,” Mike snarled. His temper rose and his hands curled into fists. Inside he was amazed at himself. He knew that he’d grown over the last three years-from the smallest boy in his classes to one of the tallest-and that work in his mother’s garden and on this dig had widened his shoulders and added muscle but…Memories of being repeatedly pounded into the ground by the Colburn twins made him avoid fights. Looking at von Alvensleben Mike realized that he topped the man by two inches and at least twenty pounds. At this moment he wanted nothing more than to wipe the sneer off the man’s face. Red-faced, von Alvensleben stared at Mike, then whirled and strode off toward the hotel surrey. Clausnitzer and Glasewaldt exchanged glances and hurried after him. Ernst von Weferling stood calmly, looking slightly amused.

The surrey’s driver frowned at Mike. Five men had ridden out from the hotel and he was expecting four to ride back. He was probably hoping for additional tips. Unhappy passengers were unlikely tippers.

“Sir,” Mike addressed von Weferling politely. “Do you wish to go back, too?”

“Certainly there is a horse I can rent in the village.” Von Weferling smiled tightly. He waved the surrey away and watched as it moved off. He turnd back and said, “I’d like to have you explain more about this archaeological site without the extraneous commentary from the ignorant and ill-informed. Clausnitzer and Glasewaldt have little learning and less Latin. Alvensleben is a complete fraud.” Von Weferling paused and looked around. “How certain are you that this isn’t a Roman villa? Their writings indicate that they were hundreds of miles from here but if you’ve found Roman pottery…”

“The style of stonework looks like pictures I’ve seen of Roman walls and I’m pretty sure that the red pottery is Roman. However, as you said, there aren’t any records that show Roman settlements in this area. It could have been built years or centuries after the Romans. The Roman bowl might have been traded for or part of a collection of curiosities. Ask me again in a couple of years and I might have an answer.” Mike shrugged. There was so much that he didn’t know, so much information that had been lost. So much had to be relearned.

“Up-time,” he continued, “they could figure out who had lived in a place at different times from the pottery.”

“My researchers tell me that you have only bits and pieces of archaeological knowledge. I’ve read a precis of the theory of identifying pottery but I understood that there are only a few pictures of identified pottery in the library.”

“Yes, sir. But we lucked out on the Roman stuff. Back up-time, one of my girlfriend’s cousins visited Germany. She toured a well documented excavation-a Roman villa rustica.” Mike grinned widely. “It had been partly restored as a museum. Lannie picked up a couple of brochures and saved them. Along with pictures of the stonework there were pictures of Roman pottery. We have to rebuild the pottery databases but we aren’t starting completely from scratch. At least not for the Roman stuff. For now we save every pottery sherd, document where it came from, measure it and try to match it to other sherds to see if we can figure out what the whole piece looked like. If it comes out of the same level or is close to a piece that we think is Roman, we mark it as possibly Roman. Or at least possibly from the Roman period. Someday someone will know if we’ve gotten the designations right. For now, your guess as to who built this place is as good as mine. Ten, twenty, or a hundred years from now someone may figure it out from the pottery.”

“Ah, you are looking years ahead. That is good. I’ve a cousin at the university in Jena who might be interested in discussing archaeology with you. Now, that pair of green flags, do you think that might have been a gate?’

“It seems to be in the right location for one. We haven’t managed to trace the wall completely so we don’t yet know if it encloses the site. That’s one of things I’m trying to establish. Whenever it was built and whoever built it, it looks like it was a farm complex. The location’s wrong for a fort and the layout so far seems to follow that of a villa rustica. If that’s right then there should be a house, a couple of workshops, at least one barn, and quarters for slaves and servants-all enclosed by a wall.”

“How did it go today?” Rob Clark handed Mike a cold bottle of root beer. “Try this while you tell me.”

“One out of four listened and seemed to understand.” Mike smiled sardonically. “Not a great start for the establishment of real archaeology as opposed to pot and treasure hunting.” He sat down on the porch swing and took a swig. “Not bad, Rob, not bad at all. Tastes kind of like the way I remember A amp;W did. Is it a new product?”

“One out of four is a far better ratio than I’ve had trying to convince people that training horses does not require the extensive use of whips. Part of our problem is our ages. It’s hard for anyone to accept that we could know more about a subject than the older folks.” Rob sipped his root beer. “Yeah, this is by a new brew master in town. He’s looking for something different. We’ve got to have twenty, maybe thirty guys brewing beer. One more doesn’t stand much of a chance against that kind of competition.”

“So you set him up, huh?” Mike leaned back, holding the cold bottle against his face. “What else is he trying?”

“Root beer’s the start. Got the recipe from an old cookbook somebody gave the library. I figure just the root beer alone should do well.”

“Ultimate goal is Pepsi?”

“Coke!”

“If your brew master comes up with any acceptable cola he’ll make a mint.” Mike finished off his bottle. “I never much liked root beer but this is, um, a taste of home.”

“Yeah. Beer’s not bad but I’d rather not walk around with a buzz on all day. Especially not working with the horses. They can be dangerous enough when you’re stone cold sober.” Rob pulled another bottle out of the cooler beside his chair and handed it to Mike.

“You and Lannie ever finish that list of all the ways a horse can mess you up?”

“No,” Lannie Clark’s voice answered from behind Mike. “It was rather pointless. How’d your show-and-tell go?” She sat down heavily beside Rob and held out her hand. He put a root beer bottle in it.

Mike sighed. “Three of them accused me of holding out on them because I didn’t show them piles of gold. Or Roman statues worth fabulous sums.”

“They sound like up-time pot hunters and illegal art collectors.” She sipped the root beer, leaned back against her husband and groaned. “Thank you, honey. You finally found something I could drink without worrying about the baby.”

“Sorry it took so long, my dear.” Rob bent down and kissed her forehead.

“So this isn’t a plot to satisfy the cravings of all the up-timers?” Mike teased.

“Just wait until you get married, Michael Tyler, just wait.” An evil grin was plastered across Rob’s face. “See what hoops you jump through to keep your wife happy!”

“Especially when she’s nine months pregnant.” Lannie’s smile had a Mona Lisa quality to it. “I’m being so-o-o-o-o mean to him.”

The next morning Rob saddled one of the young horses he was training. The blood-bay filly was a four-year-old daughter of his Spanish stallion and an up-time quarter horse mare. Her siblings had brought top prices in the spring horse fair at Jena.

It was a fine morning with just a hint of clouds on the western horizon. The filly behaved herself, eyeing the sheep grazing along the road but doing no more than snorting. He traded greetings with the girl watching the sheep. Five donkeys in the last pasture got more of a reaction from the filly and Rob stopped her, making her stand and look until the donkeys went from scary to boring.

Rob checked the condition of the pastures as he rode past. When the last fence gave way to open fields his attention turned to the crops. The barley was doing well and the oats on the other side of the road looked good, too. Closer to the village he could see people working in gardens.

“Good morning, Herr Clark. What brings you to us today?” Heinrich Strelow, the mayor of New Hope, greeted him.

“Good morning, Herr Strelow.” Rob dismounted, then paused. The mayor’s young daughter, Katerina, shyly stepped forward and took the reins of his filly.

“Thank you, Katerina. If you could unsaddle her and brush her a bit…” The girl smiled and led the filly off.

“It’s good of you to let her care for your horse.” Heinrich sighed and gestured after his daughter. “Ever since her mother was killed she comes alive only around the horses.”

“Any time she feels up to it she can come up to the ranch and work with my horses. They respond well to her touch. When she’s older she’ll make a good trainer.”

“Come, come to the inn. You must see the progress we’ve made. I trust you didn’t ride down here just to let my little girl brush your horse.” Heinrich guided Rob toward a two-story building that had scaffolding around it. “Lutz and his crew finished the walls last week. The roof was finished two days ago and the windows are being put in. It is the last of the village buildings to be finished.” The mayor’s pride was evident in every word. “Never would I have thought that we could rebuild so much so quickly. Without your help it wouldn’t have been possible.”

Inside the smell of raw wood and fresh whitewash was strong. Rob noted that while there were several long tables with benches, groups of smaller tables and chairs were also scattered around. The mayor led him across the room to an alcove featuring a semi-circular padded seat surrounding a circular table. The seat was upholstered in red leather and he’d swear that the tabletop was Formica. It reminded him of a booth in a 1950s style diner.

Carl Bieber, the innkeeper, bustled up with a pair of beer mugs. He set them down, then took a rag out of his apron pocket and wiped the table. “Beautiful, isn’t it, Herr Clark? Just like in an up-time cafe.” The innkeeper bubbled with pride.

“Um, yes, Carl.” Rob admired the table for a few moments and then turned to the mayor. “Heinrich, I’d like to have Carl join us for a bit, too. What I want to talk about concerns the whole village.”

“Should I call out the rest of the council, too?” Heinrich asked.

“No, not yet. My worries may not be real. If you think that they are, you can pass on my concerns.” Rob paused, drank some beer and put his thoughts in order. “I’m concerned about the safety of the people working up at the dig site. Talking to Mike Tyler yesterday I realized that some people think that they are digging for buried treasures. One man mentioned stashes of gold coins.”

“And the whiff of gold or silver brings out the worst in men,” Heinrich said. “This could be a serious threat. Do you want to call out our militia?”

Rob stroked his mustache. Was he jumping at monsters in the closet or was there a real threat?

“I don’t know…Three of the men up there yesterday were convinced that Mike had already found treasure or knew where it was hidden. They could be nothing more sinister than men briefly overtaken by gold fever.”

“Those men could be respectable, but they may have acquaintances who are not.” Heinrich nodded, a thoughtful frown on his face. After a few moments he looked up and continued. “The militia needs practice. We can have three or four men practice each day by guarding the dig. I’ll tell the men who are working there to go armed, too. We will see that nothing happens to the dig or young Tyler.” The man gave Rob a shrewd look. “When my grandchildren are my age that dig will be famous all over Europe. Scholars will come to see where up-time archaeology was first done.”

“Not just scholars, but, what is the term-tourists?” Carl added emphatically. He thumped the tabletop. “They will stay in this inn and the village will grow rich off their money.” He leaned forward, enthusiasm showing on his face. “Erik Wiess was saying just last week that we should build a place to show off and explain what they dig out of the ground. A museum, he said.”

Heinrich frowned and shook his head. “It would be nice but it will be years before we have enough money to build it.”

Mike had somehow convinced these folks that their history was valuable enough to protect and display. Given the number of up-timers who didn’t understand, Rob hadn’t expected Mike would succeed.

Archaeology had always fascinated Rob. Up-time he’d made it to most major museums in the U.S. and a number in Europe. For all that fascination Rob knew he lacked the patience and passion to devote his life to recreating the science of archaeology. Mike had the passion needed. So far he’d also had the patience it required.

Three years before, when Jo Ann Manning first dragged Mike to a family dinner, his passion for archaeology had overcome his shyness. Since then he and Rob had talked many times. Two years ago Rob made the decision to support Mike’s vision however he could. Here was another opportunity.

“Decide where you want to build your museum. Mike will have ideas about what it needs. I’m sure he’ll want room for laboratories to work with the artifacts. And we have to remember that our dig is just the first. When you have something worked up, come and talk to me. I’ll fund it as far as practicable.”

Heinrich and Carl stared at him, speechless. Finally Heinrich spoke.

“Too generous, Rob. That’s too generous. We owe you and your aunt so much already.”

“No, it needs to be done. Someone needs to lead the way. Why shouldn’t that be the people of New Hope? Name it for my aunt and run it right-that’s all I’ll ask.”

“The Helen Bennington Clark Museum. We shall set standards that the professors in Jena will envy!” Carl clapped Rob on the shoulder.

Heinrich looked thoughtful. He leaned forward and grasped Rob’s hand.

“We’ll do it. It will be a fitting honor. She gave us refuge and helped us reclaim our land. Speaking of which, Herr Hartzschorn was here yesterday. He’s found the last claimant for the woodlot.”

It was Rob’s turn to nod. He’d talked to the lawyer two days before. “I’ve authorized him to negotiate for it. Once we get the paperwork signed I’ll turn the landrights over to the Gemeinde on the same terms as the rest of the leases.”

The two men relaxed and smiled. Rob’s aunt had set those terms before she died. New Hope was the result of the survivors of two villages destroyed by the war combining forces. Before the Ring of Fire, the villagers had managed to build five houses and plant gardens but they hadn’t been able to pay their leases for several years.

Sliding Rock Farm lost the far end of the valley it sat in to the Ring of Fire. Now the steep slopes of West Virginia hills opened out into a gently rolling vista. While the Clarks lost about a third of their property, the German farmers lost closer to three hundred acres. It took Rob’s aunt a month to find Ernst Hartzschorn, a down-time German lawyer, among the refugees crowding Grantville. She’d set Hartzschorn to work finding a way to settle the mess fairly. Before her death she’d charged Rob to finish the job.

A noise from outside interrupted Rob’s thoughts. As he realized he was hearing a car engine Liz Manning burst through the inn’s door and stumbled against a table.

“Rob! Hey, Rob! It’s the baby! Lannie’s water broke and Aunt Maggie sent me down to get you.”

The room was quiet. Minutes before, Maggie O’Reilly and the midwife had finished cleaning up and gone downstairs, chatting amiably. Lannie slept while Rob gingerly cradled his newborn son. He looked down at this tiny bit of humanity. Love, joy, wonder, awe, fear, and guilt all bubbled within him blending and mixing until he couldn’t say exactly what it was he felt. The baby opened his eyes and stared up at him.

“Scary, isn’t it?”

Rob looked up to see Ev Parker standing in the doorway. “Yes, sir.” Rob sighed and smiled down at the child. “Guess it’s starting to hit me just how scary parenthood can be. Horses I know. Business I know. With him I don’t even know where to start…”

“Like anything else, son. You start at the beginning. For now you love him, feed him, diaper him, and do your best to keep him safe. Later, as he grows, you love him, teach him, discipline him, show him how to behave, and worry about him.” Ev eased down into the big old rocking chair. “You’re a good man, Rob. You’ll do fine.”

“Thank you, sir. Would you like to hold him?”

“I surely would. He’s my first great-grandchild, at least as far as I know.” Ev’s voice was soft and he cradled the baby gently.

“Did you tell Grandpa what we named him?” Lannie asked sleepily from the bed.

“Not yet. Why don’t you tell him?” Rob leaned over and took his wife’s hand.

“Coward.” Lannie smiled up at him.

“No, just a bit overwhelmed.”

“Hey, buster, I’m the one who did all the work.” Lannie squeezed Rob’s hand and looked over at her grandfather. “Grandpa, meet Everett Henry Clark.”

The light from the bedside lamp glistened off the tears that rolled down the old man’s cheeks.

September 1635

Mike Tyler slid off his horse, staring around. The slope in front of him was pockmarked with holes. Anger burned across his mind. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and started counting. By the time he reached thirty-seven he had to open his eyes.

Calmer, he surveyed the hillside again. The damage wasn’t as bad as it first appeared. Holes did litter the dig site but there were only about ten of them.

He could hear voices coming from the far side of the shepherd’s hut he’d been using for storage. He strode toward the hut, trying to catalogue the damage. Four days ago this had been this universe’s second scientific archaeological dig. Now his carefully laid out grid of stakes and string was gone. The straight sides of his three-meter square test hole were gone, collapsed, and in the center was a ragged hole. Pottery shards were scattered in the dirt piles. The holes weren’t completely random. Whoever had done this had used Mike’s site map. The biggest hole was where he had guessed the main house might be.

When he stepped around the hut two men nodded warily at him. His assistants from New Hope, Carl Heimpol and Peter Matz, stood next to a pile of newly dug dirt, leaning on their shovels. Carl tilted his head toward three figures uphill of them and shrugged. Mike recognized the loud voice and rotund figure stuffed into clothes more suited for town than a German hillside. Herr Martin Schuler was holding forth at full volume.

The two listening to Schuler were Rob and Lannie Clark. Mike didn’t have a clue why those two would be standing in the middle of his dig, talking to Herr Schuler. Lannie saw Mike and smiled. She called out as she walked down to meet him.

“Glad to see you.” Lannie gave him a brief hug and a peck on the cheek. Very quietly she added, “Keep quiet and let us handle Schuler.”

Mike swallowed hard, glad to comply. He didn’t trust himself to speak to Schuler just now. Linking her arm with his, she tugged him up the hill.

Rob shook Mike’s hand, quirked an eyebrow and tilted his head toward Schuler. Mike returned a slight nod. Whatever was going on, he’d let Rob and Lannie do the talking.

Herr Schuler frowned, apparently unhappy to see Mike. A week before, when Mike said that he was going up to Grantville for a few days, Schuler had reminded him that Mike had been hired to conduct this dig, not run around the countryside. The man had complained so much that Mike had cut his trip short and returned two days early. It was one more puzzle. A happier thought struck. Maybe Schuler wasn’t mad at Mike. Maybe he was just unhappy to have the up-timers’ attention shift away from himself.

“Now, Herr Clark,” Schuler began. “As I was saying we will find wonderful things here. Many wonderful Roman marble statues await discovery. Of course, it would be easier and faster if I could have one of the, ah, mechanical diggers-one of your wonderful oxdozers, perhaps.” There was an anticipatory gleam in the man’s eyes. His fingers played with his belt purse. “Sadly, because of recent business reverses, temporary to be sure, a small sum to support the workers will be needed. But think of the opportunities to own a piece of art that belonged to Caesar Augustus! Perhaps we will find a gold necklace or two to adorn your charming wife’s neck.”

Mike’s temper rose. He’d repeatedly told Schuler that this wasn’t a Roman site. He’d told Schuler that as often as he’d told him that at best they might find a few lost coins. What was the man up to? Glancing at Lannie, Mike caught her frown. He shook his head and remained silent.

“If I want Roman statues I’ll have one of my agents in Italy buy them,” Rob drawled. He dropped an arm across Mike’s shoulders before continuing. “I am willing to support a proper archaeological dig organized and run by Mr. Tyler. I do not and will not lend support to wild goose chases or treasure hunts.”

“Whatever would I do with another gold necklace?” Lannie said. “Rob’s aunt left me dozens.” She grinned maliciously. “You know, I was in Germany in 1998. This place looks like the dig I visited. The only statue they found was a battered old sandstone head. Come on, guys, the innkeeper promised me veal schnitzel for dinner.” She started off down the hill with the men trailing behind her. Schuler sputtered and followed, protesting all the way.

A road meandered along the base of the slope. Near it a number of horses stood in the shade of a grove of trees. As the group approached, three men started slipping bridles on the animals. After a moment Mike recognized them. He had heard Rob use the term “battered old fireplug” to describe the shortest man. It certainly fit Wilf Jones. The second man was Dieter Wiesskamp, four or five inches taller than Jones but as solidly built. Christian du Champ’s whip thin build and disapproving face rounded out the three.

They were horse traders and good friends of Rob and Lannie. Before becoming horse traders they had been mercenary soldiers. Something very odd was going on if these three were pretending to be servants.

“I’m looking forward to dinner,” Rob said as he swung up onto the horse Christian was holding. “I’d like your opinion on some wine the innkeeper has.”

“We’ve stopped there before,” Lannie added. She let Wilf assist her onto her horse. “The innkeeper has added several up-time style suites and a private dining room.”

Mike’s suspicions rose further. Lannie and Rob needed help onto their horses the way a bird needed help flying. He’d save his questions until dinner but it had better come soon. Herr Schuler joined them, puffing hard. It took the combined efforts of Wilf and Dieter to get the man onto his horse.

Belatedly realizing that he’d left his own horse up the hill, Mike turned around. He nearly knocked Carl Heimpol down.

“Brought you your horse, Mike,” Carl said nervously, handing over the reins. Under his breath he added, “Sorry about the holes, but Schuler…” His words trailed off as he glanced at Herr Schuler’s back. His look should have dropped Schuler to the ground, dead.

“We didn’t want to leave until we talked to you,” Carl said. “Not until we could explain.”

“Thanks, Carl.” Mike smiled at the glum man. “It’s okay. He was paying the bills so you had to do what he wanted. He’s wrecked our work so we’ll pack up and leave. Let him hire somebody else to dig random holes. Did he ever pay you? Do you guys have enough money to get home?”

“Yes, die Parkerin gave us more than enough.”

“Go home, then. We should have a few weeks of decent weather. Might be a good time to check for the northern run of the wall at the New Hope dig.”

“Sure, Mike.” Peter Matz joined the discussion. His face was serious and his eyes darted nervously toward the woods along the ridgeline. “Watch yourself. There are a couple of men lurking in those trees on the ridge.” A grin flitted across his face. “I don’t like the looks of Herr Clark’s ‘servants,’ either. They remind me of a disreputable bunch of horse traders we know. The ones that always find trouble.”

“Yeah, but if these three are down here…” Mike smiled. “…I bet we can guess who the men on the ridge are.” He shook hands with both men and swung into the saddle, his confusion deepening. What the heck was going on? He had the same nagging feeling that he got when he read a mystery story and found at the end he’d missed half of the clues.

Carl’s face split into a wide grin. “At least if trouble comes it will find these servants are war dogs, not sheep.”

“And with them around I’ll be as safe as can be.”

“Still, don’t let Schuler or any of his people get you alone.” Peter said. “He’s not happy with you. The man thinks you owe him treasure.”

“Man, that was the best dinner I’ve had since the last time I saw Grandma.” Mike leaned back in his chair and lifted his wine glass to his hosts. “Thank you. Thank you for paying the guys, too.”

“No problemo, sport,” Lannie said. “Cora cooks a mean pot roast but I think she’d be hard pressed to match this meal.”

“I don’t think you’d better tell her that.” Mike mopped a last bit of sauce with a piece of bread. “Is this a good time to ask what the heck you two are doing here?”

“Told you he’s no dummy.” Lannie poked her husband.

Rob threw his hands up in surrender. “I’ve never thought he was. Sorry, Michael, but I wasn’t certain you knew what was going on around you.”

“I know that I don’t.”

“We didn’t either until Jo Ann told us about the invitation from Schuler to check out his ‘Roman’ site. She thought there was something fishy about the whole thing. She was right.”

Mike felt his world turn upside down. He’d already knew that Schuler thought the site was Roman and remained convinced of that no matter what Mike said. Today, at the site, he’d come to the conclusion that Schuler also was convinced that treasure was buried there. As bad as that was, something in Rob’s tone and the look on Lannie’s face said there was more.

“I’ve got an extensive set of business contacts and Schuler’s name keeps popping up in odd places.” Rob’s face was set. “Schuler has a partner, one Conrad Uller. Things happen around those two. Not so nice things. When Jo Ann brought her suspicions to us I did some more digging. Then I talked to Major Stein. Turns out that the authorities in several cities have suspicions about Uller and Schuler.”

“They’re con artists, among other things. It looks like you were intended to be a front for one of Uller’s cons,” Lannie added, patting Mike’s hand. “He apparently planned to have Schuler show the site and a couple of Roman statues to suckers and then squeeze them for money to continue digging.”

“Uller’s name’s been mentioned but he’s never come around when I’ve been there,” Mike said, his tone matching his glum mood. “I told Schuler that the site isn’t Roman. All we’ve found are bits of stone walls and they don’t look anything like the pictures of Roman stonework. They don’t look like the New Hope walls, either. What I told Schuler was that there might be some Roman influences at the site. That we might, just might, find odds and ends of Roman pottery and possibly a mosaic floor. All I know right now is that there are several stone walls.” What Lannie had said about Roman statues sunk in and he asked, “Where’s this guy Uller getting Roman statues?”

“He isn’t depending on you finding any.” Lannie shook her head. “He’s got a nice little set-up in Bamberg doing bad copies of Roman statues from photographs. Your men said that he was out to the site twice while you were away for your grandfather’s birthday party. Probably figuring out which hole to stash the fakes in.”

“I’d bet that he’s counting on his suckers not knowing what a real Roman statue looks like,” Rob said. “If you ever actually found something, it would be gravy.”

“Why all the holes, then?”

“For show.” Rob gave him a sympathetic look. “Your nice, controlled square isn’t very impressive. Got to show the marks that you’re looking.”

“Schuler may seriously think that there is some kind of treasure buried there,” Lannie added thoughtfully. “He gave me that impression today. Maybe the con artist has conned himself.”

There was a soft knock on the door. Wilf stepped in and carefully closed it behind him. Mike got a glimpse of Christian leaning against the wall outside.

“There were three men, heavily armed, waiting in the trees at the stone bridge we crossed,” Wilf reported. “Reichard’s, ah, talking to them.”

“Only three?” Lannie asked.

Wilf shrugged. “Three were all Reichard found. He says the signs show only three at that spot.”

“Reichard would know.” Rob’s grin was feral. “That’s one of Uller’s other little sidelines-kidnapping for ransom. Nobody has been able to find proof he or Schuler are behind it. Schuler’s well connected so the authorities’ hands are tied without evidence. Major Stein volunteered Wilf and the guys to find some evidence. Lannie and I are the bait. Did they really intend to kidnap us?”

“Looks that way. There was a farm cart hidden in the trees. It was loaded with bags of vegetables.” Wilf pulled an extra chair up to the table. He made a crude map with several forks and a couple of spoons.

“It’s a nice spot for a snatch. The bridge is narrow and the road makes a sharp turn, parallel to the stream just the other side. If it were me, I’d wait until the party I’m intending to grab cleared the bridge. One man could slip in between them and the rest of the party. Give him a musket or pistol and he’ll have no trouble holding off a gaggle of servants. The rest then slide out of the trees and grab bridles. Hustle the victims off to the waiting cart, tie them up, toss them aboard, rearrange the sacks, and off we’d go. If I was running such a show I’d make sure that my Judas goat was also snatched to throw off suspicions.” Wilf’s grin matched Rob’s.

“Schuler insisted that we go across that bridge first. We were suspicious and ready.” Lannie didn’t smile but she did pat the fanny pack at her waist. Mike knew she kept an automatic in that pack along with extra clips.

“He kept glancing into the woods along the road. He must have been greatly disappointed,” Rob added.

“Aye, Reichard and Klaus got there first. The three kidnappers were eager to throw themselves on the mercies of the authorities. Hopefully they are equally eager to inform on Uller and Schuler.” Wilf pulled an empty wine glass over and poured himself some wine. He took a careful sip. “Good wine. The stuff they give servants here is horse piss.”

“Our part of the job is done, then.” Lannie took her husband’s hand. “You and I need to get home. We have responsibilities. We have a baby who needs his mother and father at home, not off adventuring. Besides, Grandpa is spoiling him rotten while we’re gone.”

“We can leave early and be back by late afternoon,” Rob said reasonably. “Grandpa Ev can’t spoil Little Ev too badly in that short a time. Can he?”

“Just wait, buster. Just wait and you’ll see how fast Grandpa can spoil a kid.”

“Mike, can you be ready to leave by seven tomorrow?” Rob asked.

Rob’s question interrupted Mike’s thoughts. Finding out that Schuler really was working some kind of a con made him feel like an idiot. He felt like when he was eight and his brother Aaron explained that Santa Claus wasn’t real-unbelievably stupid for having believed for so long. If he couldn’t tell when he was being used then his dad was right and he was just a dumb kid. Maybe he should give up trying to reinvent up-time archaeology-leave it to someone smarter.

Mike sighed and looked up. “Sure, Rob. I’ve got a room at the Black Boar. I’ll meet you here in the morning.” Tonight was not the time to decide anything. He was tired and confused. As Gramps was fond of saying, he’d need to “think on it.”

Dreams stomped through Mike’s head. Weird dreams of jolting, bumps, someone yelling words he couldn’t quite make out. Then there was the nausea. He didn’t think that dreams should include nausea or the bad smells assaulting his nose. The sound of church bells made even less sense.

His eyes opened. He was on a lumpy bed in a small room. There was a single, small, many-paned window on the wall across from the bed. Had he gotten drunk? Had the innkeeper hauled him in here? His pounding head and heaving stomach supported that scenario.

Mike managed to sit up. His right leg felt heavy and he ached all over. Maybe he’d been in a fight or was coming down with the flu. A clanking noise barely registered. He grabbed the empty chamber pot sitting next to the bed as his stomach lurched. After dry heaving a couple of times his stomach settled for on and off protesting in place of open rebellion.

The room was smaller than he’d first thought. The wall the bed was on was little more than six feet long and the brick side walls stretched no more than eight feet to the wall with the window. There was a door in the wall to his right. The bed itself seemed to be a straw-stuffed mattress over a badly strung bed frame. Near the bed sat a small table with a chair under it.

Some of the odors, he discovered, came from the filthy blanket on the bed. The rest of the smell came from him. His clothes were as filthy as the blanket. Smells of sweat, dirt, manure, urine, and blood blended into an indescribable reek. What he could see of his shirt was stained to match the aromas wafting from it.

Mike felt his upper lip and the side of his face. The only places on his face where he could grow hair were his side burns and upper lip and he’d shaved them both yesterday. His stubble said it had been two or three days since the razor’s touch.

Church bells reclaimed his attention. Through the wavy glass panes he could just make out a bell tower. From the bells he guessed that today was Sunday. Damn! He must have gotten massively drunk to lose three days. He dropped his aching head into his hands and tried to think. He remembered having dinner with Rob and Lannie Clark at their inn. That memory brought up another; he’d left them and gone to the Black Boar, a cheaper inn, where he had a room. He must have started drinking there.

Something about that bell tower bothered him. Something wasn’t right. Part of his brain insisted he needed to pay attention. The Black Boar wasn’t on the town square. It was off on a side street two blocks away and there were several taller buildings between it and the town square. There was no way you could see the church’s bell tower from any of the inn’s windows. He must be in a different inn. But that table and chair next to the bed didn’t belong in any inn room Mike had seen. Admittedly, he hadn’t been in that many inns, but he thought that the smelly bed indicated a really cheap inn. The table and chair were too nicely made to fit with a cheap inn.

Mike stood up, intending to get a better look through the window. The clanking sound came again and his right leg stopped abruptly, throwing him to the ground. Stunned, he stared at the iron cuff around his right ankle. A stout chain stretched from the cuff to an eyebolt set in the wall. He tugged the chain but the eyebolt remained securely set. The cuff was held shut by a large brass padlock. Mike giggled in disbelief. This was like a bad movie, one of those really bad horror movies.

Sounds from outside the door resolved into footsteps and someone talking. Not wanting whoever it was to find him sprawled on the floor, Mike stood up. The first man through the door was large, rough looking, and held a flintlock pistol in his hand. That pistol was pointed at Mike.

“Sit on the bed,” the man commanded.

Mike sat, disinclined to argue. Not that there was any way he could dispute the command. His chain leash was too short, his head hurt badly, and his stomach was revolting again. His mind, though, was working overtime.

The second man through the door was Herr Schuler, who carried a large roll of paper. A third man, a servant from his dress and demeanor, slid through the door and put a tray on the table. The tray held a stein, a bowl of what looked to be thin soup, and several slices of bread. When the servant left, Schuler placed the rolled up paper on the table beside the tray. Several things clicked into place in Mike’s mind.

“Let me guess,” Mike said in a sarcastic tone, “You drugged me, kidnapped me, and imprisoned me because I couldn’t tell you were to find vast hordes of gold.”

“Now, Herr Tyler, you should have been less greedy and more reasonable.” Schuler’s mouth was smiling but his eyes looked cold, snakelike. “Here is your ‘site-plan.’ All you need to do is mark on it where items of value will be found.”

“I told you before, I can’t do that. Your site isn’t a Roman villa.” Mike crossed his arms. His hands were shaking and he didn’t want Schuler or his goon to see how scared he was. “Besides, there’s not much information about the Romans in Germany. There is ‘they were here and there and they built these roads,’ not ‘look here for buried treasure.’ The records just aren’t there.”

“Ah, yes, that seems to be true about the books in the main library. However, my sources tell me that you have special knowledge about Roman villas. My partner has verified this. You boasted about it on a private tour of your diggings at New Hope.”

“If your partner actually talked to Herr von Weferling he’d know that I have a pair of brochures about one, count ’em, one, Roman villa in Germany. The one Mrs. Clark mentioned. I showed the brochures to Weferling. He can tell you what was and wasn’t in them. The only thing that came close to your ‘marble statues’ was a broken, crudely carved sandstone head of Athena. Oh, yeah, there were a couple of copper coins from later, much later, around the year 1796. No gold, no statues, no silver. The owners packed up all the valuable stuff when they moved out. Anything that the Romans might have left is long gone, sold or carted off by their German descendents. Anyway, your ‘Roman villa’ is nowhere close to the area the Romans colonized.”

The smile disappeared from Schuler’s face. “Don’t try your lies on me, boy,” he hissed. “If there is nothing of value you wouldn’t spend time digging. A wealthy man like Herr Clark isn’t paying you to harvest stones. Don’t waste my time prattling on about your sacred archlogy.”

Mike sighed and tried again. “It’s archaeology, as in the study of archaic things. Your sources in Grantville should have told you that archaeologists don’t dig looking for gold. They dig looking for knowledge from everyday items.”

The goon stepped forward, sneering, and pointed his pistol at Mike’s face. “Give me ten minutes with him, he’ll spill everything he knows.”

“No,” Schuler said firmly, “not yet. I’ll let him think about it for awhile.” He glared. “Sooner or later you will give me the information. Or you will give it to Klaus.”

Schuler started out the doorway. The goon picked up the bowl of soup and flipped the liquid into Mike’s face. “Herr Schuler doesn’t like people who don’t do what he wants.” Then he followed Schuler out, slamming the door behind him.

Luckily the soup was only lukewarm. Mike found a relatively clean corner of the blanket and wiped his face. Moving slowly, he rose, pulled out the chair, and sat on it. His chain let him, just. He needed to think.

Mike had been sitting at the table for an hour or so. His stomach was managing to keep down the bread and a few sips of beer. His head and body still ached but his mind was clearer. Marking up the site plan might buy him a few days while Schuler checked it out. When they found nothing Schuler would probably have Klaus the goon kill him. Or, once he had the marked plan, Schuler could decide that Mike was a liability and kill him immediately. Mike scratched his chin. Not marking the site plan could buy him either a couple of days or an appointment with Klaus the goon. He still couldn’t decide.

The chain and ankle cuff had to go. He shifted his attention to the wall and the mortar around it. The mortar looked new and it felt slightly damp. He kneeled next to the eyebolt, took a length of chain in his hands, and began to jerk it back and forth. A minuscule gap appeared around the eyebolt. The chain was cutting into his hands so he grabbed the blanket, wrapped it around the chain, and tried again. Some time later he leaned back and examined the results. There was a definite gap around the shaft of the eyebolt and with each jerk he had felt a tiny bit of give.

At the rate he was going it could take days to pull the eyebolt out of the wall. Mike didn’t think he had days. He looked around the room. The mortar might be soft enough to dig out but he needed something to dig with. Remembering the spoon that had come with the soup, Mike started to get up. A bit of color under the bed attracted his attention. In a moment he retrieved it.

Schuler was an idiot. Or maybe it was Klaus the goon who was the idiot. Someone had chucked Mike’s backpack under the bed. He dumped it out. The pack had been searched. Mike’s gun and ammo were missing as was his folding knife, but his trowel was there. The trowel’s edges were nearly knife sharp. It would be awkward to use but he had a weapon. Peeling back the Velcro from an outside pocket he found the soft, rolled up leather pouch that held his dental picks. Mike took several deep breaths, struggling not to shout with glee, and then went to work on the padlock.

“Getting the chain out of the wall would be nice,” he crooned to the padlock. “But that leaves me with six feet of chain attached. Hard to sneak away from the bad guys with all that iron clanking. Get rid of you, my lovely, and I’m free as a bird.”

Mike had picked padlocks before. His brother had showed him how years before using paperclips and other bits of stiff wire. The dental picks, as fragile as they looked, were all top quality steel. Normally he used them for delicate excavation work, but they also made excellent picklocks. This padlock was huge compared to the ones Mike had practiced on, but he figured that the principles were the same. After some fumbling there was a click and the lock fell open.

Gently, Mike removed the padlock and opened the cuff. Pain flared and he saw that the cuff had chewed through his sock and into the soft flesh above his boot. He opened another pocket on his backpack, found his first aid kit and cleaned the wound thoroughly. Luckily there was a clean pair of socks in the backpack, so he put them on. His shirt and pants were awfully fragrant, enough that dogs wouldn’t be necessary to track him, not the way he smelled.

There wasn’t any water to wash with but clean clothes from his pack should lessen his stink. When he got out he’d need to find the city guard. With any luck, the clean clothes would make them at least listen to his story instead of tossing him in jail as one more drunk.

Finally feeling halfway decent, Mike stuffed his gear back in the pack. He picked up the trowel, walked to the door and listened. Silence. A look out the window confirmed that he was high up, on a third or fourth story, and there wasn’t a hint of a ledge. He went back to the door and eased it open. The hallway ended to his left in a staircase. Three other doors along the hall stood open, showing rooms like his. Only the room directly across from his showed any signs of recent inhabitation. Below him he could hear muffled sounds of someone yelling.

As quietly as he could, Mike descended the stairs, praying that none of the treads creaked. The next floor presented two doors, both closed and another stairway at the far end. Mike passed on investigating. He wanted out of this house. The next flight down brought him into an empty kitchen. Probably not empty for long, since something bubbled in a pot hung over the fire. Candles hung above a table provided a surprising amount of light.

He froze in place; only his eyes moved, searching for a way out. There should be a door into a yard or alley; he hoped for an alley. His eyes found a door in the right place. More odd noises came from the front of the house. Now was not the time to stick around.

Mike muttered a quick prayer that this wasn’t the cellar door, opened it, and slid through. For a moment he thought he had found the cellar. The alleyway was narrow and the houses on the other side blocked any sunlight. Waiting for his eyes to adjust he tried to determine if anybody else was in the alley. He heard someone enter the kitchen behind him, talking loudly. Spurred into action by thoughts of recapture, he dashed down the alley, and slammed head first into Klaus the goon. The impact knocked Mike down.

Klaus didn’t have his pistol but he did have a knife on his belt. Growling, the goon reached for that knife. Mike smashed his boot into the logical target. The man’s hands flew his crotch and he moaned. Mike rolled away, grabbed the trowel, and staggered to his feet. Klaus the goon was bent over, clutching himself and groaning.

“Nicely done, Michael. Nicely done!” The high tenor voice came from the darkest part of the alley. Reichard Blucher stepped out, grabbed Klaus the goon by the hair, and slammed the man’s head into the wall of the house.

“That will take his mind off his other pain.”

Mike straightened up and gave a sigh of relief. The cavalry had arrived. “Where are Rob and Lannie? Are they okay?”

Reichard smiled. “They’re fine. When you didn’t show up Thursday morning Wilf insisted that they go back to Grantville. We came looking for you.” The big man clapped Mike on the shoulder. He kicked the groaning Klaus. “You’re turning into a regular Indiana Jones, young Michael.”

Wilf Jones walked out the kitchen door and into the alley. He looked from Mike to Klaus the goon and back.

“Glad to see you’re in one piece, Michael. Schuler will be, too. When we didn’t find you in the house Christian started to lovingly describe the ‘death of a thousand cuts’ to him. The head of the Bamberg city guard is in there, suggesting additional, cruder measures.”

Jo Ann was snuggled tightly against Mike on the sofa, firmly holding his left hand. They were sitting in the Clarks’ comfortable and familiar living room, listening while Wilf and Christian finished up the story of finding Mike.

“Michael saved himself. We just came along and cleaned up the mess he left.” Christian smiled and winked at Mike. “Reichard saw him in action and was impressed with how he handled himself.”

“Aye,” Wilf agreed, “impressed enough to suggest that we take him along the next time we go horse trading.”

Mike blushed, pleased at the compliment and half-appalled at the thought of the kinds of trouble Wilf and his friends attracted.

Jo Ann squeezed the hand she was holding. “Mike’s heard from Jena. They want him to teach archaeology.”

“Well, not really teach.” Mike’s blush deepened as he explained. “I won’t be a professor, more like a guest lecturer. It’s kind of weird. I’ll be a student but they want me to present some lectures on up-time archaeology, too.” The doubts he’d felt earlier were dying down. The letter proved that his efforts to reinvent up-time archaeology weren’t wasted and that there were smart people who didn’t think he was just a dumb kid. Even his dad had been impressed.

Lannie nudged her husband. Rob stood, excused himself, and left the room. He returned shortly, holding something behind his back.

“In light of your recent adventures,” Rob said, “and especially your new status as a college lecturer, we thought these additions to your wardrobe were appropriate.” Rob held his hands out. The right held a brown leather jacket; the left a brown fedora. “You’ll have to provide the bullwhip yourself.”