Worthless Remains by Peter Helton Page B

of her hand, put it on a shelf and pulled her into my arms. ‘Yes, I remember it well, what there was of it. I’ll do what I can to get you into the Stone King’s castle and make you part of the quest. In the meantime, would you like to say goodbye properly? Let me get this bag off the bed.’

SEVEN
    M ore cars and vans had arrived at Tarmford Hall. A lot more. The generous half-moon of gravel was covered with vehicles and like several people before me I had to park on the grass, far enough from the entrance to the house to make lugging my few essentials a bit of a chore. Not to mention the endless flights of stairs up to my eyrie in the loft.
    It was warm in my little room and as I opened the window unfamiliar sounds drifted up from the unseen lawns below. There was clanging and hammering and shouting, more than I imagined the repair of a single digger should warrant. I simply dumped my bag and made my way downstairs.
    Time Lines
was a much larger outfit than I had ever imagined. There was a constant coming and going between the car park, the excavation site and the so-called incident room above the coach house. Only when I stepped on to the verandah did it become clear what had swelled the numbers in the car park – the Romans were here.
    On the terrace, as expected, the cream of
Time Lines
were tucking into their lunch. Less expected were the newcomers. To my far right, on the northwest corner of the lawns, near the stand of ancient chestnuts, camped a Roman army.
    â€˜A legionnaires camp.’ Stoneking beamed up at me. ‘Cohort Italica, re-enactors from Bristol, complete with tents, giant catapults and what-not. Dozens of them, by the looks of it.’
    Emms hunted a tiny tomato round her plate with a fork. ‘We’ve used them before, for the cameos, they’re quite authentic.’
    Middleton, at the next table, grumbled at his lamb chops. ‘I hope their tents are rainproof or they’ll get authentically soaked. It looks like rain.’
    â€˜They know their stuff but they’re extremely boring people to meet,’ Cy informed us. ‘During the week they’re plumbers and post office counter staff, yearning to be ancient Romans. They spend all their spare time talking in cod Latin and polishing their
pilums
. But they look good on camera, I give them that.’
    Emms cornered her tomato and stabbed it. ‘All re-enactors are the same, they just like playing soldiers, as though that’s all there was to history.’
    Andrea seemed to speak to no one in particular. ‘No one seems to re-enact hard-working normal people. Trades people, farmers, domestics. It would be much better to show some of that part of Roman life.’
    â€˜That’s visually undynamic. It’s not what our audience wants,’ Cy began.
    â€˜It’s not what your teenage mind
imagines
the audience wants,’ Middleton sniped.
    â€˜The audiences you’re thinking of have long died of old age or boredom,’ Cy countered.
    As they began a fresh argument I was urgently drawn away by the gravitational pull exerted by the catering van where I joined the queuing diggers. The Roman legion had brought their own food and were cooking it on a couple of small camp fires amongst their tents. Delia the caterer noticed my late arrival. ‘You’ve joined the lower ranks then?’ She dropped a couple of thick lamb chops on to my plate. ‘A shrewd move: bigger portions for the real workers.’
    â€˜Especially now that we’re digging the whole thing by hand.’ Adam was balancing a veritable mountain of chips and salad around the corner of the van. I followed his example and joined him and his mate Julie on the grass. At the other end of the lawn stood the injured yellow beast with its engine cover up and a mechanic with his head in its innards.
    â€˜The digger is still out of action, then?’ I asked.
    Julie smiled broadly. ‘Long may it