Medi-Evil 3 (25 page)

 
“There’ll be nothing in there, will there?” Sam asked warily.

 
Tom wasn’t sure. His nostrils wrinkled at the fetid air that flowed out. It wasn’t particularly noxious – there was nothing sickly or decayed about it; but it was stale, dust-laden. He shrugged.

 
“Well, I suppose I have seniority,” Sam said, suddenly remembering that he was the Waterloo veteran. “I’d better go first. You stay close behind.”

 
Tom nodded.

 
The soil around the rim of the entrance was only a foot or so thick, but once they’d stepped in and their eyes were used to the dimness, they saw that it had once concealed a proper doorway; a tall, rectangular portal with an arched lintel made of red brick. If there’d ever been an actual door, presumably it had been made of wood because it had long ago perished. Any remaining fragments must now be buried under the scattered clumps of earth and grass. A passage lay ahead of them. Again, its walls were built from red brick, but its arched ceiling was festooned with dust-webs so dense they were more like hangings of black drapery. Sam ventured along it a few yards, only for his foot to disturb something on the floor – a pile of broken crockery; there was a
clink
of metal as well.

 
He crouched. Tom joined him. What appeared to be a row of ten earthenware urns, each about a foot high, had been set against the wall. The first few had been shattered, presumably by one of the
roundshot
– in fact a chunk of brickwork was missing from the wall at the point where the intact urns began, indicating where the shot had caromed away. A mass of ashes had spilled from the urns, but there were other items too, which gleamed in the weak light. Sam picked a couple up and dusted them off. They were coins, each one bearing a different image. The lads returned to the entrance, to examine them in full daylight.

 
The coins were only small, perhaps the size of half a crown, but they shone with an unmistakable yellow
lustre
.

 
“You don’t think these could be
… ?”
Sam said.

 
Tom shook his head, but more with wonder than uncertainty. The image on the first coin was a man’s head in profile. What looked like a laurel wreath bound his brow. On the other side there was an inscription. Sam couldn’t read, but Tom had had at least a rudimentary education. He’d been so sickly during his early youth that, unable to work, he’d attended a charity school run by a missionary couple. He’d only been there a brief time, but had learned more than most of his fellow urchins ever would, certainly enough to identify this writing as a foreign tongue – he suspected Latin. There was one word he
did
recognise
:
Constantivs
. The second coin also bore the image of a man’s profile, though this one was bearded and wore a helmet with a plumed crest. Its inscription read:
Diocletianvs
.

 
“Roman emperors,” Tom said slowly.

 
“You think?” Sam looked even more amazed. “That means these are worth a lot!”

 
“We don’t know for sure …”

 
But Sam was no longer listening. He stuffed the coins into his breeches pockets and dashed back up the passage.

 
“What about the
roundshot
?” Tom said, hesitating to follow.

 
“That can wait.”

 
But it couldn’t wait.
Because now a shout assailed them from the direction of the heath.

 
“Sam!” Tom hurried up the passage. “We can come back later. No-one knows about this apart from us, but we have to retrieve the shot.”

 
Sam, who’d hunkered down and was cramming more of the spilled coins into his pockets, shook his head. “And every time a salvo is fired, it’ll penetrate this hill, and sooner or later someone else will come and they’ll hog the find for themselves. Grab your share while you can.”

 
“Sam, we’ll be flogged.”

 
“Won’t be the first time for me.”

 
“But if they come over here looking for
us
, they’ll definitely find it.”

 
Sam paused and considered this. It was probably true. “Alright, we come back later,” he said, standing.”

 
Tom nodded.

 
“And you won’t say a word to anyone else?”

 
“I promise.”

 
Sam grunted, not best pleased but accepting the reality of the situation. They proceeded along the passage and had gone another ten yards before they found the first ball. The daylight had almost run out here, but was just sufficient to show remnants of plasterwork on the walls. Faded images included a bunch of grapes hanging from a disembodied hand, and a brown face under a head of black, curly hair. There were also additional doorways leading to left and right, both hung with sheets of dust-thick cobweb.

 
“Find that second ball,” Sam said, picking the first one up with both hands and preparing to heft it back. “There’ll be no excuses if you don’t.”

 
“You’re leaving me to look on my own?” Tom said.

 
Sam chuckled, already forgetting that he himself had been unnerved before the discovery of the coins had bolstered his courage. “Scared of the dark?”

 
“Two pairs of eyes are better than one,” Tom replied, not wanting to admit that he thought he’d just heard something; a faint hollow sound, probably an echo.

 
Sam chuckled again. “Well … if I must lead, I will. That’s what I’m here for, to set you young ’
uns
an example.”

 
He dropped the ball and moved ahead. Tom followed, glancing nervously through each doorway. The passage ended abruptly at another brick arch, beyond which there was a T-junction. The fresco on the facing wall here was more intact than anything they’d seen so far. It portrayed a line of musicians, followed by what looked like a tame lion. There were more Latin words, but Tom couldn’t
recognise
them. The errant cannonball lay at the foot of this. He scuttled forward to pick it up – only to be surprised by something else: the facing passage ran both left and right, on the right into darkness, but on the left towards a light. They stared at it, baffled.

 
“Another opening?”
Sam suggested.

 
Tom shook his head. This light was very pale, almost silver, and it seemed to shimmer. Sam ventured a few yards towards it.

 
“Sam, we should go,” Tom said. “We’ve got what we came for.”

 
“There may be more coins, Tom-Tom. There may be
more
than coins.”

 
Sam pressed on, and Tom felt he had no option but to follow. He wasn’t as concerned about money as Sam. He hadn’t been in the Artillery long enough to be seeking a way out of it. This was his new life, and so far he was content with it. Wealth was something he’d never known or even imagined possible; he hadn’t even dreamed about it.

 
They reached another doorway, and in this case the remnants of the door were still visible: desiccated teeth of wood fixed with corroded metal to the left-hand jamb, which was made from stone shot with greenish veins. The spectral glow revealed that much; it also revealed a spacious room beyond, its walls plastered and bearing more frescoes: a priestly figure in white robes, passing
judgement
; gladiators in the arena; a field of wheat in which men and women, clad in peasant garb, wielded scythes. There was also furniture
in :
a divan loaded with purple cushions; wooden chairs, ornately carved, gleaming as if recently polished; a desk with writing materials still upon it. Yet all were sheathed in layers of dust-web, which fluttered eerily as the new-arrivals disturbed the air.

 
However, the most impressive item was in the very centre of the room. It was a life-size image, made almost certainly from bronze, of a man wearing a loincloth – an athletic man by his glinting, muscular frame. He was seated on a brick dais in a posture of contemplation. In his right hand he held what looked like a
sceptre
, also made from bronze, but weighted at one end with an orb. In his left hand, which was held out in front of him, its palm turned upwards, rested a crystal globe. It was from this that the silver light emanated.

 
The lads entered, all trepidation briefly forgotten.

 
“What is that?” Sam breathed.

 
Their entry again disturbed the layers of web, which also shrouded the bronze figure. As before, the air was stale – redolent of dust, parchment and all things old and crumbling.

 
“Ye gods!”
Sam said with sudden excitement.

 
He darted forward. Tom tried to hold him back, but there was no stopping Sam now. Gathered around the bronze figure’s feet were dozens more urns.

 
“We’re rich, Tom-Tom!” Sam shouted, his voice echoing through the subterranean corridors. “We’re bloody rich!”

 
He tore away the veils of webbing, snatched up an urn and smashed it on the paved floor. Gold coins scattered in every direction. He hooted with glee.

 
“Sam!” Tom said tightly; he’d only dared come a few yards from the door, but now felt intensely as though they were being watched. “Sam, what’s making that light? Is there a flame in there?”

 
Sam had crouched right in front of the bronze figure, and was again stuffing his breeches. He regarded its face, which was blank and emotionless – a classical visage etched in metal. Then he glanced down at the light it held.

 
“Don’t know what it is, Tom-Tom. It’s a strange
colour
, almost blue.”

 
“Sam!”
Tom screamed. But he was too late.

 
At first he’d thought the movement he’d suddenly seen was a trick of the light, a dancing shadow as Sam continued to grab up handfuls of gold. But the impact of the weighted
sceptre
on Sam’s skull was real enough. It
thudded
like meat hitting a butcher’s block, and Sam flopped down.

 
Tom’s spine froze by degrees as he watched what happened next.

 
Stiffly, the bronze figure raised its head and looked directly at him. Then, with a sound like a
whirring
of wheels and
clicking
of gears, it rose slowly to its feet.

 
At first Tom was too terrified to move, but when it advanced towards him, stopping only once – to place a foot on the side of Sam’s head, and press down until bone audibly cracked – Tom’s animal instincts took over. He spun around and hurtled towards the T-junction, staggering around the corner, from where he’d have a clear run back to the world of sanity – except that he didn’t.

 
Another figure was blocking his way, silhouetted on the small patch of daylight.

 
Tom slid to a halt. A shriek burst from his chest, and he ran on along the transverse passage, the phosphorescent glow stealing up from behind as, with a series of
clunking
footfalls, the first of the horrible things advanced out of the ornate room. Its light lit an archway ahead but nothing of the space beyond it – Tom blundered straight through, only to find that he was surrounded on all sides by more blank-eyed figures.

 
He shrieked and shrieked, pivoting around helplessly. They gazed at him with still, soulless faces; in some cases their hands reached towards him. And still the light increased and those heavy feet with their bell-like impacts were approaching. Frantic, Tom blundered against one of the figures, and it fell, shattering into thousands of pieces.

 
Statues – that was all they were, dozens of classical statues.

 
But his terror didn’t ebb. The silver light was approaching the entrance. He staggered towards another doorway on the far side. This too was arched; beyond it there was opaque blackness. He bolted through – only to step over a precipice and fall maybe six feet, before hitting a flat, unyielding surface, which struck his kneecaps like two hammer blows. In normal times it would have been an
agonising
jolt. But now Tom scrambled forward, panting, whimpering. Light flooded in behind him. He turned, wild-eyed. He’d fallen into a rectangular pit, tiled along its sides. Its floor – the section that his body had cleared of dust – was inlaid with a mosaic depicting sea creatures. It was a communal bath, he
realised
; a very large one.