Brothers at Arms (22 page)

Their tutor emerged from the lesson refreshed, but it left Joshua and Charlie feeling totally crushed, until Sergeant Percival said something aside that drew Dr Hawley’s attention. In an instant their misdemeanours were forgotten. Almost as if the guide did it deliberately.

Their visit to Herculaneum was peaceful, and came as a welcome relief. Having recovered his composure, Dr Hawley related the story about how the great eruption had destroyed four towns.

Herculaneum was the first discovery, lying under a vast depth of volcanic debris. Artefacts provided evidence of a wealthy township: pieces of jewellery, elaborate wall mosaics and inlaid marble floors, as well as a street with paving stones, and remnants of lead water pipes.

When Pompeii was found at a shallower depth, the digging at Herculaneum was abandoned. In the sixty years since the discovery, the easier excavations in Pompeii had revealed a greater range of Roman life – a fact duly and dutifully recorded.

“What’s going on, Gilbert?”

Having returned to Naples, Joshua and Charlie were waiting in their lodgings to hear what would happen next, while the Linmore servant was dashing back and forth conveying messages between their tutor and Sergeant Percival.

“You might well ask.” Gilbert checked in his stride. “I wish them two would make up their minds about the best way to travel.”

“I thought Sergeant Percival said he was going to hire a couple of coaches and drivers.”

“So he did, and the professor dismissed it out of hand. I’m just going to tell Percy,” the man said as he strode away.

Bored with the tedium of waiting, Joshua and Charlie decided to follow, and arrived in the servants’ quarters, just in time to hear Sergeant Percival say, with a touch of asperity, “Give my compliments to the professor, Gilbert, and tell him that I will reserve seats on the common diligence for him and the young gentlemen. You menservants can sit atop, with the baggage. I will ride alongside.”

Minutes later, Gilbert returned, followed by the tutor, who was so incensed that he abandoned his dignity and confronted the guide, ready to convey his response in freer terms than was his custom.

“How dare you send impertinent messages to me, Percival?” he shouted. “Common diligence indeed; Squire Norbery will hear of your disregard for his son’s comfort in my next report to Linmore.”

Sergeant Percival raised an eyebrow and listened to the tirade in silence. Then he said in a quiet tone, “In that case, Dr Hawley, I take it you would prefer me to hire private vehicles to convey you to the Adriatic coast, and onwards to Macedonia.”

“Of course I would,” Dr Hawley said in a haughty tone, then realised he was outmanoeuvred. “I mean… yes… that would be the most appropriate mode of transport.”

“Thank you, sir,” said the guide. “I’ll see to it today.”

Joshua could not help feeling the soldier came out of the dispute best. He had noticed Sergeant Percival’s quiet manner before. It was too refined for someone from the ranks – almost gentlemanly – but maybe his father employed the man because he was polite. Whatever the reason, it worked, and he hoped the acrimonious exchanges would lessen as the journey progressed. It must do, for this was only the start of their travels.

For the remaining days of their stay in Naples, Sergeant Percival maintained his urbane manner, and Dr Hawley reverted to sending messages with the Linmore servant. Apart from that, there were no problems.

In preparation, Dr Hawley showed Joshua and Charlie the planned route on his map, by which they would travel to Macedonia, the birthplace of Emperor Alexander. The name of the country was familiar from their lessons, but they had little knowledge of the terrain through which they would travel.

When the day of departure dawned, everything was organised with military precision. True to his word, Sergeant Percival hired two sturdy coaches, with horses and drivers, and declared his intention to acquire further transport when they reached the Dalmatian Coast.

Joshua and Charlie sat in the leading coach with their tutor, while Sergeant Percival rode alongside the second conveyance carrying the two Linmore servants and the luggage. Much to everyone’s relief, the interior seating was a great improvement on the previous vehicle.

Although the distance to the coast was relatively short, there were few road bridges for river crossings. Sometimes, a ferry took them across, but failing that meant a diversion of several miles, and the anticipated journey of two days stretched to three.

At each delay, the tutor and former soldier entered into a battle of wills.

Dr Hawley became unusually vocal, insisting through his intermediary that the tour guide demand they take precedence over other travellers. Sergeant Percival responded respectfully, but carried on regardless.

Having dined on the second evening, Dr Hawley went to look at a local church, but refused Sergeant Percival’s offer of an escort. The former soldier sent one of the grooms instead, and waited outside the hostelry for their return.

Gilbert stood in the doorway of the inn, watching the two men from a distance. “You wouldn’t think them two was friends when they were lads.”

Nothing seemed more unlikely.

“What happened to spoil it?” asked Charlie.

“Miss Belinda happened, that’s what. Jim Percival grew up with the gardener’s family on the Neathwood estate, in Linmore Dale. The old Lord Chetton wanted him to have extra schooling, so he paid the parson to give him lessons. Everything was all right until Reverend Hawley’s daughter came home from school and fell in love with her brother’s friend. Of course, that would not do for Parson Hawley, him being the son of a baronet. He did not object to Percy’s humble connections, so much as his likeness to the old viscount. He is the living image of his father – from the wrong side of the blanket. It’s not his fault, but he has to live with it.”

“Gilbert…” From nowhere, a soft voice of authority growled a warning. Sergeant Percival had returned.

The manservant glanced over his shoulder. “That’s me and my big mouth again,” he said with a chuckle. “Talking about things as don’t concern me. I’d better get on with me work.”

With that, he walked away. Sergeant Percival went with him.

“What did he mean?” said Joshua.

“Maybe it was something like the baby we saw at Hillend church,” Charlie said. “Do you remember, just after Sophie and I came to Linmore?”

“Yes,” said Joshua. “The little girl who needed milk, and there was a woman who could feed it. The farmer’s wife called it a name.”

“She said it was a bastard, and the rector’s sister didn’t approve of them.”

“It sounds as if Miss Belinda liked Sergeant Percival too much for the rest of her family.”

Before they could say more, Dr Hawley returned from his walk.

When they set sail, Tirana was their destination, but when a storm blew up halfway across the Adriatic, nobody cared where they landed, as long as they had firm ground beneath their feet and shelter for the night.

Once they were safely ashore, Sergeant Percival set off to acquire transport and the relevant travel permits. He returned the following day, riding beside two coaches, with teams of four sturdy horses, and a complement of coachmen, grooms, postillions and outriders for each coach – eight in total.

No one questioned the numbers, and Sergeant Percival offered no explanation. Whoever they were, the men seemed to know each other, and accepted the tour guide’s military rank as authority.

Everyone knew it would take time to reach Skopje, but three weeks later they seemed no nearer to finding it.

Each day, they maintained a steady rate through open valleys of pastureland and olive groves, broke their journey in the heat of the day to take luncheon and rest the horses, then continued until evening, when they found a wayside inn for food and a bed for the night. Sergeant Percival seemed unconcerned with the pace, for it meant they rarely needed to change horses.

From his recollection of the map, Joshua knew Tirana lay somewhere to the north of where they landed. They intended going that way, but looking at the morning sun, he suspected they were heading east, towards Thessalonica. He was loath to mention the fact to Dr Hawley. There was a fragile truce between the tutor and the guide, which he did not wish to spoil. There was only one person he could ask.

“Are we lost, Gilbert?”

“Well, I wouldn’t say that exactly, Master Joshua,” the man said, rubbing the side of his nose, as he always did when thinking. “Percy says in these foreign parts, we have to travel by the roads set on the permit.”

“So where are we? By our reckoning, we should have reached Skopje.”

“Now, that I don’t know,” was the servant’s response.

“Does Dr Hawley know?”

“I reckon he has some idea of the way things are, but he’d never admit it.”

Joshua had to be satisfied, for Dr Hawley did not encourage them to talk with the servants. They were almost entirely in his company – but sitting in a stuffy coach, with only the odd draught for ventilation, was intolerable.

If only he and Charlie could ride in the fresh air with the driver, even for a few miles. The problem was finding the right moment to interrupt Dr Hawley’s rambling discourse to ask permission without him taking offence.

Eventually, Charlie could stand it no longer. “Please, sir,” he said. “May we sit on the roof with the coachman?”

The request drew a pained expression from the tutor. “Ah, yes, you are bored. I should have realised that the wonders of ancient history would not hold your attention. Your responses to my questions have been so languid.”

They wouldn’t have minded if he’d let them open the window.

“No, sir,” Charlie said. “It’s just that… it’s hot in here. We need some air.”

“Then I must let you go first, Master Cobarne, as your need is greater. Master Norbery may go when you return.”

With that as their only option, any pleasure they might derive was gone. It was for both of them, or neither, so they stayed where they were and forbore to ask again. It was almost a relief to revert to their Greek lessons, but Dr Hawley’s passion for history proved as wearing as his petulant moods.

Usually so active, Joshua felt frustrated with the restrictions. He wanted to sprawl against the squabs and relax. Instead, he had to sit upright, with feet together, giving the appearance of listening to the epistle Dr Hawley was reading about Alexander. He heard his tutor’s voice but hardly registered a word, yet he knew there would be questions to answer.

Sitting directly opposite, Charlie’s expression registered the same degree of disinterest, except he kept his eyes open to contradict the impression he was asleep. They took turns on alternate days to face the direction the horses travelled, but neither sat opposite Dr Hawley. Listening to him was bad enough, without having him watch them like children. And if they lapsed they were read a sermon.

Joshua tried to stifle a yawn. Travelling today was the same as yesterday, as the day before, as tomorrow would be, confined in a stuffy coach when they wanted to be outside, breathing fresh air. His hand itched to reach out and grasp the window strap. To let down the glass an inch, maybe two, or even let it drop to the bottom – accidentally, of course. He sighed, unable to help himself, and caught Charlie’s eyes flickering towards the window.

As he turned to look, one of the outriders rode past the coach, and he noticed the flap of the leather sleeve attached like a scabbard to the saddle was undone. Inside it showed a polished wooden stock. Only a glimpse, but enough to know the man carried a rifle. A strangely comforting thought.

His mind drifted from the gun to the man on the horse and his ability to use the firearm. He looked eminently capable, as they all did, which meant they must be soldiers, like Sergeant Percival. They knew what discipline was, and followed his lead. That was more relevant to the journey than how Alexander coped.

His mind jerked to attention, then slid away from what Dr Hawley was saying. As always, when he was bored, his thoughts turned to food, wondering what they would eat for supper tonight. Luncheon was three hours past, and the ship’s biscuits with cheese and an apple was but a memory.

Maybe they would have some of the sweet dessert the soldiers once found whilst foraging in the marketplace of a little town they drove past. Baklava, he thought they called it. Whatever the name, it was delicious, and he imagined sinking his teeth into the pastry-like texture. He moistened his lips, willing the time to go faster.

A drink would be nice; some more of the strong coffee Sergeant Percival made earlier at the roadside – or tea with lemon, if they had any left. It was sharper than the milk, which Dr Hawley craved, and stayed fresh longer. The tutor insisted on sweetness, so the tour guide found him some honeycomb, which satisfied his taste, but he did not thank the man. Had it been anyone else, he would.

The sound of Dr Hawley’s voice jerked Joshua awake.

“Do you remember King Philip of Macedon gave his son, Alexander, command of the army, when he was sixteen years old? The same age as you are now. Put yourselves in his position and try to imagine his feelings when he led the army into Thebes? Would you quail under responsibility, or quell the uprising as he did, and vanquish your father’s enemies?”

Joshua wondered if Sergeant Percival knew anything about ancient Macedonia. Maybe he did, if Dr Hawley’s father was his teacher. Now there was a thought. He certainly would not drone on, boring everyone. Even Charlie looked as if he was asleep.

“Mr Norbery, you are not attending.” A peevish voice disturbed his reverie.

He could not argue with that. “Sorry, sir,” he said. “It’s the heat.”

Knowing Dr Hawley was waiting for an answer, Joshua declared his wish to emulate the man who battled his way through Mesopotamia, and controlled most of Asia Minor, but who died of a fever before he was four and thirty years of age. It was a depressing prospect for anyone to contemplate.

“Of course, such a thing could not happen nowadays,” said Dr Hawley. “Medical science has made great advances, so an Emperor would not be reliant on the primitive herbal practices which failed to save Alexander’s life.”