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 appar
ently 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 rea
lly 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.”