The Janus Stone

CHAPTER 5

Ruth drives slowly back along the Norwich ring road. She has stopped feeling sick and now feels ravenously hungry, a common pattern over the last few weeks. She stops at a garage and buys a baguette and some mineral water. Plain carbohydrate is what she needs. That and water. She drives along stuffing pieces of bread into her mouth. She’s going to put on several stone with this baby, she can see it now. This has been one of the very best things about being pregnant though; not worrying about her weight. Ruth has been overweight since school. How many years of her life has she spent dieting, worrying about her body-mass index and trying to stand on the scales in a way that makes her four pounds lighter? She has been to WeightWatchers and Slimming World and has had several bloated weeks on the cabbage soup diet. In the last few years she has stopped dieting, which has had no effect on her weight but has made her feel, if not happier, at least resigned. She is never going to be one of those women who boasts that they can eat what they like and not get fat (‘it’s just my metabolism; I’d give anything to have curves’). She’s never going to look good in a bikini or vest top. But, by and large, she doesn’t care. She wears anonymous, baggy clothes and only looks in the mirror to check that she hasn’t got spinach in her teeth. But now, hallelujah, she has an excuse for being fat. She can drink a non-diet Coke without having a chorus of invisible voices berating her: ‘Did you see the size of her? Shouldn’t she be drinking the diet version?’

Has Nelson noticed anything? She doesn’t think so. He was fairly abrupt but that is what Nelson is like when he is on an investigation. And he had deferred to her, asked her how long the excavations would take, much to the annoyance of Trace and the foreman. She wishes she hadn’t been sick though. Irish Ted had been nice but she doesn’t trust Trace not to tell all her field archaeology friends. Had it been the car journey and the exertion of clambering over the site? Or had it been the skeleton, the foetal position, the thought of the head separated from the body? She remembers Max’s talk of head rituals in Celtic mythology. Celts were head hunters. Celtic warriors would cut off their opponents’ heads in battle and hang them from their horses’ necks. After battle, the heads would be displayed at the entrance to the temple. The severed head is a recurring theme in Celtic art.

Is the building-site body Celtic or Roman? Is it medieval, a relic from the long vanished churchyard? Maybe, but Ruth is still convinced that it was buried fairly recently, in the last couple of hundred years. The disturbance of the earth under the door suggests that it was buried when the door was put in place. How old was the children’s home? She will have to ask Nelson to look at the title deeds and planning history.

She is passing the Swaffham road and, on impulse, makes a sharp turn, earning her a furious hoot from the car behind. She will stop off at the Roman dig, have a word with Max. If nothing else it will be good to be out in the open air after a day spent in the car. The earlier rain has stopped; the air will be sharp and pure at the top of the hill.

To her surprise she finds a coach parked awkwardly at the foot of the grass bank. The driver is still inside, eating a sandwich and reading the Sun. As Ruth parks her Renault beside the bus, she notices a group of elderly people approaching. They are dressed in tweeds and waterproofs and some are carrying guidebooks. The slope is steep and some of them are leaning on sticks and breathing heavily, while others sprint along like teenagers. Ruth spots Max bringing up the rear, offering his arm to a large grey-haired woman. Some of the elderly people smile and wave at Ruth and she waves back, although she has no idea who they are. They seem friendly anyway. When everyone is inside the bus, the driver puts down his paper and the wheels churn slowly in the mud. Max waves heartily until they are out of sight.

‘Hi!’

Max jumps. ‘Ruth. I didn’t see you there.’

‘Who were the visitors?’

He grimaces. ‘The Conservative Association.’ Ruth starts to regret waving. ‘We’ve had quite a few groups now. It was the Scouts earlier.’

‘Jesus. Two paramilitary organisations in one day.’

Max grins. It’s the oldies who scare me most. Did you see that woman walking with me? Looked just like the Emperor Vespasian.’

Ruth laughs. ‘I just came to have a look round but if you’ve had enough for today…’

‘No, no.’ Ruth is flattered by Max’s eager denial. ‘I’d love to show you round. We found something interesting today actually.’

They climb the hill, Ruth trying to disguise how out of breath she is. Jesus, at this rate she’ll be immobile at nine months. The trouble was, she wasn’t terribly fit before.

At the top of the hill, Max bounds off towards the furthest trench. Ruth follows more slowly. She can see that, even before his students arrive, Max has been busy. There are now three trenches radiating outwards like spokes on a wheel. The furthest trench is the deepest, and as she gets closer she can see the layers, topsoil then the telltale layer of chalk which indicates that once, thousands of years ago, this whole area was under water. Cut into the chalk line she sees a wall, the mix of flint and mortar with a thin line of bricks distinctly Roman. And, below the bricks, a silver-grey orb, faintly translucent in the evening light.

‘A skull?’

‘Yes. Can’t see any more just yet.’

‘Do you think it could be a foundation sacrifice?’

‘Yes I do.’ Max gestures towards the bricks. ‘I think this may have been the corner of a room, which could be significant. Remember the bodies at Springfield? They were buried in all four corners of the temple.’

‘Is this a temple then?’ Ruth looks round at the trench, with its neat earth walls open to the sky; her archaeologist’s eye seeing instead a stone temple with statues, altar and incense burning.

‘Again, it’s possible. We’ve found some pottery. They could be amphorae. But it could also be a private house.’

Ruth knows that all Roman houses would have had shrines to the domestic gods. The head of the house – the paterfamilias – would have been, to all intents and purposes, the high priest of his own household religion. And at the hearth, the symbolic centre of the home, there would have been a fire sacred to the goddess of fire. What was she called?

‘Vesta,’ supplies Max. ‘Just think of the matches. Her Greek name was Hestia. The women of the house would be responsible for making sure the fire didn’t go out and for making offerings to her.’

‘Haven’t there been instances of bodies being found buried inside Roman houses?’ asks Ruth.

‘In early Roman times it was quite usual for a dead family member to be buried inside the house,’ says Max. ‘We often find the letters DM by these tombs. Dii Manes – the spirits of the dead or The Good.’

Ruth shivers, thinking of the little body buried under the door in Woolmarket Street. The Good. Children are good, by anybody’s reckoning, and innocent. But this does not seem to stop people from doing dreadful things to them.

‘Children’s bodies have been found too, haven’t they?’ she says.

‘Yes. In Cambridge in the seventies twelve newborn babies were found buried under a Roman building. We don’t know if they had died naturally, maybe even stillborn, or if they were sacrifices.’

‘The field team have found a body on a building site in Norwich,’ says Ruth slowly. ‘I think it’s headless.’

Max looks at her with interest. ‘Modern?’

‘I don’t know. We haven’t done carbon dating yet. But the grave cut looks fairly recent.’

‘The bones could still be old though.’

‘Yes,’ agrees Ruth. ‘But the skeleton looks intact. I think it was buried when the doorway was built.’

‘When was that?’

‘Well, the house is Victorian but the entrance and portico could be later, I suppose. It used to be a children’s home.’

Thinking of the children’s home reminds her of something else. She gets her notebook out of her pocket. ‘Do you know what this means?’ she asks. ‘It was an inscription found at the site.’

Max looks down at the words and, for a second, his face seems to darken. Ruth wonders if she has offended him. ‘I couldn’t understand it myself,’ she says, rather nervously. ‘I didn’t go to the right kind of school.’

‘Omnia Mutantur, Nihil Interit,’ says Max slowly, ‘It means: everything changes, nothing perishes.’

‘Oh… thanks. Did you learn Latin at school then?’ He has a rather public-school look to him, Ruth thinks. Maybe it’s the curly hair. Or the Range Rover.

Max smiles, his laid-back charming self again. ‘No, but I’ve learnt a good deal of Latin over the years. The Romans are my speciality after all.’

‘Everything changes, nothing perishes,’ repeats Ruth. ‘What sort of a motto is that?’

‘The perfect motto for an archaeologist,’ says Max, clambering out of the trench.

Nelson drives back to the police station, trying to ignore Clough who is noisily eating a packet of crisps. When out on a case Clough eats almost constantly: crisps, sweets, innumerable takeaways. It’s a wonder he’s not the size of a house, thinks Nelson sourly. In fact, Clough has less of a gut than he has. There’s no justice.

‘Do you think it’s a murder?’ asks Clough, crunching away. The smell of cheese and onion is making Nelson feel sick. Perhaps I’ve got morning sickness, he thinks. He suffered psychosomatic pains with both Michelle’s pregnancies. But Ruth may not be pregnant and, even if she is, the child might not be his.

‘I’ve got no idea,’ he says shortly. ‘And you had no business speculating.’

‘Come on, boss, you know what those nuns and priests are like. I read a book once, set in Ireland, and the things they did to those poor kids.’

Nelson is silent, thinking of his own schooling in Catholic establishments. The brothers had been strict, he remembers, strict but fair. And he’d been no angel at school, probably deserved everything he got. He remembers the parish priest, Father Damian, a slight, insignificant man, worshipped by Nelson’s mother who was forever ascribing dogmatic opinions to him. ‘Father Damian thinks, Father Damian says…’ He couldn’t remember Father Damian himself ever offering an opinion about anything, except about the horses. He’d been a betting man he remembers.

‘Lots of those books are bollocks,’ he says, taking a corner too fast. ‘Authors make everything up just to make money.’

‘Nuns are creepy, though,’ says Clough, unabashed. ‘Those black robes, those headdresses. Spooky.’

‘My aunt’s a nun,’ says Nelson, to shut him up. In fact, Sister Margaret Mary of the Precious Blood is his great-aunt, his grandmother’s sister. He hasn’t seen her for years.

‘You’re joking! You a Catholic then?’

‘Yes,’ says Nelson, though he hasn’t been to church since Rebecca’s first holy communion, eight years ago.

‘Bloody hell, boss. I wouldn’t have had you down as religious.’

‘I’m not,’ says Nelson. ‘You don’t have to be religious to be a Catholic.’