followed him, wishing that the crunch of gravel wasn’t so loud beneath her boots, only vaguely conscious of passing landmarks — a wooden garden gate, a moss-covered basin surrounded by terra-cotta pots, stone lions perched on their hind legs on the tops of columns.
Soon they were stealing across cobbles through a parking lot at the side of a grand stone house. The lot was empty except for a line of orange bollards and some yellow DO NOT CROSS tape strung across a stubby makeshift fence. Behind them, the cobbles had been lifted and the ground was being excavated. Pipes were exposed and, beyond them, the pit was even deeper. The ground along the lowest floor of the building itself — the basement, judging by its low windows — had been dug away by several feet. A paint-streaked tarp, held down by bricks, covered only some of the area.
Nick dragged the temporary fence post out of place, so there was enough room for them to squeeze through. Miranda, stumbling on a dug-up cobble, couldn’t understand where they were going. There were no doors anywhere in sight. She hoped that Nick wasn’t going to break a window.
But he stopped at the tarp, moving a brick to check underneath it.
“Here,” he said, and folded the tarp back into place. “This is about as low as we’ll get. We can sit on this. I don’t think it’ll get in the way.”
He sat down with his back against the wall, legs outstretched, and looked up at Miranda expectantly.She scuttled into place next to him, her back against the wall, too. She was going to have to get changed as soon as she got home: Every part of her felt damp and cold.
“Put your hands on the ground, like this,” Nick instructed, pressing his palms flat against the tarp. “Take your gloves off.”
“Why?” asked Miranda, but doing as he said.
“York was an important Roman city,” he told her, as though that was the logical answer to her question. “The emperor Constantine was crowned here. Remember at Bootham Bar, when I said that’s the way Roman soldiers marched north? Petergate was a Roman road, the Via Principalis.”
“And Stonegate,” Miranda said, remembering something her father had said. “That was a Roman road, too.”
“Via Praetoria,” said Nick. “And right underneath us, cutting through this building and running down the street beneath the Minster, is the old Via Decumana. The two roads used to meet in the middle, at what would have been the big HQ, the center of the Roman fort. The Minster was built on top of it.”
“So we can see Roman ghosts here?” Miranda asked, suddenly excited. All this scrambling and hiding — all this breaking and entering — would be worth it if she could see Romans. But Nick was shaking his head, his smile dismissive.
“Too high up,” he said. “The Roman road was muchlower — almost twenty feet down. We’d have to be in the cellar to see anything.”
“Oh,” said Miranda, disappointed.
“They’ve been spotted a few times over the years down there,” Nick said. “Always around this time of day, in the wintertime. Tours go in there sometimes, to wait for them. But what they don’t get is that only a few people can see ghosts.”
He raised his eyebrows at Miranda, and she smiled back at him.
“There’s all sorts of rubbish talked as well, about them being the famous lost Ninth Legion,” he continued. “Marching off into the northern wilderness, never to be seen again. This was the last place they were stationed in Britain.”
“How do you know so much history when —” Miranda stopped herself. She was about to say “you didn’t even finish school?” but it sounded too rude a question. Nick glanced at her, amused.
“This isn’t stuff you learn at school,” he said. “I read books — I always did. You can’t trust the stories people tell, especially around here, where there’s profit in it. Saying the ghosts down here are the lost Ninth Legion, thousands of Roman soldiers about to be wiped
Soon they were stealing across cobbles through a parking lot at the side of a grand stone house. The lot was empty except for a line of orange bollards and some yellow DO NOT CROSS tape strung across a stubby makeshift fence. Behind them, the cobbles had been lifted and the ground was being excavated. Pipes were exposed and, beyond them, the pit was even deeper. The ground along the lowest floor of the building itself — the basement, judging by its low windows — had been dug away by several feet. A paint-streaked tarp, held down by bricks, covered only some of the area.
Nick dragged the temporary fence post out of place, so there was enough room for them to squeeze through. Miranda, stumbling on a dug-up cobble, couldn’t understand where they were going. There were no doors anywhere in sight. She hoped that Nick wasn’t going to break a window.
But he stopped at the tarp, moving a brick to check underneath it.
“Here,” he said, and folded the tarp back into place. “This is about as low as we’ll get. We can sit on this. I don’t think it’ll get in the way.”
He sat down with his back against the wall, legs outstretched, and looked up at Miranda expectantly.She scuttled into place next to him, her back against the wall, too. She was going to have to get changed as soon as she got home: Every part of her felt damp and cold.
“Put your hands on the ground, like this,” Nick instructed, pressing his palms flat against the tarp. “Take your gloves off.”
“Why?” asked Miranda, but doing as he said.
“York was an important Roman city,” he told her, as though that was the logical answer to her question. “The emperor Constantine was crowned here. Remember at Bootham Bar, when I said that’s the way Roman soldiers marched north? Petergate was a Roman road, the Via Principalis.”
“And Stonegate,” Miranda said, remembering something her father had said. “That was a Roman road, too.”
“Via Praetoria,” said Nick. “And right underneath us, cutting through this building and running down the street beneath the Minster, is the old Via Decumana. The two roads used to meet in the middle, at what would have been the big HQ, the center of the Roman fort. The Minster was built on top of it.”
“So we can see Roman ghosts here?” Miranda asked, suddenly excited. All this scrambling and hiding — all this breaking and entering — would be worth it if she could see Romans. But Nick was shaking his head, his smile dismissive.
“Too high up,” he said. “The Roman road was muchlower — almost twenty feet down. We’d have to be in the cellar to see anything.”
“Oh,” said Miranda, disappointed.
“They’ve been spotted a few times over the years down there,” Nick said. “Always around this time of day, in the wintertime. Tours go in there sometimes, to wait for them. But what they don’t get is that only a few people can see ghosts.”
He raised his eyebrows at Miranda, and she smiled back at him.
“There’s all sorts of rubbish talked as well, about them being the famous lost Ninth Legion,” he continued. “Marching off into the northern wilderness, never to be seen again. This was the last place they were stationed in Britain.”
“How do you know so much history when —” Miranda stopped herself. She was about to say “you didn’t even finish school?” but it sounded too rude a question. Nick glanced at her, amused.
“This isn’t stuff you learn at school,” he said. “I read books — I always did. You can’t trust the stories people tell, especially around here, where there’s profit in it. Saying the ghosts down here are the lost Ninth Legion, thousands of Roman soldiers about to be wiped
Similar Books
