Secrets of the Gap

MEET ELAINE L. ORR

Check out the beginning of...

Secrets of the Gap

PROLOGUE

The pain in his head subsided somewhat. Gregor struggled in the knee-deep water as he pushed the heavy piece of concrete. The water was higher now. The three other men were having as much trouble keeping their balance as he was.

Suddenly, the red-bearded man reached out and forcefully shoved one of the men into the water. Gregor recoiled. He wanted to say something to the bearded man, but words would not come.

The man dropped his portion of the heavy piece of stone into the water, and picked up a piece of timber that had fallen behind him. Gregor raised a hand to deflect the blow, but was not quick enough. Water swirled and everything grew dark.

The warm water splashed over his forehead and the voice shouted at him from far away. "Dr. Porter!"

Greg sat straight up, sand pouring down the back of his shirt. He looked down, and judged the dark drops on the front of his sweat-drenched tee shirt to be his own blood.

"Praise Allah," his Egyptian guide said. "Now you ride my camel, as I suggested. This one is too mean. We are lucky he did not step on you after he threw you."

Of course, Greg thought, he was in Egypt. And his guide had used some of their precious water to bring him back to consciousness. Camels be damned.

CHAPTER ONE

CAROLYN WILLIAMS STOOD as close as she could to the relentlessly running water, letting it drown out all other sounds. She studied the stone archway with the steamy waters pouring from it to a small pool below, as fascinated by the ancient Roman baths as she was the first time she saw a picture of them in one of her parents' many travel brochures.

She had often asked to go to Bath, England and, if only to quiet her pleas, the family had spent a week there when she was ten. And she had returned on her own three times, never able to get enough of this mystical place.

Even in the dim light of the passage way, Carolyn could see the different hues of the stones that funneled the water from the old Roman reservoir into the small pool below. She smiled to herself, resting her blonde head against the metal gate that kept inquiring children from testing the steamy waters.

The male voice behind her startled Carolyn. "Does this mean that the most studious graduate of the Archeology Institute of New York has finally learned to take some time to daydream?"

Carolyn whirled around to face Greg Porter, regular thorn in her side during her five years of graduate study. One look told her Greg had changed little in the three years since she had seen him. If anything, as he approached age thirty, his brown eyes were more roguish and the close-cropped dark curls had no trace of gray . His six-foot frame was more tanned and relaxed than she had remembered, but his stance remained that of someone used to setting life's pace. Carolyn felt her back stiffen as her silver-grey eyes surveyed him.

"What a surprise. As I recall, Dr. Porter, you said you would have to be dragged by wild horses before you would go to a – dare I quote? – 'stuffy meeting of grave diggers.'"

Greg threw back his head as he laughed, highlighting perfectly-spaced teeth. "That's the Carolyn I remember. You never could take a joke."

Though his tone was not unkind, the words stung. "I have a good sense of humor. It's just different from yours." She stopped. No way was she going to rise to his bait. "What are you doing here, Greg? I thought you specialized in Northern Africa."

"I do. When I saw the annual meeting was here, I thought I'd tag along." He gestured to the museum upstairs. "Figured I could look at some of what the British plundered from North Africa. Plus, there's bound to be more hot water than in the hotels I've been staying in in Egypt."

Carolyn regarded him, suspicious of his casual reason for appearing in Bath. The Greg Porter she remembered refused to attend any traditional events. He would especially not have gone to the joint meeting of the Royal Society of Archaeologists and the American Archaeologic Historians, long known as the most formal of the many archeology meetings held every year.

She decided she had no choice but to give him the benefit of the doubt. "You going on the tour? Starts in about ten minutes."

Greg walked over to stand next to her and he studied the water for a few moments without comment. "I've never been here. Weren't these baths your primary research area?"

"You know they were. They've always been my favorite place to visit." Carolyn regarded him as Greg stared at the steamy water. She could not remember him being this pensive. Greg was restless to the point of impatient, in or out of class. She realized she was gripping the metal gate in front of the steamy arch. She loosened her hold and let her shoulders relax. Carolyn felt the infuriating mix of repulsion and attraction that had always characterized her reaction to the man with whom she had tied for first place in their graduating class.

The attraction had been instantaneous. He was bright, articulate and handsome. But there was a darker side to Greg Porter, and it included disdain for those who were not as bright as he. No, perhaps aloofness would be more fair. It was as if his ideas were too important to share with others.

With a start, Carolyn realized Greg was now looking at her rather than the pouring waters. She felt a rush of warmth. From the steamy water, of course. "You never said if you were going on the tour."

Greg turned from the archway and started to walk toward the Great Bath. "I guess I will," he said. "I should probably listen to make sure all that stuff you said about this place was true."

"I didn't realize you listened that carefully." Carolyn eyed the Great Bath. As the water met with the cooler air, it created a mist that mixed with the dusk to heighten the ancient aura of the place. She glanced at Greg. "Bet you don't know how many millions of gallons of water are pumped in here from the hot spring below."

"You're right, I don't." To Carolyn's ears, it sounded as if he implied he didn't care.

"Nearly a quarter million gallons per day. The Romans may have been responsible for the engineering feats that created these massive bathing areas and ornate structures, but they couldn't have done it without Mother Nature."

"No doubt." Greg continued to survey the misty green waters.

Carolyn had had enough. Greg Porter was hard enough to tolerate when he was willing to talk. The somber version was an even bigger pain to be around. "If you decide to go on the tour, I'll see you there."

"Sure." Greg moved away, seemingly studying the patterns of the rough stonework that comprised the flooring.

Carolyn glanced at her watch. It wasn't quite time for the special tour, so she walked the short distance to view the display of the Gorgon's head, said to have once graced the now-gone Roman Temple.

The hair and mustache of the male figure appeared as flames that spread out from the face to form a perfect circle. Though it was similar to some Roman sculpture, the Celtic emphasis was strongest. Two snakes were intertwined in the flaming hair below his chin, a symbol of the union with the forces of nature. Though there were many theories about what the head represented, Carolyn best liked that which said it was King Bladud, a master of magic who could communicate with the dead, and was said to have founded the original universities in Britain. She regarded the flaming hair that wreathed his head, reflecting on one of the other beliefs, that the Gorgon's head was that of a sun god. Either way, his image was a powerful one.

"Lass, you don't need to study it quite so hard. Old Gorgon isn't going anywhere."

Carolyn smiled as she regarded the face of Dr. James Cochran, once simply a favorite professor and now a beloved friend as well. He extended a hand. She grasped it with both of hers and leaned forward to kiss his weathered cheek. "Since when do we merely shake hands?" she asked.

"I was thinking at a professional meeting, I should perhaps not act at all familiar." Scotty, as most of his friends called him, winked.

Carolyn suspected that he worked hard to keep his Scottish accent, which rolled off his tongue as easily as if he'd moved to the United States from Glasgow only the week before, rather than decades earlier. "Don't you dare be so formal." Carolyn took his arm as they walked toward the steps leading up to the museum, where they were to meet with others to form the tour group. She regarded his profile, with the finely-lined skin topped with a shock of thick, white hair. She had never thought of Scotty as that much older than she, but he was in his mid-sixties, and had been widowed long before she met him nearly 10 years earlier. The age difference was clearer now.

Scotty walked with an awkward gait, the result of a mild stroke several years earlier. Carolyn slowed her pace a bit. "You'll never guess," she continued, "who I just ran into."

"If you mean your old friend Greg Porter, I don't need to guess. Saw his name on the list of attendees."

"He not my ..." Carolyn caught herself. "I mean, we don't stay in touch." Not that she could have kept in touch if she wanted to. Greg had left the U.S. shortly after graduation, and as far as she knew he communicated with none of their classmates.

Before Scotty could reply, the sound of briskly clapping hands and a raised voice interrupted them. "Do come round, now. So important that we start promptly."

Carolyn regarded the guide. Mrs. Rigby, as her name badge dubbed her, was in her mid-sixties. Unlike the other British women her age, her skirt was just above the knee, and she had a bright-color scarf at her neck. Carolyn noted that her nails and make-up were that of an ingénue. If anything, her apparent efforts to look younger had the opposite effect. Carolyn made a mental note to remember to dress her age at all times.

"It is indeed an honor," Rigby continued, "to welcome the joint meeting of our two nations' preeminent groups of archeology professionals." Rigby paused as several others moved to join the group. "Even those of you who have been here previously will find our recent excavations have uncovered more of the wonderful history of this site each year."

Carolyn noted the guide's upper-class British accent, and wondered if it was feigned. She decided probably not, that what bothered her was that the woman's words were warm, but her voice was cold.

Rigby guided them back down the stairs to a spot at the edge of the Great Bath. "Though many of you know as much about the history of this ancient spot as I do, permit me to give a general overview. The conquering Romans were not the first to discover this hot spring. Earlier Celtic residents had a crude bath. They worshiped Sulis, now more often called by her Latin-Celtic name of Aquae Sulis. Later, the Roman Goddess worshipped at this site was Minerva."

Carolyn glanced around and saw Greg had joined the group. He caught her eye and nodded, and moved closer to where she and Scotty stood. She wasn't sure if she wanted him that close. He would either needle her or ignore her. She forced her attention back to the tour guide.

"The Celts," Rigby continued, "believed natural springs were the place where gods and goddesses lived, and from which power and blessings flowed."

Greg bent down, so Carolyn tilted her head to hear his whisper. "Did you ever see a bigger hot tub?"

She decided the best approach was to ignore him, so she looked directly at the guide, trying to stifle the urge to laugh aloud at the absurd comparison.

As Rigby continued, her voice rose, as if she wanted to make sure no one doubted her words. "The Celts believed in a blending of this world and what they thought of as the Otherworld."

Carolyn sensed rather than saw Greg move a few feet away. Next to her, Scotty leaned forward, as if trying to absorb everything Mrs. Rigby said. Carolyn thought he was listening more intently than the discourse seemed to warrant. Though he had never been to Bath, she knew he had read about the site many times. And he’d certainly listened to Carolyn talk about it.

The guide continued. "Many of the Celtic myths reflect a belief that when one person's spirit passed on, another entered the human world, so that balance was maintained."

Carolyn's eyes wandered to Greg, and he and wagged his index finger as if to say "who does she think she's kidding?" Carolyn glared at him, and she saw a couple of the more proper tour group members regard him with disapproving expressions. Greg grinned disarmingly at them. She noted his 'turn-on-the-charm' attempt had its desired effect, and one of the women smiled at him.

WITH CAROLYN POINTEDLY ignoring him, Greg walked a few feet from the group. He still wasn't sure why he had come. What was he looking for?

His gaze traveled to the uneven stone floors and then to the sky seen through the roofless structure. The Great Bath itself was open to the elements, but the section bordering it was covered. Supporting the roof that protected the perimeter were vestiges of the original Roman columns. Though only the base was authentic, the synthetic materials used to recreate the full column were effective. Greg noted that the cracks where original and modern materials met were discernable, but not so obvious that they smacked of reconstruction only for the sake of tourists.

Statues of Roman soldiers and poets surrounded the Bath on high, and he studied them. Just beyond them was the Abbey spire, and he craned his neck to see the top of it. Greg assumed it was built in approximately the 15th century, which was impressive in and of itself. But the Romans were more awe-inspiring. How did they manage, nearly two thousand years ago, to fashion a timbered, domed roof above the massive bath and several of the adjoining rooms?

He glanced up to where the domed roof had been and instinctively ducked. Nothing came down. He had been certain something was about to fall on him. His quick motion startled an older couple standing next to him, and he moved away. He willed himself to relax.

Greg had thought that if he came to the painstakingly restored baths he would better understand the haunting feeling he had when he saw the photograph on the flyer announcing the archeology meeting. He wasn't so sure. None of Carolyn's graduate-school ramblings about the place had made him want to come to Bath. Now, seeing the structure only seemed to heighten the sense of uneasiness he felt. His view strayed back to Carolyn. He wished he could transfer what she knew to his own brain. Greg followed her line of vision as she studied a display case that contained a number of polished stones and small coins.

Rigby pointed to the glass-enclosed shelves. "Many of those who worshipped tried to curry the goddess' favor by leaving small gifts. Some of these were the offerings of the very wealthy, probably the Romans themselves. Others were the simple treasures of the less well-to-do, such as the pieces of pottery you see on the lower shelves." He moved closer and was drawn to a small, polished, rose-colored stone. It would have been a special gift in those hard times, even by the standards of the wealthy Romans.

"Unfortunately, when the Romans left, beginning in 410 AD, many of the most skilled artisans left with them." As Rigby continued to speak, Greg moved a few feet further away and regarded a scale model of the original baths. It was made of dark wood, and showed how elaborate the facility had been, including the intricate series of pipes that carried water from the spring to the baths and then drained used water away from the facility. As only a society that placed a high value on personal pleasure could, the Romans had devised a bathing ritual that had swimming baths, cold plunges, saunas and Turkish baths. He studied the floor plan, which showed five separate bathing areas in the West baths alone, plus numerous dressing rooms and massage facilities.

"By the late fifth century," Rigby continued, "the fairly regular flooding buried the baths in silt. Though parts of the Roman foundations were discovered when the Grand Pump Room was begun in 1790, the baths were not truly rediscovered until 1878."

"Now, if you'll just come along through here, you'll see the West baths." Rigby led the group into a smaller room that had an oval bath on one side. Greg blinked as his eyes adjusted to less light. He noticed the stone floor was not as damaged as that around the Great Bath, which had more exposure to weather. Around the oval bath was brick work about two feet high. Probably to keep a tipsy Roman from falling out, he thought.

Rigby gestured to the bath itself. "These were smaller baths, used for healing mineral soaks. This area, as with most sections of the Baths, is still being examined."

Greg's eyes traveled to two workers, backs to the tour group, who were carefully moving a pile of flat stone tiles from a spot on the floor that was damp to a drier spot about ten feet away. The larger of the two men continued his work, but his eyes followed along the part of the stone wall as Rigby described it. Greg wondered how he stayed so interested if he was in the baths every day.

"I so wish," the guide continued, "that you could use these wonderful baths for their original intent. I'm afraid our health experts tell us a microorganism has taken up residence, and it would be most unhealthful to soak here."

"No healing use of the baths at all, then?" Scotty asked.

"None," Rigby said, her voice rising as if to emphasize that no one should even consider it. "There are some chemicals that could be inserted, but who knows what damage they would do over time. Pity, isn't it?" Scotty merely nodded.

"A far bigger frustration is that beyond that wall is most probably the Roman Temple." Her expression hardened somewhat. "With millions of pounds--that's British pounds sterling--of Georgian architecture above it, we are not likely to ever know what lies within it."

The group exchanged words of chagrin. Greg stared intently at the stone wall. Why, he wondered, did he think she was wrong, that the temple was not behind that wall? He had never really studied this site.

Rigby moved the group into a main hallway, talking as she walked. "And now, ladies and gentlemen, I present to you the enchanting Goddess of these Roman Baths, Sulis-Minerva."

Greg stared, transfixed. In a glass case, on a stand, was the head of a classic-style Roman statue that appeared to stare dreamily into space. Her face was pock-marked with age, and all traces of what was probably a gold finish were gone. Greg stumbled slightly over the rough stone on the floor, as he moved closer to the encased head.

"The head was found in 1727.." Rigby began.

"Where?" Greg interrupted.

"In the middle of Stall Street. The city was digging a sewer, when a workman uncovered..."

"Just the head?" He sensed that Carolyn had moved a few steps closer to him, and instinctively moved toward her.

Rigby displayed mild impatience. "Yes, just the head. We haven't a clue to where the rest of her is. Perhaps..."

"What happened to the opals in her eyes?" The large, red-haired workman dropped a stone tile. Greg looked from him back to the guide.

His final question appeared to be more than Mrs. Rigby could tolerate. "We've no idea what stones were in her eyes. Has your museum a theory on the type of gemstone?" The sarcasm in her voice reached him, and he realized how intent he had been on his questions.

"My...? Oh, no. I mean, I'm.."

FOR THE FIRST TIME since she'd known him, Greg Porter was flustered. Carolyn reached over and put a hand on his arm. He stared at her as if seeing her for the first time.

"Bit late to be nabbing the jewel thief, isn't it?" Scotty asked. His attempt at humor succeeded, as the group laughed politely.

"I must be confusing this with another site. Please excuse me." With that, he pulled his arm away from Carolyn and strode away.

Carolyn moved the few steps back toward Scotty and looked at him questioningly. "What do you suppose got into him?"

"Perhaps he has a bit of jet lag," was the older man's only comment, as he stared after Greg.

"And now," the guide's voice continued, "we'll again discuss the curative mineral waters and how the Romans channeled them for their use. If you'll just follow me back to the West Baths, we'll talk about how the Romans altered their structure through the years."

Carolyn took Scotty's arm and they stepped carefully over the rough stones. Opal eyes? Had the heat of the North African sun turned Greg's insistent style of questioning into imaginary ramblings? Not likely. She found herself curious, not so much about his questions as his abrupt departure. Maybe she would spend enough time with him over the next few days to find out what was on his mind.