Chapter 13

“Naturally not. He has five other children on the way.”

The doctor spluttered, but Frances patted him on the arm. “Are you all right? It is fine, doctor. We are all happy as a loving family, and that is what matters, is it not?”

He calmed down and finally admitted out loud, “If you are all happy, then I suppose there is no harm done, but are you certain about that?”

“I am certain, doctor; WE are certain, so no need to fret. Reg is under our control, not the other way around!”

The doctor allowed himself to be ushered out by the same teenager who had let him in; although he was wrong as to her identity. It was Carol. No-one had mentioned twins, so he did not twig to the personnel change.

In the hospital, Reg was roused from a painkiller-induced doze by the ringing of the mobile phone now parked by his bed. He answered it groggily, not sure who was ringing, and decided on non-committal.

“Yes?”

“Mr Robertson?”

“Yes.”

“Josephine Newsome, Mr Robertson; the Finds Liaison Officer.”

“Oh, yes. I remember. Sorry, I just woke up.”

“Good news, sir. The concretions have separated nicely. Mostly silver coins, as we thought, but the hints of gold in the base of each concretion turned out to be what I suspected, given that remainder were coins: gold aurei.”

“Aurei?”

“Sorry, it is the Latin plural of aureus; a Roman gold coin originally equal to 25 pure silver denarii, but that was in earlier Roman times. The silver coinage was later debased, but not the gold coinage. Strictly speaking, the Roman term for these gold coins was nummus aureus – gold money, but we only use ‘aureus’ today, for simplicity’s sake. That is all by the by, for we are viewing the coins as treasure rather than money, and of course any gold coin is much more valuable than the face denomination due to the appreciation in the value of gold as a precious metal. Beyond that value, there is the rarity value of a Roman gold coin, to numismatists; the aureus particularly so, much more than the later solidus introduced by Constantine.”

Reg murmured, “I am afraid you have lost me, Mrs Newsome. Can you simplify it for me, a simple university student?”

The irony was lost on her as she replied, “I am sorry, Mr Robertson. Are you sitting down?”

“No, I am actually lying flat in a hospital bed; but as you yourself said, that is by the by. What is your news, please?”

“Ah, yes. I am sorry to hear about that. I was not aware that you were unwell, Mr Robertson. Please accept my apologies for disturbing you in such adverse circumstances.”

“Mrs Newsome? Your news?”

“Oh. My news. Of course. The aureus is rare in any condition, therefore much more valuable than its bullion content of just a few grams of gold. The size of these coins is similar to the denarius, you see. There are hundreds of denarii in your finds, so the total value from these will be quite considerable on their own, depending on condition, rarity, and market demand at auction.”

“Mrs Newsome, you are wandering off the point: the value of the aureus.”

“I am, amn’t I? Sorry about that. The aureus’s value, yes. The answer is really that it depends on a number of factors: condition of the coin, name of the emperor (some emperors didn’t last long), rarity of that particular striking, the quality of the striking, such as centering, and so on, but the value can range from a few hundred pounds to hundreds of thousands. Much depends on the interest at a particular numismatic auction, but people view rare gold coins as an investment opportunity, and the prices accordingly keep increasing.”

“So the gist of it is that each aureus could be worth between a few hundred pounds and possibly half a million?”

“Yes, give or take. Our official assessor for the British Museum, though an acknowledged expert, may be unwilling to set a specific value because of the market variability, so you might be advised to wait for a noteworthy sale rather than accept an official estimate at the start.”

“Can I return to another basic, Mrs Newsome? How many of these gold coins are there? You haven’t mentioned the quantity involved.”

“Oh, yes: I didn’t say, did I? The one concretion contained seven aurei and the other contained eleven aurei. Heavens know why they varied so enormously between the concretions – or rather the bags they were originally held in. One would expect two hoards buried together to have similar totals in each bag of coins, but we are dealing with the vagaries of people, are we not? The one bag may have had eleven dumped in, being in a hurry, and the remainder went into the second.”

“Indeed so. I can believe such a scenario. Are all the aurei of the same vintage?”

“Curiously, they are; all of Domitian’s reign, first century A.D. Why that should be, I have no idea. Perhaps once we have all the silver coins examined, and we can date these, this may become evident. If the silver coins are of a similar date, the hoard may have been buried soon after that period, and reflect the coinage in circulation at the time. Aurei were never minted in any great quantity except by Julius Caesar. Denarii were always minted in quantity, but were susceptible to debasing. The silver content dropped drastically over time.”

“So, can I assume we have a hoard which is worth probably tens of thousands of pounds, right?”

“Umm ... yes, you can make that generalised assumption, though what the final total will be is anybody’s guess.”

“I can live with that, Mrs Newsome. The local F.L.O. for my last find was very helpful. I expect it will be some days before you can come up with any valuation from your coin expert. I had better ring off, for I need to catch up on some sleep. Goodbye and thanks again.”

Reg switched off his phone and swiftly switched off his mind, as sleep overtook him.

He was roused some hours later by a nurse who insisted that he required some sustenance. “You missed your evening meal, Mr Robertson, for you were too deeply asleep. The doctor said to give you this high-protein drink to make up for it.” She proferred a small carton, like a juice drink, complete with a plastic straw, then used the bed’s hand control unit to swing up the top section of his electric bed so that he could drink from the carton. He immediately felt the pressure on his wound as it was stretched by gravity, but instead concentrated on the drink.

The nurse was determined to make sure he drank it all, so waited to observe. He grimaced at the taste, but realised it was not a fun drink, but a medicinal one, and under the watchful eye of the nurse he sucked out and swallowed all the contents. He asked for a sip or two of water to wash the residue down his throat, and was granted that boon.

“Can I go back to sleep now? Can we have the ward overhead light off too?”

“I am afraid, sir, that the ward light does not get switched off until ten p.m. - hospital rules.”

“Damn all hospital rules!” Reg declared. “Oh, well, hopefully I will just drop off again.”

“It would be different if you were in a private room, sir. There, you would have some control over light and sound.” she suggested.

Reg perked up at the idea. “A private room? Great! How much for a private room?”

“Ninety pounds per night in this hospital, sir. The charge varies from hospital to hospital.”

“Cheap at the price, if I can get a decent sleep. Move me, please, and charge my card.”

“Sir, I should warn you that all medical treatment continues as before, even if you are in a private room. You will still be woken for medicine administration and any tests prescribed by the doctor on your case.”

“I accept that, but at least I can decide when I want the light out, and control noise disturbance and other nuisance factors.”

“Very well, sir. I will check to see if a room is vacant, before we attempt to move your bed.”

One was indeed vacant, so within the hour, Reg’s bed was trundled to this private room. Before he settled, they presented him with his breakfast options, and he tried to mark as much as he could, but the nurse pointed out what would require him to sit up straight to consume, and thus not advisable with his wound. Reg took their advice on the menu choices. He slept well after that.

Morning was pleasant, not having the lights on too early, and no nurses bustling around the ward attending to this patient and that patient. Eventually a polite knock at the door heralded the cheery orderly with his breakfast tray.

Within an hour he had his first visitor, surprising him for it was well outside visiting times. A female head surmounting a clerical collar poked itself around the door, and a surprised voice declared, “It IS the uncommon Reginald Robertson!”

In walked the Reverend Professor from the university, in her weekday clerical garb, and announced, “I arrived to do my visits for those who professed the Faith, and the admin staff told me one of our students was here. I got a shock when I was told it was a Mr Robertson. I was not expecting to find you here, young man. Have your women worn you out?”

“No, ma’am. I got stabbed in the back, at Scarborough, protecting some ladies who were NOT my wives.”

“What? YOU were the character who one-handedly killed an assailant after being stabbed? I didn’t expect that a Yorkshire story would impinge on our own hallowed halls, and I never thought it might be you.”

“Yes, ma’am, I cannot tell a lie; it was I.”

“Now, Reginald, that is a bad quote: you should know that there is no evidence that George Washington really said that, or even that he chopped down a tree like the story goes. It was all hearsay evidence, long, long afterwards.”

“Yes, ma’am; unlike the Bible, of course!” he quipped.

“You are quite sharp this morning, Reginald. Does that mean you are feeling much better? I am surprised. Killing another human being, no matter the circumstances, is never good for the soul, or the psyche, as the psychiatrists would have it.”

“That is a fact, Professor. I did feel terribly shocked at first about getting myself in that position, but I rationalised it as having been the only recourse I had at the time, if I was to protect the lives of myself and my companions. I had no intention of killing him. That mental argument has helped me cope somewhat with the fact of killing someone, no matter how bad he was. I regret having killed him, full stop.”

“A good start, Reginald. Would you like me to put up a prayer to the Lord, begging forgiveness for breaching one of his Ten Commandments – a major one at that?”

“I would be glad if you would do so, ma’am,” Reg said sincerely. “I could do with forgiveness.”

Immediately she performed that prayer of supplication, asking God to accept that this act of killing was not actively intentional, and that Reginald sought forgiveness for the unfortunate error.

He was unable to bow his head for that prayer, but he closed his eyes and trusted she would not think he was falling asleep!

Reg felt relieved that he had the Reverend Professor on his side, and his conscience relaxed as well. He ventured a question that had come to him a while back.

“Professor, what is the main difference between humanism and Christianity, apart from atheism?”

The woman looked at him quizzically, surprised at the question. “There are basic assumptions, based on a different view of faith, Reginald. The humanist looks to mankind to find solutions to all our problems. We Christians have the benefit of knowing that Christ died for our sins, so that our past transgressions are not a continuing worry; only our future decisions are in our hands. The humanists have to deal with their past sins in their own way. I think we have the better deal, with Jesus having given us a head start!”

“Thanks for that, Professor. It is a succinct and positive answer. It makes me feel much better, after having deprived a fellow human being of his life.”

The Reverend then asked, “You mentioned companions in Scarborough? That was an interesting choice of word. They were not your wives, Mr Robertson?”

“Not this time, Professor. Their studies took priority when I had to go to Scarborough, you will be pleased to hear, so they remained at home. I got my Pakistani friend to drive me in a borrowed car, and her daughter came too, as a short holiday break from home. There were two other ladies with us at the time. They were acting as local guides, at the request of their farmer father.”

“You have a disconcerting habit of baffling me with snippets of unrelated information, Reginald. I got the reference to the first two ladies, but farmer’s daughters has me nonplussed.”

“Sorry, ma’am. A local farmer near where we live allowed me to try out a metal detector in one of his fields, and by a fluke we found some buried treasure. He later remembered an uncle in Yorkshire who had found a silver coin in one field of his farm many years ago. So, he arranged for me to visit with my metal detector, to check out the field in question. I got on well with that family, and thus the daughters were volunteered to act as guides around Scarborough, after I had discovered another hoard and got the Finds Liaison Officer to collect the coins. The farming family as landowners get a share of the proceeds.”

“You do have unusual life experiences, Mr Robertson. Treasure hunter extraordinaire indeed. Anything else I should know about?”

“Only that the two daughters are coming to our house for relationship training. They were not behaving very kindly towards their parents, you see, so I offered my wives as relationship trainers, considering what a great job they did with a useless lump like me.”

“An admirable thought. They did indeed have some success with you, Reginald, to their own ultimate benefit. When these Yorkshire lasses are with your ladies, would you like me to call in and offer some additional thoughts on how best to react with relatives and others?”

Reg’s eyes opened at the idea, and he nodded enthusiastically. “Good idea, ma’am. I’ll pass it to Frances and she can organise such a visit at the appropriate time.”

After a few more minutes she apologised for having to rush off. “I have other patients to visit, Reginald. One or two of them have to make their peace with God, for they are not much longer for this life. Death is an unfortunate part of life, so I do what I can to make the transition as easy as possible for their immortal souls.”

Reg at once excused her, and she left him realising how lucky he was to be recovering, and not dying.

Another while later, as he was getting bored with simply lying on his front, a nurse looked in to tell him there was a reporter from the local newspaper outside, and did Mr Robertson feel up to seeing him?

Bored as he was, unable to see much with lying on his front, Reg agreed with some trepidation that the reporter could come in. The young man in his twenties entered hesitantly, came round to where Reg could see him, and said apologetically, “There was trouble before, some months back, when I tried to speak to you at the university, but this visit has nothing to do with that, sir.”

“I remember. It was a touch intrusive back then, so we took action to stop it. What is it this time? I am not in a position to throw you out, as you can see, apart from screaming for a nurse if you upset me too much!”

The man told Reg, “You will not have to do that, sir. We were given a tip-off by another newspaper. Actually they e-mailed us the story they printed about you in the Scarborough News, Mr Robertson. You are a local hero, did you know?”

“Oh. They pass on such stories, do they?”

“Yes, sir. We do this to help each other if there is a local connection. With you living locally and also a student at our university, a story like this is wonderful copy. It is not often that we hear of a local who can retaliate to an attacker at all, never mind kill him with one blow!”

“Do we really need that kind of flummery to keep local newspapers alive?”

“Sir, it is not flummery! This is genuine heroism, where a man being stabbed can manage to protect his friends so swiftly and so successfully. It is great news! We can’t ignore such stirring and valiant prowess.”

“But I killed a man! That is not something to be celebrated.”

The reporter looked at Reg in a new light. Regret for killing an attacker? Very unusual, not to say odd. “But sir, you were protecting other people, the article said.”

“Yes, but I didn’t want to kill the man, just disable him, to stop him continuing his attack.”

“You did that, all right, sir. The fact that your retaliation killed him is an accidental by-product of your defence tactics. Your intentions were honourable, Mr Robertson, and that is what matters for the story.”

“Perhaps so, but...”

“The people you were protecting, sir; were any of them locals, that is, people from here?”

“The people I was ... oh, yes. Sorry, no; none of them were local to this town. Friends and such, that is all.”

“They must have been very good friends, for you to protect them so strenuously.”

“I am afraid I didn’t think of it that way at the time. I was being given a guided tour of Scarborough, and when attacked, I simply reacted defensively without thinking. I was unaware that I had been stabbed; didn’t find it until the action was over. I had been through a self-defence course, and this was one of the ‘last-ditch’ tactics to employ in an emergency. When you get an unexpected attack on you, such as a blade stuck into your back, it is an emergency, so all I thought was which response to use to save myself and my friends. This was the only one that came to mind at the time. Emergencies are not the occasion for deep and meaningful thought.”

“I like that, sir: your last sentence. Can I quote you on it?”

“Certainly. It is true.”

“Your full name, sir, is Reginald Robertson, right?”

“Yes.”

“You are 19?”

“Coming up 20, so please call it twenty; sounds more mature, not being a teenager.”

“Your address?”

“No fixed abode.”

“Really?”

“No, but that will do for your story. I don’t want my home address mentioned. I have an enemy that I don’t want told where I live.”

“We can skip the address then. You are a student at our local university?”

“Yes.”

“Studying what?”

“Whatever interests me. I have not decided what my principal subject will be yet.”

“So we just say student. Married? I think that is a yes, from what I have heard.”

“Correctly speaking, the answer is yes and no.”

“Peculiar answer. How do you make that out, sir?”

“I have not gone through any legal marriage in England, so legally I am not married, but in practice I am married. Does that help you?”

“Confusing is the best word for that, sir.” After a moment’s thought, he suggested, “I can say ‘he is understood to be married’, if that satisfies you.”

“That sounds acceptable for public consumption.”

“Any children?”

“Not yet.”

“Siblings?”

“I was an only child.”

“Uncles and aunts?”

“No idea. My widowed mother never mentioned such people.”

“For the story about your adventure in Scarborough, may I simply copy what the Scarborough News published?”

“I thought it was the Scarborough Evening News that was the local paper?”

“It was, but it closed in 2006 then in 2012 reopened under the new title, and became a weekly paper. So you probably were moved here before the story appeared. You didn’t see it?”

“No chance to do so. The hospital kept me comatose for most of the time I was in Scarborough General. I don’t know where they got their story or what it said.”

“The sources, from the look of the story, would be a combination of the police, ambulance, and local witnesses, but it would be an accurate summation, I assure you. It has to be, to avoid legal problems later.”

“I’ll take your word for it then.”

“Fine. That should do me for now. Is there any indication I can quote of your current medical condition and when you might be released?”

“You can say I am on the mend, but the doctors have not told me when I can go home. I am hoping it will be soon, though what ‘soon’ will mean is anyone’s guess.”

“Fair enough. That will do. When I ask the doctors about a patient, all I usually get is either, ‘the patient is as well as can be expected’ or ‘no comment’, so your opinion is just as valid, Mr Robertson.”

“Thank you. Is that all?”

“It is, thank you. I’ll be off now. Thanks again, and get well soon.”

Reg relaxed once more, until his phone rang again. He regretted leaving it switched on, but answered it.

“Mr Robertson, it is Josephine Newsome again. I have spoken to various people about your finds, and a coin expert will be calling here tomorrow or the next day. He said to me, ‘Robertson, again? That guy is a walking treasure finder!’ I thought that would amuse you.”

“It does, a little, but two swallows don’t make a summer, Mrs Newsome. I have just been lucky; that’s all.”

“However. I found it interesting that you were a serial successful treasure finder. I did not suspect that from your demeanour at East Ayton. You gave no sign of already being well off from a previous discovery. At least you go about reporting your finds the right way.”

“Thank you for your encouraging words, Mrs Newsome. I am in hospital at the moment, as I mentioned before, but hope to get home soon.”

“Oh, I had forgotten that, sorry. My mind is on several finds that I am dealing with, and some facts can slip the busy mind. I tend to rabbit on without giving you a chance to speak. I shall ring off and leave you in peace then, and call you only when there is significant news to report. Farewell for now, Mr Robertson.”

Reg closed down his phone, hoping that now he would get some peace. His current life appeared to swing between boredom and hectic. He checked the room clock, and worked out how long until visiting time. Who might turn up next, he wondered? He dozed off while he was still wondering what his day would bring.

Unsurprisingly, it was Frances who marched in, asking, “How come you have switched to a private room, my love? Was the ward too public for you to display all your spouses?”

“No, Frances my sweet. It was the disturbance to my sleep; what with lights on when I wanted them off, other patients needing attention – some of them cry out in pain at times, you see, or mumble in their sleep – and orderlies wheeling beds in and out when the medics want them moved for operations or back from operations. It was annoying me. I had to pay for this room, but I get a blessed relief in return for the payment. I can afford it, can’t I, Frances?”

“You certainly can, you sweet boy. We are all missing you at home. Being pregnant seems to heighten the libido, so we are looking forward to fucking you again.”

“Ah, Frances, the doctors tell me I can’t do anything strenuous until my wound heals, so I think that means no sex for some time yet. I don’t like it, but I think they are correct in that diagnosis.”

“Not even cowgirl-style? I could cope with that, and you would not have to exert yourself much.”

“I am not sure. I’ll ask a male doctor that question later. Is everything okay at home?”

“I love the way you say that, ‘at home’. It sounds so right and comfortable! Yes, we are all fine at the moment, except we have these two strays you sent to us with Jessica. Oh, you did know that Jessica has been confirmed pregnant? We called out a doctor to do it, privately, to keep her name out of the records.”