He could hardly take one step, especially in the south of England, without feeling jostled by ghosts. Julius Caesar was there and his lesser relation, Claudius. But not all his specters were of such high lineage. Lord Yarborough was as apt to be fascinated by the lowest pot thrower or meanest foot soldier as the great names of history. They had all come here, some for plunder only, others to stay, carrying the image and ideals of Rome with them. Even when Rome’s greatness perished, they stayed on, mingling their blood with the natives’, leaving traces of their glory buried everywhere they had dwelt. Bath especially thronged with phantoms. His father had been staying in Bath when they’d taken down the Abbey House and discovered the Roman bath that had hidden there through the long centuries. He’d often described to his son in after years the way rough stone coffins of lesser men had rested on the thick brick pillars of the ancient bath and how coins from Saxon kings had been found only a few feet above the far more sophisticated architecture of Rome.
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