The Centurion's Helmet

It was the housekeeper's high pitched scream which brought us running to that back room. Barbara sat her in the chair and taking both her hands, asked,

"Sarah, what on earth is the matter?"

Between sobs, she managed to say, "I...I... I was trying to clean the mirror. When... when I pressed my cloth on it... my hand... my hand and my arm went right through. I pulled them out but I'm not going to touch it again."

The room, in which the mirror seemed to serve no real purpose, was built entirely of stone with two narrow windows and is obviously much older than the rest of the house. Apart from the mirror, which is about the size and shape of an ordinary doorway, the only furniture is a chair and a locked display cabinet containing some very authentic looking Roman pottery.

I would like to examine these pieces more closely but have been unable to find a key for the cabinet. They are of particular interest to me as I am a Senior Lecturer at the University of Eastern Sydney, specialising in early British history. This trip is to study old Roman towns in Britain and Lincoln seemed like a good place to start. Barbara, my wife, was due for some long service leave and decided to come with me.

This old house is far too large for just the two of us but we will only be in Lincoln for a few weeks and it was all that was available for short term lease. It is furnished with a motley collection of old furniture which I would hesitate to call antique while the walls are decorated with portraits of somebody's ancestors painted by third rate artists. Even employing a housekeeper, who comes in three times a week to help Barbara, it is cheaper than staying in a hotel.

I couldn't see any sign of a crack or a break in the mirror. "That doesn't sound right," I said. "Here, give me your cloth."

But she was right. As soon as I applied any pressure to the cloth my hand and forearm disappeared into the mirror as though it was liquid. By waggling my hand around I deduced there was clear space behind the mirror but, in the process, I dropped the cloth. Not knowing what else to do we closed up the room and Barbara made us all a strong cup of tea before we sent Sarah home to recover.

"It doesn't matter," I told them. "We don't need the room. We'll just leave it closed."

It only took two days for my curiosity to get the better of me. I found a long handled broom in the scullery and began carefully probing through the mirror with its handle. As far as I could tell the space beyond the mirror was a passageway, its height and width only slightly larger than those of the mirror. I was determined to see it.

Despite her strongly voiced objections, Barbara agreed to hold my belt tightly while I placed my face against the mirror, closed my eyes and taking a deep breath applied a gentle pressure. I opened my eyes to find I was looking into a short, dimly lit passageway with a rough wooden door at its end. A sniff told me that the air was dank and musty but breathable. I had to know what was on the other side of that door.

We found a long roll of strong, plastic covered clothes line in the laundry which I could use as a lifeline. I tied this firmly around my waist.

"If I tug it once continue to pay out the line but if I give two sharp tugs start to reel me in," I told Barbara.

She giggled, as she sometimes does when she is nervous, "Makes you sound like a fish."

Placing my body close to the mirror I inhaled deeply and closing my eyes I took three short, deliberate steps forward. A tentative sniff told me I was in the passageway and I opened my eyes. I tugged the line once and moved forward. The wooden door creaked open towards me without any difficulty and I entered a small, cell-like room with a hard, narrow bed against one wall. There was a second door and a wooden bench to sit on against the other wall on which hung a centurion's tunic, armour, sword and helmet .

I was afraid to stay too long. Perhaps the occupant would return. The helmet, with its horse hair plume that was a centurion's emblem of rank, interested me most. Taking it down from the peg, I gripped it firmly under my arm and gave two sharp tugs on the line and stepped almost effortlessly through the wall above the dropped cleaning rag. I was back on the other side of the mirror and I still clutched the helmet. Now I had a really unique Roman artifact to take back to Australia -- but perhaps I should tell Customs it was part of a theatrical costume I had been given when I visited the Royal Shakespeare Company.

Examining it more closely later, we discovered the name Brutus Maximus etched into the bronze inside. The name was familiar but not from my studies of Roman Britain. It was more recent than that. It eluded me for a time but then I remembered. Dr. Brutus Maximus was one of the people in Cambridge to whom I had letters of introduction.

When we met he said, "Just call me Max. I understand you rented my old family home while you were in Lincoln. I hope you enjoyed your stay."

"Yes... Yes we did," I managed to stutter.

Obviously once a strong, well built man he was now lean and stooped and looked older than any man I have ever seen. However, his grip on my extended hand, which he shook vigorously, was firm and strong. From later inquiries I discovered he has been in Cambridge far longer than anyone could remember. He is regarded as the pre-eminent authority on the Roman occupation of Britain and speaks and writes Latin as though it was his first language.

Perhaps, I speculated later, Latin is his native tongue and I have stolen his helmet.