The Holy Lance - Chapter 6 cont.

In the corner, at a table with two chairs rather than the usual four, an elderly gentleman stood, a watch chain hanging from his well-cut lapel, a white-collared shirt setting off his shock of hair. “Pleased to meet you Dr Pelham, pleased to meet you.” The hands covered with liver spots pumped Simon’s with the vigour of a 30 year-old, a pair of cold blue eyes sparkling above a hawk-like nose. “It is a rare honour to meet the author of ‘Pro-consular provinces under the Julio-Claudians’. Please sit down. Have a drink, I’ve already taken the liberty”. He motioned to his own, half-full glass as a waiter appeared like a genie to pour a pale golden liquid into Simon’s.

The 2005 Smaragd Neuberger from the Wachau valley was delicious, apricotty and nutty at the same time. It was good enough to make Simon forget about the scandal of the the 1980’s, when when several winemakers were found to have added diethylene glycol (better known as anti-freeze) to their wines in an effort to make them sweeter. Herr Schmidt smiled. “We have some very good wines in this country, but we like them so much we don’t let them leave.” A chuckle showed a full mouth of very healthy teeth.

After ordering a selection of appetisers from the apparently world-renowned appetiser trolley, the two consumed a pair of Wiener Schitzels, the best in the city, according to the host, as they chatted about Oxford, the Romans and Vienna. All in all, a perfectly civilised meal, not dissimilar to that on offer at High Table, but Simon had a feeling there was more to this than a friendly alumnus helping out his college. Every so often, Herr Schmidt would through in odd questions, about Jonathan, violence, even the crucifiction, before reverting to the more mundane subjects of rowing, punting and scaling college walls after curfew. That said, dinner was excellent, and despite his host’s eccentricities, Simon was glad of the company.

With coffee, Herr Schmidt insisted on a couple of glasses of Trockenbeerenauslese which was apparently similar to the more famous Hungarian Tokaji but better. Another Austrian secret.

Yet another was about to arrive. Leaning across the table, Herr Schmidt asked to see Simon’s hand. Not been in the habit of holding hands with elderly gentlemen in soft-lit restaurants, Simon was hesitant. Not wishing to offend, however, he placed both hands on the table.

“That’s a nice ring you have, where did you get it?”

“It was a legacy I suppose, someone left it to me.”

“I see. Was it Jonathan?”

“Yes, actually” Simon spluttered.

“What is the crest? I cannot see it well.”

“I’m not really sure. It’s an eagle holding a spear in its talons. I imagine it’s something Roman. The eagle representing the legionary eagles that were paraded in front of the army”

“A good guess, Dr Pelham, but wrong. You see, I wear the same ring.” Herr Schmidt turned round his own ring, and held out his hand to Simon, almost as if he was suggesting that Simon kiss his hand.