Stein ignored him, looking round the shadowy audience in the Tower at everyone else and settling finally on Roche himself. "You know A. H. Davis forecast it all—1914 and 1939? He was unbeatable on the Germans: 'They regard it feeble and stupid to get by the sweat of their brow what they can take by spilling their blood'! How's that, eh?"
"It was Tacitus who said that, actually," Audley disagreed.
"In his Germania."
"But Davis quoted him deliberately. And that's what history is all about—putting it all together," said Stein passionately.
"By God! Do you remember that ratty little friend of yours at school, selling us all the classics after Hitler marched into Czechoslovakia? Williams—Williamson? He was always quoting A. H. Davis at us!"
"For God's sake, one of you tell me—who's Botting?" said Bradford irritably.
"He was a schoolmaster," snapped Audley, turning towards dummy5
the American. "They all wrote Latin text-books—Latin and Greek— Latin Prose Composition and Greek Unseens and Graduated Latin Selections."
"Best-sellers?"
"Too bloody right! My Hillard and Botting was the fifteenth impression of the seventh edition, dated 1930. Can you beat that with any of your novels, old boy?" said Audley nastily.
Jilly gave another of her characterislic attention-drawing sniffs. "Or can you, David?"
"Yes—well, that wouldn't be difficult" Audley took the jibe well. "There simply isn't much popular enthusiasm for medieval history these days."
Roche decided to be interested. "That's what you're working on now?"
Audley nodded. "That's why I'm here."
"Here?"
"Yes. I'm putting Ihe final touches to the sequel to my worst-selling book on the defeat of the Arabs by the Byzantines in Ihe 8th century. This one is set at the other end of the Mediterranean. Here, in fact—early Carolingian France."
Roche ran his early French history through his memory at break-neck speed; this, after all, was one of the reasons why he was here, and he had to justify Sir Eustace Avery's confidence.
"Charles Martel?" That was a safe name lo remember.
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"That's right" Audley seemed pleased, but not surprised any more. "Battle of Tours—732. It always astonishes me to think that the Arabs got to within a hundred miles of Paris. And if it hadn't been for Charles Martel their next stop might have been the English Channel."
"They qualify as barbarians—the Arabs?" inquired Slein.
"The Arabs?" Audley sounded shocked.
"His prejudices are showing," murmured Bradford.
Audley coughed primly. "The Arabs in Spain used mostly Berber infantry—and in France—and the Berbers were rather barbarous. In fact, they really only went to Spain in the first place to pick up women and food for their Berbers. And one thing led to another."
"Franco used them in Spain too," said Bradford. "They were still barbarous."
"The French are finding that out in Algeria at the moment,"
said Roche.
"Yes, things don't change, do they?" Audley nodded. "But, of course, the Arabs had it easy in Spain. The Visigoths hadn't quite succeeded in making a go of it there—nearly, but not quite . . . And they'd persecuted the Jews there—"
"Just another bunch of Krauts on the loose—things don't change, you're damn right!" said Slein bitterly.
"The Visigoths!" exclaimed Lexy with a start.
Everyone turned towards the region of deepest shadow in which she had concealed herself.
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"Lexy, honey—you're awake!" said Bradford. "The Visigoths?"
"I haven't been asleep."
"Of course not. But what about the Visigoths, Lex?"
Nothing." She tried to shrink back into the darkness. "Don't mind me."
But we do mind you, Lady Alexandra," said Audley. "You mustn't hide your light under a bushel—you're supposed to be the chief questioner tonight. You drew the short straw last time—remember?"
"And obviously she knows about the Visigoths," said Bradford. "Are they barbarians, Lex honey?"
"Maybe she thinks they're rugger players," murmured Stein.
"Wasn't that your old team, Audley—the Visigoths?"
"Yeah, and they were barbarians," nodded the American.
"When they played there was blood everywhere."
"We haven't even defined what a barbarian is yet," cut in Jilly sharply, moving to Lexy's rescue. "All we've had is Hillard and Botting, and Charles Martel, and David's darling Arabs-who-aren't-barbarians." She sniffed. "A fine chairman you are, David Audley! You couldn't chair a cup of tea across a vicarage parlour!"
"And which barbarians, that is the question?" said Stein.
"Come on, David—Audley—which barbarians are you going to tell us about? Julius Caesar's ones—which I take it will dummy5
include your own woad-covered ancestors?"
"Boadicea's Ancient Brits, you mean?" inquired the American. "Like the statue near Big Ben, by the Thames—the chariot with the scythes on its wheels?"
Jilly leaned forward. "But I didn't think that was your period, David—I thought you were strictly medieval?"
Audley nodded. "So I am."
"So—"
Audley held up his hand. "So listen, my children, and you shall hear what you shall hear!"
"And know neither Doubt nor Fear?" murmured Roche.
"Ah!'' Audley stared at him, and rocked dangerously on the three-legged stool, the huge shadow dancing on the wall behind him. " You know then! 'I am born out of my due time'—remember? 'Five hundred years ago . . . five hundred years hence ... I should have been such a counsellor to kings as the world has never dreamed of." He tapped his head. " Tis all here . . . but it hath no play in this black age'—remember?
Puck of Pook's Hill?"
"De Aquila?" Roche was almost certain of the reference, and it was interesting to him that Audley identified himself with the cunning old blackguard. For either by accident or design Kipling had drawn a classic blueprint for the successful spymaster there, using a judicious mixture of force, blackmail, threats and torture to turn an enemy agent. It was an irony that he himself had identified with de Aquila's dummy5
victim, the faithless Fulke, envying him his chance of changing to the winning side with honour and profit.
Audley nodded back, the lamplight glinting in his spectacles.
" 'The Old Dog' himself. Good man, Roche!"
"Kipling lives again," murmured Bradford.
Audley drew himself up on the stool. "All right then—you barbarians, I'll give you barbarians . . . barbarians all the way from the Rhine and the Danube into the Sea of Grass in the east, to the Volga—Angles, Saxons, Franks, Lombards, Thuringians, Burgundians . . . Alemanni and Marcomanni. . .
Quadi and Rugians and Gepids and Vandals and Goths—
Visigoths and Ostrogoths—"
"As far as the Volga?" Bradford emphasised the name disbelievingly.
"That's right. Stalingrad wasn't the first time the Germans were there. The Romans turned them away from the west, so they went east."
" 'Lebensraum', it's called." Stein nodded. "An old German custom."
"But then they came back." As ever, Jilly had her facts neatly cut-and-dried. "Third century AD? Fourth century?"
"Fourth'll do. Say . . . sixteen hundred years ago . . . give or take a few decades." Audley smiled. "Sixteen centuries ago we could all have been sitting here, nice and cosy, drinking our wine—the good wine of Cahors—" he lifted his glass "—
drinking our wine, and listening to ... Lady Alexandra's titbits dummy5
of scandal from the City, and Stein's news from Alexandria . . . and Jilly would be trying to convert us all to Christianity, probably—" the glass moved from one to the other of them "—and Roche. . .now what would Captain Roche be doing here, among us fat civilians?" The lamplight caught the blood-red of the wine. "On leave from the frontier, maybe? From the heather and the bare hills where th
e wolves howl and the clouds play like cavalry charging? What price Britannia, Captain? Will the frontier hold next time?"
The American saved Roche with a grunt. "Huh! So where does a goddamn Yankee figure at the Court of King David?"
Jilly chuckled. "You don't, Mike—you're an anachronism."
"A who?" asked Lexy.
"A Visigoth, honey," said Bradford.
"And that's exactly right," said Audley quickly. "The hirsute Bradford doesn't fit in our Roman orgy—not sixteen hundred years ago. But if we make him a Visigoth and move on another hundred years . . . then he's here, by God!"
"The frontier didn't hold," said Jilly.
"You didn't do your goddamn job, Captain," said Bradford accusingly. "You let the Krauts in!"
He had to play—
"We didn't have enough men. It was the government's fault
—" he spread his hands "—you expected us to hold the line all the way from the Black Sea to the Irish Channel—"
"Excuses, excuses! You had a job to do, and you didn't do it, dummy5
soldier!" Jilly leaned forward towards Audley. "But I thought it was the Huns that were the cause of it all, not the Germans? I mean, they pushed the Germans westwards again, and the Germans were just shunted into the Roman Empire, running away from them?"
Lexy sat up. "I thought the Huns were the Germans?"
Oh, for God's sake, Lexy!" Jilly turned on her irritably.
"You've read the book—don't you remember? Germans—big and blond and hairy; Huns—short and dark and ugly."
"I read somewhere that if you were downwind of the Huns, you could smell them at twenty miles," said Stein. "Is that true? Or was it the Mongols?"
"Much the same article," said Audley. "But twenty-five miles, not twenty, if there were enough of them."
"Anyway, they forced the Germans back to the west," said Jilly firmly.
"If they smelt that bad I don't goddamn wonder," said Bradford.
"Well, the book didn't say they were different," complained Lexy. "They were just nastier, that's all."
"What book?" inquired Stein. "You haven't been actually reading a history book, have you, Alexandra?"
" No!" snapped Jilly irritably. " Not a history book—a historical novel, that's all."
"Well, it's like a darned history book, anyway," said Lexy.
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"It's got footnotes at the back, saying that it all really happened—all about this Roman princess, and how the Visigoths carried her off, after they sacked Rome, and how she had to marry the king's brother . . . At— At- something—"
"Ataulf." Audley sounded surprised. "Brother of Theodoric the Great?"
"That's him—Atwulf—" Lexy plunged on breathlessly "— and because of her he decided to save the Roman Empire instead of destroying it—"
"That's a large assumption," said Audley.
"Well, she said so."
"She?"
"This princess—Galla Placidia, of course. And she ought to know, after having been thoroughly screwed by Atwulf and his elder brother! Only their little son died, and the Romans got her back, and she married this great general, Constantine
—"
"Constantius."
"That's the one. And after he died she ruled the whole empire, with the help of her confessor, Simplicius—"
"Who?"
"Simplicius. He's the one who tells the story—who's in bed with who, and who's double-crossing who—"
"Lexy—there's no such person as Simplicius," Audley shook his head. "And Galla Placidia didn't leave any memoirs.
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You're talking fiction, pure and simple, nothing more."
"Huh!" grunted Bradford, from behind his bottles. "Maybe fiction, maybe not. But not pure and not simple, by God!"
"Eh?" The tone in the American's voice made Audley drop Lexy. "Not . . . ?"
"Not pure—damn right not pure, because the Hays Office threw a fit over it. And sure as hell not simple, because a million bucks isn't simple, old buddy." Bradford shook his head. "In fact, that was one dirty, crafty book, if you ask me.
And written by one crafty lady, too."
"What lady? What book?" Audley looked around him.
"Hell, David—are you really telling us you haven't heard of Antonia Palfrey and Princess in the Sunset!"
"I don't read historical novels."
Roche was glad of the shadows which masked his reaction to this most palpable and absolute untruth, the evidence of which he had seen scattered on Audley's own driveway. In the litany of the man's defects neither Wimpy nor even Oliver St.John Latimer had included intellectual snobbery, but here it was. And yet, even allowing for the envy of a non-seller for a best-seller, it struck an oddly discordant note.
"You missed out, then," said Bradford. "Because it wasn't at all bad, minus the purple passages about Ataulf pawing Galla Placidia's heaving bosom, and Constantius putting his hand up her toga."
"Oh yes?" Audley spread a disparaging glance over Bradford dummy5
and Lexy both. "As observed through the keyhole by the Right Reverend Sidonius Simplicius, presumably?"
"The New York Times gave it half a page, nearly," said Bradford. " 'Scholarship prostituted' was the theme."
"Scholarship?"
"Apparently." Bradford nodded. "It seems that when Miss Palfrey wasn't groping around below the belt she kept a pretty tight hold on her history .... You know, I'm really quite surprised you haven't read it—the Times man said it was a cross between Gone With The Wind and I, Claudius on one side, and Forever Amber and The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire on the other, but I think it had Kipling undertones—not just your children's stuff, but the real McCoy short stories, like Love-o'-Women—"
"Good God!" exclaimed Audley.
"Oh yes—we Visigoths know our Kipling. And a lot better than most of your civilised Limeys, I'd guess. We haven't got your hang-ups about him, for a start."
"Not mine. I haven't got any hang-ups about Kipling." Audley was on the defensive, and clearly didn't like it. "But you seem to know a great deal about this—what's it called?— Princess of the Sunset?"
" In, not of." The American began to move the bottles again, and then thought better of it and shifted them off the table altogether. "Goddamn empties—we're running out of booze!
Let's have some more bottles out of the rack, Lex . . . In the dummy5
sunset—the sunset of the Roman Empire—you're damn right I know about it—the book anyway, if not the sunset. That's why I'm here."
"What d'you mean, Mike?" Jilly passed the corkscrew to Lexy. "I thought you were here to write?"
"Another Great American Novel," murmured Audley. "About how Patton liberated Europe in spite of Monty and me."
“Shut up, David," said Jilly. "Mike?"
"Yes . . . I'm writing—sure. But I also have this little job on the side, for a friend of mine." Bradford grinned at her. "A bit of intelligence work, actually."
Roche forced himself to watch Lexy struggle with the corkscrew.
"Intelligence work?" Stein leaned forward. "For whom?"
Lexy looked up. "Just like David, you mean?"
Not at all like David!" said Audley.
"Not you, David— that David—" she nodded towards Roche, and then addressed herself to the cork again "—how the hell does this thing work?"
Indeed?" Audley looked at Roche, whose astonishment had graduated to consternation. "Intelligence is your line, is it?"
Roche pointed at the corkscrew. "You screw it the other way, Lexy— clockwise." He shrugged at Audley, and shook his head, and hoped for the best from the shadows. "Nothing so romantic, I'm afraid. Just Signals liaison with NATO—
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because I speak fluent French."
"He jolly well does, too," agreed Lexy enthusiastically as the cork popped. "He had La Goutard eating out of the palm of his hand—you should have seen it!"
"Oh . . ." Audley sounded disappointed. "Jolly good
. . ." He turned back towards the American. "So what's this cloak-and-dagger 'little job' then, Mike? A little something for Washington?"
The American chuckled. "Washington hell! Hollywood, I mean—"
For a film?" cried Lexy. "Mike—you didn't tell us! Are you going to make a film of your book? Gosh! Let me fill your glass—then you can discover me. I've always wanted to be discovered—"
"Shut up, Lexy—" Jilly waved her friend down "—it isn't his book, it's got something to do with Princess in the Sunset.
Right, Mike?"
Dead right, Miss Smartpants."
"Antonia . . . what's-her-name?" Lexy refused to be waved down. "Wow! Come on—tell us, Mike—"
"He's trying to tell us, if you'd only shut up! They're going to make a film of it?"
"Yeah. . .That is, they've bought it. . . . There are these guys I know in the studio—I was over here with one of them in
'44 . . . and I've done some script advising for them, and they sent me the Princess draft—that's how I know about it—"
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Bradford nodded to Audley "—there was this historical analysis from a history professor at Harvard, plus all the reviews from the papers, you see."
"A professor from Harvard? Big deal!" Audley's sniff of derision would have done credit to Jilly. "So what did he say?"
"Oh, he said the history was good. Like . . . well, it seems she really was beautiful, this Galla Placidia lady—beautiful and mean, like Scarlett O'Hara and Lucrezia Borgia rolled into one, with her pretty fingers in a lot of pies."
"Yes?" Audley prodded him.
"Well ... it was one hell of a time, with your barbarians flooding into the West, but the Romans still in there pitching
—Theodoric the Gothic king . . . and this guy Constantius, the Roman general, who forced the barbarians to settle down beside the Romans—he was big time as well. And after him there was an even bigger man, with an unpronounceable name—"
"Aëtius," murmured Audley. " The last of the Romans—yes, I think you could call him 'big time', Bradford."
"Right—and all the time the Huns are knocking on the door, ready to destroy everything if the Romans didn't line up with the Goths somehow. And all the while Galla Placidia was playing both ends against the middle—I tell you, it's one hell of a time, and one hell of a story."
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