Complete Works of Talbot Mundy

by Talbot Mundy

  CHAPTER 40. “What shape is the Earth?”

  CHAPTER 41. “The world is round!”

  CHAPTER 42. Galba, the Sicilian

  CHAPTER 43. The Conference of Kings

  CHAPTER 44. Caswallon’s Ultimatum

  CHAPTER 45. Eough, the Sorcerer

  CHAPTER 46. Eough Applies Alchemy

  CHAPTER 47. The Start of the Mad Adventure

  CHAPTER 48. The Liburnian

  CHAPTER 49. Luck o’ Lud o’ Lunden

  CHAPTER 50. The Gods! The Gods!

  CHAPTER 51. Ave, Caesar!

  CHAPTER 52. “I Build a Ship!”

  CHAPTER 53. Gathering Clouds

  CHAPTER 54. Fflur Pays a Debt

  CHAPTER 55. “The Fool! Lord Zeus, What shall I do with him?”

  CHAPTER 56. A Bargain with the Druids

  CHAPTER 57. Liafail

  CHAPTER 58. The Lord Rhys

  CHAPTER 59. The Lord Rhys’s Tenantry

  CHAPTER 60. Make Sail!

  CHAPTER 61. A Letter to Caesar

  CHAPTER 62. Discipline

  CHAPTER 63. Gwenhwyfar Yields

  CHAPTER 64. News!

  CHAPTER 65. The Fight off Dertemue

  CHAPTER 66. Men — Men — Men!

  CHAPTER 67. “Pluto! Shall I set forth full of dreads and questions?”

  CHAPTER 68. Off Gades

  CHAPTER 69. Visitors

  CHAPTER 70. Gades by Night

  CHAPTER 71. Chloe— “Qui saltavit placuit”

  CHAPTER 72. Herod Ben Mordecai

  CHAPTER 73. The Cottage in Pkauchios’ Garden

  CHAPTER 74. Gaius Suetonius

  CHAPTER 75. Pkauchios, the Astrologer

  CHAPTER 76. Balbus qui murum aedificabit

  CHAPTER 77. Conspiracy

  CHAPTER 78. The Committee of Nineteen

  CHAPTER 79. At Simon’s House

  CHAPTER 80. In Balbus’ Dining Hall

  CHAPTER 81. Caesar — Imperator!

  CHAPTER 82. Rome: 54 B.C.

  CHAPTER 83. Politics

  CHAPTER 84. Helene

  CHAPTER 85. Marcus Porcius Cato

  CHAPTER 86. Julius Nepos

  CHAPTER 87. Virgo Vestalis Maxima

  CHAPTER 88. The Praetor’s Dungeon

  CHAPTER 89. Pompeius Magnus

  CHAPTER 90. The Carceres and Nepos, the Lanista

  CHAPTER 91. Tros Forms an Odyssean Plan

  CHAPTER 92. Ignotus

  CHAPTER 93. Conops

  CHAPTER 94. Circus Maximus

  CHAPTER 95. The Link Breaks

  CHAPTER 96. Britain: Late Summer

  CHAPTER 1. Britain: The Late Summer of 55 B.C.

  These then are your liberties that ye inherit. If ye inherit sheep and oxen, ye protect those from the wolves. Ye know there are wolves, aye, and thieves also. Ye do not make yourselves ridiculous by saying neither wolf nor thief would rob you, but each to his own. Nevertheless, ye resent my warning. But I tell you, Liberty is alertness; those are one; they are the same thing. Your liberties are an offense to the slave, and to the enslaver also. Look ye to your liberties! Be watchful, and be ready to defend them. Envy, greed, conceit and ignorance, believing they are Virtue, see in undefended Liberty their opportunity to prove that violence is the grace of manhood.

  — from The Sayings of the Druid Taliesan

  TOWARD sunset of a golden summer evening in a clearing in a dense oak forest five men and a woman sat beside a huge flat rock that lay half buried in the earth and tilted at an angle toward where the North Star would presently appear.

  At the southern end of the clearing was a large house built of mud and wattle with a heavy thatched roof; it was surrounded by a fence of untrimmed branches, and within the enclosure there were about a dozen men and women attending a fire in the open air, cooking, and carrying water.

  Across the clearing from a lane that led between enormous oaks, some cattle, driven by a few armed men clothed in little other than skins dawdled along a winding cow-path toward the opening in the fence. There was a smell of wood smoke and a hush that was entirely separate from the noise made by the cattle, the soft sigh of wind in the trees, the evensong of birds and the sound of voices. Expectancy was in the air.

  The five men who sat by the rock were talking with interruptions, two of them being foreigners, who used one of the dialects of southern Gaul; and that was intelligible to one of the Britons who was a druid, and to the woman, who seemed to understand it perfectly, but not to the other men, to whom the druid had to keep interpreting.

  “Speak slowly, Tros, speak slowly,” urged the druid; but the big man, although he spoke the Gaulish perfectly, had a way of pounding his left palm with his right fist and interjecting Greek phrases for added emphasis, making his meaning even more incomprehensible.

  He looked a giant compared to the others although he was not much taller than they. His clothing was magnificent, but travel-stained. His black hair, hanging nearly to his shoulders, was bound by a heavy gold band across his forehead. A cloak of purple cloth, embroidered around the edges with gold thread, partly concealed a yellow tunic edged with gold and purple.

  He wore a long sword with a purple scabbard, suspended from a leather belt that was heavily adorned with golden studs. His forearm was a Titan’s, and the muscles on his calves were like the roots of trees; but it was his face that held attention: Force, under control with immense stores in reserve; youth unconquerable, yet peculiarly aged before its time; cunning of the sort that is entirely separate from cowardice; imagination undivorced from concrete fact; an iron will and great good humor, that looked capable of blazing into wrath — all were written in the contours of forehead, nose and jaw. His leonine, amberous eyes contained a hint of red, and the breadth between them accentuated the massive strength of the forehead; they were eyes that seemed afraid of nothing, and incredulous of much; not intolerant, but certainly not easy to persuade.

  His jaw had been shaved recently, to permit attention to a wound that had now nearly healed, leaving a deep indentation in the chin, and the black re-growing beard, silky in texture, so darkened the bronze skin that except for his size, he might almost have passed for an Iberian.

  “Conops will tell you,” he said, laying a huge hand on the shoulder of the man beside him, “how well I know this Caius Julius Caesar. Conops, too, has had a taste of him. I have seen Caesar’s butchery. I know how he behaves to druids and to kings and to women and to all who oppose him, if he once has power. To obtain power — hah! — he pretends sometimes to be magnanimous. To keep it—”

  Tros made a gesture with his right fist, showed his teeth in a grin of disgust and turned to the other Samothracian beside him. “Is he or is he not cruel, Conops? Does he keep Rome’s promises? Are Rome’s or his worth that?” He snapped his fingers.

  Conops grinned and laid a forefinger on the place where his right eye had been. Conops was a short man, of about the same age as Tros, possibly five-and-twenty, and of the same swarthy complexion; but he bore no other resemblance to his big companion. One bright-blue eye peered out from an impudent face, crowned with a knotted red kerchief. His nose was up-turned, as if it had been smashed in childhood. He had small brass earrings, similar in pattern to the heavy golden ones that Tros wore, and he was dressed in a smock of faded Tyrian blue, with a long knife tucked into a red sash at his waist. His thin, strong, bare legs looked as active as a cat’s.

  “Caesar is as cruel as a fish!” he answered, nodding. “And he lies worse than a long-shore Alexandrian with a female slave for hire.”

  The druid had to interpret that remark, speaking in soft undertones from a habit of having his way without much argument. He was a broad-faced young man with a musical voice, a quiet smile and big brown eyes, dressed in a blue-dyed woolen robe that reached nearly to his heels — one of the bardic druids of the second rank.

  It was the woman who spoke next, interrupting the druid’s explanation, with her eyes on Tros. She seemed to gloat over his
strength and yet to be more than half-suspicious of him, holding her husband by the arm and resting chin and elbow on her knee as she leaned forward to watch the big man’s face. She was dressed in a marvelously worked tunic of soft leather, whose pricked-in, barbaric pattern had been stained with blue woad. Chestnut hair, beautifully cared for, hung to her waist; her brown eyes were as eager as a dog’s; and though she was young and comely, and had not yet borne a child, she looked too panther-like to be attractive to a man who had known gentler women.

  “You say he is cruel, this Caesar. Is that because he punished you for disobedience — or did you steal his woman?” she demanded. Tros laughed — a heavy, scornful laugh from deep down near his stomach.

  “No need to steal! Caius Julius Caesar gives women away when he has amused himself,” he answered. “He cares for none unless some other man desires her; and when he has spoiled her, he uses her as a reward for his lieutenants. On the march his soldiers cry out to the rulers of the towns to hide their wives away, saying they bring the maker of cuckolds with them. Such is Caesar; a self-worshiper, a brainy rascal, the meanest cynic and the boldest thief alive. But he is lucky as well as clever, have no doubt of that.”

  The druid interpreted, while the woman kept her eyes on Tros.

  “Is he handsomer than you? Are you jealous of him? Did he steal your wife?” she asked; and Tros laughed again, meeting the woman’s gaze with a calmness that seemed to irritate her.

  “I have no wife, and no wife ever had me,” he answered. “When I meet the woman who can turn my head, my heart shall be the judge of her, Gwenhwyfar.”

  “Are you a druid? Are you a priest of some sort?” the woman asked. Her glowing eyes examined the pattern of the gold embroidery that edged his cloak.

  Tros smiled and looked straight at the druid instead of at her. Conops drew in his breath, as if he was aware of danger.

  “He is from Samothrace,” the druid remarked. “You do not know what that means, Gwenhwyfar. It is a mystery.”

  The woman looked dissatisfied and rather scornful. She lapsed into silence, laying both elbows on her knees and her chin in both hands to stare at Tros even more intently. Her husband took up the conversation. He was a middle-sized active-looking man with a long moustache, dressed in wolf-skin with the fur side outward over breeches and a smock of knitted wool.

  An amber necklace and a beautifully worked gold bracelet on his right wrist signified chieftainship of some sort. He carried his head with an air of authority that was increased by the care with which his reddish hair had been arranged to fall over his shoulders; but there was a suggestion of cunning and of weakness and cupidity at the corners of his eyes and mouth. The skin of his body had been stained blue, and the color had faded until the natural weathered white showed through it; the resulting blend was barbarously beautiful.

  “The Romans who come to our shore now and then have things they like to trade with us for other things that we can easily supply. They are not good traders. We have much the best of it,” he remarked.

  Tros understood him without the druid’s aid, laughed and thumped his right fist on his knee; but instead of speaking he paused and signed to them all to listen. There came one long howl, and then a wolf-pack chorus from the forest.

  “This wolf smelt, and that wolf saw; then came the pack! What if ye let down the fence?” he said then. “It is good that ye have a sea around this island. I tell you, the wolves of the Tiber are less merciful than those, and more in number and more ingenious and more rapacious. Those wolves glut themselves; they steal a cow, maybe, but when they have a bellyful they go; and a full wolf falls prey to the hunter. But where Romans gain a foothold they remain, and there is no end to their devouring. I saw Caesar cut off the right hands of thirty thousand Gauls because they disobeyed him. I say, I saw it.”

  “Perhaps they broke a promise,” said the woman, tossing her head to throw the hair out of her eyes. “Commius the Gaul, whom Caesar sent to talk with us, says the Romans bring peace and affluence and that they keep their promises.”

  “Affluence for Commius, aye, and for the Romans!” Tros answered. “Caesar made Commius king of the Atrebates. But do you know what happened to the Atrebates first? How many men were crucified? How many women sold into slavery? How many girls dishonored? Aye, there is always peace where Rome keeps wolf’s promises. Those are the only sort she ever keeps! Commius is king of a tribe that has no remaining fighting men nor virgins, and that toils from dawn to dark to pay the tribute money that Caesar shall send to Rome — and for what? To bribe the Roman senators! And why? Because he plans to make himself the ruler of the world!”

  “How do you know?” asked the woman, when the druid began to interpret that long speech. She motioned to the druid to be still — her ear was growing more accustomed to the Samothracian’s strange pronunciation.

  Tros paused, frowning, grinding his teeth with a forward movement of his iron jaw. Then he spoke, looking straight at the woman:

  “I am from the isle of Samothrace, that never had a king, nor ever bowed to foreign yoke. My father is a prince of Samothrace, and he understands what that means.” He glanced at the druid. “My father had a ship — a good ship, well manned with a crew of freemen — small, because there are no harbors in the isle of Samothrace and we must beach our ships, but seaworthy and built of Euxine timber, with fastenings of bronze. We had a purple sail; and that, the Romans said, was insolence.

  “The Keepers of the Mysteries of Samothrace despatched my father in his ship to many lands, of which Gaul was one, for purposes which druids understand. Caesar hates druids because the druids have secrets that they keep from him.

  “He denounced my father as a pirate, although Pompey, the other tribune, who made war on pirates, paid my father homage and gave him a parchment with the Roman safe-conduct written on it. My name, as my father’s son, was also on the parchment, as were the names of every member of the crew. I was second in command of that good ship. Conops was one of the crew; we two and my father are all who are left.”

  Tros paused, met Conops’ one bright eye, nodded reminiscently, and waited while the druid translated what he had just said into the British tongue. The druid spoke carefully, avoiding further reference to the Mysteries. But the woman hardly listened to him; she had understood.

  “Our business was wholly peaceful,” Tros continued. “We carried succor to the Gauls, not in the form of weapons or appliances, but in the form of secret counsel to the druids whom Caesar persecuted, giving them encouragement, advising them to bide their time and to depend on such resources as were no business of Caesar’s.

  “And first, because Caesar mistrusted us, he made us give up our weapons. Soon after, on a pretext, he sent for that parchment that Pompey had given my father; and he failed to return it. Then he sent men to burn our ship, for the sake of the bronze that was in her; and the excuse he gave was that our purple sail was a defiance of the Roman Eagles. Thereafter he made us all prisoners; and at that time Conops had two eyes.”

  Gwenhwyfar glanced sharply at Conops, made a half contemptuous movement of her lips and threw the hair back on her shoulders.

  “All of the crew, except myself and Conops, were flogged to death by Caesar’s orders in my father’s presence,” Tros went on. “They were accused of being spies. Caesar himself affects to take no pleasure in such scenes, and he stayed in his tent until the cruelty was over. Nor did I witness it, for I also was in Caesar’s tent, he questioning me as to my father’s secrets.

  “But I pretended to know nothing of them. And Conops did not see the flogging, because they had put his eye out, by Caesar’s order, for a punishment, and for the time being they had forgotten him. When the last man was dead, my father was brought before Caesar and the two beheld each other face to face, my father standing and Caesar seated with his scarlet cloak over his shoulders, smiling with mean lips that look more cruel than a wolf’s except when he is smiling at a compliment or flattering a woman. And because m
y father knows all these coasts, and Caesar does not know them but, nevertheless, intends to invade this island—”

  The druid interrupted.

  “How does he know it is an island?” he asked. “Very few, except we and some of the chiefs, know that.”

  “My father, who has sailed around it, told him so in an unguarded moment.”

  “He should not have told,” said the druid.

  “True, he should not have told,” Tros agreed. “But there are those who told Caesar that Britain is a vast continent, rich in pearls and precious stones; he plans to get enough pearls to make a breastplate for the statue of the Venus Genetrix) in Rome.

  “So my father, hoping to discourage him, said that Britain is only an island, of no wealth at all, inhabited by useless people, whose women are ugly and whose men are for the most part deformed from starvation and sickness. But Caesar did not believe him, having other information and being ambitious to possess pearls.”

  “We have pearls,” said the woman, tossing her head again, pulling down the front of her garment to show a big pearl at her breast.

  The druid frowned:

  “Speak on, Tros. You were in the tent. Your father stood and confronted Caesar. What then?”

  “Caesar, intending to invade this island of Britain, ordered that I should be flogged and crucified, saying: ‘For your son looks strong, and he will die more painfully if he is flogged, because the flies will torture him. Let us see whether he will not talk, after they have tied him to the tree.’”

  “What then?” asked the druid, with a strange expression in his eyes.

  “Yes, what then?” said the woman, leaning farther forward to watch Tros’s face. There was a half smile on her lips.

  “My father offered himself in place of me,” said Tros.

  “And you agreed to it!” said the woman, nodding, seeming to confirm her own suspicion, and yet dissatisfied.

  Tros laughed at her.

  “Gwenhwyfar, I am not thy lover!” he retorted, and the woman glared. “I said to Caesar, I would die by any means rather than be the cause of my father’s death; and I swore to him to his face, as I stood between the men who held me, that if my father should die first, at his hands, he must slay me, too, and swiftly.