Complete Works of Talbot Mundy

by Talbot Mundy

  “I am glad of it,” Tros answered. “But be careful not to judge too hastily, for thus far we have only dealt in words. And next, I must trade words with Caesar, who values nothing except deeds that glorify him. Remember: I will tell Caesar that if he comes swiftly with a small force he will catch you unprepared. First then, prove me a false prophet and a liar! Then call me friend — if both of us deserve it — when we meet again!”

  CHAPTER 8. An Interview Near a Druid’s Cave

  Treason betrays itself. There was never a treachery yet that did not yield its secret. But not to the treacherous. He who is blinded by his own treacheries, how shall he read and understand the signs in others? In the presence of integrity treason must boast; it can not keep silence.

  — from The Sayings of the Druid Taliesan

  TROS drove back in the night, with a purse of gold at his waist that Caswallon gave him for expenses, in a chariot horsed with four of the finest stallions Britain could produce, driven by a long-haired charioteer whose pride was that no chariot had ever overtaken him since he had been made chief’s messenger.

  They were followed by a dozen riders, partly for protection from wolves that bayed in the forests all night long, but equally for the important business of compelling wayside autocrats to furnish fresh teams when required and to provide their best, instead of leading out old lame horses.

  Even so, because of a bent bronze chariot-wheel, that caught between two sunken tree-trunks in a dark ford, and the time it took to find and awaken a blacksmith, and the time he took to get the wheel hot, straighten and replace it, the sun was up an hour before they came to Britomaris’ house, where the charioteer shouted for a fresh team.

  There was a rabble of men and women in the yard, and of all sorts, light- and dark-skinned, tall and stocky, some so dwarfish as to seem deformed. And they were not disposed to make way for the chariot, or to bring out horses at the charioteer’s command.

  Some one shouted for Britomaris; but it was Gwenhwyfar who came to the door and stood looking at Tros long and sullenly before she spoke.

  “You? You dare to come here?” she said at last, curling her lip and glowering under lowered eyelids.

  “Horses!” roared the charioteer, but she acted as if she had not heard him, and the mounted men rode off to the stables to help themselves.

  “Look!” said Gwenhwyfar pointing. “These are my people. They have come to see the shame you brought on Britomaris and on me! Dog — that have slept in my house and betrayed me to Caswallon! Dog — that are servant of Caesar and false to Caesar, too! Insolent dog — with the eyes of a druid, the teeth of a wolf and the breath and the speech of a viper!”

  There was none, now the escort were gone, except Conops, crouching in the chariot, to protect Tros from violence. Conops loosed his long knife, for the crowd looked ugly, and the charioteer felt at the reins to get the stallions on their toes — ready to wheel them and charge through the crowd at a moment’s warning.

  “Draw your sword, master!” Conops whispered. But Tros touched him on the back to calm him.

  “Where is Commius?” he asked.

  “Aye! Where is Commius! He was my guest. Who betrayed him?”

  Gwenhwyfar sneered and tossed the hair out of her eyes. “Commius, who was your friend! Commius, who ate at the same table with you in this, my house! Commius, who slept under my roof! Where is Commius, whom you betrayed?”

  “I asked, where is he!” Tros had a voice like rolling thunder when the mood was on him.

  Gwenhwyfar looked startled, but her eyes glared defiance.

  “Go ask the druids! Go! You shall eat no more in my house! Drive him forth, men! Drive him!”

  She threw out both arms in a gesture that condemned him to mob mercy, and the crowd hardly hesitated. Some one threw a javelin, that missed and stuck quivering in the house wall; and before the twang of that ceased, Tros was almost off his feet from the sudden jerk as the charioteer wheeled his team and sent it headlong at the crowd. There were no scythes in the sockets on the axles, or he would have mowed a dozen of them.

  “Kill him!” screamed Gwenhwyfar.

  But the words froze on her lips; for the escort arrived on the scene from behind the house, charging with lowered spears, riding fresh, corn-fed, frantic horses they had seized. No one was slain. The crowd scattered and ran, those who had weapons throwing them away; but many were knocked down, and some were soundly thumped with spear butts.

  The charioteer laughed and wheeled the team around again to face the door, while four of the escort went to bring a fresh team for the chariot. They were laughing, and not in the least annoyed by the disturbance; two of the remaining escort chaffed Gwenhwyfar mercilessly, calling her “Caswallon’s scornling,” but she ignored them as if they were a mile away. Her whole hatred was aimed at Tros, concentrated on him, glaring, venomous.

  “Do you love your father as you love your friends?” she asked.

  But Tros, listening with both ears, pretended to be careful how they changed the team.

  “Drive fast!” she mocked. “Aye, drive like the wind! You shall not reach Gaul before your father dies! Caesar will avenge me! Caesar will draw blood in exchange for Commius! Hurry, before the crows leave nothing you can recognize!”

  Tros’s face showed no emotion, but his grip on Conops’ shoulder told another tale. The one-eyed sailor winced and tried to loosen the grip with cautious fingers.

  “Who knows where Commius is? I will speak with him,” said Tros; and one of the escort seized a man who tried to slink away around the corner of the house.

  Backed against the wall and held there with a spear point at his throat, the man soon gave his information and was let go. The four fresh horses were yoked by that time.

  And at last Tros spoke to Gwenhwyfar:

  “Gwenhwyfar, wife, of Britomaris, you will fall to Caesar yet! Caesar will treat you less kindly than I did. You may offer him ten kingdoms, and yourself thrown in, but I see you walking through the streets of Rome at Caesar’s chariot tail; and, if by then you are not too worn from weeping, and too sore-footed, and too thin, there will be an auction afterward.

  “Rome stinks, Gwenhwyfar! You will miss the sweet earth smell of Britain, and the freedom, and the green oaks and the thick turf underfoot! Rome’s streets are hard, and her heart is harder. But harder than all — aye, harder than that heart of yours — is Caesar’s! Farewell!”

  He bowed to her as the chariot wheeled away, and the men of the escort paid her scurvy compliments; but she stood still, leaning back against the doorpost with her head erect, glaring her anger until the chariot and its escort were lost to view.

  “Lonely she looks, and I am sorry for her, for she will be lonelier still if ever she meets Caesar,” Tros said to Conops.

  But she had friends; for as they galloped by the corner of the wall that shut the house from view, a stone hurled by an unseen hand missed Tros by so little that he almost felt the weight of it, and it broke the tough turf where it landed.

  “But, master — your father!” Conops was clenching and unclenching his fingers. “Has she sent a messenger to Caesar? Has she betrayed us?” Conops clutched his knife and spoke to Tros between thin, vindictive lips. “If your father is slain, my master, I will beg one favor of you: Let me live that I may bury this in her!”

  He showed six inches of his knife-blade.

  “I think she lied,” said Tros.

  But his voice betrayed him. He did not think that. He knew she spoke the truth; he knew some messenger had gone to inform Caesar what had happened to Commius the Gaul, along with, doubtless, a long story about himself. His blood ran cold. He knew how much mercy his father would receive from Caesar when that sort of tale should reach the Roman’s ears.

  “There is room for things to happen between here and Gaul,” he said after a minute. “It is one thing to send a messenger; another for the man to reach his goal. Moreover, Caius Volusenus has a fairly swift ship. We may arrive there first.”
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  There was delay, though, before they resumed the ride to where Caius Volusenus waited for them. The escort led into the forest and then wheeled out of the fairway down a lane that bore no tracks of wheels, where they had to stop a time or two to lift the chariot over fallen trees, and the bronze wheels cut deeply into moss.

  At the end of a mile or two of winding between ancient oaks, where the deer fled suddenly in front of them and rabbits scampered for the undergrowth, they entered a wide clearing. There a dewy hillside faced them, scattered with enormous stones; and in the midst of the hill there was a considerable clump of very ancient yew trees, with a cave mouth just below that, its entrance arched with three adze-trimmed monoliths. Above the trees there was a cluster of neat, thatched dwellings.

  Among the trees sat druids in their long robes, and one of them was the ancient who had held forth on the night when Tros first met Caswallon.

  The druids, led by the old one, came solemnly down the hillside and surrounded Tros’s chariot. He greeted them, and the escort jumped down from their horses to show respect, yet it was a peculiarly masked respect; they looked as little interested as they could, perhaps because Tros was a stranger.

  “Is Commius here? May I have word with him?” asked Tros when the greeting was all done.

  The old man sent two younger druids to the cave. They brought out Commius, with fetters on his wrists but not ill-treated otherwise. The Gaul’s black-bearded face was set so as to mask emotion, and a lean smile hid whatever he might think of Tros. He nodded a curt greeting, holding the clasped hands in front of him to ease the bronze fetters’ weight.

  “Commius, I am on my way to Caesar,” said Tros.

  The Gaul inclined his head slightly to signify that he understood, but he said nothing; nor did he glance at the druids, or make any sign except that unnoticeable nod.

  It was only by imagining himself in the Gaul’s position that Tros realized there would be no conversation while the druids listened. But the druids also realized it. Almost before Tros could face about to beg their indulgence the oldest of them made a signal and they walked away in silence and sat down at a sufficient distance to be out of earshot.

  “Now!” said Tros. “What shall I say of you to Caesar?”

  Commius smiled thinly.

  “You will say of me to Caesar what you wish to say, if he permits,” he answered. “My message has already gone.”

  “Have you a message for your Gauls?” asked Tros.

  “Yes. Bid the Atrebates obey Caesar. Caesar will avenge me.”

  The voice was cleverly controlled, but the expression of his face masked contempt too studiously for Tros not to see through it.

  “You think you have contrived my downfall, Commius,” he answered. “I doubt it. A man is hard to kill until his time comes. For my own part I am not a dealer in men’s lives. I have sought you out to see what I can do to help you.”

  “Can you set me free?” asked Commius, and the sneer in his voice was biting; it brought the fire into Tros’s amber eyes.

  “You could set yourself free very easily if you were not a traitor to your race,” he answered. “Commius, we are two fools, I because I did not know how wholly you are Caesar’s slave—”

  The word stung; Commius’ black eyes blazed at last. He almost answered, but controlled himself.

  “ — and you, because you think to promote your own ambition before you do your duty to the Gauls. You have eaten from Caesar’s hand. You like the food! But he will treat you as he does the other dogs in due time.”

  “Dogs?” snarled Commius, losing his control at last. “The dogs shall tear your carcass before you are twelve hours older!”

  “So that is it! I thank you for the warning, Commius!”

  Tros laughed and turned away, having learned what he came to learn. The druids, observing that the conference was over, came forward in a group, and the two who had brought Commius from the cave took charge of him again. Tros spoke to the oldest druid, greeting him respectfully:

  “Lord Druid, before Commius became your prisoner, he sent a messenger toward the coast. Where would such a messenger be likely to lie in wait to slay me before taking ship?”

  The old druid glanced at the escort, who were munching bread in a group beside their horses, having washed their hands and faces in the dew.

  “My son, those horsemen will take care of you,” he answered.

  “But a messenger did go?”

  “Aye, a man went, with a letter to Etair, son of Etard. Gwenhwyfar, wife of Britomaris, wrote it. Etair is her half-brother, and his place lies near the seashore where you landed from the Roman ship. It was his men who attacked you when you landed.”

  Tros scratched his chin, grinning thoughtfully, and Conops went and stood where he could watch his master’s face. Conops’ only remedy for anything was that long knife he carried in his sash, but he knew that Tros despised fighting if a craftier way might be found out of a difficulty. Craftiness is much more nervous work than fighting, and Conops held his breath.

  “If a druid might ride with me,” said Tros at last, still scratching at his chin, “a druid who would lead me to a small seaworthy boat, whose owner would obey my orders—”

  The old druid nodded and, turning his back on Tros, gave orders very swiftly in rumbling undertones. It was not clear why he did not wish Tros to hear what he said, unless it was the habit of keeping his own counsel and establishing a mystery whenever possible.

  He had hardly finished speaking when the young druid, who had befriended Tros when he first landed, went and sat down in the chariot, tucking his long robe in under his feet.

  Then the old High Druid dismissed Tros with one sentence:

  “Caius Volusenus grows impatient because his ship lies close to a dangerous shore.”

  But he did not explain how he knew that. He held up his right hand in an act of invocation and boomed out words that sounded like a ritual, then gestured to Tros to be gone.

  The escort mounted at once with an air of relief and began laughing and chattering; the charioteer preferred not to wait another second, but drove toward Tros, and the moment he and Conops had stepped in they were off at full gallop, returning down the same glade by which they had come.

  “These druids,” said Conops in Greek, thumbing his long knife for the scandalized druid’s benefit, “are too much like specters from another world for me. They are not enough like honest men or criminals for me to trust them.”

  Tros smiled.

  “Never mind,” he answered. “I would trust you less if you should trust any man too much! Put your knife away!”

  CHAPTER 9. Tros Displays His Seamanship

  and a Way of Minding His Own Business

  If it were true, as ye say, that to slay is to prevail, then why not kill me? Ye could wear my robes and occupy my seat. But could ye know what I know? Could ye think what I think? Could ye do what I do? Could ye have my vision, and enjoy that, merely by proving that violence slays and that flesh becomes dust?

  — from The Sayings of the Druid Taliesan

  THE FOREST went down to the sea along the route that Tros took that morning; and because the druid ordered it they made a detour to the westward that brought them, near midday, to a swampy harbor hidden amid trees, not far from where the chalky downs begin that draw nearer to the shore southeastward until they form the white cliffs of Kent.

  “Hythe,” said the druid, pointing to where roofs over a mud-and-wattle wall could be seen between wind-twisted branches.

  The town was hidden from the sea; there were no signs of cultivation or of human dwellings that would be likely to tempt sea rovers into the reed- infested harbor mouth. There was not even an inhabitant in sight, although there were boats drawn up into the reeds, amid which narrow, winding paths led mazily toward the town wall. Gulls and other sea-fowl by the thousand filled the air with harsh music, under a bright sky flaked with fleecy clouds.

  “Hythe, a high tide, and the wind in the
southwest!” said Tros, meditating. “How often does the wind set thus?”

  “More often than not,” said the druid. “It is the winds from the west that save this land from pirates. Northwest, west, southwest — most days in the year. The Northmen set forth, but three times out of five storms blow them back again.”

  “And a fair slant for Gaul, but a rising sea,” said Tros. “Caius Volusenus will be fretting at his anchor, if he has not gone away and left me.”

  They went and stood on the shingle beach, where the rounded stones sang sharply of the weight behind the waves and they could see, amid the white-caps in the distance to the eastward, a galley that pitched at her anchor and rolled until her heavy fighting top looked like a plaything of the spray.

  “The Romans are the worst seamen I have yet seen,” Tros remarked, screwing up his eyes to stare along the waves. “They think weight is strength, and pit their strength against the sea. They hang on by brute force, when a seaman would employ a little strategy to use the sea against itself.

  “If Caius Volusenus were a seaman, he would not be lying off a lee shore until his crew was weak from vomiting. If he were any kind of man except a Roman soldier, he would have explored this shore-line, instead of waiting for me to bring information.

  “But that is the Roman method: Seize a hostage, threaten him, then send his son or his brother to save the hostage’s life by betraying some one else! And because the world is what it is, and men are what they are, the plan succeeds too often!

  “But I have seen the Romans lose a fleet of ninety ships on the coast of Sicily, because a land general ordered thus and so, and they knew no better than to obey the fool! What is that group of men along the beach a mile away?”

  The druid, peering under the palm of his hand, looked anxious but said nothing. It was clear enough that the men were forcing a small boat into the sea, and at the first attempt it overturned in the surf. They had to haul it back on the beach and bail the water out.