by Talbot Mundy
“Well, let us leave your father out of it,” said Caius Volusenus. “He is Caesar’s prisoner; let Caesar free, keep, or kill him. That is nothing to me. I have a wife in Rome. Strike the bargain, Tros—” Tros nodded.
“ — and remember this: I hold no Greek’s oath worth a drachma, but I hold my own inviolable. If you fail me, I swear by the immortal gods that I will never rest until you, and your father both, have been flogged to death. Bear that well in mind. I have the confidence of Caesar.”
“You are a hard man,” Tros answered, looking mildly at him; he could make those amber eyes of his look melting when he chose.
“I am a very hard man. I am a Roman of the old school.”
Caius Volusenus called for wine, and his own slave brought it to him in a silver goblet. He drank two gobletsful and then, as an afterthought, offered some to Tros. It was thin, sour stuff.
There was no more conversation. Caius Volusenus went below into his cabin, to sleep and regain strength after the long seasickness. The rowers just kept steering way, and Tros plied the helm until the tide turned; but even with the changing tide no wind came and they made but slow progress until moonlight showed the coast of Gaul and Caritia sands still ten or twelve miles in the offing.
Then Caius Volusenus came on deck again and fumed because the anchor had been left behind. He feared those sand-banks, having seen too many galleys go to pieces on them and he did not want to do the same thing under Caesar’s eyes.
Beyond the banks the masts of half a hundred ships stood out like etchings in the haze, and the glow of Caesar’s campfires was like rubies in the night. The sea was dead, flat calm, but Caius Volusenus would not risk the narrow channel in darkness, and the rowers had to dawdle at the oars all night long, while Conops took the helm and Tros slept.
As day was breaking, with the tide behind him and a puff of wind enough to fill the sail, Tros took the helm again and worked his way into a berth between galleys that lay with their noses lined along the shore.
There all was bustle and a sort of orderly confusion, with the ringing of the shipwrights’ anvils and the roar of bellows, the squeaking of loaded ox- wains and the tramping of the squads of slaves who carried down munitions and the provender to put aboard the ships.
At the rear was a fortified, rectangular camp, enclosed within a deep ditch and an earth wall, along which sentries paced at intervals.
Within the camp the soldiers’ tents were pitched in perfectly even rows, with streets between, and in the center, on one side of an open space, where four streets met, was Caesar’s, no better and no larger than the rest, but with the eagles planted in the earth in front of it and sentries standing by.
The huts, where prisoners and supplies were guarded, were at the rear end of the camp, enclosed within a secondary ditch-and-wall. The horse lines, where the stamping stallions squealed for breakfast, were along one side, but Caesar’s special war-horse had a tent all to himself behind his master’s.
In a line with Caesar’s sleeping tent there was a bigger, square one, with a table set in it and an awning spread in front; it was there, in a chair of oak and ivory, beside the table at which his secretary sat, that Caesar attended to business.
He was up betimes and being shaved by a Spanish barber, when Caius Volusenus marched up and answered the challenge of the sentries, swaggering with the stately Roman military stride and followed by Tros and Conops, who made no effort to disguise their deep-sea roll, although it made the sentries laugh.
There were a dozen officers in waiting underneath the awning, but they made way for Caius Volusenus; he passed through, nodding to them, leaving Tros and Conops to wait until they were summoned.
But they were not without entertainment, although no man spoke to them; for in the middle of the open space exactly in front of the eagles, a naked Gaul, held down by four legionaries, was being flogged by two others for stealing, each stroke of the cords laying open the flesh.
And there was a row of prisoners to be considered, women among them, lined up under guard awaiting Caesar’s will concerning them.
It was a long time before Caesar sent for Tros. The Gaul was very nearly flogged to death, and the earth was purple with his blood when Caius Volusenus thrust his way between the other officers and beckoned.
Having satisfied his dignity to that extent, he came forward a stride or two to be out of earshot of the others, and whispered as Tros fell into stride beside him.
“Caesar is in a good mood. I have spoken for you. Make your news brief and satisfactory, and all will be well. Remember: Caesar has decided to invade Britain. Speak accordingly, and offer no discouragement. I have told him you are a splendid pilot. Let him know that you and I explored the coast together.”
Tros, smothering a smile, followed him between the officers and stood before the table where the Lombard secretary eyed him insolently.
Caesar sat with a rug over his knees and his scarlet cloak hung on the back of the chair behind him. He was hardly forty-five, but he looked very bald and very old, because the barber was not yet through with him and had not yet bound on the wreath he usually wore. His cheeks looked hollow, as if the molars were all missing, and the wrinkles at the corners of his mouth twitched slightly, as if he were not perfectly at ease.
Nevertheless, he was alert and handsome from self-consciousness of power and intelligence. He sat bolt upright like a soldier; his pale smile was suave, and his eyes were as bold and calculating as a Forum money-lender’s. Handsome, very handsome in a cold and studied way — he seemed to know exactly how he looked — dishonest, intellectual, extravagant, a liar, capable of any cruelty and almost any generosity at other men’s expense; above all, mischievous and vicious, pouched below the eyes and lecherously lipped, but handsome — not a doubt of it.
“So Tros, you return to us?”
His voice was cultured, calm, containing just the least suggestion of a challenge. He crossed one knee over the other underneath the rug and laid his head back for the barber to adjust the golden laurel wreath. It made him look ten years younger.
“I claim my father,” Tros answered.
Caesar frowned. Caius Volusenus coughed behind his hand.
“Tell me your news,” said Caesar in a dry voice; the note of challenge was much more perceptible, and his eyes all but closed, as if he could see straight through Tros to the British coast beyond him.
“I landed. I was wounded. I was rescued by a druid. I met Caswallon and his wife Fflur. I was shown an army of a hundred men, and I saw it dismissed for the harvesting. I heard dissensions. There was some talk of an invasion, but none ready to repel it. I saw Commius, and he is held a prisoner in chains. I stole a boat and came back.”
“Examining the coast with me,” put in Caius Volusenus.
“Saving the interruption, that is a very proper way to turn in a report,” said Caesar.
“You may withdraw.” He glanced at Caius Volusenus sharply, once, and took no further notice of him as he backed away under the awning.
“Harbors?” asked Caesar.
“None,” said Tros. “There is a good beach for the ships, good camping ground, and standing corn not far away.”
“And the equinox?” asked Caesar, glancing at the blue sky.
“I spoke about that with the druids. Yesterday’s gale will be the last until the equinox arrives; that period is accurately known but none knows how soon thereafter the storms will begin, since they vary from year to year. But for the next few days there is sure to be calm weather.”
“Why do they hold Commius prisoner?”
“Because he urged them to permit your army to land on the shore of Britain.”
“Do they not know my reputation? Do they not know that I punish insults? Do they not know Commius is my ambassador?”
“They say he brought trashy presents that the women laughed at. They say he is a spy, not an ambassador,” Tros answered.
Caesar’s face colored slightly.
�
�Barbarians!” he sneered, and then smiled condescendingly. “What kind of man is Caswallon?”
“He fights nearly naked,” said Tros. “He thinks armor is a coward’s clothing.”
Caesar looked amused.
“Has he ships?” he asked.
“I heard him boast of three.”
Caesar drummed his lean, strong fingers on the chair-arm.
“Well — I will wait until after the equinox,” he said after a moment. “I have some small experience of druids. They are sly and untrustworthy. I am afraid these storms might catch me in midchannel and scatter the fleet. I have only one strong ship; the rest were built in haste by inexperienced Gauls, good enough for calm weather, dangerous in heavy storms. And now of course, you wish to see your father?”
Tros nodded and smiled. For a moment he was off guard — almost ready to believe that sometimes Caesar’s word was worth face value.
“A splendid, dignified and noble looking man, your father. All the fault I find with him is his affection for the druids; a strange affection, not becoming to him. A great sailor, I am told. You say he knows these waters around Britain as well as you do?”
Tros nodded again, but the smile was gone. He forefelt trickery now.
“I will speak with him first,” said Caesar. “You shall see him afterward.”
“Is he well?” asked Tros nervously. “Has he been treated properly, or—”
“I always treat people properly,” said Caesar in a suave voice. “There is nothing done in this camp except by my orders. You may retire.”
He said the last words in a louder voice, and an officer marched in, who took Tros by the arm and led him out under the awning. Another officer was summoned.
Tros heard Caesar’s voice speaking in undertones, and less than a minute later he was marching between two officers toward the far end of the camp, where the prisoners were confined within the inner ditch and wall. There, in the gap that served as gate, he recognized the centurion who had promised to treat his father kindly, but he had no opportunity to speak with him.
He first knew that Conops was dogging his steps when the centurion on guard demanded weapons, and Conops swore in Greek because they took away his knife with scant ceremony.
“Unbuckle my sword. Hand it to them,” he ordered, and Conops obeyed.
A moment later they were both shut into a low shed that had no window; a door was locked on them, and for fifteen minutes they listened to the steady tramp of a sentry, and the clank of his weapons as he turned at each end of a twenty-yard beat, before either of them spoke.
Then Conops broke the silence
“Master,” he whispered, “I can work my way out of this place. Look, where the wall is broken at the top. Lift me, and I can crawl out between wall and thatch. Let me find your father.”
Tros hesitated for a moment, looking troubled.
“If they catch you, they will flog or kill you, Conops.”
“I am a free man,” Conops answered. “I may do what I will with my own life.”
“Look like a slave, and speak like one. They will take less notice of you. Strip yourself,” said Tros.
So Conops pulled off everything except a sort of kilt that he had on under the smock. Tros lifted him, and he crawled into the narrow gap where the top of the mud wall had crumbled because rain leaked through the thatch.
He had to force his way through carefully to make no noise, and he was delayed by having to wait until a sentry on the outer rampart passed on his regular beat. Then he dropped to the ground outside, and Tros heard him whisper:
“I may be a long time. Don’t despair of me.”
Tros picked up Conops’ clothes and stowed them under his own, then paced the hut restlessly, for there was nothing to sit down on but the damp earth floor, and nothing to do but worry. At the end of an hour the door opened, and a slave in charge of a centurion brought in a bowl of boiled wheat.
“Weren’t there two in here?” asked the centurion.
“I don’t know,” said Tros. “The hut was empty when they put me in.”
The centurion shrugged his shoulders, slammed the door again and passed on. Tros heard him ask another officer whether any record had been kept of the beheadings since a week ago, but he could not catch the reply.
There began to be a lot of trumpeting, the clang of arms and the tramp of horses. A voice that spoke in stirring cadences appeared to be addressing Roman troops, but the voice was not Caesar’s. Trumpets again, and then the sound of cavalry moving off in regular formation. Half an hour after that a Latin slave-dealer, with his secretary slave and tablets, looked in while a legionary held the door open.
“I tell you, this one is not for sale,” said the legionary. “Caesar has another use for him. There was another, a one-eyed man, but I suppose he has been executed.”
“Extravagance!” said the slave-dealer. “You soldiers kill off all the best ones. What with the beheadings and the draft for gladiators, males are worth a premium and females are a glut. I could bid a price for this one. He looks good.”
“Save yourself trouble,” said the legionary. “I tell you, Caesar needs him.”
And he slammed the door.
An hour after that came Conops, scrambling through the hole under the eaves and knocking down dry mud in handfuls. They picked it all up carefully and tossed it through the opening. Then Conops resumed his clothes.
“Master, your father was in a round hut at the other end of this prison yard.”
“Was?” asked Tros.
“Was. He has gone. There is a window to that hut, with wooden bars set in the opening; and the window is toward the rampart, so I stood in shadow and had word with him. He has not been harmed, but he suffers from confinement. He was very grateful for the news of you.
“While I hid below the window, between the back of the hut and the rampart, an officer came who led him away to Caesar. Then a sentry on the rampart spied me; so I pretended to be one of the slaves who clean the camp of rubbish.
“I picked up trash and climbed the rampart to throw the stuff into the ditch, as the others do; and so I saw them take your father into Caesar’s tent. Then I kept gathering more rubbish, and kept on climbing the rampart to throw the stuff away; so I saw them bring your father out and set him on horseback.
“The cavalry was lined up then — five hundred of them — and when they went away your father rode with them between two soldiers.”
“Was he wearing his sword?” asked Tros.
“Yes.”
“Which way went the cavalry?”
“Alongshore to the eastward.”
“Did my father send me any message?”
“Yes, master. He said this: That after you started for Britain, Caesar sent for him and told him he must pilot one portion of the fleet to Britain when the time comes, if he hopes ever again to see you alive.
“And your father added this: That that fleet will not reach Britain if he can prevent it.
“‘Tell him,’ he said, ‘it is better to die obstructing Caesar than to live assisting him to work more havoc.’
“Then he told me to bid you not to be deceived by anything Caesar may say, but pretend to serve Caesar for your own life’s sake, obstructing him in all ways possible, for the sake of Those who sent you forth from Samothrace.”
“That will I!” said Tros, scowling.
“Then I hid awhile and watched them change the guard at this end of the prison yard. None saw me, although the sentry on the rampart passed me twice as I was making shift to climb in, setting a forked stick against the wall to set my foot on, and kicking it away afterward.”
Tros paced the floor like a caged animal, his hands behind him and his chin down on his breast.
“What if Caesar should leave me here!” he exploded at last. “He can find other pilots than me.”
But Caius Volusenus was too eager for imaginary pearls to let that happen. He came striding to the hut and gained admittance after the officer on
duty had sent him back, fuming and indignant to obtain a pass from some superior.
“Now Caesar would have left you here in chains and have used your father only, for he trusts neither of you,” he began, when he was sure the door was shut and none was listening. “But I spoke up for you, and I told Caesar you are a man whose instincts compel you to navigate safely.
“I suggested he should send your father as a pilot for the cavalry, who are embarking a few miles down the coast. He agreed because that will keep the two of you apart. It is no use arguing with Caesar.”
“No use whatever,” said Tros. “What then?”
“Pluto paralyze him! He began to wonder why I set such store by you! Caesar would suspect his mother if she brought him milk!
“He decided you are not to go with me on my ship, but with him on his, where he can keep an eye on you. And he has told me off to bring up the rear of the expedition.”
Tros had not ceased to pace the floor all the while the Roman was speaking. Suddenly now he turned and faced him where a stream of sunlight shone through a crack beside the doorpost.
“How much of this is true?” he demanded. “Caesar told me he will not start until after the equinox.”
“All of it is true,” said the Roman, showing his decayed front teeth in something between a smile and a snarl. “Shall Caesar tell his real plans to every prisoner he questions? Listen to me now, Tros: You would never dare to play a trick on Caesar; but perhaps you think because I am only Caius Volusenus I am easier to trifle with.
“I remind you of my oath! At the first chance I will take care to provide you with a small boat. That is my part of it. Thereafter you bring pearls, and the woman with them, if you see fit. You may keep the woman; but two thirds of the pearls are mine, according to agreement. And if the pearls are not enough, or if you fail me” — he showed his teeth again— “remember my oath, that is all!”
“Do your part,” said Tros. “I will do mine.”
Caius Volusenus nodded drily and shouted to the sentry to unlock the door and let him out. When he was gone, Tros took Conops by the shoulders.
