Ronald spoke to them in ancient Greek.
“My friend is sick.”
They showed signs of great dismay, evidently fearing some infectious disease common in this valley.
“We will tell the priest,” they said, and hastily withdrew.
After a long wait, the curtains were drawn aside and the old priest entered, accompanied by no other than Dr. Smart. He looked careworn and older than when last they had seen him, but smiled behind the priest’s back, and put his finger to his mouth in token of caution.
He seemed puzzled over Ralph’s malady. The temperature was high and the pulse racing.
“Fever of some sort,” he said in Greek. “It must take its course. I cannot say what it is yet.”
“Is it a fever that can be taken by others?” the priest asked fearfully.
“I cannot say. It may be so.”
The words had the effect Smart had intended. The old priest edged away and finally disappeared behind the curtains.
Under pretence of examining the sick man, Smart whispered:
“I heard you had come. You took a long time getting here.”
“I can’t tell you now,” Ronald whispered back. “We were delayed. You got through?”
“Yes. The Bulgars brought us here — they said you must have gone on. I am the official doctor here, but there’s trouble in store for you two. I am practically a prisoner.”
He dared not say more, but, promising to come again if allowed, he left them.
The dreary days that followed left their imprint on Ronald. He watched by the sick man night and day.
A deputation of priests came with Smart and held a long consultation, to which Ronald listened in dread, for on its decision rested Ralph’s fate. Two, who were evidently native doctors, punched and pushed Ralph and felt him all over. They shook their heads, and Ronald saw with relief that they were satisfied as to the state of the patient. There was no chance of utilising the stranger for the horrid purpose of which Sinclair had told them. They cast their eyes on Ronald’s magnificent form with longing, but the old priest shook his head vigorously. He had evidently received orders that Ronald was reserved for other purposes. But he felt that his fate hung by a hair.
At last they left, talking volubly and gesticulating as they went down the road. It was the eve of the great spring festival.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
THE SPRING FESTIVAL
The people of Nemi put off their sloth and sullen quietude on the day of the great festival which marked the coming of summer, and the rising of the crops on which their lives depended. It was the time of fertility for animals and plants. From early dawn the city was awake, and the sounds of singing came from the usually silent houses. Men and women were in the streets in gay and shining robes, bedecked with flowers. Here and there sounds of music rose on the air. Ronald watched them from the balcony of his house, leaving Ralph asleep.
He was weak and ill still, but the fever had run its course and the effect of the poison had worn off, its purpose served.
The valley looked fair in the morning light. It was the first time that Ronald had been able to scan it since his arrival, with time at his disposal in which to take in the whole scene. The ring of mountains was perhaps twenty miles in circumference, and the lake lay in the centre. Along the slopes of the hills vineyards clustered, while in the lower part of the valley the ground was partly under cultivation and in places green and dotted with spring flowers, sustaining herds of sheep and cattle, the only animals in the country.
Apart from a few scattered huts and cottages about the fields, the whole population dwelt in the city. Beyond the lake rose the dark woods in which lay the sacred grove and the temple of Diana, to which no one could pass except by water, for deep and wide canals had been cut in old days from each end of the lake to the precipitous hills.
There were no shops or taverns in this strange, primitive civilisation; only some sort of communal system ordered by the priesthood.
As Ronald had half expected, yet dreaded, an escort of priests arrived, clad in gorgeous vestments, and courteously bade him come with them. With a foreboding of evil, he saw for the first time that they were girt with heavy knives like short swords. They were the first weapons of any kind he had seen at Nemi.
The noise in the streets had increased in volume, and as they emerged on the central way, groups of people were moving from house to house, drinking strong native wine and toasting the fortunate day.
Lower down the street crowds had collected, dancing wildly to a clashing accompaniment from citheras and cymbals and some horn instruments which gave out mournful sounds like a bassoon. The dance became wilder as flagons of wine were passed from hand to hand, and drained and filled — a Bacchanalian orgy was beginning.
A procession appeared in the distance, coming from the direction of the lake, and headed by a band in front of which girls half-naked and crowned with flowers danced madly. Ronald guessed them to be the same damsels who had sung so beautifully in the temple.
Behind the players a guard of priests in gorgeous vestments followed, and then a canopied chair carried on the shoulders of bearers, in which sat Carstairs — or Virbius — throned and splendid. There was no sign of Diana, for which Ronald was profoundly grateful.
Last in the procession came another chair, borne high above the crowd, in which sat a man. The tossing plumes of the canopy and the swaying of the litter made recognition difficult until the man himself looked out — and then, with a sinking of the heart, Ronald recognised Ganzani the Italian.
He was clothed in gold tissue, and his hair was covered with a wreath of white flowers. His face was bloated as though with drink and good living, and he appeared to be either drunk or drugged. His eyes had a glassy expression, and the people bowed low as he passed, doing him mock reverence. The meaning was not hard to guess. Here was the victim of whom Sinclair had spoken, the stranger whose death should bring fertility to the land. But for Sinclair, Ralph would have occupied that chair. In spite of all that he knew of this treacherous Italian, Ronald felt pity and disgust at the sight — the fawning crowds, the mock crowning, and the awful doom awaiting him, of which he seemed in ignorance.
Round his chair several women marched, their faces denoting ghoulish delight. These were his “wives,” who, according to ancient custom, were allowed him during his “preparation,” when everything which his heart could desire in food and drink and pleasure had been at his disposal. Now was the day of reckoning. The reception they had received on their arrival was now only too plain to Ronald, and he shuddered to think how they had taken it all as a sign of hospitality.
The procession halted at a large house and the litter was lowered to the ground. The wretched Ganzani was conducted to the doorway, where the family were gathered. He was presented with a small piece of white bread and a square piece of wood, which the priests gravely took from him. It came to Ronald’s mind that he had never seen any wood used in this place — no doors or windows, or floors: everywhere were stone and curtains; and he guessed something of the meaning of this from the ceremony now being enacted.
The procession passed on, and Ronald and his escort joined in behind. He noted that each household who had received the devotee and offered presents followed after.
And so the long afternoon passed.
At last the sun began to sink behind the peaks, and long shadows were cast over the valley — the beautiful, horrible valley of death and cruelty. The procession moved down to the waterside, where rows of barges were waiting at the quay. Torches were distributed, and soon lights were tossing and waving in the gathering gloom. The priests and the singing-girls passed over first. The crowds waited, exhausted with their work, and sat in groups along the shore.
Ronald saw everywhere wolfish, hungry looks cast at Ganzani as he went into a barge. Some foreboding must have crossed his mind, for he struggled violently and shouted as he was carried aboard. His screams could be heard far out on the waters, an
d the people laughed in high glee.
Presently Ronald’s turn came, and he too was placed on a barge. The lake was full of others crossing and re-crossing, and on the further side, which was dim and obscure, lights were showing, not from the temple, where all was dark, but in the mysterious woods where the King kept his lonely vigil, now to be rudely disturbed.
Up the slope they went, along a rough track, till the dark woods hemmed them in. Great black trunks of cypress and beech surrounded them, their feet making no sound on the thick mast beneath.
A great light flared and flickered through the trees, and at last they emerged into a clearing — a great open space ringed with trees. Round this the people sat, and in the centre was a roaring bonfire of resinous pine which crackled and smoked, the heat of it beating on Ronald’s face, the clearing beyond being in darkness.
Passing beyond the bonfire, they stopped and took their places in the ring. Then Ronald saw what was hidden by the fire.
A mighty oak, of such dimensions as he had never imagined, stretched its arms out — alone and isolated from other trees. Its great gnarled branches were withered and cracked, and many hung over dead, touching the ground. Few leaves grew on the giant tree, but yellow lichen sprawled up its stem like a disease, and by the light of the fire Ronald saw mistletoe with yellow berries in tufts protruding from the branches of the oak. All this he took in later. For the moment his gaze was fixed on an object of dread which stood before the oak, motionless as a statue, leaning on a great sword. A man who, had he stood upright, must have been nearly seven feet high, with vast limbs on which the muscles stood out like knots. The face was vile, hideous, and animal, more like a gorilla than a human being. The mouth was half-open, and slobbering, but in the bloodshot eyes even at that distance Ronald could read a terror written, a haunting, bestial fear. Such was the King of the Woods, a king without throne or sceptre, who prowled and prowled, fearful of the hidden danger which might spring on him at any moment. Wet and half-frozen in the winter nights, when the wind made strange sounds among the trees, but always waiting for the death which should rob him of kingship and life together.
Only on the great day of the festival he could relax his vigil, since then no man dare touch him.
The crowds continued to come in and take their places — silent now, and expectant. And then Ganzani was led in, past the fire, at which he gazed with rolling, tortured eyes. He was shaking now, and half-dead with fright, as the priests almost carried him to a sinister post standing upright in front of the oak.
They stripped him of his gaudy clothes and tied the shivering wretch to the post.
The same wild music which Ronald had heard before broke the stillness, and the people rose from their sitting positions. From the darkness behind the sacred oak Diana approached, accompanied by her maidens, and escorted by Carstairs. A chair was set for her by the side of the hideous monster, the Priest-King. She was clad all in white, but her face was whiter than her robes. The fixed, frightened eyes were gazing round the circle — she would not look at the Thing next to her, who was moving his lips and rolling his eyes at her beauty, though he would not relax his grip of the great sword which never left his hand, night or day.
The dance began, a rhythmic dance which started in slow movement and gradually quickened up. The crowd advanced towards the victim, and retired, each time coming nearer. The torches tossed and smoked in their hands, and the fire flared up as the priests threw on fresh fuel.
Now the whole diabolical crew were whirling and shouting — a vision of the Inferno. A scene of dreadful license was enacted, some disappeared amid the trees; only the torches flaring in the dark showing whither they had gone.
And so the awful night wore on. More dreadful still, they would pause before Diana and pour out their prayers in frenzied cries, the men for the harvest and the women for fertility.
The strain was almost more than Ronald could bear. His body ached and his mind was a blank at times. Only once Diana had seen him, and a look of intense relief flitted across her face, though she gave no sign.
The end came at last. At a signal, given by a long, mournful blast on a horn, the whole screaming horde rushed forward, each pulling out a knife, and fell upon the doomed man at the stake. There was a swirling, struggling crowd, the women in front, fighting and snarling like dogs over a bone. They tore and hacked the living flesh from the writhing body; and as each secured a horrid morsel, turned and fled wildly into the woods, the torches making a streamer of fire as they scattered from the scene.
Ronald heard one terrible cry from the writhing form, and hid his face, covering his ears from the sound.
It was all over — the fire had burnt low and the people gone, as Ronald learnt, to bury the precious portion in the fields, that a bountiful harvest might result. The disappointed ones followed, to beg for a morsel, however small, lest their crops might fail, in which case a year of slavery in the mines among the mountains awaited them.
Diana had gone. Ronald could only measure her feelings by his own — this delicate girl brought up in an English home.
At the bidding of the priests he rose stiffly and followed them, sick and giddy, from the dreadful grove. As he entered the woods, he glanced round, and saw the grim figure of the King of the Woods, standing motionless — watching the dying fire, and the something which still hung limp from the stake.
Among the horrors of the night, the one event he had most dreaded had been spared him. He had feared that Diana and this creature might have been affianced; but evidently that was not to be yet. Carstairs and he had this one thing in common: he would use Ronald for his own schemes before he allowed the worst to happen, if he could so contrive it.
“Where have you been all this time? You might have come to me,” Ralph asked in the querulous tones of a sick man, as Ronald entered.
Ronald lay on his couch, and burst into fit after fit of hysterical laughter, till the roof rang with the sound.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
HERO AND LEANDER
“It’s only a temporary postponement,” Ralph announced, when Ronald had completed his story. “Poor Ganzani! What a horrible death. That was meant for me.” His voice was gloomy. “I can’t go on falling sick, and anyway these brutes will get us, one way or another. Sinclair is our only hope. I wonder where he’s gone. He’s up to something, you bet.”
“Ralph, old boy, I brought you and your sister here. I can’t tell you how I feel about it.”
“Cut that out, old bean,” Ralph gave a feeble smile — he was far from well yet. “We’re all in it now.”
“I must see Diana, Ralph. After last night I simply must, somehow. The barges are carefully guarded day and night, and no one can cross the lake except for ceremonies.” He shuddered at the recollection. “One of the priests who seemed more friendly than the rest, or had taken more wine, told me on the boat, coming back.”
“I suppose she’s really nothing but a prisoner — a figure-head, with no power?” Ralph said.
“I doubt if anyone has much power here except the priests — even Carstairs, except if evil is intended. I have no doubt they would obey him in any devilry.”
“They’ve got us, old man. Carstairs knows we shouldn’t try and escape, leaving Diana and Doris here.”
“A pair of pants is what I want,” Ronald said suddenly.
“A what?”
“Pants — bathing-drawers — anything. I can’t go with nothing on, and I can’t swim in these togs.”
“What on earth are you talking about?” Ralph sat up and looked at his friend anxiously.
“There’s only one way that I can see. I must swim the lake and find Diana. There’s one blessing about the habits of these people; they have no walls or locks, only curtains. I ought to be able to find her somewhere at the temple.”
“Carstairs will be too cunning for that — and anyway, she’ll have her attendants, or whatever they are called.”
“I’m going to try to-night, if nothi
ng happens in the meantime. Let’s eat, anyway; we shall want to keep up our strength.”
The day was tedious to both; the waiting was far worse than action. They walked in the garden, and along the road. Watch may have been kept on them, but they saw no sign of anyone.
At midday they returned. As they neared the house a young girl ran across the garden and disappeared among some flowering shrubs.
“Hullo!” Ralph, who had a good eye for females, stared at the retreating figure.
“That’s not one of our flappers, I swear.”
“Never mind. It’s some pal come to have tea with them, I expect.”
The matter passed from their minds, distracted with gloomy thoughts of the future, when, on entering their living-room — they had stuck to the one room all through — Ronald’s eye caught a packet lying on the marble table, carefully placed under the wine-flagon. He seized it eagerly and unfolded a piece of the rough calico in universal use among these people. Letters were printed on it in the same curious ink they had seen on the vellum “receipt.”
“I must see you. Come to-night if you can. I will be waiting within the pillars of the north-east corner of the temple. You must be careful. Danger threatens. Diana.”
That was all, and they looked at each other in wonder.
“It’s fate,” Ralph said, “or a mighty queer coincidence.”
“Or a trap — the letters are printed. It may be Carstairs himself. What’ll you do?”
“Swim, as I said before. But there’s no time given. It is mighty fishy. Still, why should Carstairs want to trap me there, when he could get the priests to fetch us at any time?”
“I’ll go and ask our damsels for our clothes.”
In the dark, before the rising of the moon, Ronald stole out of the house, and slipped across the garden clad in dull-coloured shirt and breeches. He made his way cautiously through gardens and across side roads, blessing the early habits of the people.
The Yellow Mistletoe Page 20