Complete Works of Talbot Mundy

by Talbot Mundy

  “There is no beach to land an army on,” Caesar remarked, looking sternly at Tros.

  Tros glanced eastward to where, several miles away, the beach was wider and the cliffs gave way to lower and more rounded hills that seemed to offer an opening inland.

  “Have you a Roman who could have brought you thus near in the night?” he retorted, pointing. “Yonder you can land — or nowhere. And you had better make a landing this day, for I warn you, I can smell the weather breeding. Tomorrow, or the next day, or the next, the wind will scatter all your ships.”

  As the nearest galleys came within a mile Caesar ordered the officers’ assembly sounded. There was a race to obey the summons, and the first to arrive was Caius Volusenus, stepping out of a rowboat manned by Gauls; he stepped on to the poop and saluted Caesar.

  “I commanded you to bring up the rear with your ship,” said Caesar.

  “General, where is the rear?” he retorted, sweeping his arm toward where the fleet lay spread on the horizon.

  As he turned his head he spared a swift, wrinkled glance for Tros.

  Other small boats arrived, and other ships’ commanders climbed up to the poop, eager-faced and looking splendid in their armor, but some of them deathly white from seasickness.

  Caesar, making a great show of consultation, nodding as each man made his swift report, ordered them to signal as many fighting ships as could be gathered in a hurry and to follow him along the coast toward that break in the cliffs that Tros had pointed out.

  And meanwhile, Caius Volusenus, working his way gradually out from the group of officers, had opportunity for a hundred words with Tros.

  “This is a farce. It will be a failure,” he said grimly. “Caesar will force a landing, because he is Caesar. I smell defeat. We shall be driven back into our ships. Now, about those pearls.”

  Tros smiled.

  “You left an anchor down there to the westward. Conops and I could recover it,” he answered.

  “Good. It was a good, new, heavy one. It were a shame to lose it.”

  Caius Volusenus slipped back into the group of officers and presently returned to his own ship.

  Then ten or twelve ships, Caesar’s leading, rowed in double line along the coast in search of a practicable landing place; and Tros noticed that the Britons on the summit of the cliffs had vanished.

  They rowed slowly, observing the beach, and before they reached that gap between the hills, where the shingle sloped into the sea at an angle that looked as if beaching might be fairly easy, a small, fast galley overtook them, bringing word that the ships conveying cavalry had become scattered in the night and, finding themselves too near the quicksands with a rising wind and rough water, had put back to Gaul to save disaster.

  Caesar glanced sharply at Tros, who overheard the news and very nearly let a smile escape him. He could not altogether keep the laughter from his eyes. Caesar beckoned him.

  “Your father piloted the cavalry,” he said. Tros nodded.

  “If I heard aright, he would seem to have preserved them from the shoals.”

  “And me from victory,” said Caesar, scowling. Then suddenly he laughed. “Whether or not you and your father are to be given to the executioners, shall depend on the outcome. Pray for my victory, Tros.”

  But he had grown thoughtful, and when they drew abreast of the chosen landing place he waited until nearly three in the afternoon for the heavier fighting ships to overtake him. That gave the Britons ample time to gather in hundreds to oppose him, waiting for the time being out of bowshot, chariots, horse and foot all massed together, the men nearly naked and armed to the teeth, the stallions neighing and the war-horses braying as party after party arrived from inland.

  “Barbarians,” said Caesar in a loud voice. “They will be no match for Romans.”

  And the legionaries laughed; but Caesar continued to wait for more ships to arrive, until at last the whole of his two thousand infantry lay rolling within a bowshot of the shore.

  But by that time it had been discovered that none except the very lightest ships could approach the shore close enough for the men to jump overboard without the certainty of being drowned in their heavy armor.

  The lightest ships were ordered forward, but the Britons charged into the sea on horseback and in chariots and met them with such showers of javelins and arrows that the Romans had to lock shields.

  One centurion leaped over the bow, shouting to his men to follow, and twenty of them did, but the Britons rode them down and drowned them, managing their horses in the sea as skillfully as on dry land.

  Meanwhile, a score more men had been killed on board ship by arrow fire and javelins, in spite of locked shields. Caesar ordered the ships back out of range, and the Britons yelled defiance from the beach, showing off, wheeling their chariots like whirlwinds.

  But Caesar ordered the ten heaviest warships into position on his right flank, as close as they could get to shore without grounding, and a hail of rocks and arrows from their engines swept the beach and then the rising ground beyond the beach, scattering the chariots and spreading death.

  The Britons scampered out of range, leaving a writhing swath behind them, and Caesar ordered the lighter ships inshore again.

  The Britons wheeled, yelled, trumpeted and charged through the hail of stones and arrows into the sea once more to meet them. Fifty of them boarded one ship by the bow, leaping from the chariot poles and from horseback, and the warships could do nothing to aid in that emergency, for fear of killing their own men. The Britons were all slain, but they wrought red havoc first.

  Roman after Roman plunged into the sea, only to be ridden down and killed; for they jumped in shoulder deep and the weight of their armor made them helpless, whereas the Britons seemed to know the very underwater holes and were as active as their horses.

  But when a Briton was slain, he floated with the water crimsoning around him, whereas the legionaries with their heavy armor sank; so that at the end of an hour’s fighting there were scores of British corpses floating, and some horses, but no Roman dead in sight; and that fact encouraged Caesar’s men.

  Moreover, the hail of arrow fire from the warships’ engines had had its effect on the British reserves drawn up at the back of the beach to await their turn in the crowded fighting line — for the British method was to rush in and fight until they had a stomachful and then to retire and give fresh men a chance to prove their mettle.

  “These Romans are cowards and Caesar is a fool,” said Conops in Tros’s ear. “Two thousand Greeks would have landed an hour ago, against twice that number. Watch Caesar’s face. I wager we return to Gaul tonight.”

  But Tros had hardly taken his eyes off Caesar, even when the great war- engines twanged and whirred and almost any other man would have been fascinated by the grim, mechanical precision of the gangs who worked them.

  But it was Caesar himself who fascinated Tros. Caesar in his scarlet cloak was looking ten years younger. His cold eyes were glittering. He stood in one place, motionless, except that his head turned swiftly now and then. His men were flinching and discouraged, but not he.

  “Bring me the standard-bearer of the Tenth!” he ordered suddenly.

  A small boat went to bring the man, who left his “eagle” in another’s hands and came and saluted Caesar on the poop.

  “Who can die better than in Rome’s behalf?” asked Caesar, looking straight at him.

  It was a calculating, cold look, but the man smiled proudly.

  “None,” he answered. “I will gladly die for Rome.”

  “Lead the Tenth to the shore!” commanded Caesar. “I will watch you.”

  The man grinned and saluted, Caesar merely nodding. Nothing more was said, no other order given; but, as if the eyes of all the fleet had watched that incident, there was a sudden stiffening and an expectancy that could be felt.

  The man was rowed back to his ship, and in another moment he was standing in the bow with his standard raised. In all that din of t
wanging engines, clatter of the javelins on shields, grinding of sea on the beach and the creaking of cordage, the man’s words were inaudible, but his gesture as he courted death was histrionic, dignified, superb.

  He made a short speech, raised the standard high above his head, and plunged into the sea, neck deep, working his way toward the nearest Britons, daring the immortal Tenth to let their standard fall into enemy hands.

  With a roar and a clanging of shields they plunged in after him, many drowning instantly because the ship had backed off into slightly deeper water and the Britons were there in hundreds, leaping from horseback to swim and meet them where armor was a disadvantage.

  The standard-bearer fell, but the eagle passed to another soldier of the Tenth, who carried it farther inshore before he went down and yet another soldier raised it; and by that time shipload after shipload of Romans had leaped into the sea and men were trying to lock shields, neck deep, around whatever standard happened to be near them.

  As they worked their way shoreward they had to meet the British chariots that charged in, hubs awash, six fighting men in each, who leaped along the pole between the horses and over the heads of the front-rank Romans, turning then to break up the formation from the rear.

  Twice the legionaries quailed and fell back toward deeper water, but Caesar withdrew the ships behind them, forcing them to stand and fight, or drown. And in the end it was that, and the British system of rushing forward to engage and retreating to give a fresher man a chance, that decided the battle.

  The engines of destruction on the warships swept the beach, making it more and more difficult to reinforce the fighting line, smashing chariots with catapulted rocks and cutting down the horses with volleys of low-flying arrows.

  And the legionaries knew their Caesar; knew that he would let them drown unless they gained the day for him. So the standards swayed forever nearer to the shore; and in the shallower water they could hold their close formation, although the chariots, with scythes set in the wheel-hubs, mowed them again and again. But they learned the trick of slashing at the horses before they could wheel to bring the scythes in play.

  And at last a standard reached the shore, with twenty men around it, and the standard-bearer raised it high to plant it in British earth. The catapults and arrow-engines had to cease fire then, as one standard after another gained the margin of the shore and paused an instant for the men to lock their shields in solid lines behind it.

  The legions sang then — they were ever noisy winners — roaring to the British chiefs to lock their wives away because they brought Rome’s common husband with them, who would leave a trail of Caesarlings to improve the breed.

  They sang of Caesar; and they warmed themselves pursuing Britons up the beach. For after a few more chariot charges the Britons withdrew toward the forests inland, carrying off most of their dead and wounded, not exactly beaten, but in no mood to continue the battle.

  “Barbarians,” said Caesar blandly on the high poop. “Such people rarely care for fighting when the sun goes down. We will anchor here. Put provisions ashore.”

  A centurion came rowing out to say that there was good ground for a camp within a furlong of the shore, so Caesar ordered the picks and shovels overside. Then he jumped his horse into the water very splendidly in sight of the men of the Tenth, who cheered him to the echo, and rode ashore to hear the roll called and to weep and moan over the list of slain — for he was very good indeed at that.

  “Anchor here for the night?” said Tros in Greek to Conops. “Caesar is mad. The gods—”

  “Aye, anchor!” said a Roman voice beside him. “Can you pick up an anchor in darkness, Tros?”

  Tros turned and looked into the eyes of Caius Volusenus. A small boat rocked alongside.

  “Come,” said Caius Volusenus with a sidewise gesture of the head.

  But Caesar habitually did not overlook much, even in the hour of victory. A centurion stepped up, who announced that by Caesar’s order Tros and his servant must remain on board the ship. Caius Volusenus cursed the fellow’s impudence, but there was nothing to be gained by that.

  “He who obeys Caesar can afford to be impudent,” said the centurion, leaning back against the rail and spitting overside. “What nice dry feet has Caius Volusenus!”

  His own were wet, and he had a slight wound in the shoulder. So Caius Volusenus, cursing savagely, climbed into his boat and had himself rowed ashore, while Tros watched the bustle of unloading and studied the sunset thoughtfully. He observed that no ship had more than one anchor out, nor much scope to her cable.

  “Caesar is quite mad,” he remarked to Conops pleasantly. “If Caswallon is not so mad, and if he happens to be sober, and remembers, I can see the end of this.”

  An hour or so later in the deepening twilight, leaning over the stern, he saw three shadowy ships that ghosted westward, three miles out to sea.

  They were smaller than the smallest Caesar had with him, and the silhouettes were nearly crescent-moon shaped, so high they were at prow and stern. His seaman’s eye observed how clumsily they yawed over the ground-swell, and how different the oar stroke was from Roman practice.

  The centurion also observed them.

  “Gauls,” he suggested. “Barbarous looking craft — how I would hate to put to sea in them. I suppose Caesar ordered them to follow the fleet and guide the stragglers, or perhaps to scout, in case the Britons should have a ship or two. But I wonder that he trusts such fishy looking rabble.”

  “So do I,” said Tros, noticing that the three dim ships had picked up a light wind that carried them westward finely.

  He said nothing more until a slave came to call the centurion down to the surgeon, who had established a rough dressing station in the ship’s waist. Then he turned to Conops.

  “Caswallon is not mad. He is not drunk. He has not forgotten,” he remarked. “Those three ships were his.”

  Inland, campfires began glowing on the earthwork that the legionaries raised with pick and shovel — they had brought the firewood for the purpose with them on the ships. From the camp to the shore there was a line of sentries posted, but they were invisible; only the clank of their shields sounded as they moved occasionally, and a rising and falling murmur as they called their numbers, each man to the next one.

  It was pitch dark, and the full moon not yet due for an hour, when Caius Volusenus came with an order from Caesar in writing. “I am to take my ship and pick that anchor up,” he said to Tros. “You and your servant are to come and help me find it.”

  The centurion, with a bandage on his shoulder and his bronze waist-armor laid aside, objected. It appeared that the surgeon had hurt him, for he spoke between his teeth.

  “Bite that!” said Caius Volusenus, thrusting the written order under his nose. “He who obeys Caesar has the last word!”

  But the centurion called for a torch and demanded to see what was written, and it was he who had the last word after all:

  “Be careful. I am sure that Caesar would be sorry if you should wet your feet or get hurt!” he sneered, and turned his back before the other man could answer.

  CHAPTER 13. Hythe and Caswallon

  Though I have condemned you for brawling, never have I counseled peace at any price. I know but one man meaner than the coward so self-loving that he will not face the consequences of the common treasons against manhood. He is too mean to be worthy of death by ordeal; let him run; let him hide; let him live and be humiliated by his meanness. But he is a paragon of manhood in comparison to him who might have fought, and should have fought, but dared not fight, and who afterwards sneers at the vanquished.

  There is nothing wholesome, nothing good in war except the willingness of each to face the consequences of the mischiefs ye have all wrought and condoned. It is your war and ye made it. Face it like men. There is no peace other than an earned peace worth the having.

  — from The Sayings of the Druid Taliesan

  CAIUS VOLUSENUS’ galley picked up the sa
me wind that had wafted the three ghost-ships on their way, but it began to blow considerably harder, and Tros, with his eyes toward the weather, chuckled to himself; for a nearly full moon rose astern with a double halo, and was presently so overcast with clouds that Caesar’s campfires seemed to grow doubly bright.

  There were no lights on the ships that pitched and rolled at anchor, nor any on that of Caius Volusenus; but great fires burned in forest clearings and along the cliffs in proof the Britons were awake and stirring.

  Caius Volusenus fretted on his poop, anticipating seasickness and fearing it as some men dread an evil conscience.

  “Is this that cursed equinox?” he asked, squinting at the wan moon as it showed for a moment through a bank of clouds.

  “A foretaste,” Tros answered.

  But he was not so sure. He was afraid old Gobhan had miscalculated, for the gale blew fresher every minute and, with a rising sea behind, the galley pitched and yawed like a barrel adrift.

  “Keep a lookout for the bearings,” he ordered Conops. “Remember that bleak headland and the level land to westward of it.”

  Conops waited until Caius Volusenus went and lay to leeward vomiting. Then:

  “Master,” he said in a low voice, “neither you nor I can find a spar tied to an anchor on a night like this. Why not run into the port of Hythe, if we can find the entrance, and seize this ship with the aid of those Britons, and—”

  “Because we would have to fight for the ship, and there would be men slain, of whom you and I would be the first, and we have work to do.”

  “Then what? Are we to wait until the morning, and quarter the sea until we find that spar?”

  “I am a liar on occasion,” Tros answered. “If I lie like a Greek this night, and you lie like a Trojan; and if Caius Volusenus’ brains are all aswim from vomiting; and if his crew is not much better off, who shall know we lie, except we two?

  “Look out, then, for the bearings of that spar; for I hate to lie like a Roman, without appearance of excuse. Pick them up soon, Conops, pick them up soon. For if I am ever to bring this wallowing hulk into the wind I must do it presently, before the gale grows worse.”