by Talbot Mundy
“I order you! Start the oars again!”
“Not so,” Tros answered. “I am captain. You are king of a piece of Britain. I think they come for Marius and Galba, who will make all speed for the shore to convey their news to Caesar. If we watch the liburnian, we may learn where Caesar is.”
“Caesar will be where those three lights are,” said Caswallon, pointing shoreward toward Seine-mouth.
“No,” said Tros, “those are guide lights, three in a line to show the channel.”
“Make for them then! Get there first and block the channel!”
“Can’t be done,” Tros answered. “Tide and a whiff of wind against us. Tide increasing. From that masthead I saw a light in motion, and I think there is a pilot coming out, but it may be one of Caesar’s warships.”
He could no longer hear the liburnian, so he lowered the sail and started the oars. Slowly at first, then faster he took the longship nearer shore, until he could discern the low cliffs dimly and could hear the pounding of the surf.
He took a sounding and dropped anchor.
“Now,” he said, “if the gods are our friends, we may accomplish something. Caesar’s camp used to be yonder.” He pointed. “A small camp, about two hundred infantry and fifty horsemen, near a place where crossroads meet. The bigger camp lies yonder.”
He pointed again, this time much farther to the westward.
“See. You can see the watchfires along the rampart. That bigger camp is outside the Gauls’ town, maybe a mile away from it. Between that and us lie the harbor and the River Seine. When I was in Gaul, Caesar hardly ever slept a night in the large camp because it is across the river, which delays the receipt of messages from other points. Except when he is on the march he likes a small camp best and not too many onlookers, not too many men who might report his doings. He has a theory, too, that the legions admire him more if they don’t see him too often. It doesn’t amuse him to be commonplace. Watch our charcoal-burners.”
They were hanging overside, crowded against the landward rail, all as silent as ghosts. Caswallon swore aloud. It irked him to see men eager to leave Britain.
“Throw them overboard! See if they can swim!” he snorted.
But instead, Tros issued food to them, dried fish and roasted wheat in sufficient quantities to last for several days. Then he sent for young Glendwyr to come to the steering deck. Two Northmen brought him, so seasick he could hardly stand.
Caswallon pitied him: He seemed to bear no malice against a rebel taken in the act, defeated and enslaved, although he loathed the charcoal-burners who had never lifted hand against him.
“Come now, Glendwyr,” he said kindly, “make me glad I did not hang you. Let me see you play the man.”
“I would have hanged you, had rebellion not failed!” the youngster answered. “It would have been more merciful than slavery.”
Tros cut that altercation short.
“Your chance!” he said sternly. “If you want your freedom, work for it. I charge no tenths, the way the Romans do. Whoever serves me faithfully receives freedom, and I hire him thereafter as a free man. What do you say?”
“I am sick. I am fit for nothing,” Glendwyr answered.
“So. That is when a man’s true spirit shows itself. Sick as you are, do you propose to earn your freedom?”
“How?” asked Glendwyr.
“He is no good,” said Caswallon.
But Tros was not so sure. He tried again: “Will you serve me while my back is turned?”
Once more Glendwyr hesitated. He eyed Tros and then Caswallon.
“I hate you both. Better kill me,” he answered.
Tros laughed.
“Young fool, I need no leave of yours if I choose to kill you. You are my property. I offer you a man’s chance to be your own man again.”
“I crave freedom, but as a free man I will never serve you,” Glendwyr answered.
“Never is a long time. We will cross that river when we reach it,” said Tros. “Can you swim?”
Glendwyr nodded.
“Can you swim from here to shore? A long way, mind. The sea is like ice. Very well, I’ll have two Britons rub you down with fish oil. Put oiled wool in your ears. Wait, I’ll lower a boat and send you half way to the shore. You swim the rest. Take food with you tied in a bladder. When morning comes, find out where they have taken the Lady Fflur and the Lady Helma. Bring a message from them back to me. You will have to search for me. I will not be standing on the highest point in sight.”
“Very well,” said Glendwyr. “But don’t talk to me afterwards about faithful service and such balderdash. I serve myself. I have no love for you whatever.”
“Nevertheless, remember this,” said Tros. “You have owned a slave or two, young fellow, but you are now at the business of being one. No matter how much Caesar is my enemy, nor how much the Gauls hate Caesar, and even if I should be taken and crucified, you are a slave. One word from me and you would be proscribed and hunted down. You must return to me to receive your freedom. Nothing for nothing. I give freedom for honest service.”
Glendwyr nodded. As a man whose father had owned slaves he understood the system. All freemen of whatever race were in league against the slave, and those who had themselves been manumitted were the worst of all. A runaway slave’s sole hope of escaping crucifixion was to take to the mountains as an outlaw, or to enlist in some foreign mercenary army. But the latter was impossible where Rome held sway.
Tros ordered the rowboat put quietly overside, told off two charcoal- burners to rub Glendwyr, face and all with oil, and climbed once more to the masthead where he remained for half an hour. When he returned to the deck he looked pleased, although his teeth were chattering.
“What like was Lomar’s ship?” he asked. “He who carried tin and took your messenger?”
Caswallon described the ship as nearly as he could, but he could have described a horse much better.
“All the Ictis tin ships carry an iron basket at the masthead, in which they burn tow-flares, that the ship may see the way by night, or for some such reason.”
Tros chuckled.
“That is not a Roman warship coming out. Tide and wind must have carried Lomar from Pevensey to Seine-mouth, where I suppose the Romans ordered him to make haste to Caritia. Now he is coming out of Seine-mouth on a tide that will take him two-thirds of the way. Is Lomar any kind of friend of yours?”
“Aye, surely. Many times he has brought tin and traded it for wool in Lunden.”
“Go borrow that iron basket from him then. Four Northmen shall row you. Put Glendwyr into the water half way between here and the shore, and then row to meet Lomar’s ship. Wait! Has he a figurehead?”
“No, his ship is a blunt-bowed thing, not nearly as long as this but, I should say, as high out of the water. No figurehead before or behind.”
“Axes!” Tros commanded.
And almost before Caswallon had stepped overside into the rowboat with four Northmen all armed to the teeth, Sigurdsen and some others, grumbling superstitiously, were chopping off the long-necked serpents that adorned the longship’s ends.
“Now we shall have no luck at all!” growled Sigurdsen. “As well lop off a horse’s head and tail!”
But Tros leaned overside and gave additional instructions to Caswallon:
“First and foremost, borrow that iron basket. Second, get all the news you can from Lomar. Third, try to persuade him to stand far out to sea, so that he will be out of sight by morning, or else to anchor before morning in some land-locked cove where the Romans aren’t likely to see him.”
Caswallon was rowed away and again Tros climbed to the masthead. Presently in the wan light of the moon he caught sight of the liburnian returning shoreward. The light at Lomar’s masthead had burned itself out, but beyond it two small lights at either end of a spar explained that another ship was laboring under oars, presumably trying to enter the channel against the tide.
Then came mist on a breath of war
mer air. White cat-tails puffed along in streaks prophetic of a dense fog. Tros began to fear Caswallon might be lost, began to wonder whether he must burn a flare for him and risk all consequences.
So an hour passed. Once, he heard a distant crash that sounded not quite like a long wave bursting on the shingle. Long after that he heard the heavy thump of long sweeps and the squeak of a swaying spar as Lomar’s ship went by. The mist increased, but with occasional puffs of wind that blew long sea-lanes, down which the moon shone brightly. Then oars again, the steady thump and swing of seamen born to the business, and presently Caswallon’s hail out of a fog bank:
“Tro-o-o-s!”
He shouted back to give them the direction. Five more minutes and Caswallon came climbing up, wet to the skin. The Northmen followed, dragging up a huge iron basket.
“Lud’s luck!” Caswallon announced. “Give me dry clothes, Tros. We got Marius and Galba. Slew them both! Your Northmen are first rate fellows! Row? Lud’s backbone! We came full speed out of a bank of fog and crashed into the liburnian! Look at the boat’s bow! Lucky you built her of oak or we’d be swimming yet! We upset the liburnian and Galba jumped aboard us. I hacked his neck through clear to the backbone, so he couldn’t tell me much. Then Marius got both hands on the boat’s edge and one of the Northmen helped him in.
“He knocked them overboard and rushed at me, so I had to stop him, point to the throat. He went over backward and vanished. Armor too heavy, I suppose. Then I had to pull the two Northmen out of the water. The fools can’t swim! One of them pulled me in. By Lud, I’m as wet as a fish. Liburnian’s crew? Oh, the Northmen knocked them on the head with oars as they tried to swim. There’ll be no tales told ashore! Glendwyr? Yes, he left all right, swimming strong, blowing like a porpoise. Just before he jumped in he said he was sorry he’d insulted you. He asked me to say he would do his best and he wishes you druids’ luck.
“Lomar? Yes, we tackled him after we scuttled the liburnian. Lomar put into Seine-mouth, leaking badly, but he has sickness aboard, so the Romans sent him out again on the tide and told him to dump his sick men overboard out of sight of land. Lomar’s as mad as a forked eel. He wants the money for his tin, but the Romans won’t pay him until he takes it to Caritia and he’s afraid his ship isn’t seaworthy. He intends to put into a cove before morning and try to patch her up, but he says if the Romans catch him there, they’ll chase him out to sea. So he’ll have to be careful.”
“How much tin has he?” asked Tros.
“As much as his ship can carry, stowed under a structure like a house- roof around the mast, not unlike the one we have on this ship. He set my messenger ashore before he left port. The man jumped overside and swam for it. And you were right, Tros. He’s already talking about fifty thousand men. Lomar asked me whether it’s true that the druids have armed us with thunderbolts. I told him yes. Caesar’s ears will burn by morning!”
Tros ordered the iron basket hoisted to the masthead and fixed in place.
“Now we needn’t worry,” he said. “We’re Lomar’s ship. Was his hull pitch black?”
Caswallon nodded, pulling on warm, dry trousers that one of his own attendants offered, making shift himself with blankets out of Tros’ store.
“Luck o’ Lud!” said Tros. “It looks like it. Lomar with a sick crew, the Romans will never venture near this ship. They’ll never doubt we’re Lomar. Mist, and no sign of wind. Plenty of time between now and morning. Sigurdsen!”
The giant Northman stood before him, arms folded on his breast.
“I never tempt a friend beyond his strength,” said Tros. “This was your ship once. You shall come ashore with me. You and the four best men you have. Caswallon, will you leave your party on board here? Then we needn’t be afraid that our Northmen will put to sea and leave us.”
Sigurdsen scowled. Caswallon laughed.
“You doubt my faith?” asked Sigurdsen.
“Not I,” said Tros, “but I propose to test it like a new rope, not using too much strain at first. You, I, the Lord Caswallon and Eough for the shore. We will try to steal more boats to land the charcoal-burners. Put those stinkballs into the boat. Let Eough have charge of them.”
CHAPTER 49. Luck o’ Lud o’ Lunden
Some of you pray for Lud’s luck. And the worldly wise mock you, saying Luck loves only strength and wealth and cunning. But I tell you, ye reap as ye sowed in former lives; and in this life ye are sowing what ye shall reap in lives to come. Faith, hope, courage, these three are the seeds of Good Luck. Sow ye therefore, lest the unused seed should rot. It is too late now to change what ye call Luck. Ye must reap as ye sowed in former lives. But Destiny depends on how ye sow and what ye sow in this life. Faith, hope, courage — greed, fear, malice. Choose. As ye sow ye shall reap.
— from The Sayings of the Druid Taliesan
THEY FOUND three boats keels upward on the beach, but it took until dawn to land the charcoal-burners because the boats kept losing themselves in the fog between ship and land.
“The women. The children,” Eough demanded when the last of his skin-clad men stood shivering on shore.
Tros grinned.
“They are no use to you yet,” he answered. “Business first.”
“I have never broken a promise,” said the dwarf.
“Nor I,” Tros answered. “You shall have those women and children when the work is done.”
Eough shrugged his shoulders philosophically, but he did not like the idea of having to leave hostages in Tros’s hands. He set the stinkballs higher up the beach and waited for further orders.
“Now remember,” Tros advised him, “if the Romans see you they will make sport of you because you are small, and you will have a hard time to get away from them. Some dealer might even claim you as a slave. Or you might be kidnaped and smuggled away to Rome. Keep out of sight as much as possible. Choose your best man and send him to offer faggots for sale to the legionaries.
“They’re the most improvident wastrels in the world with fuel. At the rate they were burning watchfires last night, no wood-stack would last a week. They’re certain purchasers. He’ll find the quartermaster who does the purchasing in a building that faces the front entrance of the camp. Let him bargain a bit for appearance’ sake, but be sure he accepts finally whatever price is offered.
“The rest of you go to the woods you’ll find in that direction—” he pointed southward— “glean faggots, and conceal the stinkballs in the largest ones. Then, when your man has done the bargaining, carry the faggots into the camp and stack them where the quartermaster shows you. Your men must return to the woods to sleep, but you report to me. Leave two of your men here. One of them will find you later on and tell you where I’m hidden. The other will find Glendwyr and tell him.”
Eough concealed the stinkballs under heaps of seaweed in the charcoal- burners’ baskets and departed into the fog, as business-like as if he were leading a hundred slaves to market.
“Did he understand at which camp he is to offer wood for sale?” Caswallon asked.
“Yes, the smaller one, where Caesar may be.”
“What if Caesar is not there?”
“What if the gods are not around us!” Tros retorted. “I never think in terms of ‘what if not.’ I look at what is. Let us do our part and trust the gods to do theirs. Observe this fog. Could the gods have dropped a better screen over our movements? I will believe the gods are neutral when I see it proved! We are hostages to luck. The gods love boldness. Forward!”
Nine of them, Tros leading and two wretched-looking charcoal-burners last, began to march inland, pausing frequently to listen for voices or footsteps, following a footpath but avoiding habitations, seeking high ground in order if possible to get above the mist. They were discovered and barked at by the dogs, but no harm came of it. And at one place where they crossed hoar- frosted grassland, three stray horses made them believe they had been detected by Caesar’s cavalry. Discovering the mistake, Caswallon would have caught one
of those horses and ridden it, had Tros permitted; but horse theft was too likely to have started hue and cry.
Caswallon was still obsessed by the notion of finding Caesar and challenging him to single combat. As simple as a child where chivalry concerned him, he was even nervous lest Tros should claim precedence and fight the Roman first. In vain Tros told him twenty times that Caesar would consider himself too civilized for that kind of encounter.
“He murders by proxy at wholesale. He is brave in battle, but he would laugh at the idea of trial by ordeal.”
“I have heard,” Caswallon answered, “that the Romans are great fighters, hand-to-hand. Marius told me that even their public games are fights to the death in an arena between picked antagonists.”
“Foreigners fighting, Romans looking on!” Tros answered. “Another of their pretty little games is watching prisoners torn by wild dogs. I tell you, if you should walk up and challenge Caesar, he would simply have you put in chains and keep you to grace his triumph when he goes to Rome.”
Caswallon refused to believe it. Unwillingness to upset Tros’s plan was all that prevented him from going there and then in search of Caesar. And even so, if he had known how vague Tros’s plan still was, he might have gone in any case. Tros was simply trusting in what Caswallon would have called, “Lud’s Luck.”
They reached high ground at last and lay down behind a fallen tree to munch cold breakfast and wait for the mist to disperse. They could hear the tubas blow in Caesar’s camp, the occasional galloping footfall of a mounted messenger, shouting and the usual medley of camp noises, but they had little idea how close they were. When the fog did lift at last, leaving a light haze, they discovered they were hardly a quarter of a mile away. They could see Caesar’s tents — the little one he slept in, and the big one, sumptuously furnished, warmed with charcoal braziers, with the standards pitched in front of it, in which he lived by day.
There was no doubt, after they had watched for half an hour, that Caesar was in the big tent. A constant stream of messengers came and went. Men who appeared to be important officers stood near the tent in groups, entering one by one as they were summoned. The camp was laid out spaciously and contained more wooden huts than tents. Bright fires were burning at each intersection of the lines, and at those groups of soldiers stood warming themselves; but most of the officers and men, not on actual duty, were pacing solemnly in twos along the rampart, or to and fro on the parade ground.