by Talbot Mundy
“Not so bad as that, Lord Tros! I saved all the stores. It was I who found the fire laid under the pitch-shed floor. I saved you nearly half-a-mile of hempen rope by—”
“Can you speak the Roman tongue?” Tros interrupted.
“Yes, my lord.”
“And Gaulish?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Caesar and many of his officers could recognize you?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Then shave!”
Skell stared, but Conops found a razor and a pair of shears. Before Skell realized it, half his beard was gone.
“There, take the bacon rind and rub,” said Conops irritably. “Rub it in well, unless you want your skin to be scraped off with the hair.” Conops shoved to make him turn the unclipped half toward the firelight. “Spit on the rind! If it’s too hard, chew it!”
Tros, in silence, watched the transformation. What had looked like obstinacy through the matted red mask now betrayed itself as a retreating chin accentuated by the big sharp nose. Skell looked ten years younger, and by ten of any measure less a danger to be reckoned with. By some trick of proportion now, his eyes looked much less cunning and more mild. Tros ordered Conops to trim the eyebrows.
“Not too much or he’ll look disguised,” he warned. “Now the hair at the back of the neck. Crop it half short.”
Skell went and washed his face in the great lead bowl in the corner. Luckily he could not see himself, or the last dregs of his self-esteem would have drifted away with the smoke as Conops opened the shutters a trifle to judge what time it might be. Tros had to screw up his own courage before he could trust that weak-chinned specimen with any kind of mission. However, he had none else suited for his purpose. Glendwyr, for instance, knew no Roman.
“At any rate, Caesar won’t fear you,” he remarked, as Skell returned to stand in front of him. “Are you afraid of Caesar?”
“Aye!” said Skell, showing too much of the whites of his eyes.
Tros laughed. “A month ago you would have boasted that neither Caesar nor any other man could frighten you! Because I am not afraid of Caesar, I will send you to him.”
Skell’s jaw fell, increasing the effect of the retreating chin. His red- rimmed eyes grew narrower. Conops, heaping red-hot ashes on a bread pan, chuckled.
“Aye, I know,” said Tros, nodding. “When I sent you to Caesar before, you played fast and loose between him and me. He will scourge and crucify you if you are recognized. But you asked me for a chance to act the man, and now you may have it. I am going to give you money, my money, and this from the druids.”
Tros showed him a fragment of parchment, not longer than a thumb joint either way, inscribed with heavy characters in black ink.
“If Romans should see this they would condemn you to death for possessing it. So swallow it if you are caught. But show it to any Gaul and, if he is a true Gaul, he will help you. You are to discover from which port, and when Caesar is sending Spanish troops to Britain. By whatever means present themselves, you are to get exact information to me. Without betraying who you are or even that you know me, you are to start a rumor in Gaul in such way that it will reach Caesar’s ears as soon as possible, that I will remain in Britain all this year in order to help Caswallon against Caesar should he attempt a new invasion.”
“Am I myself to return to you with the information?” Skell asked.
“That is for the gods and your own wit to determine. I need the information more than I need you. You may return by fishing boat from Gaul or you may attach yourself to the Spanish troops and sail with them. They might need an interpreter, for instance.”
“And how shall I reach Gaul?” Skell asked him.
“By chariot to Pevensey, where you will find a fisherman named Geraint who will take you to the Gaulish coast not far from Seine-mouth. You will only need to show him this druids’ writing and he will obey you. Geraint, they tell me, is half Gaul, half Briton. He will remain over there in Gaul among the fisherfolk, and it may be he is the man to bring you back or to bring your news to me if you remain and travel with the troops. But he is not too trustworthy, since he loves the glint of money. I was cautioned by the druids as to that. So, if you use Geraint, he must not understand what he is doing. Nothing in writing. Nothing spoken that he could repeat to the Romans or a Roman spy.”
Conops chuckled again, stirring cow’s milk as he warmed it in the embers. Then he cracked six eggs into a frying pan and threw the shells into the fire with totally unnecessary violence. Tros nodded.
“Eggs,” he said. “If Geraint or any other man from Gaul should bring me eggs, no Roman could interpret that. If he should say they are eggs of Spanish hens from Seine-mouth or from Caritia or from Caen or from Cariallum, as the case may be, I would understand that the Spanish troops will sail from whichever port is thus indicated. Let each egg represent a day. Thus, if there were nine eggs, I would understand that the Spaniards will sail on the ninth day after the messenger set forth from Gaul.
“Then you must tell me in how many ships they sail. So, lest the eggs be broken, you will wrap them carefully. If in three packages, then the Spaniards will sail in three ships. If in two, then in two ships. If each egg should be separately wrapped in wool, let that mean that the ships are unarmed merchantmen. But if the wrapping of each egg is of grass or straw, I will understand they sail in warships. But if they should sail in unarmed ships with warships for an escort, you will place the packages of eggs inside a basket, and that basket inside another one, and so on, to indicate how many warships. The stronger and bigger the baskets, the bigger and better armed I will understand those warships to be. Is all that clear to you?”
Skell nodded. He folded his arms. His delight in intrigue was offsetting the fear that kept his yellow teeth exposed.
“Now as to the Spanish troops’ direction. It may be difficult to convey that information, but let us take the harbor of Dertemue as the place where I will expect them unless there is news to the contrary. If they should sail to the westward of Dertemue, then include a duck’s egg in the package. If to the eastward of it, then a dozen or so black hen’s feathers. But if there should be two duck’s eggs, then I will understand that they sail around the end of Britain to the west coast. Although the Romans are no sailors, so I think that course unlikely. Now, can you remember all that?”
Skell nodded again.
“How shall the messenger find you?” he asked. “Will you be here?”
“Not I! Nor will I tell you where I will be, since the wind and weather have a part to play. Nor can I spare Conops, for I have a crew of land crabs to be hammered into men with seamen’s souls. I will send a man to Hythe, who will await you or your messenger. He will not know where to find me, for there are too many informers on the prowl, but I will find him.”
Conops laid the fried eggs, bacon, hot bread and scalded milk on the table in front of Tros, pushing the sword out of the way and making a great clatter of plates and spoons. Dawn began to peer palely through the chink in the wooden shutters. Tros yawned and fell to at the food.
“Go, eat. Clothe yourself. Be ready in an hour,” he said to Skell, and Skell went out with a stride that alternated between cat-like caution and a swagger.
“Already he thinks he carries eggs!” said Conops, grinning. “You have chosen a weak agent, master!”
“Aye, and a poisonous bad cook!” Tros spat the bread out of his mouth. “You dog! You feed me ashes?”
“Wholesome, master! Good for your insides! Ashes — not much, just a little — fell into the dough. I couldn’t help it.”
“Ashes? Pluto rot you! It’s a charred oak knot. Break my teeth, will you!”
Tros swallowed the hot milk, set down the beaker, took more of the alleged bread and rammed it into Conops’ mouth, holding the Greek’s head under his armpit, ramming in more and more with both his thumbs until the gag was solid. Then he buckled on his sword and strode out to the shipyard, where Sigurdsen, in two languages, was bellowing curses at
a group of Britons who had knocked out the ratchet of a crane too suddenly and dropped a load of lumber on the ship’s deck.
The sun was hardly over the skyline and the mist hung like washed wool over the river, but the whole yard was a-hum already with the orderly excitement of a task now nearly finished. There was a reek of hot pitch and a squeal of cordage as they rigged the tackles to the anchored buoys in mid- stream — sudden squalls of hammer-blows where Northmen in the ship’s waist fitted up the berths. For Tros had carried innovation to the limit and provided a dry section of the hold wherein his ablest seamen might sleep comfortably and, aft of that again, an almost sumptuous saloon for his lieutenants. She was a wonder of a ship. She was to have a wonder-name bestowed on her at high noon. For a while Tros stood admiring her vermilion topsides, which had cost him a fortune in mercury and sulphur for the paint.
Orwic came, dew on his face, leaping along a chariot-pole and standing beside Tros almost before the long-maned stallions could plant their forefeet in the sod and bring the chariot to a clattering halt.
“Men!” he said, agape at the great ship’s gleaming splendor, for Tros had made them polish up the tin against the launching. “Men! Men! Tros, what say you? Let us feed Northmen their own meat! Red rascals! They have raided our coasts since before the memory of man. Let’s raid theirs for a change! Cross the North Sea, burn some villages, round up women and hold them until they trade us a man for them apiece! Northmen are better sailors than you’ll ever find in Britain.”
“No,” said Tros.
“Why not? Lud’s teeth! They’ve earned reprisals! We’d be doing favors to the gods by raping half-a-dozen homesteads!”
“I have enough Northmen,” Tros answered. He knew better than to talk to Orwic about the ethics of honest raiding. Orwic would have hunted men as cheerfully as wolves. “Too many of a kind is worse than too few. I will be captain of my ship.”
Orwic pushed the peaked steel cap back from his forehead, scratched his hair and looked at Tros curiously, as at a man who might be talking nonsense to conceal his thoughts.
“You have nearly two hundred Britons,” he remarked. “They are used now to your eight-and-forty Northmen. If a mutiny should start, do you think Britons would take your side?”
Tros looked hard at him.
“When I studied the Mysteries,” he said, “I was taught the properties of triangles. A triangle will carry more weight than a square and, with the weight on it, is not so easy to upset. You understand me?”
“No,” said Orwic.
Tros, refraining from explanations, turned to greet Caswallon, who arrived four-horsed, at full speed, with the morning sun behind him, gleaming on his flowing hair.
“Today? Surely today?” Caswallon asked.
And when Tros nodded he drew him aside by the sleeve.
“I have a thought how you can get more men, but not a word to Orwic! You heard Rhys speak of the taxes from his district? Well, they are in arrear. Orwic is in debt to Rhys, who threatens a suit against him to prevent his sailing with you. If Orwic knew what I intend, he would probably go and kill Rhys, and I have too much trouble on my hands already without that. Listen now. Rhys comes to the launching, and his men will work a mischief to you if it can be managed. Be prepared.”
“I am!” Tros answered, thinking of the chemical and Conops with his torch.
“Be prepared to bag Rhys! Trap him! Seize him!”
“Make a sailor of that raw-bones, that orator, that skin-a-louse?” Tros asked. “The Sea God would wreck me in fair weather for the insult to his waves!”
“No, no. I need Rhys. He can govern his district. But I need the taxes that he hasn’t paid. Catch Rhys and accuse him of anything. Demand from him fifty men. Your Northmen must pounce on his escort, and it won’t much matter if they happen to kill a few. I kill have some of my bowmen placed where they can keep the public from taking sides. Rhys will appeal to me, of course, and I will refuse to do anything about it until he pays the tribute money.
“But I think — for I know Rhys — that if you should hold him fast, but let him send a messenger, he will attend to it that the tribute money is paid before he appeals to me. I will then demand from him a heavy fine, both for having been slow with his payment and for having started a riot in your shipyard. I will demand a fine that I know he can not pay. He has too many armed men in his district, so I will let him pay in men instead of money. Those men you shall have for your ship, friend Tros, and I will see to it that they are good ones. Thus we do each other a good turn. But don’t tell Orwic. Rhys is threatening to seize his property and hold his person. Orwic would certainly kill him if he knew there was going to be a good opportunity.”
Tros demurred. Like Caswallon, he had too much trouble on his hands without courting more. And besides, he wanted no more Britons in his crew, particularly unwilling ones.
“I am admiral of Caesar’s fleet,” he said, frowning, but with a smile behind his eyes. “Lend me a two-horse chariot to send to Pevensey and I will get all the men I need without having to pick bones with Rhys.”
Caswallon stared at him.
“Men from Pevensey?”
“From Gaul! According to my admiral’s appointment, written over Caesar’s seal, I have full right to levy men, and no Roman may refuse me.”
“Tell me about that later. I need the tribute money,” said Caswallon. “Catch me this fellow Rhys.”
Tros’s eyes grew narrow as he scanned Caswallon’s face.
“You are a king,” he answered. “Kings forever speak in riddles. But are you and I on such terms? Speak me frankly. Is it likely, think you, I would refuse you an act of friendship even with my own hands full?”
Caswallon’s mouth moved nervously beneath the long moustache, but that was the only sign he gave that there was a deeper intrigue beneath the one he had proposed.
“For you — for your sake I will catch Rhys,” Tros continued, watching him. “For myself, I have no need of him nor of his men.” He did not believe for a minute that Orwic would kill Rhys simply because he owed Rhys money. Orwic was wealthy; easily could pay his debts before he sailed.
“King-aye, I am a king,” Caswallon answered wearily. “I hate the sea, and yet I envy you your ship. Catch Rhys for me. I need him caught. Yes, you shall have the chariot for Pevensey. But why?”
“I send a messenger to Caesar!”
“Are you mad, Tros?”
“I am Caesar’s admiral. I need men. I will have them.”
“Rede me that riddle!”
“Rede me yours first,” Tros retorted. “Aye, I will catch Rhys for you. But why?”
“Leave my shame hidden in my heart, Tros. Pride is a king’s one solace for the sweat of ruling people.”
Tros eyed him gravely, hands behind his back, frown slowly changing into a smile.
“I, too, am not without pride,” he retorted. “I am your friend. I will do as you wish. But would you make a mere blind accomplice of me? Have I ever violated confidence?”
“Lud’s teeth! I hate to tell you,” said Caswallon. “Rhys is a member of my council. He is a lord of Britain, and you are our guest, not only mine. I wish to save Rhys from a crime that would bring shame on all of us.”
“And Orwic is not to know, because he would kill Rhys if he did?”
Tros nodded. He began to comprehend. He had had a dozen opportunities to learn how sacred the Britons held their law of hospitality and he knew, too, that, though killing is a simple matter, kingdoms are not preserved by killing. He could understand how Rhys, reduced to impotence, might cease to be a danger to the state, whereas his death might loose such reins of vengeance as should start a civil war. And he understood how shame would devour Caswallon if a member of the council should by any treachery cause disaster to the country’s guest.
“I will catch Rhys,” he repeated.
And he held a mental reservation that from Rhys himself he would learn Caswallon’s secret, quite confident meanwhile that inf
ormation would confirm his own guess.
Caswallon drove away to send the chariot for Skell and Tros made rearrangements in the shipyard, going about it cautiously, because there were already scores of spectators pressing their faces against the picket fence, awaiting admission.
A last look at the ship convinced him there could be no trouble with the launching. A dozen blows to knock the chocks from under her, perhaps a few turns on the great bronze screw to lift her bow end, and she would glide down the ways into her element. He could spare thirty Northmen, and they were free men, entitled to carry arms. None could charge them with crime if they should defend the yard, however desperately, against rioters, whoever those rioters might be.
But he kept the Northmen near the waterfront, concealing them inside a low shed about fifty yards from the ship and nearly midway to the outer fence, warning them what to expect and forbidding them to use sharp-edged weapons unless their first surprise assault with pick handles and capstan bars should fail.
“It is worse to be clubbed than to be knifed,” he admitted, “but it causes less public comment. Let us shed no blood if we can help it.” Then he laid the trap for Rhys by covering the ways with cloth about ten feet in front of the ship’s stern, and so arranging grass beneath the cloth that any one looking for that might suppose an unconscious human victim had been tied in readiness for the ship to crush to pulp as it slid stern first into the water.
The Lord Rhys came betimes, forcing his way through the crowd at the gate with twenty men behind him and ignoring Conops who bade him wait and give Caswallon precedence. Behind Rhys and his followers the whole crowd flowed into the yard, and if it had not been that Caswallon arrived next, with Fflur and fifty archers, there might have been a riot there and then, because Tros’s Britons tried to keep the crowd within the enclosure he had roped off, and freemen resented interference from the slaves. However, the archers solved that problem, extending themselves at intervals outside the rope, stringing their bows suggestively.
Soon nearly all the members of the council came, each with his following of armed retainers. Tros had seats for the principal lords and ladies and, after a great deal of shouting, the retainers were all crowded to the rear within easy reach of the secreted chemical that, should Conops touch the torch to it, could reduce them to helpless panic. An hour before high noon there were more than a thousand people in the yard, chattering and staring at the mysterious linen sheet that covered the great ship’s figurehead.