Complete Works of Talbot Mundy

by Talbot Mundy

  “I come to prevent Caesar from invading Britain,” Tros insisted, leaning forward to watch Cato’s eyes. “If he succeeds against the Britons, what will be his next move? Rome.”

  Cato nodded. “Caesar,” he said, “is the first sober man who has designed to make himself the master of Rome. Sulla was a drunkard. So was Marius. Caesar drinks deep of the hog-swill of flattery. He is drunk with ambition. But that does not give you the right to conspire against the Republic.”

  “I will help you against Caesar!” Tros said, rising, and began to pace the floor, as always when he felt excitement surging in his veins. Three times he strode the room’s full length and back again, his hands behind him, and then stood, looking into Cato’s face.

  “Alien,” said Cato. “I am praetor. Caesar is a Roman general.”

  Tros snorted.

  “You split hairs of morality while Caesar cuts throats! Listen! You love Rome, and you hate Caesar. Not I. I haven’t Rome to lose nor all the plunder of a hundred provinces to make me fearful. You set the welfare of the state above your own. I set the welfare of my friends above my own; and I love Britain, where a king lives whom I helped to resist Caesar when he made his first raid on the island.”

  “Island?” said Cato. “We are told it is a mainland greater than all Gaul and Hispania.”

  “Mainland!” Tros snorted again. “A small, misty, wooded island, whose inhabitants can neither harm Rome nor enrich her treasury! A mere island, whose inhabitants are brave men. Caesar, while he gains time, seeks to build a reputation. But I have heard how Cato, staunchest of all Romans, resolutely sets his face against wars when there is no excuse for war. They say there is no other public man who has dared to defy the Triumvirate. Therefore, I have made my way to Cato, at my own great risk.”

  “And the price?” asked Cato, looking sourly at him.

  Tros exploded like a grampus coming up for air, then turned and paced the floor again.

  “Cato!” he said, turning to him suddenly. “They packed you off to Cyprus to get rid of you, and all the world knows what happened. You found an island ruined by the money-lenders, and you left it in a fair way to recovery. I have heard how you flung the taunt in Pompey’s face that, notwithstanding you dealt honestly, you brought more money back from Cyprus for the Roman treasury than Pompey brought from all his plundering of Asia. So you know what Roman rule means in the conquered provinces. I tell you, I have seen Gaul writhing under Caesar’s heel. Where I have known fair cities, there is wasted land and broken walls. I know a place where there are thirty thousand men who lack a right hand, simply because Caesar is ambitious. I have seen the gangs of slaves go trailing out of Gaul to replace Romans on the farms of Italy and force your free men to enlist in Caesar’s and Crassus’ legions. And you ask me my price?”

  Cato eyed him undisturbed, his hands palms downward on his knees. No gesture, not a fleeting trace of an expression betrayed what thought was passing through his mind.

  “Give me the right to call myself Cato’s friend!” Tros urged, lowering his voice dramatically. “If I thought Rome held a hundred Catos, I would—”

  Cato interrupted.

  “Your opinion of me is unimportant. I am the praetor. That woman, Helene, whose litters you use, is a prostitute. You flaunt her impudence in Rome’s face.”

  “Prostitute?” Tros retorted. “All Rome is given to prostitution! What does one more matter? I am told you wish to prosecute Rabirius for his chicanery in Egypt. Leave Helene to me and I will strip Rabirius as naked as when he yelled himself into the world! I will prove to you Caesar supported him, prompted him, pocketed a fat percentage of the money he stole and now makes use of Helene to watch Rabirius — and you — and others. She is one of Caesar’s ablest spies. Touch her, and you bring down Caesar on your head! Leave her to me, and I will hamstring Caesar! Give me ten days, and you shall know about the war that Caesar plans!”

  Cato took a tablet from the table and wrote swiftly. Then he laid the tablet back, face downward on the table.

  “Caesar has authority,” he said, “to declare war or to make peace in Gaul.”

  “Britain is not Gaul,” Tros answered. “Neither is Rome Gaul.”

  Cato rapped the table with his knuckles. The secretary entered, took the tablet and went out again.

  “Caesar has reported to the senate,” said Cato, “that the Britons are constantly helping the Gauls to rebel.”

  “In the name of all the gods, why not?” Tros thundered at him. “Should a brother not defend his brother? There are Gauls and Britons who belong to the same tribe, share the same king and till land on both sides of one narrow sea. And did your ancestor sit idle when Hannibal invaded Italy, because forsooth, he had not yet reached Rome? Do you, another Cato, wish to grovel before Caesar? He will use the strength of Gaul and Britain against Rome, when he has glutted his ambition in that corner of the world. He is a madman! Stir up Gaul behind him! Let Gauls and Britons learn that there are men in Rome who sympathize. Give them but that much encouragement,” — he snapped his fingers— “and Caesar shall have his hands full!”

  Cato, spreading out his knees with both hands resting on them, leaned back; he had done with arguing.

  “No Roman praetor can lend his influence to the defeat of Roman arms,” he said. “But I will do what can be done to bring the senate to a proper view of these things—”

  “Phaugh!” Tros’s fist went like a thunder-clap into his palm. “And two-thirds of the senators accepting Caesar’s bribes! The other third opposing him because they think Pompey might put more money into their pockets! Cato, do you set this wolf-brood’s appetite above fair dealing? Are you—”

  “I am a Roman,” said Cato.

  “You shall see Rome fawning at Caesar’s feet!” Tros answered, his eyes glowing like a lion’s.

  The line of Cato’s lips grew tighter and then flickered in a hard smile.

  “And by whose authority do you come here, riding in prostitutes’ litters to hurl threats at me?” he asked. “Are you a Roman citizen?”

  “I come by Caesar’s leave,” Tros answered, pulling out a parchment from his breast. He flourished it indignantly. He showed the seal and signature. “I won it! Three times I have had the best of Caesar and—”

  He checked himself, aware that he had lost his self-control, whereas the Roman had not.

  “Well — and what?” asked Cato.

  But the thought that had flashed across Tros’s mind was nothing he could safely tell to any one of Cato’s unimaginative temper; even in the heat of indignation he knew better than to run that risk.

  “And I will save Britain from him,” he said lamely. Then, recovering his self-possession, “You go prattle to the senate — if you can make them listen without paying them to sit still!”

  He saluted in the Roman fashion and Cato stood up to return the salute with an air of being glad the interview was over. He ignored Orwic — merely nodded to him, as he might have done to a familiar slave, and Orwic flushed, not being used to rudeness even from his equals. As they left the room the Briton growled in Tros’s ear:

  “Is that truly one of Rome’s great men?”

  “Rome’s greatest! Iron-headed, and as blind as a boulder resisting the sea! Born out of his time! He loves the Rome that died before the days of Marius and he is mad enough to think Caesar can be tamed by quoting law! I have a thought, though.”

  For a minute Tros stood gazing at the Forum and its groups of politicians vehemently gesturing. Helene’s eunuch bowed. He waved the man away.

  “I will walk. Here—” He tossed him money. “Tell your mistress to expect me.” Then, as he took Orwic’s arm and they descended the steps together, “I have a thought that quarrels with inclination. I must study it. Keep silence.”

  Side by side they walked along the Via Sacra between rows of graceless statues, Orwic copying the stride that gave the Romans dignity when dignity of motive was the last thing in their minds. Tros strode like Hercules, o
bserving nothing, with a frown above his eyes like brooding thunder.

  “Of what do you think?” Orwic asked him at last, when they had bumped into so many people that apology had grown monotonous.

  “Of my father’s prophecy,” Tros answered. “With his dying breath he foretold I should struggle against Caesar but that I should serve him in the end.”

  “Against Britain?” Orwic asked, startled, puzzled.

  “Nay. He knew I will betray no friendships. But — why not against Rome? Do you and I care whether Rome licks Caesar’s feet? This Tiber-wolf bred Caesar — let the cub’s teeth make her suffer for it! If we offer Rome to Caesar he may turn his fangs away from Britain!”

  “If we offer to do it he can laugh,” said Orwic. “How can two-and-thirty men give Rome away?”

  “The gods give and the gods take,” Tros retorted. “Men are agents of the gods.”

  “But who knows what the gods intend?”

  Tros turned that over in his mind a minute, doubting nothing except whether words could possibly convey his meaning to a man whose language he had learned but recently.

  “The gods — they know,” he said at last. “Men guess. And he who guesses rightly there and then becomes the edged tool of the gods.”

  “But how guess?” Orwic wondered. “If we had a druid with us—”

  “He could tell us no more than we see,” Tros interrupted. “Let us see Rome. If the heart is rotten, let us foretell death or a physician. I believe the gods purge evil with its offspring, and it may be Rome is ripe for Caesar, who will be a drench that will burn Rome’s belly. He may fail. She may vomit him out. She may swallow and smother him. Murder—”

  “But — but—”

  Orwic stared at the crowd — three-fifths of them slaves from the ends of the earth — for the Romans were taking their ease in the midsummer heat. Even the half empty streets sent up a roar like the voice of a cauldron, and the baking heat suggested future on the forge. There was a thunder where the rubbish of demolished buildings tumbled down the wooden chutes into the carts. The sun shone through a haze of dust and, as the wind whipped up a cloud of it, there came down a narrow street, like specters, nearly a hundred men all chained together, staggering under blocks of marble.

  “Those are Jews,” said Tros. “They are the fruit from Pompey’s harvest in Jerusalem. Unless you and I act wisely we shall see Caswallon led in triumph, and the Britons building Caesar’s Rome under the whip.”

  He was talking merely to keep Orwic silent. He wanted to think. He stood frowning, staring at the most dignified building in old Rome — the temple of the goddess Vesta, with the residence of the Vestal Virgins close behind it and, beyond that, the official home of the Pontifex Maximus.

  CHAPTER 86. Julius Nepos

  I have used life wondering at marvels — aye, and looking for them. But I know no greater marvel than the virtue readily discernible in some men, whose calling is vile. Their vileness is beyond coping with; it would be wiser to swim in Leviathan’s sea and try to cozen him, than to bargain with such men’s vileness. For they know their vileness and they understand its channels; he who understands it not is as a sheep to a wolf. But their virtue to them is precious, and they understand it not. Touch such men’s virtue and uncomprehending they respond, as a blind ship responds to a touch of the helm though all the gales of Neptune buffet and her nature bids her drift before them.

  — from The Log of Tros of Samothrace

  TROS led on, ignoring the crowd; but even in polyglot Rome there were limits to the strangeness that could pass without exciting notice. If they had been slaves no citizen would have lowered himself by paying them attention, but they took the middle of the way like noblemen, although no servants followed to protect them from assault or from the importunities of wounded veterans.

  So they were followed by small boys, who mimicked Tros’s Herculean swagger and made moustaches for themselves of street dirt out of compliment to Orwic. Traders tried to drag them into shops where Crassus’ oriental plunder was beginning to seek sale. They were bellowed at by leather-lunged slaves who stood on stone blocks advertising brothels. Insolent gangs of gladiators in the pay of men grown newly rich called to them out of wine-shops, where maimed ex-soldiers clamored for the dregs of each man’s drink. They were pestered by touts from lawless gambling-dens, thieves’ auctions and even by slaves who were trying to sell themselves.

  It was hours before Zeuxis found them, still wandering about Rome, visiting the temples and the great wooden arenas where the gladiators practiced, under the eyes of gamblers studying their chances and the betting odds. Zeuxis arrived on foot, sweat running from him, breathless and so agitated he could hardly speak. His slaves supported him, wiping his face with handkerchiefs until he thrust them aside at last and, stepping between Tros and Orwic, seized Tros’s arm.

  “What have you done? What have you done? One day in Rome and this already! They have seized Helene! She was taken by the praetor’s men! They wrapped her in a hood for fear the crowd might recognize her. One of her slaves followed and declares he saw her hustled into the praetor’s prison. There is a guard put on her house and men are searching it! A few of her slaves have run, but most of them are lined up in the garden; telling all they know. It was by the merest luck the praetor’s men did not find me in the house — I had just left. One of the slaves escaped and overtook me. I have found you by describing you to people in the street and — gods of Hellas! — what a wanderer you are! I have followed you all over Rome.”

  Tros tried to calm him, but the Greek appeared to have no nerve left. He said he did not even dare to return home until he knew the praetor’s men were not invading his house. He had sent a slave to see.

  “They have no right to interfere with me — I am a Roman citizen, but a man’s rights — Tros, Tros, you have brought me ill luck!”

  “Where shall we go?” Tros asked. A crowd was gathering. “If they should find my Northmen at your house—”

  “That’s it, that’s it!” exclaimed Zeuxis, wringing his hands. “Your wretched, bearded, battle-axing, drunken, quarrelsome barbarians! The praetor will accuse me — here, this way!”

  Slapping a slave’s wrist, who tried to calm him with affectionate remonstrances, he slipped through the crowd and led, panic-stricken, down a dozen evil-smelling lanes where the rubbish from tenements was dumped and mangy dogs snarled at the passer-by, until at last an alley opened into a nearly circular space that had been repaved with rubble from an ancient wall. There was a well in the center, protected by masonry constructed from the fragments of crude statuary, and though the buildings around the inclosure were tidy enough and there were no heaps of stinking garbage, they were mean, small, solidly and crudely built, with heavy, tall flat stones instead of arches over all the doors. It was a section of the oldest part of Rome.

  Zeuxis struck at a door whose cypress planks were scarred by a hundred years of violence. He struck repeatedly, but faces peered through many a narrow window before the door was opened cautiously and a man thrust out his head. He had iron-gray whiskers that met underneath his chin. Chin and upper-lip were shaven. His nose was discolored by criss-cross purple veins. Extremely bright eyes glittered from under shaggy brows and his gray head, bald in the middle, was like a tangled mop.

  “Zeuxis?” he said. “Volatile, venomous, vicious, effeminate — enter! You would never come here unless you were in trouble! Come in and amuse me. I suppose you have offended Cato. I know Cato better than to try to coax him, but you may as well tell me the news — the news — the news.”

  His voice echoed under the vaulted ceiling of a passage lighted dimly by one candle stuck on an iron bracket. On the walls of the passage were weapons, shields, helmets; some seemed to have come from the ends of the earth; there were Parthian scimitars, clubs studded with iron, three-headed spears and wave-edged daggers, long-handled hooks for dragging down a horseman, nets, tridents and swords by the dozen, of every imaginable shape and length.
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  Fire glowed on a hearth in a room at the end of the passage. There was something cooking on the coals and acrid smoke, that made the eyes smart, clouded among beams from which hung odds and ends of recently washed clothing. On the walls of the room hung garments of extraordinary richness, gruesomely suggestive of the spoils of horrible victories — more weapons — and a brazier in a corner, with an iron of peculiar shape beside it. Over the hearth, where smoky images of wax stood on a shelf in gloom, was an extremely heavy, short, broad-bladed sword. There were benches and a table, but the furniture was meager, unpainted and such as the poorest citizen of Rome might have possessed.

  “I introduce you to Julius Nepos,” said Zeuxis, seeming to recover self- possession when the old man slammed the door and bolted it. The only light came from the smoky hearth and from a window, high up in the wall, which seemed to open on a courtyard. The heat was so great that the candles set on brackets on the walls had drooped in drunken curves and there was tallow on the flag-stone floor beneath them.

  Tros bowed and Orwic copied him, but both men felt an impulse of reserve. Old Nepos noticed it.

  “Be seated,” he said gruffly. “I have cut the heads off nobler men than you. I have slain kings.”

  He seemed to think that made him anybody’s equal. He glanced at the garments that hung on the walls — his perquisites; and having laid claim to distinction, he grew genial and grinned — pulled off his sandals and shirt, revealing a torso and arms like Vulcan’s, all lumpy with muscle, the color of bronze, and sat down on a creaking bench.

  “This is the man,” said Zeuxis, “who refused to be Sulla’s headsman and yet Sulla spared him. He was formerly the chief instructor of the public gladiators, and not even Sulla dared to—”

  “Oh yes, he did,” Nepos interrupted. “He deprived me of my privileges. I might have starved; only when Cato became praetor he ordered Sulla’s informers rounded up; and then he sent for me and had me cut the heads off most of them — a miserable brood! — nine-and-thirty in one afternoon, and a pleasanter death than they earned! If Cato had listened to me they would have died in the arena, fighting one another, with the beasts to clean up the survivors; but Cato thought they were too cowardly, although I told him a hot iron will make anybody fight. So I beheaded them. I killed two hundred and eleven altogether, and good riddance!”