by L. Sprague de Camp;Frederik Pohl;David Drake;S. M. Stirling;Alexei
Padway got into talk with one of the patrician prisoners.
“Bet you a solidus,” he said, “that they depose Thiudahad and elect Wittigis king in his place.”
The patrician, poor man, took him on.
Thomasus the Syrian arrived. He explained: “Nerva tried to get in to see you, but he couldn’t afford a high enough bribe. How do they treat you?”
“Not badly. The food’s not exactly good, but they give us plenty of it. What worries me is that Liuderis thinks I know all about some alleged conspiracy to betray Rome, and he may use drastic methods to try to get information out of me.”
“Oh, that. There’s a conspiracy afoot, all right. But I think you’ll be safe for a few days anyway. Liuderis has gone off to a convention, and the Goths’ affairs are all in confusion.” He went on to report on the state of Padway’s business. “We got the last case off this morning. Ebenezer the Jew is going up to Florence in a couple of weeks. He’ll look in and see that your foremen haven’t run off with all your property.”
“You mean to see whether they’ve run off with it. Any war news?”
“None, except that Naples suffered pretty badly. Belisarius’ Huns got out of hand when the town was captured. But I suppose you know that. You can’t tell me that you haven’t some magical knowledge of the future.”
“Maybe. Which side do you favor, Thomasus?”
“Me? Why—I haven’t thought about it much, but I suppose I favor the Goths. These Italians haven’t any more fight than a lot of rabbits, so the country can’t be really independent. And if we have to be ruled by outsiders, the Goths have been a lot easier on us than Justinian’s tax gatherers would be. Only my Orthodox friends can’t be made to see it that way. Like my cousin, Antiochus, for instance. They become completely irrational when they get off on the subject of Arian heretics.”
When Thomasus was ready to go, he asked Padway: “Is there anything I can bring you? I don’t know what the guards will allow, but if there’s something—”
Padway thought. “Yes,” he said. “I’d like some painting equipment.”
“Painting? You mean you’re going to whitewash the Wall of Aurelian?”
“No; stuff for painting pictures. You know.” Padway made motions.
“Oh, that kind of painting. Sure. It’ll pass the time.”
Padway wanted to get on top of the wall, to give the camp a proper looking-over for ways of escape. So when Thomasus brought his painting supplies he applied to the commander of the guards, a surly fellow named Hrotheigs, for permission. Hrotheigs took one look, and spoke one word: “Ni!”
Padway masked his annoyance and retired to ponder on How to Win Friends. He spent the better part of the day experimenting with his equipment, which was a bit puzzling to one unaccustomed to it. A fellow prisoner explained that you coated one of the thin boards with wax, painted in water color on this surface, and then warmed the board until the wax became soft enough to absorb the pigment. It was ticklish business; if you overheated the board, the wax melted and the colors ran.
Padway was not a professional artist by any means. But an archaeologist has to know something about drawing and painting in the exercise of his profession. So the next day Padway felt confident enough to ask Hrotheigs if he would like his portrait painted.
The Goth for the first time looked almost pleased. “Could you make a picture of me? I mean, one for me to keep?”
“Try to, excellent captain. I don’t know how good it’ll be. You may end up looking like Satanas with a gutache.”
“Huh? Like whom? Oh, I see! Haw! Haw! Haw! You are a funny fellow.”
So Padway painted a picture. As far as he could see, it looked as much like any black-bearded ruffian as it did like Hrotheigs. But the Goth was delighted, asserting that it was his spit and image. The second time he made no objections to Padway’s climbing the wall to paint landscapes from the top, merely detailing a guard to keep close to him at all times.
Saying that he had to pick the best vantage point for painting, Padway walked up and down the wall the length of the camp. At the north end, where the wall turned east toward the Flaminian Gate, the ground outside sloped down for a few yards to a recess in the river bank—a small pool full of water lilies.
He was digesting this information when his attention was attracted to the camp. A couple of guards were bringing in a prisoner in rich Gothic clothes who was not co-operating. Padway recognized Thiudegiskel, the king’s precious son. This was too interesting. Padway went down the ladder.
“Hails,” he said. “Hello.”
Thiudegiskel was squatting disconsolately by himself. He was somewhat disheveled, and his face had been badly bruised. Both eyes would soon be swollen shut. The Roman patricians were grinning unsympathetically at him.
He looked up. “Oh, it’s you,” he said. Most of the arrogance seemed to have been let out of him, like air out of a punctured balloon.
“I didn’t expect to run into you here,” said Padway. “You look like you had a hard time of it.”
“Unh.” Thiudegiskel moved his joints painfully. “A couple of those soldiers we had flogged for arresting us got hold of me.” Surprisingly, he grinned, showing a broken front tooth. “Can’t say I blame them much. That’s one thing about me; I can always see the other fellow’s point of view.”
“What are you in for?”
“Hadn’t you heard? I’m not the king’s son any more. Or rather my old man isn’t king. The convention deposed him and elected that fathead Wittigis. So Fathead has me locked up so I can’t make trouble.”
“Tsk, tsk. Too bad.”
Thiudegiskel grinned painfully again. “Don’t try to tell me you’re sorry for me. I’m not that stupid. But say, maybe you can tell me what sort of treatment to expect, and whom to bribe, and so on.”
Padway gave the young man a few pointers on getting on with the guards, then asked: “Where’s Thiudahad now?”
“I don’t know. The last I’d heard he’d gone up to Tivoli to get away from the heat. But he was supposed to come back down here this week. Some piece of literary research he’s working on.”
Between what Padway remembered of the history of the time and the information he had recently picked up, he had a good picture of the course of events. Thiudahad had been kicked out. The new king, Wittigis, would put up a loyal and determined resistance. The result would be worse than no resistance at all as far as Italy was concerned. He could not beat the Imperialists, having no brains to speak of. He would begin his campaign with the fatal mistake of marching off to Ravenna, leaving Rome with only its normal garrison.
Neither could the Imperialists beat him with their slender forces except by years of destructive campaigning. Anything, from Padway’s point of view, was preferable to a long war. If the Imperialists did win, their conquest would prove ephemeral. Justinian should not be blamed too much; he would require supernatural foresight to foresee all this. That was the point: Padway did have such foresight. So wasn’t it up to him to do something about it?
Padway had no violent prejudices in favor either of Gothic or of Imperial rule. Neither side had a political setup for which he could feel enthusiasm. Liberal capitalism and socialist democracy both had good points, but he did not think there was the remotest chance of establishing either one definitively in the sixth-century world.
If the Goths were lazy and ignorant, the Greeks were rapacious and venal. Yet these two were the best rulers available. The sixth-century Italian was too hopelessly unmilitary to stand on his own feet, and he was supinely aware of the fact.
On the whole the Gothic regime had not had an ill effect. The Goths enforced tolerance on a people whose idea of religious liberty was freedom to hang, drown, or burn all members of sects other than their own. And the Goths looked on the peninsula as a pleasant home to be protected and preserved. This was a more benign attitude than could be expected of a savage like the Meroving monarch, Theudebert of Austrasia, or an insatiable grafter like
Justinian’s quartermaster-general, John of Cappadocia.
Suppose, then, he decided to work for a quick victory by the Goths instead of a quick victory for the Imperialists. How could the Gothic regime be succored? It would do no good for him to try to persuade the Goths to get rid of Wittigis. If the Gothic king, whoever he was, could be induced to take Padway’s advice, something might be done. But old Thiudahad, worthless as he was by himself, might be managed.
A plan began to form in Padway’s mind. He wished he’d told Thomasus to hurry back sooner. To keep darkness from falling—
When Thomasus did appear, Padway told him: “I want a couple of pounds of sulphur, mixed with olive oil to form a paste, and some candles. And forty feet of light rope, strong enough to support a man. Believe it or not, I got the idea from the voluptuous Julia. Remember how she acted when I fumigated the house?”
“Look here, Martinus, you’re perfectly safe for the time being, so why don’t you stay here instead of trying some crazy scheme of escaping?”
“Oh, I have reasons. The convention should break up today or tomorrow, from what I hear, and I’ve got to get out before it does.”
“Listen to him! Just listen! Here I am, the best friend he has in Rome, and does he pay attention to my advice? No! He wants to break out of the camp, and maybe get an arrow through the kidney for his pains, and then go get mixed up with Gothic politics. Did you ever hear the like? Martinus, you haven’t some wild idea of getting yourself elected king of the Goths, have you? Because it won’t work. You have to be—”
“I know,” grinned Padway. “You have to be a Goth of the noble family of the Amalings. That’s why I’m in such a hurry to get out. You want the business saved so you’ll get your loans back, don’t you?”
“But how on earth am I going to smuggle those things in? The guards watch pretty closely.”
“Bring the sulphur paste in a container at the bottom of a food basket. If they open it, say it’s something my physician ordered. Better coach Vekkos to corroborate. And for the rope—let’s see—I know, go to my tailor and get a green cloak like mine. Have him fasten the rope inside around the edges, lightly, so it can be ripped out quickly. Then, when you come in, lay your cloak alongside mine, and pick mine up when you go.”
“Martinus, that’s a crazy plan. I’ll get caught sure, and what will become of my family? No, you’d better do as I say. I can’t risk innocent persons’ futures. What time would you want me to come around with the rope and things?”
Padway sat on the Wall of Aurelian in the bright morning sunshine. He affected to be much interested in the Tomb of Hadrian down river on the other side. The guard who was detailed to him, one Aiulf, looked over his shoulder. Padway appreciated Aiulf’s interest, but he sometimes wished the Goth’s beard was less long and bristly. It was a disconcerting thing to have crawling over your shoulder, and down your shirt front when you were trying to get the color just right.
“You see,” he explained in halting Gothic, “I hold the brush out and look past it at the thing I am painting, and mark its apparent length and height off on the brush with my thumb. That is how I keep everything in proper proportion.”
“I see,” said Aiulf in equally bad Latin—both were having a little language practice. “But suppose you want to paint a small picture—how would you say—with a lot of things in it just the same? The measurements on the brush would all be too large, would they not?” Aiulf, for a camp guard, was not at all stupid.
Padway’s attention was actually on things other than the Tomb. He was covertly watching all the guards, and his little pile of belongings. All the prisoners did that, for obvious reasons. But Padway’s interest was special. He was wondering when the candle concealed in the food basket would burn down to the sulphur paste. He had apparently had a lot of trouble that morning getting his brazier going; actually he had been setting up his little infernal machine. He also couldn’t help stealing an occasional nervous glance at the soldiers across the river, and at the lily-covered pool behind him.
Aiulf grew tired of watching and retired a few steps. The guard sat down on his little stool, took up his flutelike instrument and started to play faint moaning notes. The thing sounded like a banshee lost in a rain barrel, and never failed to give Padway the slithering creeps. But he valued Aiulf’s good will too much to protest.
He worked and worked, and still his contraption showed no signs of life. The candle must have gone out; it would surely have burned down to the sulphur by now. Or the sulphur had failed to light. It would soon be time for lunch. If they called him down off the wall, it would arouse suspicion for him to say he wasn’t hungry. Perhaps.
Aiulf stopped his moaning for an instant. “What is the matter with your ear, Martinus? You keep rubbing it.”
“Just an itch,” replied Padway. He didn’t say that fingering his ear lobe was a symptom of shrieking nervousness. He kept on painting. One result of his attempt, he thought, would be the lousiest picture of a tomb ever painted by an amateur artist.
As he gave up hope, his nerves steadied, The sulphur hadn’t lit, and that was that. He’d try again tomorrow…
Below, in the camp, a prisoner coughed; then another. Then they were all coughing. Fragments of talk floated up: “What the devil—” “Must be the tanneries—” “Can’t be, they’re two or three miles from here—” “That’s burning sulphur, by all the saints—” “Maybe the Devil is paying us a call—” People moved around; the coughing increased; the guards trailed into the camp. Somebody located the source of the fumes and kicked Padway’s pile. Instantly a square yard was covered with yellow mush over which little blue flames danced. There were strangled shouts. A thin wisp of blue smoke crawled up through the still air. The guards on the wall, including Aiulf, hurried to the ladder and down.
Padway had planned his course so carefully in his mind that he went through it almost unconscious of the individual acts. Over his brazier were two little pots of molten wax, both already pigmented. He plunged his hands into the scalding stuff and smeared his face and beard with dark green wax. It hardened almost instantly. With his fingers he then smeared three large circles of yellow wax from the other pot over the green.
Then, as if he were just strolling, he walked up to the angle of the wall, squatted down out of sight of those in the camp, ripped the rope out of the lining of his cloak, and slipped a bight over a projection at the corner of the wall. A last glance across the river showed that the soldiers over there had not, apparently, noticed anything, though they could have heard the commotion inside the wall if they had listened. Padway lowered himself down the north face of the wall, hand over hand.
He flipped the rope down after him. As he did so, a flash of sunlight on his wrist made him curse silently. His watch would be ruined by prolonged soaking; he should have thought to give it to Thomasus. He saw a loose stone in the wall. He pulled it out, wrapped the watch in his handkerchief, put it in the hole, and replaced the stone. It took only a few seconds, but he knew he was being insanely foolish to risk the loss of time for the sake of the watch. On the other hand, being the kind of person he was, he just could not ruin the watch knowingly.
He trotted down the slope to the pond. He did not throw himself in, but walked carefully out to where it was a couple of feet deep. He sat down in the dark water, like a man getting into an over-hot tub bath, and stretched out on his back among the pond lilies until only his nose and eyes were above water. He moved the water plants around until they hid him pretty thoroughly. For the rest, he had to rely on the green of his cloak and his bizarre facial camouflage for concealment. He waited, listening, to his own heart and the murmur from over the wall.
He did not have long to wait. There were shouts, the blowing of whistles, the pounding of large Gothic feet on the top of the wall. The guards waved to the soldiers across the river. Padway didn’t dare turn his head far enough to see, but he could imagine a rowboat’s being put out.
“Ailôe! The fiend seems to
have vanished into thin air—”
“He’s hiding somewhere, you idiot! Search, search! Get the horses out!”
Padway lay still while guards searched around the base of the wall and poked swords into bushes barely big enough to hide a Sealyham. He lay still while a small fish maddeningly investigated his left ear. He lay still, his eyes almost closed, while a couple of Goths walked around the pond and stared hard at it and him, hardly thirty feet from them. He lay still while a Goth on a horse rode splashing through the pond, actually passing within fifteen feet of him. He lay still through the whole long afternoon, while the sounds of search and pursuit rose and ebbed, and finally faded away completely.
Nevitta Gummund’s son was justifiably startled when a man rose from the shadows of the bushes that lined the driveway to his house and called him by name. He had just ridden up to the farm. Hermann, in tow as usual, had his sword halfway out before Martin Padway identified himself.
He explained: “I got here a couple of hours ago, and wanted to borrow a horse. Your people said you were away at the convention, but that you’d be back sometime tonight. So I’ve been waiting.” He went on to tell briefly of his imprisonment and escape.
The Goth bellowed. “Ha! Ha! You mean to say, ha! ha! that you lay in the pond all day, right under the noses of the guards, with your face painted up like a damned flower? Ha! ha! Christ, that’s the best thing I ever heard!” He dismounted. “Come on in the house and tell me more about it. Whew, you certainly look like a frog pond, old friend!” Later, he said more seriously: “I’d like to trust you, Martinus. By all accounts, you’re a pretty reliable young man, in spite of your funny foreign ways. But how do I know that Liuderis wasn’t right? There is something queer about you, you know. People say you can foresee the future, but try to hide the fact. And, some of those machines of yours do smell a little bit of magic.”