“There’s statues gracing
This noble place in--
All heathen gods
And nymphs so fair;
Bold Neptune, Plutarch,
And Nicodemus,
All standing naked
In the open air!”
_The Groves of Blarney._
The others were mostly asleep; only a few of the Northerners, Germans, a
Belgian, and one or two Dacians were awake and fretting in that stifling
Italian August night. Half-way along the garret there was a gap in the
tiles, where the moon shone in, spreading a whitey-grey patch in the air
thick with the breath of twenty sleepers. Only that corner was dark;
Meromic, sitting up on the straw, his head propped in his left hand,
tried to make out whether Lerrys, next him, was awake or not. Lerrys was
lying on his face, quite still, but with that tension of shoulder and
loin muscles that does not go with rest; he was breathing uneasily too,
and his hands were clenched under his forehead and the black, shaggy
hair that fell over it. Meromic called in a whisper: “Lerrys! Lerrys!”
but got no answer, only an extra catch and check in the breath. After
that he sat, thinking his own bitter thoughts, watching the creep of
the moonshine across the floor, for nearly half an hour. The night got
no cooler; once he went over and drank from the water-jar in the centre
of the room; and one of the Dacians spoke to him in his blurred, heavy
accented Latin.
Caius Barrus had bought Meromic partly because he seemed good value for
the money, partly because it was rather the thing to have a few Celtic
slaves about the house, and a great deal because he loved telling his
guests about his grandson and how well he was doing in the war, in spite
of being under that unprincipled man, Julius Cæsar, and he liked, at the
same time, to be able to produce this rather typical Gaul, and show him
off. At first Meromic, hating it, had struggled and protested, but it
was no good: better to learn not to care--if one could, better anyway
not to be whipped, better not to think or speak much, let life alone.
His arm was not much use; the right hand was cramped up round the two
fingers which he could hardly move at all yet, and he didn’t like
looking at it; and there was one very tender place, where the lightest
blow still hurt badly, as Marses, the Sicilian freedman who managed the
house, knew very well.
Lerrys, the Colchian, was a prisoner of war too; he had been bought and
sold three or four times--an intractable animal. But Marses had done a
good deal of taming during the time he had been in his power, and Lerrys
did his work thoroughly enough now, knowing that his Gods had deserted
him for ever.
Coming from the other end of the world, he yet liked Meromic, and pitied
him for still keeping some of his old Gallic pride and trying not to
give himself over utterly to the life of a beast. Not that they got much
chance of knowing one another; during the day the slaves were not
encouraged to talk, and at night they were usually too tired to do
anything but lie like logs till the last possible moment in the morning.
Only, that night neither could sleep, and Meromic badly wanted to talk
to somebody and get away a little from his own torturing memories.
After a little he whispered again, “Lerrys, are you awake?”
Lerrys half turned his head. “What is it?” he said. “Can’t you leave me
alone?”
“Shan’t we talk?” answered Meromic. “It’s so hot.... What did they do to
you to-day, Lerrys?”
“Oh, to hell with you!” said Lerrys huskily; but then, after a moment,
he saw that Meromic was only trying to be friends, and he was lonely and
miserable enough himself; he went on: “Thirty with the raw hide--that’s
all.”
“But why? What had you done?”
“Nothing. But he--he thought it was time I had! The devil. If I could
get back on him once---- Well, it was one of those old ----s at supper:
talking about the war--our war, nine years back--he said we were all
cowards. He wasn’t there himself! But I was angry, anyway.” He paused.
“Go on,” said Meromic. “What did you do?”
“I only said it was a lie and what I thought of the old swine who’d said
it, to the man next me; but he told--the dirty Greek!”
“And then?”
“Then? You don’t think Marses’d miss a chance like that? Oh, a lovely
time he had, God blast him! Tied me up and went on till I gave in and
said we were cowards: so we are or I’d not have let them make me say it.
Funny thing to get whipped for, isn’t it, kid!”
His voice shook a little with pain and anger. Meromic reached over and
put his hand on the other’s arm. “Don’t,” he said, “you’re not cowards!
One just can’t stand it--when it goes on; no one could. A year ago I’d
never have done the things I’ve got to now, but I know what it’s like if
I don’t; and there’s no way out. If only my arm would get well, I’d try
to run away; haven’t you ever thought of that?”
“My home’s too far off; I’ve no hope of ever seeing it again. One would
be caught sooner or later; it’s a nasty way of dying, three days on a
cross. I’ve seen some runaways.” He turned over on to his side. “What
were you doing a year ago--when you were so proud of yourself?”
“I was getting ready for battle; my sister was helping me. We were so
sure of victory.... It all changed in five minutes.”
“Yes, that’s what happens. Did they get you after that battle?”
“No. I surrendered. I wish I hadn’t now.”
“And you’ve been in this house ten months?”
“Ten months. And it feels like ten years.”
“I was down in the country then; it was only luck they brought me up
here; some one went sick.”
“I wish I could go to the country. I do hate this.”
“Do you know what the country’s like by any chance, Meromic?”
“Green trees. Birds. Wind and running water. Grass under foot.”
“Baby! I’ll tell you what the country’s like. You’re yoked to the plough
because you’re cheaper than an ox; you carry the hay bales because
you’re cheaper than a mule; you dig with your feet chained so that you
can’t run and some one always behind with a whip in case you want to
straighten your back. Not much chance of picking daisies that way!
You’re given just enough food to work on, not enough to get dangerous
on; you’re herded to sleep underground, barred in, till you envy the
pigs in the sty. And if they think they see you looking happy on it all,
you’re tied up by your thumbs for an hour to stop it. That would be the
time you’d listen to the birds!”
“I see. I suppose anywhere else always looks better than where one is.
Do you think you’ll ever have to go back?”
“Oh, I expect so. So will you when you’re older and they’re tired of you
here. Why do you hate the house so much?”
“It’s the whole thing: one doesn’t get a chance! It’s not only what they
do to one, though that’s bad enough, and it’s not only them. It’s us
too. That poor little devil of a girl: she’s only a child, but she’ll go
on having dead babies all her life till she dies herself, and the sooner
the better, I should think! And it’s other things besides women: that
black man--you know.”
“Oh, _that_; yes.”
“It makes me simply sick. I never knew anything before I came here; I
wouldn’t have understood.”
“You silly kid, Meromic!”
“I suppose I am; I’ve never had any dealings with a woman yet. It’s not
the custom of my country till one’s older.”
“Umm. I suppose you were looking at the trees! Oh, I’m not laughing at
you, Meromic, only you seem to be made quite differently to the rest of
us. Aren’t you sleepy?”
“No. Are you? I don’t think I can sleep to-night.”
“You’ll be dead tired to-morrow; but I can’t sleep either. Do you like
me, Meromic?”
“Yes. Tell me about your war.”
“Oh, there’s nothing to tell. I’m freeborn. We had a farm up in the
hills. I was going to be married, but of course I went off with the
levies. We never could risk a pitched battle, we hadn’t the arms or the
horses; so we waited for them along the passes--we’re bowmen chiefly--or
cut off small parties. I know all about ambushing; we used to leave
cattle loose; then the foragers came and we dropped rocks on them. But
we couldn’t make much headway. And when they caught any of us they
always asked ransoms we couldn’t pay.”
“How were you taken?”
“I thought I was a better climber than I am; I ought to have known my
own hills. They took me to Delos, to the big market. Oh, well, there’s
no more to it; you know what the rest’s like as well as I do. But I’ve
never given in altogether.”
They were silent for a few minutes after this, both a little comforted.
The moon had set, so the room was solidly dark, and cooler. Meromic
moved close up to his new friend, and put his arm round his neck,
touching, as he did so, the hot, raised weals across the
shoulder-blades; he whispered, “If there’s a chance some day--of
anything--shall we take it together?”
“There won’t be,” the Colchian whispered back; “but if there is I’ll be
true to you! By all my Gods that are powerless, my bow that is broken,
my freedom that is gone, I’ll be your brother to get us out of this! Do
you take that oath?”
“Yes--from you. And I swear, too, by my Gods who will help me yet, by
Mananaun of the high tide, by Midhir of the lightning, by the lance-head
and flames of Lugh, by the Council of the Druids, and by my own name and
honour which is mine still, and the honour of the Veneti, my people, I
will keep faith with you, Lerrys!”
“Good,” said Lerrys, “and now, to sleep! You’ve put hope into me again,
you Gaul, and hope is a strong wine.”
After that night there was a bond between them, a word and a look from
time to time, a whisper in the dark, nothing that could be suspected. No
chance of escape came, though Meromic’s arm got a little better, and
with it the Wolf part of him began to stir; but still something might
always happen, some day; and Lerrys worked hard and obediently so as not
to be sent back to the country.
It was a big house and there was always plenty to be done; their old
master could not bear anything to be out of place, he had a woman’s eye
for dust, and none of his household ever dared to be seen idling. He
was equally severe with every one, and had no favourites; he let Marses
manage the housekeeping, but he might appear himself at any moment in
kitchen or store-room or stables. He had a large acquaintance, all that
was most respectable in Rome, and was famous for his large, plain supper
parties, where the state of the country, the neglect of the Gods, and
the degeneracy of manners in the younger generation (his grandson Titus
always excepted) were discussed, and the guests grew decorously drunk on
home-grown vintages.
One of these functions was taking place about a month later, a strictly
bald-headed and unfeminine affair. The whole household was on edge;
Caius Barrus had supervised the preparations himself, with Marses
shrinking at his heels. Perhaps his digestion was a trifle disturbed
that day; at any rate he was even sterner than usual: one unfortunate
boy had dropped a jar of salt fish, and six hours later he was still on
the ground where he had been left, bleeding in half a dozen places, and
calling for his mother in some barbaric tongue. Others escaped more
lightly, but all were terrified; they were delighted to watch him
recover his temper and mellow during supper. It was a solid business of
turbot and stewed eels, wild boar, venison, brawn, stuffed goose, and so
on; even the grapes and pears for dessert were larger and heavier than
elsewhere. And the dinner service was perfectly good, plain,
old-fashioned silver and gold, with no unnecessary ornaments.
Conversation turned, as usual, to the grandson; Meromic, at one side of
the room, shrugged his shoulders ever so lightly to Lerrys at the
other, knowing that he would be called on soon: how he disliked this
unknown Titus! He was rather changed in looks during the last year; he
was a good deal thinner, the soft boyish contours had hardened down to
tough muscle and sharp angles of bone and joint; his hair was
straighter; he had little colour, and no spring in his movements: his
eyes were sunk under the broad forehead, and black-shadowed with
tiredness. He wore a dark blue tunic, and there was a country-made
copper ring soldered on his left arm above the elbow. Caius Barrus was
not the sort of master who dressed his slaves up, but he liked to have
them all under his eye at meal-times; it gave him a pleasant feeling of
ownership; and looked so particularly respectable.
Meromic moved quickly to his summons, and stood before his master--the
Gallic representative. One of the guests wanted to look at him; he went
on one knee in front of him, with his hands at his sides. It was an old
man with small eyes set in flat cheeks, and a nose that merged gently
into a very long upper lip: what was he like? a sun-fish of course,
thought Meromic, longing to tell him so. Instead he said, “Yes, sir,” or
“no, sir,” to the questions that were put to him: “Is it true that you
barbarians do so-and-so--or so-and-so?--drink salt water, eat black
beetles, worship stones with crooked holes in them, marry your
grandmothers, poison your lance-heads with boiled dormice?” Meromic felt
he was answering stupidly, but really if people would talk like that!
Besides, it was none of his business to be intelligent. The man was
getting on to religious questions now: “Do you barbarians believe in the
immortality of the soul?” “Yes, sir.” (But did we?) “And in
transmigration?” He hesitated: “Yes, sir.” “But do you believe in it
yourself?” (How could he explain the things he believed in? He hadn’t
the words in Latin. And, besides, what business was it of this old
man’s? No!) “It’s what we’re taught, sir, but I’m not a Druid.” His
master broke in--thank God: “You’d better ask Titus when he comes back;
he’s sure to know all about it, and we’re expecting him any day.”
Meromic was dismissed.
Now, if Caius Veturius Barrus had had indigestion that morning, wasn’t
it certain that he would have worse indigestion the next morning, after
all that admirable supper? And so it was. Marses was called up and told
exactly what he had done wrong; excuses and apologies were swept away,
useless. It is humiliating for a very superior Sicilian freedman to be
kicked out of the room; he not unnaturally tries to work it off
elsewhere. The boar had been over-roasted--not that he’d noticed it
himself--so off he went to the kitchen, and had the cook in tears at his
feet, and the various scullions huddled and white in a corner, before
he’d done. A bottle of wine had been broken; the miserable Greek who had
done it was found, stripped and whipped; however, Marses had not yet
recovered his peace of mind. What else had his master blamed? The
stupidity of the Gaul: very well, Meromic should be taught a lesson.
Meromic was fetched, and stood, much like a child, before the irate
Southerner. He was threatened with being sent to the country; he knew
what that meant now, and went down on his knees with his head touching
the ground; Marses kicked him savagely on his old wound, and he
flinched away with a swallowed cry. Lerrys, passing through the yard,
stopped behind a pillar with a bucket in one hand, waiting to see what
would be done to his friend. Marses discussed various tortures, and
Meromic kept still, not daring to speak, only hoping it would end in
nothing worse than a flogging. Marses had a great command of language:
he expressed his soul that way; sometimes it was unintelligible, even to
Meromic, who had learnt a good deal of late, but the import was clear
enough. He kicked him again, this time to get him on to his feet, spat
in his face and told him to follow.
When he surrendered, Meromic must have known that slavery wasn’t going
to be pleasant; but he didn’t know he would hate it so much, he couldn’t
visualize pain and shame and the breaking of his own spirit, until they
were actual, present realities. Yet he might have had a far worse time
if he had simply been sent down to the country as an unskilled labourer,
like Lerrys; or if he had been bought to be trained and killed as a
gladiator; or if he had gone to a mine or a galley. But, on the other
hand, as he was in a big house in Rome, it was unfortunate that it
should be such an unusually strict and old-fashioned one. Still, it had
not been so very bad; there were many quite ordinary punishments that he
had never felt; and he had all a freeman’s horror of being branded,
dating from that first day, when he had seen it done to his own
countrymen in their own country. So when he heard Marses sending for the
branding irons he fell at his feet again, praying for forgiveness, full
of incoherent promises for the future, begging for anything else to be
done to him, only not that.
Marses was retrieving his self-respect; by the time he had done with the
barbarian the day would be clear again. The brands were brought, and put
to heat in their little charcoal brazier. It was certainly rather an
excessive punishment for mere stupidity: so Marses started accusing the
Celt of various crimes which he might well have committed, like stealing
food, and not coming when he was called, and praying to strange gods,
and being insolent to his betters. Meromic denied it all eagerly, but
something was beginning to flare behind his eyes. The irons were
glowing. “Lie down!” said Marses, and to the others, “Hold him still!”
He stooped towards the coals. But Meromic was on his feet with a great
cry of “Up, the Wolf!” went straight for him, knocked him over, and was
kneeling on him, thumbs in his throat, and yelling his mad war-cries!
The others tried to pull him off, but Lerrys was among them, keeping his
oath to his friend, and knocked one senseless with the edge of the
bucket. The noise brought up the whole household, who all, of course,
went for the rebels, hoping that their virtue would be observed. Marses
was pulled away, choking, but Meromic was dangerous to come near: he had
the brazier by the handle and was swinging it, left-handed, round his
head, with shouts of “The North! The North!” Lerrys had caught up one of
the branding-icons; edge-on it did for a battle-axe, and he, too,
remembered war, and called on his Gods and his chiefs to help him; but
some one threw a stone from the back of the crowd: it hit him on the
side of the head, he stumbled back, dropping the iron; they were on to
him. With a yell of rage Meromic flung the brazier as hard as he could
into the thick of them; to break arms, ribs and fingers, and scatter
cuts and burns among his fellow-slaves, and to leave him disarmed. He
had a dozen on top of him; they held him by sheer weight, and got his
elbows tied behind him.
Caius Barrus himself had seen, himself had been touched by a flying
spark. They dragged Meromic up to him, a wild beast, all eyes and teeth
and bloodstains; and Lerrys, pale and silent and giddy from the blow on
his head. He bade Marses devise some means of death for them and turned
away.
Marses eyed them slowly, collecting his thoughts, and smiled a little.
Meromic knew now what he had brought on himself and on his friend as
well; he said to him, low, “I’m sorry.” Lerrys muttered back, “It’s all
right,” looking for any way of dying quickly; for a moment he tried hard
to will himself dead--it only made him feel sick; if he could edge
towards a pillar he might be able to knock his head against it. Meromic
did not even think of that, he was only watching the look on the
Sicilian’s face; then he saw a little heap of things growing beside
Marses, some like garden tools, clippers and pincers and nails, a thing
like a nut-cracker, a thing like two cog-wheels, a pulley and ropes, an
iron weight; he shrunk away from them. He was pushed forward inexorably,
his dry mouth whispering prayers, his mind on the face of his torturer;
his wrists were tied in a new way.... He groaned once, and then
screamed, unable to stop himself; again, brokenly, crying, “Oh God, oh
God!” as his whole body took the strain. The sunlight broke up into red
circles, he could feel the bones of his hands beginning to break; he
shut his eyes, a smudge of pain at the heart of the universe.
Suddenly it paused, slackened, grew almost bearable; he looked at the
world again, incredibly the same as it had been a minute ago. There was
a new voice speaking: “What in God’s name are you doing, Marses? Can’t I
be home an hour without your torturing some one under my window?” Marses
was giving a hasty account of the fight, but was cut short with “Wait
till I’m out of the house anyhow.” It suddenly occurred to Meromic that
this must be the returned grandson; he jerked desperately at the rope;
something snapped; he broke through the crowd and threw himself on the
ground, clutching the grandson’s feet. He heard him say to Marses,
“Leave the man alone!” and looking up, intensely grateful, saw for the
first time the armour and cloak of an officer, and the young, grave
face, with eyes that were kindly to him.
Titus sat down on the step, Meromic still clutching at his knees with
bleeding fingers; he laid his hand on the Gaul’s shoulder: “Was it you I
heard just now--your war-cry? You’re from Aremorica, then. Which
canton?” “From the Veneti.” “Were you in the sea-fight?” “Yes.” “No man
who was in that fight shall die by torture while I’m here to stop it!”
For the least, shortest moment there was a blank, no sound, no sight,
no thought, nothing: the passage from hell to heaven. Then the world
swung back suddenly, the good, dear world! His hands weren’t hurting
now, the blood was only red. He was awake again, whole, at peace, his
own self, he was starting a great, new life! He found himself crying hot
tears of relief and excitement and kissing the Roman’s hands. And Titus
talked bad but soothing Gallic to him, and wondered whether he hadn’t
been rather rash. Lerrys looked on, not knowing when Meromic would think
of him, or if he would be able to save him; he saw the two by the steps
talking, saw Meromic turn with a big sweep of his arm, then the other
beckoning to Marses; he was unbound, he was kneeling beside his friend,
answering questions--oh, was it all over? Titus disentangled himself and
rose: “I shall have to see my grandfather. You two wait here. And let
them be, Marses!” He went out with a little frown, pushing his hand
through his hair, and left the barbarians crouching together by the
steps, and the Sicilian watching over them darkly.
Titus went, as usual, straight to the point. He found his grandfather
writing in his study; the old man looked up with a smile, and signed to
him to sit down and wait till he was finished, but after fidgeting for a
minute with the back of a chair he interrupted the letter: “Grandfather,
I don’t often ask you for things, do I? But there’s something I very
much want now. Can I have it?”
“What is it?”
“Two of your slaves.”
“Of course. Take any you like except my secretary--and the Gods know I
wouldn’t grudge you him.”
“Thank you, grandfather, you’re very kind to me. I’ll tell you the two I
want: those barbarians who’ve just been condemned to death.”
The grandfather sat up, dropping his tablets: “My dear boy! Why?”
“One of them comes from a part of Gaul I know; he was in the battle that
gave me my command. They’re a brave people; I’d like him for my
servant--the man you gave me before is really getting too old. The
other’s his friend. I don’t think they meant any harm just now: they
were frightened.” Caius Barrus was silent, so he urged it again: “I know
it’s unreasonable, but I’ve been seeing too much death and torture
lately. I hate coming home into the middle of it again, and on my first
day. Won’t you let me have them, grandfather?”
“It’s such a bad example to the others.”
“I don’t believe there’s another house in Rome where the discipline’s as
strict as here. And I have to go back so soon.”
“Well, well, I know it’s wrong, but take them, Titus; and listen to
this----” He picked up the letter; but Titus had squeezed his hand with
a hurried thanks and a promise to return, and was away. Caius Barrus
turned to his writing and thought: was he spoiling that boy? Was he
allowing him to grow up into a mannerless, irreverent young scapegrace,
like so many of his friends’ children and grandchildren? He sighed and
shook his head; he could not take back the gift now, though undoubtedly
it was most rash and would diminish his slaves’ respect for him. Never
mind, he would take care to be severe with the rest of them for some
time to come. And Titus was growing so like his father!
As Titus had half expected, he got back to the yard to find that Marses
had been unable to keep his hands off the two slaves; he was kicking
them both, quietly and effectively, his face white with malice. They
were enduring it without words or cries, but when Lerrys saw the gleam
of armour coming back he threw up his arm like a wounded man asking for
mercy. Marses stopped and retreated a few steps before the young
soldier’s hard eyes, and low, tense voice: “You dirty little Sicilian,
understand this: those two are mine, and if you touch them again I shall
complain to my grandfather. Take your things and go!” He went, the
others following with the things, but all hurrying off as soon as they
could, to work in the furthest possible place from him. And he was in
such an unpleasant humour for weeks after this, that his mistress, who
was hoping to get another gold bracelet out of him first, allowed
herself to be carried off to Massilia by her next lover without holding
out for nearly profitable enough terms.
Titus Barrus sat down again; the Gaul and the Colchian picked themselves
up and went to him. He spoke: “You belong to me now; I don’t want ever
to have to regret this day.”
“You shan’t, sir!” said Meromic, lifting his open hand over his head in
the salute he would have given to his own general. The Roman saw and
smiled; he was well pleased at having got these two so easily. The
Eastern would be easy to deal with--nothing complicated going on in that
dark head; they were a good fighting race, and probably had all the
virtues one would expect, gratitude and faithfulness and silence. But
this other blue-eyed creature, who reminded him, here in the house of
his childhood, of faces he had seen for a moment in the thick of battle
under winged helmets, faces he had seen among the piled dead of
Viridovix’s army, faces of prisoners, of hostages--how was he to be
treated? He must decide now, before the present emotion had worn off.
“What is your name?”
“Meromic.”
“Listen, Meromic: I am going back to Gaul in a few days! I may be called
on any time to fight your people,--(Was he wise to say that? Gaul, after
all, was supposed to be quiet. Perhaps it was as well, though.)--and I’d
like you to take an oath to me, to say you’ll be faithful.--(Could he
risk the next step? If only he knew what sort of rank the man was! He
might be anything in this slave’s dress. Well, he would risk it.)--I’m
not going to demand the oath of you, and if you’ll take it willingly
I’ll trust you to carry it out.”
“I’ll take it gladly, and keep it. Our lives are in your hands from this
day!” (The risk had been well justified then!) He held Meromic’s hands
in his while the Gaul knelt and swore by all his Gods to be true man to
him, to follow him, to guard him, and to die before he died: a good deal
more than Titus would ever have asked, but that was the Celtic way.
Titus took them along to his own room, and watched with pleasure how
Meromic’s eye lighted when he saw the soldier’s gear scattered about the
floor, and how, hurt as he was, it was yet with an expert hand that he
tried the weight of the pilum. Finding that he could read and write,
ride, swim, and sail a boat, he congratulated himself more and more on
the day’s work: this would be a servant worth having! He went over to
the heap of arms, picked out a knife in a red leather sheath, and gave
it to the Gaul: “Take this and wear it; I’m sure you’ll use it well.”
And Meromic had tears in his eyes: the first time he had been trusted
for a year! All that evening the two slaves were busy polishing the
armour, mending the clothes, almost afraid to believe in their good
luck. Their master’s old servant, now dismissed, came and growled at
them, but they didn’t care; their eyes shone, their hands shook, and
their minds raced as if they had been drinking. That night Meromic slept
across the door of the room, with one hand on his new knife, dreaming of
deer and eagles and riding to strange wars with Titus Barrus.
* * * * *
By November they were in winter-quarters in Gaul; it was very peaceable,
and Titus had plenty of time to collect things and ride about the
country. During the first few weeks he had tried to find out all about
his new slaves; but obviously Meromic didn’t want to say who he was--he
had no mind to connect this life with the old. The Roman camp interested
him enormously; he prowled about it when he had nothing to do, and saw
all the things that had puzzled him when he was fighting on the other
side. His master laughed at him, but answered his questions. Gradually
his arm got well; every week he could do something new with the fingers;
and by and by he could use it again for everything.
One day there had been a heavy fall of snow, the first of the year;
Meromic and Lerrys had been out cutting wood all morning, and now they
had enough laid in to last for a month. It was evening; the Roman had
finished his work, reported and been dismissed. His hut was half
underground, half built up with wattled hurdles, and thatched with oat
straw. He shook the snow out of his helmet plume and came in; his two
slaves turned, obviously glad to see him; Meromic came forward and
unbuckled his armour; Lerrys took the stew out of the pot and brought it
over to him, with bread and dry figs. “There’s going to be a wolf hunt
to-morrow,” he said, “the tracks ought to be plain. You’d better come,
Meromic; you can take one of my spears.” Meromic looked uncomfortable.
“Don’t you want to come? There’s no danger!”
“Oh, it’s not that, sir! But I can’t. It would be geas for me to hurt a
wolf.”
“Geas----” Titus looked up from his stew.
It seemed to Meromic that this moment had happened once before; he
stepped back, almost into the fire: “It was _you_ my father made
prisoner when you came for the corn!”
The Roman started to his feet, spilling the supper on to the floor: “And
you’re the boy with the golden necklace--Kormiac’s son!”
They stared at one another, Meromic with his head thrown back, the Pride
of the Islands again, while Lerrys, on one knee, roasting chestnuts,
looked up bewildered. The Roman recovered himself first, with “Tell me,
what happened to your sister?” but regretted it at once, for Meromic
winced, with narrowed eyes, as from a blow.
“She’s dead, dead. She killed herself on our last day of freedom. I
buried her on an island where nobody knows.”
“Your father?”
“He was one of the Council. You know what was done to them, sir. I’m the
only one left.”
“My God,” said Titus softly, and laid a hand on his slave’s arm, “I’m
sorry for you.”
“There’s nothing to be done about it, sir.” He looked miserably from
side to side, then picked up the plate for Lerrys to refill. “You’ll
want some more stew.”
It made no difference, only that Titus trusted him more, and minded less
what he said before him. It was pleasant to be able to come back through
the rain on winter evenings, and find a warm fire, supper ready, and
something friendly about the place. It was good to know he could bring
any one in and the hut would seem hospitable to them. And it was good,
too, when he was sick and could not go out, to know that the Gaul was
taking charge, bribing the villagers for milk, making brews of herbs and
speaking strange, curiously soothing spells over them, keeping him
covered with blankets, and later, when he was better, sitting
cross-legged at his feet and singing endless Aremorican songs.
Lerrys considered it all: Meromic was a chief, then, and in a way their
master recognized it. Meromic striding about in the snow and shouting
things in Gallic. He had never been a chief himself, never had men to
follow him, a beautiful long sword, bracelets and brooches, never a
golden necklace. He thought about his old home sometimes now, the bare,
steep, snow-capped mountains behind, the log house tucked away between
great boulders out of the wind. Did they grow millet by the stream
still? And the girl: what had come to her? She must have been married to
some one else. He had almost forgotten the deep brown of her eyes
already.