“Who fears to speak of Ninety-Eight?
Who blushes at the name?
When cowards mock the patriot’s fate,
Who hangs his head for shame?”
_The Memory of the Dead._
Cæsar had put archers among the bushes all along the high bank of the
burn; there was no going there now. They had only the spring: if that
went--they dared not think of it. And Cæsar was advancing against it a
great platform built of logs and faggots and rammed earth, and a high
wooden tower. The weather was growing very warm too; after the day’s
work the men would have liked long, cool drinks, and to dip their hands
and faces in fresh water. Meromic found himself dreaming of the sea
almost every night; he would be going down towards it with Fiommar, he
would see the waves coming in, hear the wet swish of them foaming up the
beach, he would run down the sand, eager for the first plunge, but then
something always happened, he was called back by his father, the sand
clung to his feet, or the sea suddenly shrunk away to a blue gleam in
the distance. Then he would wake up in Uxeldun and watch the night sky,
like a cup of dark, sweet wine with star-dust floating in it, or see
Caltane asleep beside him, frowning, and clutching with both hands at
his blankets.
The fighting was soon nothing but a struggle for the spring; the tower
was pushed so near that the soldiers in it could throw darts at the
water-drawers, and a man would often come up with the water in his
bucket red from his friend’s blood. First there was no water for the
cattle: they were killed and there was fresh meat for every one, but
fresh meat makes one very thirsty; then there was only water for the
combatants: the others might have it if they could get it, and more than
one mother with young children was killed beside the spring. Water was
any price, but the fighters had too little themselves to be able to sell
it for gold or houses or a girl’s fair body. The wife of one of the town
elders said she had seen in sleep the goddess of the spring, who had
demanded sacrifice; the sacrifice was chosen by lot; it fell on a young
woman who went bright-eyed and garlanded to the altar stone. But still
the tower came nearer.
They got together tar and pitch and feathers and wood shavings, tallow
and resin, anything that would burn well; they put them in barrels,
lighted them and rolled them down the rocks, rushing down themselves
after and among the leaping, flaring things with yells higher than the
flames and desperate spears to overwhelm the guardians of the tower.
Behind them the women leaned from the town walls, cheering them on; the
works caught fire, the tower itself was in a blaze! Meromic had his
sword in one hand, in the other a great torch of oil-soaked flax;
running hard, he shoved it into a man’s face on one side and slashed
with his sword at the other; he threw it and saw the wood catch all
round. Then he defended his own bonfire against the legionaries
hurrying to put it out; his hair was singed half off as he wrenched out
pieces of burning wood to throw; he felt the glorious shock of a bucket
of water on his head, and while he fought he licked the drops that ran
down his face. Then half of the tower fell over with a crash and screams
from below. But suddenly there was a shout from the town; the Romans
were attacking on the other side! They had to leave the blaze, to let
the Romans quench it and even get the remains of the tower nearer in;
there were so few of them to guard every side of the wall. They had
hoped to draw much water that evening, but the legionaries were hauling
up fresh timber for the works before the old ashes were cool. And they
had used up everything in the town that would burn.
And something else was happening that they did not know of: Cæsar was
making a mine through the rocks to tap the water at its secret source.
Titus had been sent south to get hold of a gang of copper miners, slaves
mostly and rather stupid at working a new kind of rock; but gradually
the tunnel was pierced, deeper and deeper into the hill. Titus went in
one day to inspect, with Lerrys holding a lantern in front of him; they
stumbled along, bent nearly double; the walls were all jagged edges, the
place smelt of miners and old smoke. They flattened themselves against
the side to let some of the workers pass, dragging out hides full of
broken rock from the far end. Titus found his helmet saved his head a
little, but Lerrys was all bruises. They heard the picks round a twist
in the tunnel ahead of them, and saw the candle-light streaming out
softly from beyond a jagged corner of rock. The miners were singing at
their work, but Titus, fresh from the open, found the air heavy and
thick. He spoke to the centurion in charge, who seemed to think they
were getting near their goal: “Feel this, sir!” Titus laid his hand on
the fresh-split rock of the working face and felt it trickling damp;
even while he looked the trickle grew, the miners crowded round it,
pointing and gabbling; the water oozed up under his feet, icy cold, till
he was standing ankle-deep and felt it flowing. There were queer
bubbling noises behind the rock, air sucked in and out with whistling
and chill draughts that blew out half the candles, the trickle checked
and gurgled and went on again more strongly. Titus found his way out,
very muddy, and reported; in another hour there was a good-sized stream
of brown water swirling out of the mouth of the tunnel, and the miners
had no more to do. Cæsar waited for the town to surrender.
Of that two thousand left to garrison Uxeldun, less than half were left,
and hardly any were unwounded. Late in the evening, when it was usually
safest, Meromic and two of the others went down to the spring to fill
their buckets; they were very careful, they went barefoot to make no
noise, crouching behind the rocks, running across the open spaces,
looking round over their shoulders at the dark menace of the tower. But
oddly, no darts were being thrown at random, as they generally were even
when the water-bearers were not seen. They got safely to the steps down,
whispering their relief; and then--the man ahead gave a low cry, the
other two ran down to him; they clung to one another, staring: there was
only a cleft with damp moss on its side, going down; in the still
darkness they heard a sound as if the lost water was laughing at them
from very far below. They filled the buckets with what moss they could
reach, and went back to the town. Meromic found Caltane at the wall and
told him. Caltane cried out, “But they can’t, they can’t, oh, it’s not
possible!”
“The Gods are against us; this is the end.”
One man wouldn’t believe them and went down himself, but soon it was all
over the town. The leaders called the garrison together, under the
stars, in the market-place: these were more than men they were fighting
against, it was impossible to hold the place any longer, they must send
out to Cæsar. Some of the townspeople who were left were almost
thankful; anything was better than seeing their children die of thirst;
but some of them and some of the fighters killed themselves during the
night.
The garrison tried to make terms, but they knew it would be no use; they
surrendered unconditionally; the gates were opened; the legions marched
in. Women and children rushed up to the soldiers, begging for water;
they were rounded up, and with them any men who had not borne arms, and
taken down to the camp, to drink at the cattle-troughs and then be sold
as slaves. The garrison had to pile their arms in the centre of the
square, and wait till they were counted; some of those nearest the
surrounding lines of legionaries were given water, but most stood there
an hour and more with dry mouths and swimming heads. Caltane and the
other leaders asked that they and their men might be allowed to stop and
drink at the burn before they were taken on to the camp; it was
granted, and they lay in it, drinking and drinking, and letting it flow
over them; a few were drowned this way.
Cæsar was determined that this should be the last fighting in Gaul; he
had less than a year left now, and the country must be settled before he
went, or all his work would go for nothing. Let alone that he needed a
peaceful province to show in Rome. People there had begun to realize,
since the publication of his book, that the Gallic War had been no light
thing, and if he could now point back to order and security, a subdued
and tranquil province, well then--so he gave orders that the garrison of
Uxeldun should have their hands cut off and then be released, to wander
about the countryside as an example to the whole of Gaul of what came to
rebels against Cæsar.
Meromic and Caltane had been lying close together on the grass; they
knew they must expect something bad. As they had been spared so far it
was not very likely that they were going to be killed; besides, this was
not Cæsar’s way; probably they would be sold under the hammer; Meromic
thought suddenly: they won’t get so much for me this time! and began
telling Caltane the story of how he had surrendered five years back.
“Did you feel this way?” asked Caltane.
“No; it wasn’t so awful; it didn’t finish everything. I thought I was
hopeless, but somewhere in me I must have hoped. Now I don’t.”
“Nor I. It’s never been like this before: not even when Alesia fell and
my King was taken. And yet I couldn’t have believed then that there was
anything worse in the world.”
When they were told what was to happen to them they hardly realized it,
accepted it as part of the horror, and saw with no new emotion the
blocks and axes that were being got ready.
Titus felt it almost more, this calm preparation of pain for hundreds;
he sat in his tent with teeth clenched, trying to read. By now he had
given up hope of finding Meromic; he thought he must have been killed in
some of the winter fighting: he had disappeared so utterly. As he had
not got to stand by this time, he did not see the punishment of the
garrison.
There were five blocks. As each Gaul was pushed forward, a soldier
caught hold of him on each side and forced him down on his knees in
front of the block; then his wrist was held on it; there was little
enough resistance usually. They had skilled men and heavy axes, and
mostly the hand would come off at the first stroke. Sometimes the
prisoner would scream, and sometimes faint; anyhow the arm would be
dipped into hot pitch and roughly tied up; this stopped bleeding from
the main artery, for the moment at least, and gave the man a chance of
recovering. They were left to lie on the ground after this, and some of
the women from the town were allowed to take care of them and give them
water and by and by help them over to shelters where they might sleep,
if they could, on old hay and hides. Of course many of them died,
either from shock at first, or else later if the wound got poisoned or
started bleeding again, and most of them had other wounds as well.
The first few had both hands cut off, the later ones only the right
hand. Meromic and Caltane were lucky; they waited for their turn,
smelling the blood in the air worse than a battle-field. They had, of
course, been stripped of all their ornaments; Meromic was sorry about
the gold bracelet he had from Lucter. He kept on clasping and unclasping
his right hand, feeling things with it, bending the fingers up: how well
it worked! He had never thought of it before as something by itself; it
had been always part of him, his sword hand; now it was more like a
friend who was going to be killed. There were three or four others in
front of them still; all at once Caltane whispered, “You remember the
message I brought you, Meromic?” He nodded. “Well, would you go back to
him now if you had the chance?”
“I suppose I would.”
“Have you asked if he’s here?”
“No, and I won’t. I don’t think he’s in Gaul even, let alone this camp.
Besides--I’ve been free so long now; I’d rather die free than live the
other way.”
“You said he’d freed you.”
“Yes, but it’s not the same. If I saw him, perhaps--there, it’s you--oh,
Caltane!----” Meromic didn’t want to look, he heard the chop, heard
Caltane gasp like some one ducked in cold water; then it was his turn.
He held on to the edge of the block with his hand; it was all wet with
Caltane’s blood. The axes were getting blunted, it took three strokes;
he was used to pain, but this was worse than most; he felt frightfully
sick and fell over on his side, but he was pulled to his feet for the
arm to be dipped and tied up; for a moment he saw his own hand still
clutching the block, before it was swept off to the heap of others. He
was pushed forward a few steps, and was with Caltane again.
For a few days they lay in the shelter; the man at Meromic’s other side
died, and Caltane was very ill; after that they were taken in by a
friendly farm, and nursed by the women there, till Meromic was on his
feet again and Caltane was able to speak and feed himself with his left
hand. Here they heard about their old leaders: Drappes had starved
himself to death in prison, though the Romans had tried to make him eat.
Lucter had wandered about the country for weeks; at first he had done
everything to raise an army to relieve Uxeldun, but soldiers were not to
be had for love or money, and he was on the run all the time himself. He
had gone from one to another of his old friends, throwing himself on to
their hospitality; but that couldn’t last for ever. Caltane heard with a
groan that it was an Arvernian who had betrayed him at last and sent him
in chains to Cæsar. He was thought to be still a prisoner, but he might
have been executed; the farm people couldn’t tell.
They stayed there till the end of the summer, when Caltane was fit to
take up life again; they had no money, and their work was not worth
much, and the farmer was poor. What corn and cattle Lucter had left him,
the Romans had taken; they had to go. Meromic had been left-handed for
more than a year after the battle of the ships, and he picked it up
again quickly, and was able to help Caltane, who was slow and still very
shaky. They wondered what to do or where to go; they were no good to any
one. At last Caltane said, “We’ll go to Curdun. Ardorix can’t be afraid
of me now, and for the sake of what every one would say he’ll give us
shelter and food. You’ll come with me, Meromic?” And they went off
together, past the old remains of the mound and tower on the slope
before Uxeldun, up the burn, past the camps, and then east along the
roads to Curdun.
They had to beg their way; neither of them could walk far on these steep
roads, and four times they lay out under bushes because they couldn’t
reach one village from another in the day. People were kind to them, and
let them eat at their tables, and gave them a night’s rest; but they did
not care to be too kind. In one house Caltane had broken down
altogether; his arm had healed badly, there were always little splinters
of bone coming away, and this time Meromic couldn’t get him on to his
feet at all; he lay looking at the fire, breathing lightly and moaning a
little. Meromic was not too strong himself; he tried persuasion, he
tried to drag Caltane up, but at last he sat down heavily on the floor
with his head on his knees, crying from weakness and tiredness. All the
same the people of the house wanted to turn them out; Meromic protested,
went on his knees, begging them by all the bonds of hospitality not to
put certain death on his friend. In the middle of it all the whole cause
of the trouble appeared: a Roman officer whom they had wanted to welcome
without any reminders to either side that there had been mortal war
between them not so long ago. Meromic appealed to him and he of course
said they should stay; so they did, and Meromic nursed Caltane as well
as he could, until he was better and able to go on.
It was beginning to turn Autumn again, a wet chill Autumn that made
their arms ache; they got to Curdun in a rain-storm, soaked to the bone.
Caltane was all on edge, his teeth chattered and his knees shook as they
climbed the hill together; it was so strange coming back like this.
Half-way up they stopped to rest and look about them; it was very quiet;
a man came towards them, driving a couple of goats. Caltane leant
towards Meromic, gripping his knee, whispering, “I think I know him, I
think I know him! Oh, shall I speak? Will he remember me?”
The man knew him before he could say a word, ran over and kissed his
hand: “Oh, sir, you’ve come back, you’ve come back at last!”
Meromic was astonished; he never thought the old chief would be
remembered like that. The man begged them to come to his house, and they
went with him.
Little by little Curdun had been built up from its ruins; the walls were
still battered, and there were charred stones everywhere, but on the old
foundations new houses had been made, and life was starting again. There
were less than a quarter of the old numbers, but still it was a
beginning; they heard children at play, and, somewhere, a woman singing
at the loom. They warmed themselves at the hearth-fire, while the man
brought them hot milk and rye-bread and eggs, and then his own and his
neighbour’s only change of clothes, while theirs were drying. Very soon
it was spread about Curdun that Caltane was back again, and they crowded
to the little house to greet him with good words and small gifts, that
warmed his heart, and to ask if he would be with them always now. But he
did not know what Ardorix would say to all this, and he was uneasy till
he could see him; there could be no home for him here without Ardorix’s
consent.
In the evening Ardorix sent for him, and he went; Meromic wished him
good luck, and waited, hoping for the best. He came back, two hours
later, tired out, and dropped down beside the fire, covering his face
with his hand,--no words for his friend or his host. Meromic was
anxious:
“Did you see him? Was it all right?”
Caltane looked up: “Right? Yes, I suppose it was right. We’re to have a
house and food and clothes; if I catch him in a good temper and beg for
it, perhaps he’ll give us a horse. But oh, Meromic, I’ve knelt to him,
I’ve kissed his feet, yes, and hers as well: those two who ruined me and
Curdun! I’ve taken bread from his hands and thanked him for it, he who
was a traitor to my King and all! I’ve promised to obey him. And I saw
him laughing at me all the time, and she with her head in the air! And
it’s their children who’ll be chiefs in Curdun! Oh, my God, Meromic, I’d
die gladly if I knew they were all to die too!”
Meromic came over to him, whispering him to take comfort, that there was
no knowing what might not happen. Their host said nothing, but nodded
comprehension and gave them the little wine he had, and offered Caltane
his young wife, who blushed and came forward obediently; Caltane kissed
her out of courtesy and thanked them both, but he was not ready for
that.
The next day they went to their new home; it looked west from the edge
of the hill; there were two or three rooms, half cut out of the rock,
half built up from it. At first they went up to get their food from
Ardorix’s servants at his house, trying always to go when he was away
hunting, or busy giving judgment, or with guests. But, after a little,
they found that food was being brought to them by the Curdun people, and
not only food but hides, cloth, ornaments, knives; they would have given
Caltane a great sword in a bronze scabbard, but he knew Ardorix would
hear of it, so he could not accept it; besides, it would be little use
to him now. Then there were horses found for them when they wanted to
ride, and willing grooms as well, and they could have their choice of
twenty girls. It was mostly the poorer people who came to him, the old
defenders of Curdun and a few who had been with him afterwards; the
traders and landowners cared less for their old chief and more for what
Ardorix gave them: friendship with the Romans, the settled peace of a
province, and the chance of a market in the south again. But a few of
them, and a few of the chiefs from roundabout, who acknowledged Ardorix
as over-lord, but yet had no love for him, came secretly, by night
perhaps, to the house in the hillside.
Caltane took care never to seem at all prosperous to his cousin; he went
about the town on foot in an old cloak, and bowed low whenever he saw
him or his wife; and indeed he did not look the sort of man any one
could be afraid of any longer; he was all bent up over his arm, he was
very pale, and it took him all his strength to walk up the steep streets
of Curdun. Ardorix and Guemoné had very nearly refused to let Meromic
stay in the town when they found out who he was; they remembered the
scene in the Roman camp too well. But he was as weak as Caltane, he,
too, had to be humble to them, and it gave them a certain satisfaction
to feel he was in their power, a thin, grey wisp of a man, swordless,
landless, childless, with his life all broken to pieces and nothing to
look forward to.
But the days went on and the common people followed more and more after
Caltane, and sometimes, from the back of a crowd, there would be hoots
and hisses for Ardorix. Guemoné grew anxious first, and began to hint to
her husband that Caltane would be better out of the way. She was
beautiful still with her soft throat and blue eyes as she sat on the
high painted seat in the hall of their house, with three children
playing round her, the eldest always with that scar, and a new baby in
her arms, and Ardorix was still apt to do what she wanted. Only that day
she had heard from one of her maids that an old chief, nominally under
the lord of Curdun, had been going to Caltane’s house; and she knew well
enough about the rest. She spoke low, rubbing the baby’s hand against
her cheek, “I’m frightened. Dear, I’m frightened. They’re going over to
him, like they did before. Once is enough for me--you know--don’t let it
happen again.”
Ardorix stood over her, with a little frown: “What’s to be done,
Guemoné? Think what they’d say if I turned him away now!”
“You should never have let him in.”
“But he _is_ my cousin; we played together as boys. And--oh, he can’t do
any harm the way he is: he might be an old man already with that walk
and that face he has!”
“He’s not an old man. And that friend of his--oh, Ardorix, I don’t ask
it for myself, but surely we should make Curdun safe for the children!”
They both looked at their children; the two boys and the little girl
were playing with the hound puppies in and out of the legs of the big
table; they were so happy, so careless, and suddenly it seemed as if
those one-armed men had grown to be a great menace standing over them,
ready to spoil their play. Ardorix kissed his wife and said, “Well, I
shall take care. If they abuse my hospitality--I shall send for
Caltane.”
And so he did; Caltane got the message and said he would come at once;
the messenger went back. Caltane took up his cloak, saying to Meromic,
“They’re beginning to find out. What shall I say?”
Meromic thought for a moment: “It all depends on what you want to
happen.”
“I should like to have had a year’s rest first. Do you think there’s a
chance?”
“I don’t know Ardorix, of course; but they love you here.”
“It would mean fighting. If I had my hand---- Well, I’ll know more by
to-night.” And he went up. He did his best with Ardorix and Guemoné,
but it was no use denying what they knew; he was given the choice,
either to send back all the things he had been given--“We’ll give you as
good,” said Guemoné scornfully--and publicly to swear his loyalty to his
cousin, or else to leave Curdun at once and for ever. Ardorix stood in
front of him, tall, definite, backed by all the powers of a chief and a
friend of the Romans. At last Caltane said, “Very well, Ardorix, I’ll
give back the things. But I warn you the givers mayn’t be best pleased.”
“That’s nothing to me. You will take that oath to-morrow in the
market-place. Now you can go.”
At the house he found Meromic, and with him a few of those who had
welcomed him most. He told them; they looked at one another; said one,
“He has the strength: his own fighting men. And the Romans would help
him. Curdun has been burnt once.”
“Yes,” said Caltane, “I think the gifts must go back.”
They talked till far on into the night; the end of it was that they--or
some of them--would follow Caltane against Ardorix if he chose, but they
thought the odds were heavily against them; it might have been different
if he had been with them another six months, or if he could have had
money enough to bribe the traders and those who stood for Rome; as it
was, half his friends would be afraid to help him. Caltane promised to
send them word by morning, and they went out. He turned to Meromic.
“This is clear. I’ve brought war on Curdun once already. Then it was for
Vercingetorix; there was no choice, if I could have chosen. Now it’s
different; I can’t be the means of death for all these good men and
their children.”
“But yet--you might succeed, Caltane.”
“What then? The Romans would never let me be. I’ve had enough war.”
“But if you could get power: think what a vengeance you could take on
them! After Cæsar is gone.”
“It’s too late; it was too late a year ago. No, I’ll not think of any
new fortune for myself now.”
And he told those who had been there that evening that there was no need
to sharpen swords for him.
He sent back the presents and took the oath to Ardorix, and after that
he would hardly move out of the house. He seemed to feel his arm more,
too; perhaps that was the wet weather, the mists that came right up the
hill from the Curdun river; or perhaps it was simply the reaction in his
body as well as his mind after that brief hope-time. Meromic was very
unhappy about him; he did not care to talk; he lay awake for hours at
night; sometimes for a whole day he ate nothing; and he seemed never to
be able to get warm. When he did go out he crept up the sides of the
streets and looked away and didn’t answer when any one spoke to him. But
yet all the same Ardorix was not satisfied; once his fears had been
roused at all they were difficult to quiet. One morning Caltane was told
that his cousin wished him now to live up at his house; he stood looking
out at the raindrops splashing on the mud outside: “He’s hard to
satisfy,” he said, “this cousin of mine. I think he might have left me
here. He’ll not be content to keep me in his house either; there’s a
prison underneath in the rock; no one escapes from it; that’s where he
really wants me. Oh, Meromic, I’ve not brought you luck!”
He went out bareheaded into the rain; after an hour or so Meromic went
to look for him, thinking he must be wet through; he called him all
about the hill, but there was no answer. A man had seen him on the
river-path, so Meromic went down there, along the banks of the river
which sometimes ran shallow over stones, and sometimes swirled in deep
pot-holes. He called and he called, till his voice was hoarse; he went
up the glen and then down. It was getting late in the season, but there
were still nets across the river in one bend; Ardorix always took half
the fish. Something was pushing at the net near the middle, a log
perhaps. Meromic looked intently, but the rain on the surface of the
water made it very hard to see. He had to make sure, he waded out,
steadying himself against the rope of the net; he got to the middle,
three feet deep and a strong current, but a firm bottom to stand on. He
reached down and pulled his friend clear of the net, and dragged him
along and up on to the bank. Water streamed out of his hair and his
clothes; he was cold already. Meromic knelt beside him, saying aloud,
“Yes, you’re very wet.”
He did not know what to do; there was no one about, and he sat down by
Caltane’s head, with the grey river pouring and pouring past under his
eyes. He could not go back to Curdun now. He thought of his own Canton,
he might go north; but it was so far, so dim, he did not want it any
longer. There was nothing he did want. He wished he could be dead by
somehow just not going on living; he had no knife, and it would be very
hard for him to drown, good swimmer that he was. He looked round him;
there were nets and a coil of thin rope heaped together in a little cave
in the bank. He took up the rope and made a slip-knot with his left hand
and teeth; he put the rope over his arm; he said, “Good-bye, Caltane,”
and would have laid flowers on him, but there were none in that November
wood.
He had to find a tree he could climb easily; he had done no climbing
since Uxeldun and it was going to be difficult. At any rate it was
hopeless to try these pines; a mile or two further on--what did it
matter? If there was any life after death he could come back and find
Caltane. But it was not life he wanted. He went on along down the glen
till he came to the road that went south; there were old thorn trees by
the sides of it, with birds picking at the berries. He slung his rope
across his shoulder, thinking what would be a good way to climb; he
looked up and down the road: there was a man coming along it, and he
thought he had best wait till it was clear again. He sat down on the
bank; it was wet and cold, and started sharp pains in his arm and all
his old wounds. For a little the rain stopped, then it came on hard; it
was near sunset now, and the western clouds were just streaked with dull
red.
“A wet evening,” said the man, “but maybe it’ll be clear to-morrow.”
“Maybe,” said Meromic, but he didn’t think so, he only wanted the man to
go on and leave him.
But the man stayed in the road: worse, he sat down on the bank too; he
said, “That’s a strong bit of rope you have there.” Meromic didn’t
answer, turned his head away: but the man talked on: “You’ll be a
ropemaker, perhaps? Or is it for tethering cows you have it?”
Meromic glared round at him impatiently: “What’s that to you?” Then he
stopped, looking at the man: “Why, I’ve not seen you since--since that
night in the wood. You gave Dith a silver ring: have you ever had it
back?”
“I didn’t miss it.”
“Didn’t you? It was a fine ring. What have you been doing all this
time?”
“Oh, I’ve been about the world, a night on the hills, a night on the
plain, a night over the sea.”
“You look as poor and thin as ever you did.”
“Ay, do I now? And you’re not looking so rich and grand yourself. If you
stay sitting on this bank all night you’ll be washed away by morning.”
“I’m not going to stay here.”
“And where will you be staying then?”
“Somewhere you’ve no call to follow me.”
“There’s no road I couldn’t follow you if I’d a mind: sunset or sunrise,
south to one sea or north to another.”
He pointed each way and Meromic’s eyes looked along his finger; the
queer thing was he saw a poplar growing right in front of him; he didn’t
remember seeing it before. And another up the road; and another down the
road; and another behind him. And not a thorn-tree in sight! He rubbed
his eyes: surely he’d been sitting under a thorn! There was no climbing
these poplars, but he knew he had been going to climb when that
story-teller came. And oh, he was so tired, he couldn’t get up and go on
walking down this endless road looking for thorn trees when there
weren’t any!
“Well,” said the story-teller, “it’s time I went on; I never stop long
in one place.” And he went splashing away, and all along the road there
was a flutter of birds among the bushes. But Meromic did not look after
him; he sat on the bank at the edge of the road, nursing his arm, and
the rope lay beside him on the grass, and the yellow poplar leaves fell
heavily, sticky with the wet. And he fingered the end of the rope, but
he felt too tired to go on: if only he could die at once! A half company
of legionaries went by, marching at ease and talking, as if the whole
country was their own now; he hated them dimly, but all his thoughts
were turning grey like the evening. By now there was only a little light
in the west; the fields had lost their colour; there was a drizzle of
rain on head and back, but he was so cold already that it made no
difference: he was aching all over, pains in every joint and muscle, his
wrist a focus of solider pain; he shut his eyes, nearly fainting with it
all. His mind clutched back for some support in the dark and wet; he
remembered scraps of poetry, half a verse with the rhyme gone:
There was a king of Fach-na-Croich,
He had one only daughter,
And she was dancing roundabout--
but Fiommar was dead under the short turf on Crabland, and their father
was dead, and all his friends were dead and the rain was wearing down
the stones over their cairns. The rain. The rain. The end of the rope
was sodden and fraying out; his hand was resting in a cold pool, but it
was not worth while moving it.
There were horse-hoofs along the road, blurred and stumbling in the mud;
they came nearer, with a jangle of armour; there were hands on his
shoulders, voices, voices ... he did not know how cold he was until he
moved. He looked across the lantern flame at the dark face under the
straight line of the helmet, Titus Barrus calling him, out of a dream,
“Meromic! Meromic!” He did not answer, it was too difficult to think of
anything to say. Trouble gathered in the brown eyes in front of him,
almost tears: “Meromic, don’t you know me?” Then Lerrys saying
something, and a cloak flung over his shoulders, the warm feel of the
wool. He clung to the rope-end as they got him to his feet; he slid into
a saddle and swayed there when the horse moved, yet was too good a rider
to fall, however little he thought of riding. He felt leather in his
hand instead of rope, there was a horse and rider at each side of him:
his body was in the saddle, but his mind went on ahead in one piece with
the horse’s ears and the stones of the road streaming back faintly
across the patch of lantern light. The movement woke new pains in arms
and back and legs; the rain beat sometimes at one side, sometimes at the
other; a rabbit ran in front of them, leaving no more trace in his
consciousness than on the darkness. The horse-hoofs clattered hollowly
on flagstones; then the sound ended; he had got used to its going on for
ever. He walked straight in front of him; some one stopped him from
walking into the wall and guided him through the door.
He was in a room, in a chair, by a fire: he blinked at it; they were
moving beside him, holding a cup to his lips. He drank; with a jerk he
became alive again--warmth, light, rest; he was eating bread soaked in
hot wine. He looked round; Lerrys was kneeling beside him, rubbing his
feet with a dry cloth; Titus Barrus was standing with a bowl in his
hands, smiling at the moment of recognition; Dith came in with an armful
of logs: just the same. Titus was speaking: “Are you remembering,
Meromic?”
His tongue fumbled with “Yes” and brought it out.
“That’s good. What happened to you? What were you doing?”
“I was looking for a tree....”
“A tree?” Lerrys caught the Roman by the sleeve and whispered to him; he
bit his lip and offered the bowl of wine again: “Where have you been?
You weren’t at Uxeldun?”
“Yes. That’s why ...” he moved his right arm. Already this glorious
warmth was creeping all over him, tingling, turning pain into glow,
building him up again; he saw the Roman face full of pity and regret.
“If only I’d known! You went away to the rebels at once?”
As he was answering it all came back to him suddenly: the year of
freedom, Lucter and the chiefs, Caltane his friend--why had he let them
catch him again? He started to his feet, swaying,--out into the rain,
back to freedom, and his own death if he chose! But they caught him by
the arms, it was no use. He fell back into the chair and crouched down
in it, hiding his face in the cushion.
“What is it, Meromic, what is it?”--that was his old master speaking.
He answered weakly, “I don’t want to come back!”
Titus and Lerrys looked at one another; _they_ wanted him, but it was
like trying to keep a wild beast, a wet, hurt wolf. Dith, kneeling by
the fire, jabbing it to a blaze, turned with a twisted grin and a nod
towards the hunched figure in the chair: “I know. He’s got free this
time; he’s not going to stick his head into the noose again.”
“But I freed him!”
“There’s not much difference--is there, Lerrys?”
Titus waited for Lerrys to answer, and Lerrys cried with a gasp, “Yes,
it is different! I swear it is! Only--only--it’s thirteen years since
I’ve seen my country: I’ve forgotten what it was like being free. And it
was awful all that time before--he only had a year of it--and then you
were kind to us! But I know what he’s feeling too.”
Titus rubbed his knuckles against his forehead: “I see. We shall have to
go gently with him. I’m sorry, Lerrys.”
“Oh, don’t, sir! There’s nothing for you to be sorry about. And I want
him with us again. I hope you get him.”
Titus went over to Meromic, who shrunk away deeper into the chair, but
he had the sense not to touch him. He spoke gently: “Meromic, listen:
I’m not going to keep you against your will. Do you want to go back?”
Meromic looked round: “You’ll let me go?”
“If you want to. Do you?”
Meromic got to his feet slowly: they all stood back; he leant against
the chimney-breast and kicked in a half-burned brand; his damp clothes
steamed, he wanted to take them off and get dry, and eat, and sleep, and
forget about Caltane and Uxeldun and the wet road; he shook his head and
said, “No.”
They were all round him then; his eyes were narrow and he started a
little as he felt their hands on him; they talked all together. He heard
Titus saying, “Oh, I’m glad! You’ll be my friend from this day on--we
shall be happy again!” and Lerrys murmuring his name over and over, and,
“Oh, my dear, I did hope we’d find you!” and then suddenly Dith with his
eyes blazing, “You fool! You fool! Don’t you know when you’re free?
Can’t you tell? You’ve let them catch you--oh, you’ll be sorry for it
some day!” But now he was not sorry, and Dith subsided with chattering
teeth into a corner. Then they had supper together, and he heard about
Æmilia, and Coisha and the baby; and in the middle of it all Quintus
Velanius came in, and he said, “Well!” and shook Meromic’s left hand;
but they all kept rather carefully away from things that had happened in
Gaul during the last year or so.
Titus was very anxious to get Meromic right away as soon as possible,
but they had to stay in the Arvernian and Hæduan countries for some
weeks longer. It was enough to show Meromic that this time it was a real
peace; everywhere the Roman was the good comer. Men were glad to be able
to sow winter wheat and be certain that there would be no war to snatch
them off before it was ripe; women knew there would be no more running
from burning towns with a baby clutched to the breast, their husbands
were safe now. Maybe it was the quiet after a great storm; there would
still be gusts from time to time; but the chiefs were beginning to look
towards Rome, to be dazzled by that great name. Later, when they and
their lands were rested, they would fight with her, not against her. And
it was all Cæsar’s doing: in the end he had held out a hand of
friendship, and Gaul had taken it.