Читать книгу The Great Captains - Henry Treece - Страница 7

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Two men stood in the sunlight on the cliff-top, looking down towards the sea. The disturbed gulls circled low over their heads, squawking with anger at their intrusion, but the men ignored the birds. They had other problems to think of; the wings that echoed in their minds were the pinions of death.

The old man was gazing over the glittering water with the fixed, immobile set of the head that is often seen in the blind, or the nearly blind. He was tall and almost emaciated. His long grey gown of coarse woollen stuff hung loosely about him, sometimes whipped in the wayward breezes that flicked across the open headland. It looked as though it had been made for a much bigger man. His close-cropped, grizzled hair gave him the look of a hermit, a recluse from the luxuries of common man. Yet upon his feet he wore high sandals of such leather and of such exquisite craftsmanship as might only have been purchased by one of substantial means. Nor was the sword, which swung in a heavy bronze scabbard from the thong about his waist, the weapon of an austere and penniless holy man. It was of the old Roman pattern, but much longer, and its hilt and pommel were not of the customary style. The hilt was of chiselled Irish gold, teased into spirals of plaited basket-work; the great round pommel was of silver, set with a large red stone that gleamed richly as he moved in the morning sun.

As the light struck in a new shaft from behind a high cloud, this old man pressed his hand closer to his eyes, straining to see. “Can you still see them, Medrodus?” he said. “Have they reached the ship yet?”

The young man smiled to himself. His own sight was as sharp as that of a bird of prey.

“They are pulling hard against the tide, Ambrosius,” he said. “But the current is strong. It will be long before they are aboard. Must we wait?”

His keen eyes strayed to the rich sword with something like envy. Then he lightly shrugged his shoulders and began to whistle softly. The old man made a small gesture of annoyance, as though irritated at his dependence. He did not seem to like that carefree whistling, but the young man affected not to notice this.

“We must stay,” said Ambrosius. “But, by the gods, I almost wish I was with them now, for it seems my time here is done. Britain is beyond my cure.”

The young man stopped whistling suddenly, his heavy lids half veiling the scorn in his dark eyes. Of medium height and build, his swarthy skin and oiled black hair, which hung in small curls to the nape of his neck, gave him an exotic, almost an Eastern appearance. On his proudly held head he wore a light hood of leather, onto which many small iron plates had been rivetted for protection against a surprise sword cut. As a guard for his ears, two inverted triangles of chain mail dangled from the hood, clinking as he moved and lending his expression something of the Babylonian warrior.

“You are still the Count of Britain, Master,” he said. “While you are with us Rome is not dead in Britain.”

His voice was well modulated and ingratiating and on the surface he spoke with sincerity. The old man nodded gravely, accepting the title without embarrassment, as a king does. Yet the young man’s thick red lips had curled as he spoke. The thin fringe of dark beard about his chin picked out the irony that lay so lightly concealed in his heart.

The old man turned away from him, his head lowered and his hand over his brow.

“The Count of Britain,” he said sadly. “It is a threadbare robe now, that title. It no longer keeps out the Saxon cold. I wonder how much longer I shall wear it.”

“You will live many years, Master,” said the young man, looking towards the sword again like a girl before a trinket-maker’s booth.

He was dressed in a short blue tunic of heavy linen, embellished by threads of woven silver; but now its hem was torn and its embroidery tarnished. A worn and greasy hide jerkin reached to his waist, laced round his broad chest by thongs of twisted leather. His strong legs were bare but for his thin woollen nether-stocks, made after the fashion of a legionary’s winter breeches. Upon his feet he wore the caligulae, the marching-boots of a Roman soldier, but of such a lightness and softness of leather, such a delicacy of nailwork, that only a young dilettante of the officer caste would have dared to wear them.

“Yes, you will live for many years, dear Master,” he said again, smiling down at his feet.

The grey old man turned his blank face once more towards the northern sea. Far below him huge limestone rocks, eroded by wind and water, towered in their sombre shapes. About them the white seabirds wheeled and cried mournfully, splashing the grey stone with their droppings.

Ambrosius said, “I sometimes feel that it will not be long before I go to meet my emperor. Then some other man will be as I am now, a king without a country, without even an army. A king without hope. It may be you, Medrodus, who knows? It may be you.”

The young man turned away from him and walked a little closer to the edge of the cliffs. He saw the longboat bobbing clumsily in the water, pulled by twenty men unused to the oars, their round helmets gleaming dull in the sunlight, soldiers, the last of the Romans.

By now they were within a hundred paces of the ship that waited for them, a tall corbal-built vessel that stood too high out of the water for easy handling. Its sewn-hide sails were already unfurling as the boat approached, as though its captain was anxious to get away without delay.

Medrodus called back carelessly, over his shoulder, “The last of your army will soon be safe on their way to Gaul—or else to Hades!”

The Count of Britain stumbled towards him. Medrodus watched him coming, helplessly, screwing up his eyes in the hope of being allowed some transitory glimpse at least of his departing friends. If one stood aside, thought Medrodus, what is there to warn him of the cliff’s edge? What could prevent him from falling onto the rocks below? He is an old man and would die easily.

For a brief instant, his hands clenched as though he might take the quickest way and push Ambrosius forward. Yet something got in his way; it was not conscience, or loyalty, but rather some vague unworded apprehension. It would not be like killing an ordinary man. Ambrosius was the chosen of Rome, and the vengeance of all the Imperial gods would drag down whoever laid a finger on him. Yet, if the old man might only make the mistake himself, who could be blamed?

Ambrosius lurched forward, the rising wind now whipping his coarse woollen robe against his thin body as he approached the cliff-edge. He could see nothing but a dull expanse of leaden grey, blurred painfully at times by passing flashes of brilliance as the sun struck spitefully at his eyes across the rolling North Sea.

With a gasp, Medrodus saw the sword, the great sword, actually swinging over the edge of the drop. If that went, all authority would die. The sword must not fall, too; it was his only proof of leadership when Ambrosius was gone. Even as the old man stumbled on, Medrodus put out his arm and held him closely.

“Master, Master,” he cried, “you are too near the edge. You must not risk your life, Master.”

The old man began to shudder. Medrodus could feel the bones of that old body shaking under the robe, and smiled again.

“Sit down, Ambrosius,” he said. “You were near death then.”

The old man’s eyes filled with sudden tears. “You are a faithful friend, Medrodus,” he said. “The only one who would have done that for me.”

Then without warning he broke away and stood again above the rocks, his face distorted with a sudden anger. He shook his fist petulantly in the direction of the sea.

“Go, you traitors,” he shouted. “Leave me here, you dogs! I will find better men than you, by the gods! Go, and take your payment with you, carrion!”

As he spoke he thrust a thin and weatherbeaten hand into the shallow goatskin pouch at his side and brought out a handful of small glistening coins, things hardly bigger than hailstones. He made a slight pretence of weighing them in his palm for an instant, then he smiled ruefully and with a sudden gesture of disgust flung the Roman minims out over the cliff-edge. The small particles of metal glittered like summer rain as they fell in a broad shower among the birds that circled the rocks below. Then, as though ashamed of his action, he said, “Yet they do right, I fear, to seek peace and a thatched roof of their own, in Rome or Gaul, yes, even in Saxony. There is nothing left for them here. Not even an oath to bind them any longer.”

Medrodus smiled and said softly, “At this moment your good warband is nearer Saxony than it knows, perhaps!”

Far off, beyond the view of the watcher in the crow’s nest of the boat below, a long grey shape swung patiently with the tide; a heathen longboat, its sails furled, its oars at rest; a grim sea-wolf, waiting for the plunder that it knew must come sooner or later. Medrodus could see it clearly now as the mist moved away. He felt no sympathy with the men who had marched half the length of Britain with him, who had been his comrades but a few hours before. He smiled callously and wished that the view might be uninterrupted, so that he could watch the boarding when it came.

Ambrosius made the Roman farewell sign and turned away from the cliff. Medrodus, who knew that it would be useless to ask him to stay after that farewell, followed him petulantly, kicking at the turf in irritation. Why couldn’t the old man have let him stay long enough to see the Saxons draw up alongside these craven dogs!

Old Ambrosius stopped after a few paces and half turned his head, impatiently.

“I am coming, Master,” said Medrodus smoothly, curling back his girl’s red lips at the tall straight figure of the deserted leader, like a dog that would bite but dares not. Not, at least, until it is quite sure of its master’s weakness.