Читать книгу Voices from the Dust - John Jeffery Farnol - Страница 4

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Few are there of all the hurrying thousands passing daily who ever trouble to glance at this Stone of London Town in its dark and dusty corner, this relic of long-forgotten peoples and illimitable years, whose origin is lost in the dust of speeding centuries. Whence came it? What was it? Who shall say? The fetish, mayhap, of paleolithic man: a stone of sacrifice: a pagan altar? But we know it, lastly, as the measuring-stone for a Roman province.

To-day it lies, dim and grim, behind its rusting iron bars, waiting, as it has always done, for the end of Time,—history concrete for such as possess the eye of imagination, and which having no tongue may yet speak to such few as may hear.

As thus:

It is a day of early summer, and the genial sun sparkles on bright mail and crested helmet, it twinkles on broad spearhead and gleams upon spade and mattock where men labour upon a road that, piercing thicket, swamp, and dense-tangled forest, shall join this hard-won province of Britain with the glory of imperial Rome.

And these soldier-labourers, being also Romans, do not scamp the business, for see now!

They drive two parallel furrows the proposed width of the road: they scoop out the earth between, they pack and ram this excavation with fine earth,—and this is the pavimentum. Upon this they now lay small squared stones precisely arranged and mortared,—and this is the statumen. Upon this again they spread lime, chalk, and broken tiles pounded hard,—and this is the nucleus. Lastly and with extreme care they set large flat stones cut square or polygon-shaped,—and this is the summa crusta.

What wonder that such roads have been enduring marvels ever since?

Now, as these Roman legionaries bend to their travail or march upon their wards, come two men, young officers by their mien and look, for, though their bright armour is very plain, their helmets bear lofty crests.

“Barbarians, I tell thee, Metellus,” cried the younger with a gesture of youthful scorn. “Yet must we go ever on watch and ward, day and night—Why? Why?”

“Thou’rt new to Britain, Honorius, but shalt see for thyself anon!” answered Metellus, smiling grimly. “When hast fronted the wild rush of their war-chariots, seen their murderous scythe-blades dripping blood, ’twill suffice thee, Honorius, thou’lt know!”

“Nay, I’ve heard o’ them, man.”

“And shalt doubtless see, anon.”

“A barbarian rabblement!” snorted the young Honorius.

“Yet Britons!” nodded his comrade, “and I ne’er saw Briton yet that loved not fight. Ay, barbarians are they ... and yet——” Metellus glanced away to the distant, thick-wooded heights, and the dreamy eyes beneath his glittering helmet seemed suddenly at odds with his hawk-nose and grim mouth.

“Thou hast lived among them, Metellus, I hear.”

“Three months among the Regni, to exchange hostages. I have their speech and——” Metellus stiffened suddenly, his eye grew keen as from the camp away down the road a trumpet blared instant hoarse alarm.

“What is it?” cried Honorius, clapping hand to sword.

“Battle!” answered Metellus, and turned to order his company, where now, in place of spade and mattock, shield and pilum glittered and swayed. For, suddenly, from those wooded heights came a vague stir, a hum that swelled to clamour, to wild and fierce uproar: and forth of those gloomy woods leapt horses and chariots sweeping down with ever-increasing speed, hoofs thundering, and wheels rumbling—rattling wheels whose creaking hubs bore long, curved blades flashing evilly. So down roared these chariots of death, driven by men who laughed and shouted amain, brandishing spears, axes, or long bronze swords.

But upon the road all was silent where these veteran ranks of Rome, shoulder to shoulder, back to back, shields before and spears advanced, stood grim and silent to stem the wild fury of that thunderous onset.

A still and breathless moment, and then upon the road was raving pandemonium, dust and blood and death. For here are the chariots! Their drivers hurl javelins, they thrust with spear or smite with sword, they leap upon their horses’ backs, they step upon the pole that they may strike and kill the better. The Roman front sways, totters, is riven asunder, and the blood-spattered chariots are through and away. And now, down upon these broken ranks the British horsemen charge. But a trumpet shrills, the men of Rome close up, stand firm, and British horse and rider go down before the levelled spears or recoil before this iron discipline. So stood the Romans, silent, grim, and orderly as before; only now outstretched upon the road were men who wailed dismally or lay very mute and still, with litter of chariots shattered or overturned, and dead or dying horses.

Then Metellus, knowing the attack was sped, wiped and sheathed his sword and looked about for his young comrade Honorius, and presently espied him beneath a broken chariot, his youthful body hatefully mangled. Stooping, he touched his pallid cheek. The dying youth opened dimming eyes and sighed.

“Metellus, thou wert ... right. These Britons are surely men. As for me ... ah, well! ... it is ... for Rome....”

Thus, then, they fought and laboured upon the road, these men of Rome, in heat and cold, wetting it with their sweat, splashing it with their blood, and dying now and then—but the road went on. For Rome’s mighty fist, having grasped, held fast awhile: before invincible pilum, short sword, and rigid discipline the proud tribes, Regni, Silures, and Bibroci, gave back, slowly, sullenly, and vanished amid their impenetrable country of marsh and forest, beaten yet unconquered, and biding their time.

Thus, upon a summer’s eve, young Bran, son of Cadwallan, King of the Regni, tightened the strings of his bronze war-helm and, leaning upon his sword, peered down through quivering leaves and above dense-tangled thickets to where in the vale below broad and white and straight as arrow ran the great new road.

“Plague seize ’em!” he growled fiercely. “They should be in sight ere now. What shall keep ’em, think ye?” And, from the denser wood behind, came a harsh yet jovial voice in answer, the voice of Tryggan, his foster-father, old in war and accounted wise in counsel:

“Patience, fosterling! They were ordered for Anderida, we know, and, being Romans, come they will.”

“Romans—ha, curse them!” muttered young Bran, lifting his knotted fist. “And in especial do I curse Metellus the centurion!”

“Thy hate for him waxeth ever, Bran?”

“Hourly, since first he plagued my sight. Thrice have we met in battle, and yet he lives. And my cousin Fraya looks on him over-kindly—and he a Roman!”

“Why, he is a comely youngling, Bran.”

“Yet a Roman! And therefore to be hated. So pray I the God o’ the Grove, yea, the Spirit o’ the running water, I meet him in fight this day! Think you my father shall be ready?”

“Yea, verily! Trust Cadwallan. Yonder he lies across the valley with all his powers, yet not so much as a blink of helm or spear! And moreover——Stay! What’s there? Now watch, eyes all—hearken!”

Leaves a-flutter in the gentle wind, a bird carolling joyously against the blue, a stealthy rustling sound amid the underbrush hard by, where armed men crept ... and then above all this, faint and far, a throb of rhythmic sound drawing nearer, louder, until it grew to the rattle and thud of slung shield and spear, with the short, quick tramp of marching Roman infantry. Young Bran smiled fiercely and, tossing back his long fair hair, glanced down at the eager faces of his crouching followers and drew his sword.

“Be ready, men of the Regni!” he muttered. “This hour shall your thirsty swords drink deep. Where I go, follow and kill!”

“No mercy, then, princeling?” murmured grey-headed Tryggan.

“Mercy?” snarled Bran. “Ha, meseemeth you also look too kindly on these accursed Romans! Kill, I charge ye, kill all! Yet stay! Spare only Metellus, for he is mine; him will I give to the priests for our Sacred Fire. So—pass the word! And watch for my signal.”

Far off upon the road there presently appeared a small company of soldiers, crested helmet and spearhead blinking redly in the sunset glow, a serried company, their files trim and orderly, their short, quick stride bringing them rapidly nearer, until these many hidden eyes might descry grim faces and sturdy limbs and one who marched before accoutred like his fellows, except that his helmet bore a loftier crest. Nearer they swung, rank on rank, veterans all by their showing—lean, sinewy fellows with eyes bright as their armour.

“Come!” roared Bran and leaped, long sword aloft—and up from bracken and sheltering thicket sprang his fierce company and followed hot-foot where he led.

From the road a trumpet sounded, shields flashed and spearheads glittered as the Romans wheeled to meet the charge.

Though surrounded and beset on all sides the Roman columns held fast; British long-swords whirled and fell, but the serried Roman spears swayed and thrust, and the short, two-edged swords bit deep, and thrice, for all their desperate courage, the Britons were flung back.

“Metellus!” roared Bran, raging amid the fray. “Ha, Metellus, I’m for you. Come!”

“So ho, Bran!” answered the hated voice of Metellus, rising loud and clear above the din. “Come, then, and taste again of Roman steel.” But between them was a rocking close-locked press, and so they raged for each other in vain.

Then was an added tumult as down from the opposite steep charged Cadwallan with all his following. And presently, hemmed in thus at every point, the Roman ranks swayed, staggered, broke at last and were smitten and trampled into the bloody dust.

Breathless, half-blind with sweat, young Bran beheld a lofty crest that reeled and drooped beneath a hail of blows, and, roaring, he leapt and bestrode Metellus the centurion as he fell.

“Off!” he gasped, beating back his fellows. “ ’Tis the accursed Metellus! Off, I say! He is mine!”

So the fierce British warriors drew sullenly away and stood gazing at conquered and conqueror in a dark and scowling ring.

Coming weakly to an elbow, Metellus peered up at Bran from beneath his battered helmet and, blowing blood from his lips, laughed faintly.

“What, Bran, dost live yet? Then here and now I die.... Strike, Briton!”

“Not so!” answered Bran, stooping to glare into that bloody face. “Dog of a Roman, my hate is all too large to slay thee gently so. Thine shall be a death less kindly.”

Then was sudden shout, the ring of warriors parted, and so came Cadwallan the king, trampling and spurning the Roman dead beneath his gold-studded sandals.

“Well sped, my son!” he cried in his great booming voice. “A right noble fray, boy! What have ye there under foot? Why, by the Sacred Oak, ’tis the proud Metellus! How now, Oh noble Roman? What’s the word, Sir Daintiness?”

“Death, Majesty!” answered Metellus, dabbing at the gash above his brow. “Death beyond all doubting.”

“Death indeed since Roman you be.”

“Ay, good my father!” nodded Bran. “But, noble sire, I crave as boon the manner of his dying.”

“Why, verily, boy, so death it be. Yet, for thy deeds this day boon shouldst have, were it—even his life.”

“Life?” cried Bran, spurning his foe with passionate foot. “Nay, father and king, he shall to the Stone of Sacrifice, the Sacred Fire shall lick him, sire, ay, devour him before my eyes.”

“The Fire?” repeated Cadwallan, thumbing his great chin, and glancing askance at his fierce son. “The Fire, boy? ’Tis an evil death and ... Well, so be it! Take up the prisoner.”

“Ay, lift him, bear him tenderly!” cried young Bran. “Cut withies for a litter that he travel soft. Ha, dog of a Roman, I hate ye so perfectly I’ll cherish ye with loving care lest Death snatch ye from me too soon!”

“Barbarian!” retorted Metellus faintly. “Oh Bran, I despise thee so vastly I had rather die than suffer thy fellowship!”