Читать книгу The Man on the White Horse - Warwick Deeping - Страница 7

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When they came to the east gate of Calleva, they found both gates open and the guard-rooms empty. Two little black tunnels led from sunlight to sunlight. The street within was deserted, save for a dog scratching himself by a wall. Geraint looked grim. So they kept no watch here, the fools! Moreover, he saw other things besides that flea-bitten dog: a choked drain and the black ooze of a puddle, offal, an old shoe lying in a gutter, oyster-shells thrown from a doorway. Calleva was forgetting both its guards and its scavengers. Had the city fathers abdicated, and the curia gone to sleep?

The emptiness of the streets challenged him, and finding Caradoc trotting beside his horse, he looked down into the smith's face.

"The place might be dead."

"It is May Day, lord."

May Day! And he had forgotten! Had all Calleva gone a-maying, leaving the place to fortune and the dogs? The beat of his horse's hoofs seemed to echo from house to house; the wagon rumbled behind. When they came towards the centre of the town, they saw that the shutters were up; even the wine-shops were shut.

"Strange virtue, Caradoc."

The smith growled in his beard.

Geraint was turning his horse into the Via Flavia when the silent town came to life like a pan of fat on a fire. A sudden shouting; the clamour of a crowd both shrill and deep. At the end of the Via Flavia the gateway of the Forum was so packed with people that it looked like a fruit-stall. The crowd was set solidly round the Doric pillars of the portico, but as Geraint rode up the street, that mass of coloured backs and black heads surged forward. The high wall of the basilica resounded like a cliff to all that clamour. Geraint reined in and sat listening, looking. Those mob voices were shouting in unison.

"Balthasar, Balthasar, Bishop Balthasar!"

Geraint rode on, but at the corner of the butter-market he turned in the saddle and spoke to the smith.

"Stop the wagon. Keep the dog with you."

He walked his horse to the gate of the Forum. The road continued through the pillared vestibule, and here in the shadow Geraint reined in his horse. The court of the Forum was so thick with people that a cat could have walked upon their heads, but Geraint was concerned with a particular face and not with Calleva's caputs. At the foot of the column in the centre of the Forum a man was standing on a tub, haranguing the people, a long, lean man in a purple cloak. His face was very pale. One arm was thrust out, fingers and thumb spread, and in the stillness his voice cut like a sword.

Balthasar the Bishop.

Geraint sat his horse in the shadow and watched him. Balthasar might stand on a tub in the thick of a May Day mob, but he was no huckster bawling tripe or conies. The crowd were the conies. This lean man with a face like the edge of the moon, both suave and ferocious, with the oblique glitter of his eyes and a voice that both caressed and cut, held the crowd. Moreover, Balthasar was a handsome man, a little flashy perhaps, and too ready with pontifical insolence, but he was clever, quick as sin when it sets out to convert virtue.

Balthasar spread his arms.

"My children, if emperors and councillors desert us, shall we be downcast?—I have dreamed a dream and beheld a vision. Are we not all the servants of Christ—and citizens of this city?—Shall I tell you my dream?"

There were cries of "Yes, yes, the dream," and Balthasar smiled about him.

"I dreamed that St. Peter stood by my bed and said unto me: 'Balthasar, arise. Take thy staff and go to the people and say unto them: "Cast out the heathen from your midst."'"

Again there were cries from the crowd, but Balthasar's right arm was up.

"Patience, my children—let me interpret my dream.—This city of ours—Calleva—shall we not make it a city of Christ—yea, and a city of faith and of love? Men have called it a Free City, but is there freedom when pride and privilege and riches rule? Listen, my people. In these days of darkness and destruction let us dare to be strong in the strength of our Lord. Let us take this city and rule it. Let us make it ours. Let us make of ourselves soldiers of Christ.—Need we a sign and a standard? Holy Cross—the People, a city and a state in which all men shall be equal."

Thus spake Balthasar, and the Forum became a confusion of hands and sticks and caps. The crowd lapped up the rhetoric, for were not the children of the Holy Church poor? Geraint looked thoughtful, and he looked at Balthasar. This May Day mob might be silly or dangerous, for in Calleva, as in many cities, there had been battles of the gods. Had not the children of Christ, growing arrogant, chased Mars and Minerva from their temples? Balthasar had splashed oil and water about those temples and exorcized Olympus, but Balthasar and his mob had been a little previous. A new Emperor had taken the throne, Julian, philosopher and pagan, and the old world had recaptured courage and its own. The Bishop and his flock had been extruded from the temples. The old die-hards had restored Venus, Minerva, and Mars. All this had happened less than five years ago, but Julian was dead, last hope of Rome, and the new world had its teeth in opportunity.

Geraint was about to turn his horse and ride back to the wagon when the eyes of the man on the tub were raised above the crowd. Balthasar saw Geraint on his white horse, and Geraint stood fast. He saw the other man smile a little, secret smile. For some seconds these two gazed steadfastly at each other—Balthasar in the sunlight, Geraint in the shadow. Heads were turned. Was my Lord Bishop beholding other visions? The crowd saw what Balthasar had seen, Geraint on his white horse like some symbol of old Rome.

Those hundreds of faces seemed to veer like wind-vanes. Geraint had been looking at the backs of heads, but now he saw a mosaic of faces, unfriendly faces, mouths, eyes, noses, beards. The crowd gazed at Geraint, and Geraint, still as death, gazed at the crowd, and for the moment the crowd was as silent as he was. Calleva knew him, Lord of the White Tower, Stoic, Roman, uncompromising neighbour. His boundaries marched with those of Calleva, and Calleva had been made to respect them.

Then someone in that silent crowd shouted.

"Antichrist—heathen, spy!"

A woman shrilled.

"Are we dogs—?"

In an instant the brave crowd boiled up, a crowd of bawling mouths and teeth and fists. Love seemed to take flight and refuge above with the little gold Genius on the pillar. Half a dozen lewd fellows made a rush, but the white horse was not of their temper. He struck out with a foreleg and showed his teeth. Geraint sat still and looked at the crowd.

He spoke to the horse: "Quiet, Victor."

The lewd fellows thought better of it and recoiled.

Meanwhile Balthasar had come down from his tub. A couple of deacons were shouting: "Make way for the Bishop." The crowd made a lane for him. Balthasar knew how to walk and how to handle his robes. He came with two fingers of his right hand erect, crying: "Peace, peace!" His eyes were on Geraint, and Geraint's eyes were on Balthasar. This man was more dangerous than any mob.

"My lord—would be one of us?"

The face of the priest was suavely ironic. Geraint sat still in the saddle.

"I salute the Genius of Calleva."

He too could be ironic, but the silly crowd knew not whether to cheer or to howl.

Geraint raised an arm.

"Salve—vale.—Remember your gates, my friends. Lock them when I go, and give the keys to your Bishop."

He turned his horse slowly and rode for the sunlight, but directly his back was turned, the crowd scuttled after him. It hooted and mocked, but kept clear of the heels of his horse. One or two urchins threw stones. But a crowd such as this had to be mastered. It filled the street from house to house, and when Geraint reached the wagon team, his men were handling their spears.

He turned on the crowd; it was an unarmed crowd, save for its fists and its sticks, and more ready to howl than to fight, and Geraint sat his white horse and said never a word. His men had closed upon him behind. The tail of the crowd was braver than its head; its impulse was forward, but the head hung back, not liking those levelled spears. Caradoc's teeth showed white in his beard. This city scum would not come to be spitted. As for the girl, she sat on her wine-cask looking just a little frightened, her hair shining in the sunlight. This May Day was not a day of flowers and perfume and singing birds. It had the temper of a harsh and blustering March, save that the morning was hot and the crowd could be savoured.

So Geraint sat on his white horse and waited. If a man looked a beast in the eyes, the creature would flinch and, swinging a stupid head from side to side, retreat, and the crowd, conscious of its own cowardice, sought to save its face by making a mock of the thing it feared. Clowns were in favour. They said lewd things about Geraint, and he sat and looked at them without the flicker of an eyelash.

Then a red-headed fellow, a fish-porter, cut a caper in front of the chorus and pointed at the girl.

"See, gossips, he has his harlot with him."

The white horse, quivering with excitement between his lord's thighs, felt the sudden pressure, and moved forward. Geraint's sword was out, but he struck with the flat. Red-head went down on his back, but Geraint's horse ploughed on. The wagoner started his team; the spearmen closed up behind their lord. The great hound was loose and leaping. The crowd ran. It fell over itself. It scuttled into doorways and scrambled over walls. Geraint, his sword resting across his saddle-bow, called the dog in. Bran had fleshed his teeth in one fat rump.

Geraint and his party passed on. A few stones and potsherds were flung. From the pillars of the Forum gate the remnant of the crowd howled at him. He spoke to Caradoc, who marched at his side.

"Any news of Vetorix?"

"Vetorix and his ingots have gone west, lord."

"Wise Vetorix. We will try the house of Cornelia."

Caradoc grinned.

"That's an old lady with some spunk in her."

And Caradoc was thinking: "It is the girl, I wager. Now, if it were my May Day, I would not leave such a pretty thing to Calleva. But when a man has a wife, and a wife like the Lady Placida, sweet—sweet and—so suspicious! The gods defend us from good women!"