The Golden Slave (27 page)

I am the wind.

He lay listening to himself blow across the earth, in darkness, in darkness, with the unrestful slain Cimbri rushing through the sky behind him. He searched all these evil plains for Phryne; the whole night became his search for Phryne’s ghost. There were many skulls strewn in the long dead grasses, for this land was very old. But none of them was hers, and none of them could tell him anything of her; they only gave him back his own empty whistling. He searched further, up over the Caucasus glaciers and then down to a sea that roared under his lash, until finally he came riding past a bloody-breasted hound, through sounding caves to the gates of hell; hoofs rang hollow as he circled hell, calling Phryne’s name, but there was no answer. Though he shook his spear beneath black walls, no one stirred, no one spoke, even the echoes died. So he knew that hell was dead, it had long ago been deserted; and he rode back to the upper world feeling loneliness horrible within him. And centuries had passed while he was gone. It was spring again. He rode by the grave mound of a warrior named Eodan, which stood out on the edge of the world where the wind was forever blowing; and on the sheltered side he saw a little coltsfoot bloom, the first flower of spring.

Then he rested with gladness. The earth turned beneath him; he heard its cold creaking among a blaze of stars. Winter came again, and summer, and winter once more, unendingly. But he had seen a coltsfoot growing….

“There is light enough now.”

Eodan opened his eyes. The gale had slackened, he saw. The air felt a little warmer, and the wind had a wet smell to it. Southward, the world was altogether murk. It must be snowing there, he thought dreamily. The wind would bring the snow here before evening. Strange that the first snow this year should come from the south. But then, perhaps the land climbed more slowly than the eye could see … yes, surely it did, for he had heard that the Taurus Mountains lay in that direction.

“The Mountains of the Bull,” he said. “It may be an omen.”

“What do you mean?” Tjorr was a blocky shadow in the wan half-light, squatting with a loaf of bread in his hands.

“We must cross the Mountains of the Bull to reach Parthia.”

“If we live that long,” grunted the Alan. He ripped off a chunk of bread, touched it with his hammer and threw it out into the dark. Perhaps some god or sprite or whatever lived here would accept the sacrifice.

“That is uncertain,” agreed Eodan. He shivered and rolled out of his blanket. “Best we be on our way. The enemy will start at sunrise.”

Tjorr regarded him carefully. “You are a man again,” he said. “A mortal, I mean. You are no more beyond hope, and thus not beyond the fear of losing that hope. What happened?”

“Phryne lives,” said Eodan.

Tjorr reached for a leather wine bottle and poured out a sizable libation. “I would name the god this is for, if you will tell me who sent you that vision,” he said.

“I do not know,” said Eodan. “It might have been only myself. But I thought of Phryne, who is wise and has too much life in her to yield it up needlessly. She would have known one Pontine soldier, on a single jaded horse, would invite a race between robbers and Romans. But who heeds a wandering Phrygian, some workless shepherd?” He laughed aloud, softly. “Do you understand? She stopped that man we saw―at arrow point, I would guess―and made him lay down all his garments. She could make her wish clear by gestures. Doubtless she flung him a coin; I remember how he held something near his heart. When he had fled, she rode on until her horse was too tired to be of use. Then she buried her archer’s outfit, taking merely the bow and a knife, I suppose, and went on afoot.”

Tjorr whooped. “Do you think so? Aye, aye―it must be! Well, let’s saddle our nags and catch her!” He ran after his own hobbled animal. When he had brought it back, he looked at Eodan for a moment in a very curious way.

“I am not so sure the witch-power I felt last night has left you,
disa,”
he murmured. “Or that it ever will.”

“I have no arts of the mage,” snapped Eodan. “I only think.”

“I have a feeling that to think is a witchcraft mightier than all others. Will you remember old Tjorr when they begin to sacrifice to you?”

“You prattle like a baby. To horse!”

They moved briskly through the quickening light, Eodan ripping wolfishly at a sausage as he rode. Now Flavius was going forth to hunt. The Cimbrian would need strength this day.

The brown grass whispered; here and there a leafless bush clawed in an agony of wind. Mile after mile the sun, hidden by low-flying gray, touched the Axylon, until finally Eodan and Tjorr rode in the full great circle of the horizon. A hunter could see far in this land.

They spied a sheep flock, larger than most, but spent no time on its watchers. Phryne would be able to see at a distance, too; the need was to come within eye-range of her. Close beyond, Eodan discerned what must be the home of the owner or tenant or whoever dwelt here. It was better than usual, being not of mud, but was still only a small stone house―windowless, surely with just one room, blowing smoke from a flat sod roof. There were a couple of rude little outbuildings, also of moss-chinked boulders, and some haystacks. Nothing else broke the emptiness, and nothing moved but a half-savage dog. The women and children must be huddled terrified behind their door as the gleaming mail-coats rode by. Eodan felt a sudden hurt; it was so strange to him he had to think a while before he recognized it―yes, pity. How many human lives, throughout the boundless earth and time, were merely such a squalid desolation?

A king, he thought, was rightfully more than power. He should be law. Yes, and a bringer of all goodly arts; a just man, who tamed wild folk more with his law than his spear―though he was also the one who taught them how to make war when war was needed―so far as the jealous gods allowed, a king should be freedom.

And afterward, he thought wryly, when the king was dead, the people would bring back all the reeking past in his now holy name. But no, not quite all of it. Doubtless men slid back two steps for every three they made; nevertheless, that third step endured, and it was the king’s.

Phryne could show me how, he thought.

As if in answer, he saw the little figure rise from the bush where it had lain concealed. Dwarfed by hundreds of yards, she came running in her Phrygian goatskin and rags; but Eodan’s gray horse hammered those yards away, and he leaped from the saddle and caught her to him.

She held him close, weeping on his cold steel coat. “It was not what I wanted, that you should come. It was not what I wanted.”

“It was what I wanted,” he said. He raised her chin until he could smile down into her violet eyes. “I will hear no reproaches. Enough that I found you.”

“I shall never run from you again,” she said. “Where you make your home, there shall Hellas be.”

Hoofs clumped at their backs. Tjorr coughed. “Uh-hm! The enemy is on his way, with hounds and remounts. And we’ve only two beasts. Best we flee while we can.”

Eodan straightened. “No,” he said. “I, too, have run far enough.”

 
XX

They rode up to shepherd’s house. Phryne struck the dog on the nose with her staff when it flew at her throat. It ran away, and she strung her bow and nocked an arrow. Eodan stayed mounted, the German sword in his hand. Tjorr went afoot to the door and beat on it with his hammer.

“Open!” he bawled. Nothing stirred. He hefted the maul, swung it high and sent it crashing against the latch. The flimsy bolt cracked in two. Voices piped with fear in the dark hut. A shaking graybeard barred the entrance, holding a rusty old ax. Tjorr grabbed him by the tunic and threw him to the ground, not unkindly. “Out!” he said, gesturing.

They shambled forth. There was only one woman, shapeless in a sacklike gown, and a dozen children. They looked so unalike that Eodan decided fatherhood was divided among the three herdsmen who had left their flock and were hovering timidly half a mile away.

“Must we turn bandit?” asked Phryne in a troubled voice.

Eodan considered her, clad in the same foul garments as the shepherds, but shining through it. He said bluntly, “This is no otherwise than smiting that whelp they kept.” But because of her look he remembered certain thoughts about a king and fumbled in his purse. He tossed some coins to the ground. The grandsire sucked in his breath and crawled to shaky feet; the three men edged closer.

“Does anyone here speak Greek?” called Eodan. They stared. “Well, you shall understand my signs then, with a kick if your minds lag, for our time is short. I will give you ten times the worth of these hovels.” He turned to Phryne. “Do you watch over Tjorr and me. Let them not talk much among themselves. Shoot the first who shows treachery. And now let us work!”

Dismounting, he peered into the house. Enough light came through the door and smokehole to show him a littered earth floor, piled sheepskins, a few stone tools and clay vessels, a dung fire. But the ceiling was what he looked at. Branches hauled from some remote forest many years ago were laid across the walls, and turf piled on them to make a roof. He nodded. “Thus I thought,” he said.

Tjorr rounded up the family and made them watch him. A child whimpered as he climbed the rough wall to the roof and began throwing off its sod layers. He flung the child a coin. At once the oldest boy grinned brashly, swarmed up and helped. Tjorr laughed, clambered down and went to the shed. Using Phryne’s staff for a lever, he pried a few rocks out of its wall. The same child studied his face carefully and tried another whimper. Tjorr gave it another coin. The mother giggled. Tjorr urged her to the task.

Then for some hours he and Eodan made the shepherd folk demolish their roof and their outbuildings. Phryne paced the dusty grounds, watchfully, her bow always in her hand. The wind blew from the high country and the snow clouds moved closer.

There were stout wooden posts at the corners of the shed. Tjorr dug them out and dragged them to the roofless house. He set two of them upright on the floor―one close to the entrance and one a yard from the rear wall; across them he laid a third. Then he put the branch-rafters back, crossing his heavy timber piece, and heaped a layer of turf on as before. The shepherd people gaped, blinked, made signs against the evil eye,
which these surely crazed men must have, but helped him after a few blows. He had them form a line and pass him stones from the wrecked outbuildings. These he laid on the turf, within a yard of the rear wall, layer upon layer. Finally the branches beneath sagged, and even the timber upbearing them started to groan. Quickly, then, he threw enough sod on his roof of boulders to hide what it was.

Meanwhile Eodan was digging inside the house, at its rear end. He sank a pit nearly eight feet deep and drove a shaft from that, several yards outward, so that it ended below the grounds; he left the wooden shovel there and came back out. Rather his crew of men and children did this, even as most of the roof work had Tjorr merely overseeing. They would need their whole strength later.

At the end, hours past the time they began, Phryne looked at the completed task. She saw merely a shepherd hut with a somewhat thicker roof than was common, and wreckage behind it. “Do our lives hang on no more than this?” she asked wonderingly. “Would it not have been better to flee across the plain?”

“Once they found our trail,” said Tjorr grimly, “they could have changed horse and horse while our own ran themselves dead. No, our chances here are not good, but I think the
disa’s
plan has made them better for us than if we played mouse to the Roman ferret.”

“One more thing to do,” said Eodan. He kindled a stick, went over and touched it to the haystacks. The shepherds moaned. Eodan grinned, with a certain pity, and tossed the grandsire his full purse. “There’s the price of your flocks and home and a winter’s lodging. Go!” He waved his sword and pointed south. They stumbled from him, out onto the plain, looking back with frightened animal eyes. “Why those bonfires?” asked Tjorr. “Not that I don’t like the warmth on this bitter day, but―”

“Hay could be stacked around the house and lit,” said Eodan. “I do not wish to die in an oven.”

Tjorr tugged his ruddy beard. “I had not thought of that. Is it a heavy burden to be forever thinking,
disa?”

Eodan did not hear him. He took Phryne’s hand in his. “Have I any hope of making you depart until the fight is over?” he asked.

Her dark head shook. “In all else will I obey you,” she said, “but I have a right to stand with my man.”

“I made you a promise once,” he began, shaken.

“Oh, I hold you to it,” she laughed. It was a very small and lonely laugh, torn by the wind. “You shall not kiss me against my will. But, Eodan, it is now my will.”

He touched his lips to hers, with an unhurried tenderness; if they lived, there would be more than this. Tjorr said: “I make out a dust cloud to the north,
disa.
I think horsemen.”

“Then let us go within,” said Eodan.

It was dark in the hut; stones covered the smokehole, now, and the sagging door was closed behind them. They sat on the earth and waited, Phryne lying in the circle of Eodan’s arm. Presently hoofs rang on the ground outside, and weapons clashed. They heard a dog bark.

“The place seems deserted,” said a voice in Latin. “Maybe the fire in that hay drove its people off.”