The Pageant of England/The Coming of Caesar

by H. C. Bailey

 

I—THE COMING OF CÆSAR

MR. PERCY ALFRED CRADDOCK sleeps respectably at Muswell Hill. The more crowded hours of his glorious life are spent over a ledger in Bartholomew Lane. If you told him that he was the heir of all the ages he would distrust you. If you called him the son of kings he would dislike you. He is not comfortable when laughed at.

••••••

Caradoc, the son of Rialobran, was king in Canterbury. He could wear saffron breeches and a cloak of bright madder: he had a necklace of green glass beads: he pulled out his beard with a pair of gold tweezers. Yet he bore the brow of unhappiness. He was at feud with the Church.

Caradoc, to his sorrow, was a man of sentiment. He grudged Dubnovellan, the Arch-Druid, a piece of his father's skull, and affectionately burnt the old man whole. Dubnovellan, who had wanted only to carve himself a charm for divination, became a wrathful enemy, and the feelings of the tribe, which suffered violently from religion, were upon his side. Caradoc was mistrusted, misliked and shunned; it troubled him, for he needed admiration. Moreover, the hour was perilous for a tribe to be at odds with its chief. A wizard conqueror, Cæsar, the invincible, the immortal, was at hand.

In the autumn before, two legions of his unbreeched Romans had pounced upon Kent. The tides dealt hardly with their ships, and before they achieved any matter the gales of the equinox warned them back across the straits. But no one thought that the end. The first foray had been to spy out the land. Surely, with the new summer, Cæsar would come again. There were tidings already of a vast fleet gathered in the harbours of the Morini. So the watchmen went out on the Kentish cliffs and strained eyes for him all day long.

A mile out of Canterbury, to the “little town which that y cleped is Bob-up-and-down,” where Chaucer's pilgrims felt the bones of St. Thomas adjacent and grew serious, to the steep slope of Harbledown, folks come to-day and gaze at the noble mass of the cathedral rising from that dark green valley threaded with gleaming silver which reaches far away white cliffs and the blue haze of sea. Caradoc stood there long ago, but in the place of Bell Harry tower he looked on a cluster of low houses, brown with the clay that covered wood and wattle.

On the crest of the down Caradoc stood committing sacrilege. It was bare ground about him, pearl grey and black with ashes, girt by a circle of gnarled oaks. He was within the grove of the great Toutates, god of war, where no man might come without sacrifice, save a priest. For Toutates was ever present there and disliked live company, being a god of bloody mind. But Caradoc had no respect for the feelings of gods. He sat upon the victims' stone, brooding, a long, lithe man with golden hair to his shoulders, and waving moustaches of gold, who flung his great limbs about and muttered like an angry child.

There rose an amiable grunting, and into the grove rolled Oor, the brown bear. He sniffed the wind that blew past Caradoc, blinked and came to him, panting delight as a speechless baby totters to its mother. He lay on his back and scraped Caradoc's legs with his big paws, and wiped the honey from his whiskers on Caradoc's toes. Such joviality disturbed the grim meditations of the king, and he kicked Oor in the ribs, so that the beast coughed and sat upon his haunches and looked mild reproach. For a king should be amiable to the body in which lives the soul of his race.

“You are a fool, Oor,” said Caradoc gloomily. “You give a smile for a blow, like me.” Oor patted at the air in feeble, melancholy play. “Ay, that is our life,” said Caradoc.

A quivering whistle rang out, and Caradoc started to his feet and answered. In a moment broke into the grove a comely lad all rosy with haste: “Caradoc! The Roman has sailed,” he cried. “His galleys are across the strait. Tidings came two hours ago. Dubnovellan has called a council.”

“Dubnovellan!” Caradoc cried, and stamped his foot. “Oh, Dubnovellan!” For this was a stupendous insolence. However the Druids might rule religion a tribal council should meet for the king only.

Caradoc sprang forward and ran lightfoot with his brother close after him. Oor the bear grunted philosophically at the family temper, and rolled off to seek more hives.

In the middle of the town, in the bare round space before Caradoc's house, the tribe was gathered. Born of unmixed blood, they were curiously alike, tall fair men with blue eyes and hair of red-gold. The nobles in the front rank had cloaks of cloth dyed in a score of flaming colours, but the mass were humble in sheepskin and wolf-skin.

Dubnovellan and the lesser Druids, his satellites, had seats of turf beside the empty turf throne. They alone wore white. They alone wagged beards. Dubnovellan had a golden fillet about his brow. He was of some age, and fat—so devout was the tribe—with the changing face and shifty eye of the orator, and a priestly smile. He had just finished a period of his harangue; there was a murmur of reverent applause when Caradoc and his brother broke into the midst.

“How now!” cried Caradoc. “Men of Dur Gwern, do you forget your king?”

“Nay, they are met to do you honour,” said Dubnovellan, and smiled upon him. “O King Caradoc, blessed art thou of the gods, and all men know it. There is none like thee in the tribe of Dur Gwern, whether for comeliness or speed of foot. Swift of mind thou art also, and of many wiles. Surely the tribe holds thee its best and dearest, and so gives thee to the gods, even a sacrifice to the great god Toutates.”

Caradoc was not flattered. He had no desire piously to burn, He sprang upon Dubnovellan and caught him by the throat and shook him in speechless wrath.

Then there was a storm of shouting: “Outrage! Unholy! Impious!” and the orthodox tribesmen dragged him off and held him struggling and foaming.

“Fools!” he screamed, “the priest will ruin you. He will send you against the Romans masterless men.”

But Dubnovellan, gulping a little, for his throat was still uneasy: “O King Caradoc, the great god Toutates promises victory if we devote to him our best. It is eternally right, as it hath come to us from of old, that the king die for the tribe.”

Caradoc spat at him. By that the tribe was fiercely inflamed, and they overthrew their king and bound and gagged him, and Cunoval, his brother, fighting for him fiercely, was taken in like manner.

So they lay in the midst, helpless and dumb, glaring like trapped beasts, and Dubnovellan smiled upon them. “Well. It is well,” he said. “At sundown we bear them to the grove. At sunrise they die.” And he went on with the rest of his sermon, showing the virtue of sacrifice, and how the gods must be fed on goodly blood.

The tribe believed—such faith was bred in them. It may be that Dubnovellan himself believed. At least he worked himself to an ecstasy of shrieking and contortion before the darkening shadows bade him begin the rite of sacrifice.

Then all were marshalled in column, and the pipers, making a weird, shrill din, led them out to Harbledown. In the midst were borne Caradoc and Cunoval, shoulder high, like logs. In the midst the Druids marched and Dubnovellan, he droning a chant to Toutates, and all men joining thunderous in ordered response. So with pious joy they came to the grove, and as the sun fell beneath the western hills Caradoc and Cunoval were laid upon the victims' stone, and Dubnovellan consecrated them to the god, and roaring a hymn of praise the tribe marched back through the twilight.

So, bound, helpless and dumb as the dead, the brothers were left for the night of purification. The tight-drawn thongs seared their flesh, each muscle ached fiercely with cramp. Toutates loved his victims to suffer. Away in the town the women sat weaving the great basket wherein at sunrise they should be burnt.

It was not despair that possessed Caradoc, but a mighty anger, and that against himself. He should have foreseen all, and been forearmed: why else was he called king? He took vehement vengeance on his dull wit. But he had not given up hope: that was not his nature, even with the fire about him. Though it multiplied pain he writhed and writhed against the thongs, fighting for an inch of hand play.... The dark hours passed, and he gained nothing but deeper wounds. Cunoval had given up the struggle and lay still, moaning faintly through the gag. Caradoc fought on, ruthless of his flesh, and, grinding his teeth in the keen pain, felt his gag yield. Then he sucked it in and bit at it, and broke it loose. Gasping a moment at the clean free breath, he gave a low gurgling cry. The woods were murmurous and owls hooting here and there, but his voice was clear on a different note. He waited a moment and cried again... Something moved with soft, thudding steps. Out of the black woodland into the faint light of the grove swung Oor the bear. He made for Caradoc and smelt him, and grunted surprise, and scraped him tentatively. “Fool!” snapped Caradoc, for he was raw in many places. Oor grunted again, and sat down on his haunches to consider the affair. Then he arose and smelt Caradoc thoroughly all over again. Caradoc, writhing craftily, caught his mouth on one of the thongs. Oor tried to slip out, failed, and bit the leather through. It was enough. Caradoc's hands were loosed. In a moment he had himself free. He staggered to his feet and swung his cramped limbs, glad of the torture. Then he bent to his brother....

Cunoval was up too, clinging to Caradoc's shoulder: “What now?” he gasped. “What can we do?”

Caradoc laughed, and as he hurried the lad off the black wood rang with his laughter.

Oor grumbled a good-bye to them, made a hearty meal of their thongs, and composed himself to sleep against the stone. So the youngest Druid, coming before dawn to sprinkle the victims, returned to the town in great haste with his back clawed very painfully. He sobbed out that the king had transformed himself by magic into the totem of his blood, into a bear ten times the size of bears. Then the tribe looked askance at Dubnovellan and began to wonder if his gods were the best kind. He called the damaged Druid fool, but did not carry opinion with him. When he led a timorous party up to the grove and they found not so much as a thong, but heard from the wood beyond an ominous grunting, alarm grew and they began to be anxious about their souls. It was no good state for men who had to meet Cæsar.

By dawn Caradoc and Cunoval were sleeping happily ten miles away. When they woke and made a great meal of rabbits and scorched corn from one of Caradoc's store pits, it was plain that strife was afoot. Their keen ears felt the ground throbbing to the march of men. “The Roman has come,” said Caradoc with satisfaction. “Go back and watch the tribe. Sleep near by the blasted ash to-night.”

“But what will you do?” cried Cunoval.

Caradoc swayed himself to and fro. “It is my mind—it is my mind that I am King of Dur Gwern: not Dubnovellan nor another": and he bowed himself in thought. Cunoval plying him with more questions, was bidden fiercely begone.

After a while Caradoc rose and struck straight through the forest seaward. Where the trees were scant and the ground began to slope down he came upon troops of chariots wandering vainly. The men of East Kent might have mustered a great army, but, split in a dozen little tribes each mistrusting the other, they would be broken easily as the scattered sticks of a faggot. Caradoc had the wit to know it and despise them. He slipped unmarked through the midst of them and went on toward the shore.

He stood at gaze. A great admiration possessed him, and some strange fear. It was his royal business to watch men working, but he had never seen such work as this of Rome. The whole army toiled with a terrible zeal as if each man were making his private gain. Their low galleys, clustering thick like a patch of spawn, were anchored close in shore, and through the shallow falling tide the soldiers thronged with the baggage. They made the water all turbid with foam and sand, but steel corselet and helm played so with the sunlight that for a mile the golden beach was edged with waves of sparkling diamond. Already strong squadrons of horsemen were moving inland over the short coarse grass to the forest edge. Already on the first low hill a legion was at work with spade and pick tracing the square lines of camp. By nightfall deep ditch and high bank were dug, and they had all the baggage safe within.

Caradoc lurking in the wood felt his heart beat heavy and slow. Not without tremors, you conceive, but bearing a bold front, he stalked to the decuman gate and demanded Cæsar.

A centurion who spoke broken British put him through a catechism: some tribunes and even a legatus scanned him closely before he was passed to the prætorian tent.

There a big man sat at his ease, armourless, carelessly cloaked. It was the strange massive head of him, the great height and swelling breadth above the ears, that Caradoc marked first. Room there for thrice a man's soul, he thought. The face was deep-hewn and grim, and terribly hungry, but about the long set lips were clear graven lines of laughter. The eyes were hidden.

They saw Caradoc's handsome body well enough. Cæsar had a taste for that. “Phœbus Apollo has turned barbarian, like a wise man,” he said to the plump soldierly legatus at his elbow, Quintus Cicero. Then to the interpreter Commius, “Ask the divinity what he wants.”

“I come to help the Roman,” said Caradoc and posed magnificently. Quintus Cicero laughed. “Cæsar, I am Caradoc, son of Rialobran, king of the men of Dur Gwern; but they being besotted by villainous Druids, thought to get profit of sacrificing me to their foolish gods, See the wounds of their bonds—on me, the king.”

Quintus Cicero looked cunning to Cæsar. “This is an old beginning of treachery.”

Cæsar brushed that notion away. His eyes were wide and bright, and he was all erect with interest. “There are tribes in Cilicia whose kings are slain each year, a sacrifice for the people. It is a common thought of the barbarians. I would that I knew the full meaning of it. Ask him if his sacrifice would save them in the hereafter or on earth. Ask him if every king is slain and whether he goes to Elysium, and why the gods like it. Ask him——” the unhappy interpreter held up his hand for a respite. “Well. That first.”

The interpreter spoke with Caradoc and got a short answer. “Sire, he says—he says, in fact, that—that only fools care for such things.”

Quintus Cicero laughed out. Cæsar shrugged. “There is no man so dull as a sceptic, Quintus. Believe in everything if you want to do anything. If this man thought he was the world's sacrifice he could move the world. Well. What does he want?”

“Sire, he wants to punish his tribe of Dur Gwern, to show them it is ill to try to sacrifice their king. So he wishes to guide you through Kent and promises you victory.”

Cæsar beckoned Caradoc close. His deep-set dark grey eyes matched themselves against Caradoc. He smiled a little. “You think you understand me, my friend. I know I do not understand you. I wonder which is wiser. Well. We march when the moon rises.”

That last was translated and Caradoc's face quivered. Was there no end to Roman energy? Were they more than mortal men? Then he laughed.

Cæsar had seen all. “I think we will take him, Quintus,” he said.

The slight silver crescent shone from a blue dome set with a myriad stars, and the flowing tide came in like liquid light. Trumpet-calls quelled the slow rhythm of the waves, echoing back from the woods in manifold broken notes like a fountain's spray, and with clash of steel and booming step the Romans marched out, a glittering army studded with white points of light, where the moonbeams fell upon an eagle or a centurion's silver-crested helm. Soon they were all engulfed in the forest gloom.

Caradoc, riding in the midst between two lithe troopers of Cisalpine Gaul, found himself to his disgust unnecessary. The Gallic cavalry who led the way had come straight to the one track through the forest, the worn way that led through his own town of Durovernum and on far westward. King Cæsar was well served. While enviously he sought the reason he felt a tap at his shoulder, one of his guards drew off, and Cæsar was beside him speaking a dialect of Gaul much like his own: “Are you a prophet, King Caradoc?”

“A king must be.”

“Tell me, then—am I to conquer your Britain?”

“What is to conquer?”

“I have never found out,” Cæsar laughed. The barbarian attracted him more and more.

“I kill a wolf: I have conquered him. But I tame a horse: him also I have conquered, Which is your way?”

“Are you Britons horses or wolves?”

Caradoc looked sideways. “Both can bite.”

“You do not pretend to love me, King Caradoc.”

“Why should I? It suits me to help you. It suits you to help me. That is enough.”

“What shall I do for you, sire?”

“You shall teach my tribe that they do ill to believe in gods that want sacrifice.”

Cæsar rode silent awhile. “King Caradoc, the happiest man I ever knew was a rich king of the East that gave all he had to a temple and lived among beggars.”

“He was a coward,” said Caradoc.

Cæsar laughed. “I thought you had not much of the sceptic,” he said, and Caradoc gaped. “Yes, you believe in more than I. You believe in life.”

Already grey light was stealing through the trees, the sky growing paler as the stars went out. The ordered line of march was plain, a long wave of steel. On either side the thickets of beech and hornbeam were alive with low sound. Cæsar looked keenly at Caradoc.

“They are running away. They are fools,” said Caradoc.

Cæsar laughed and quoted Greek.

They made on steadily while the dawn came bright, and soon the murmur about them grew fainter. The light-armed Britons outmarched them.

“Where will they fight?” said Cæsar.

“I shall find out in time.”

“They will suffer, King Caradoc.”

“I hope so,” said Caradoc with satisfaction.

“And then?”

Caradoc looked sideways. “Why, then you have conquered, O Cæsar.”

“You have thick forests in your country,” said Cæsar carelessly.

“They grow thicker beyond.”

“And narrow tracks, by Pollux.”

“They grow narrower beyond.”

Cæsar's eyes set upon him, but he looked right on. Cæsar laughed.

In a mile or more Caradoc demanded to be let go from the line of march in quest of tidings. It was permitted, and with the two troopers following him close, off he went to the blasted ash, a weird grey trunk of few, stunted leaves that stood alone. Then he whistled for Cunoval once, twice and again, and at last saw the lad's face look out white from a thorn brake. “Who are these? Is all well?” he cried.

“Well, and very well. Tell quickly. What of Dur Gwern?”

“They ran to and fro all day and night. Dubnovellan could not hold them. Now all the men of the shoreward have joined them, and they have hidden horses and chariots and gone up together to the old fort on the hill. Dubnovellan is singing charms there. I think they will fight. The charms are very great charms.”

“I will show him a charm,” Caradoc laughed. “Keep off the fight.”

Where the road we call the Pilgrims' Way, which was an old road before Canterbury heard of the Christ, winds away from the hopfields through Bigberry Wood you may find still something of the great circling bank which made a fort for the men of Dur Gwern. In the splendour of that summer morning it was all a tawny blaze of bronze helmet and shield. Round its green walls Dubnovellan marched the white Druids, chanting now on weird shrill notes, now with a crashing chorus. The tribes made ready for the fight in many fashions. Some adored the Druids, some stained their faces afresh with woad to strike more terror in the foe, some dull souls even toiled to strengthen the weak places in the wall.

“I give you a great victory, O Cæsar!” With that salutation Caradoc came back, and he kept his word.

The old fort on the hill was designed to meet attack from east or north. It was not expected, it was hardly etiquette, for an enemy to come out of the south-west. Caradoc brought the Romans across the river where Thanington is now, and on to the weakest arc of the wall. There was no long battle. The Seventh Legion, locking their great shields close together over their heads, came like a great tortoise with shell of steel close to the foot of the wall. Vainly the Britons stormed at them with missiles and yells and fantastic dance. Working beneath that roof of steel the legion picked the weak wall down and made a causeway clean through. Then the fight was plain hand to hand. With no armour but shields, and those of bronze, the Britons could not match those steel-clad legions even for single prowess, and the legions had discipline. On the front of an impenetrable column wild disorderly charges broke and were hurled back like spray. Then the eagles advanced—then there was a great slaying. Panic came down upon them. Before noon, all that were not beaten down had fled each to his own lair in the forest where wife and children lurked.

The veteran, practical legionaries, who had no more than amused themselves, began to make their night's camp. The cavalry went down to the valley and reaped all the barley of the men of Dur Gwern and what they could find in the town. Cæsar called for Caradoc.

But in the turmoil of the fight Caradoc had vanished utterly. They sought among the dead, they thrust through the thickets in vain. Cæsar laughed: "Would that I were with him!” When they marched on next morning, none hindered them. Only Cunoval was off betimes to warn the great king beyond Thames, Catuvellaun, of their coming and their strength.

Slowly, timidly, the men of Dur Gwern gathered to their town again. They were altogether disheartened. Caradoc had never wasted their manhood. Caradoc had never lost them the harvest nor each hut's horde of bronze. It was grievously clear that they had quite mistaken the gods in sacrificing him. Dubnovellan, prescribing another sacrifice, was very coldly entreated.

Then in a morning early, multiplied alarm and mind-shaking awe when a hunter panted back to the town to tell that Caradoc was in the highest tree of Toutates, singing to himself. Dubnovellan striving to explain him away in an oration, was left explaining to the wind. Now rushing forward, now faltering at each step, the tribe went out to see.

There was no doubt. A blaze of bronze and gold, Caradoc sat, high in the swaying oak. They heard the mocking laugh for which his race was famed and feared. They trembled nearer and saw the magic swastika marks wrought in blue enamel on that great bronze shield, the heritage of the king. No more might be dared. They halted afar off waiting on the will of the magician king who had been bear while it pleased him, and was now man again. Caradoc went on with his song awhile, chanting gaily slaughter and ruin. Then he cried out: "Hail, men of Dur Gwern! Have you sped? Have you conquered? Have you portioned the spoil?”

They held up beseeching hands and wailed: “Have mercy, O King!”

“Fools,” Caradoc laughed pleasantly. “Fools!” He gave them a new song of how the souls of traitors pass into worms and flies, and do not enjoy life. They began to pray to him. He walked out on the branch a little way. “What have I to do with you, men of Dur Gwern? I company with the gods.”

And they wailed, “Have mercy, O King! Have mercy and aid us.”

“You gave me to death. Shall I care for your life?”

They were bowed to the dust; but the chief of the nobles, an old man, rose up and came nearer and said: “We are sorely smitten, King Caradoc. O King, save thy people.”

“Oh, you masterless men,” Caradoc laughed, and waited awhile to let fear grow. “Draw near,” he shouted, and when some few of the boldest came he stepped down upon their shoulders and so to the ground.

He walked among them, numbering them, and they fawned upon him. Then, riding upon their shoulders, king confessed by right divine of his own soul, Caradoc came back to his town.

Dubnovellan was hidden in a sacred pit, talking with the gods. They told Caradoc.

“The priest is talking? Ay, then, let him talk. Mine are the gods that do.”

The men of Dur Gwern were bidden away to gather the horses they had driven into the forest and haul their chariots out of thicket and dell. Before nightfall they were clattering away through the forest shoreward.

Then for the good legatus, Quintus Atrius, left to guard the Roman fleet, began a time of tribulation. One night his camp was waked in the mocking moonlight by a storm of missiles, and when the sturdy legionaries came forth, the Britons leapt on their chariots and fled. Atrius sought to follow, but they divided before him and scattered. Now here, now there, a cluster of the light chariots would dash at his column, and even as each driver reined round craftily with bare room to avoid a shock, a javelin man darted down the pole to the very bridles of the small horses and hurled his weapons home, and fled back to the driver's side as they made off. Quintus Atrius could make nothing of the fight. Not without loss he drew back to camp. The next night brought the same onset, and the next. The legionaries suffered, and the edge of their discipline was worn down. But Caradoc's strength grew. The shoreward tribes found his warfare prosper, and flocked to aid him. He tried a great design.

It was a fresh easterly wind gave him the plan. All day the Roman ships had been dragging at their anchors. Night fell on a roaring, breaking sea. Caradoc harassed the camp on the landward side, as of old, and when the weary legionaries were well engaged, a troop of his best sped down to the beach and tore from the chariots each pair of men their coracle and launched out through the surf. They hacked cable after cable asunder and struggled back to the land, leaving the unmanned, helpless galleys to crash themselves to ruin. Atrius came stolidly to the rescue and saved much, but when dawn broke he counted forty good ships stove in. He began to fear. Another such night, and they would be undone. A cohort of horsemen went at speed to carry the alarm to Cæsar.

Cæsar had troubles enough. The forests north of Thames were impracticably thick, the tracks impassable, and he had to do with a king who was master of many tribes. Catuvellaun would not meet him in battle, but kept a swarm of chariots harassing the march, and the war-hardened legions were tried to the limit of their strength. They ravaged the scarce patches of cornland, they burnt a wattle town or two and seized some tons of bronze, but that was all their success, “There is not a pennyworth of loot in all this island,” Quintus Cicero wrote sadly to his respectable brother. Even Cæsar confessed that for his fame's sake he must risk no more. After these tidings of the fleet it might be hard to get honourably away. He set his army safe in fortified camp, and with some cohorts of cavalry hurried back to the coast.

From the hour that he crossed the Thames he was tracked. His cavalry were much exercised day and night. Not till he lay in camp by Harbledown had he an hour of quiet. There, with the morning, in the golden mystery of dawn, when the forest was a treasury of jewels and fathomless depths of colour, down the glade came a brown bear that carried a man. He was naked as Apollo or Bacchus that roams the mountains, stronger indeed, but fair and fine of form as they, and crowned with gold. White splendour of manhood, he came from the strange mingled colours of the forest, swaying live and lithe to the bear's rolling gait, and fearless out in the open glade he cried: “Cæsar! King Cæsar!” The Roman sentries waked from a dream and shouted threats. But Caradoc still cried upon Cæsar, and, altogether amazed, they sent word of the sight.

Cæsar came out on the broken earth of the rampart laughing, but checked and stood like stone. “Lord of the bright limbs and the golden hair, god whom Leto bore to the greatest god——” he laughed again. “I believe I would give all I am to have that barbarian's body. Like an old fool.” He came down the rampart and on toward Caradoc alone, unarmed, careless of forest ambush.

Oor the bear smelt him noisily and coughed. Caradoc sat in smiling ease. “Are we conquered yet, Cæsar?”

Cæsar's eyes were intent upon the splendid form. “Rome needs no haste, King Caradoc,” he said carelessly.

“The sea is between us and Rome, And I think—perhaps it was the bear told me—some ill has befallen your ships.”

Cæsar smiled a little. “I felt Caradoc in that. You have come into your kingdom again?”

“You schooled them to scorn their king. By the grace of Cæsar I am now very god in Dur Gwern.”

They considered each other awhile. “I wonder what you believe in, King Caradoc?”

“I believe in myself.”

“Why, so do I!” Cæsar laughed. “But I want a world of more than I am.”

“I need nothing greater than myself.”

Cæsar looked at him with a strange sadness, something of envy perhaps, something of pity. “You are children of the wind: blind life,” he said.

Caradoc laughed scorn. “You who see so well—you know how little you can win from us.”

“The eagles go forward, King Caradoc. Rome has never known a race she could not wear down. And you who dare not meet her in battle, you are conquered already.”

“Conquer? I do not know what it is. We cannot fight you man for man, You have too much iron on your bodies. You have too much in your souls. But we have fire, and iron yields to that at the last.”

“The fire dies, and the iron is left stronger. Rome has always known how to wait, King Caradoc.”

“Oh, you talk to me of Rome as I to the tribe of my magic. It is well for children, Cæsar. I am a man and a king. Talk of what is. See now! You can burn all our corn, but you cannot make us slaves. We cannot drive you out, but we can harry you all the while you stay. Come then! wise men do not fight to lose, and in this war no man wins.”

“I have taught you fear.”

“What do you want of us? We have no wealth that is worth your taking. You will kill us all before we are your slaves.”

“Yes, it is good blood in Britain,” said Cæsar smiling.

“You play with me!” cried Caradoc. “Have it so, then! Come, Oor.” He glanced round into the thicket keenly and moved his hand upward from his hip. A blackbird's whistle came clear.

Cæsar put a hand on the splendid shoulder. “Wait!” Caradoc watching him, blue eyes fighting with the grey, stayed his hand in the air, and checked Oor's stumbling turn. “King Caradoc, those that are not within the imperium are against it. To defy Rome is to weaken her. We do not suffer that.”

“Fight it out, then!” cried Caradoc. “We will not be your slaves.”

“Are you so free now? Slaves of a thousand feuds, slaves of bloody gods, each tribe wastes its strength in petty war and sacrifice. King Caradoc, as I have gone through the world it seems to me that each people has its work. You have not found yours yet. But to Rome it belongs to teach you order and law. So then: swear to keep the Roman peace, let each tribe give me hostages for its word, and I spare you.”

Caradoc stared a moment, incredulous. Then he laughed. “If that be all, all that is lightly done.” He was silent awhile, and laughed again.

“The King is amused?”

“It is nothing. Nay, but you must be in ill plight to ask no more.”

No man was ever wise to count on Cæsar's weakness. Caradoc saw the deep grey eyes flash light and fade. “King Caradoc, had you never thought Rome might mean the barbarian good besides ill? You are at the dawn of empire, we are past our noon. Your work is to do yet. But your blood is not fit for it till you have learnt in our school. We give you the strength and freedom of law.”

“You would make us pay dear.”

“Is your blood afraid to pay the price of empire?”

A strange, wistful look came over Caradoc's face. “We are children,” he said. “We run after each changing sunbeam, and cry when the clouds come.”

“We have forgotten to want the light in Rome.”

Caradoc looked at him a long time. “Give me the sunshine!” he cried with a boyish laugh. Then, with boyish mischief sparkling in his blue eyes, “Oh, you are a great king, Cæsar, but Caradoc of the sunshine is greater. If I wave my hand to that thorn brake a dozen arrows strike your heart.”

“You are only a barbarian,” said Cæsar with contempt.

“Well answered,” quoth Caradoc. “We be men, you and I. There shall be peace, Cæsar.” He stirred the bear with his heel, and went off into the shadows of the forest.

Pacing slowly back to the wondering camp, Cæsar laughed. “'Give me the sunshine,' the barbarian said. Who knows what is best? Ha, Quintus! We march in an hour.”

Peaceably thereafter he came to his fleet, and found the havoc greater than report, and set his men to drag the sound ships high and dry. Even on those easy sands the toil at the capstans was vast, but he dared not risk another wreck. Then he hurried back to the main army north of Thames. It was still unscathed. Caradoc had sped the tidings of peace.

White robed, decked with green garlands, envoys came thronging to his camp. King Catuvellaun and all the lesser kings were blithe to be rid of the nightmare so easily. If Cæsar would go when he was hailed conqueror, they would call him conqueror that hour. If he wanted hostages for their friendship, they could find him a thousand hostages and never ask for them again.

In the plundered town of Dur Gwern Caradoc called his tribe to council. In lean, war-worn ranks they mustered, and their women gathered about them with wistful eyes. It was a chastened Dubnovellan and humbler Druids who stole to the low seats on either side the King. But there was a lilt in Caradoc's voice. “Men of Dur Gwern! The hand of the Roman has been heavy upon us. The tribe has paid him blood and goods. By whose fault”—there were murmurs, and Dubnovellan moved uneasily—"by whose fault ye know. But we have paid something back, and the Roman likes it not. He is willing to go if he be assured that we are his friends. He wants hostages of us that we will not break his peace. Give them, he will go. It is my counsel that we give them. How say you?” They were uncertain, each man looking uneasily at his neighbour. “Men of Dur Gwern, for these hostages King Cæsar demands the men we honour most in our tribe. This is hard for us. In sorrow we give up Dubnovellan and our Druids, yet——”

“Impiety!” Dubnovellan started up with a shriek.

“How say you?” Caradoc thundered. “To be free of our own land again! How say you?”

All the tribe roared joyfully, each man freed from his private fear, and Dubnovellan's swift eloquence was overwhelmed. He could win no ear. He was discredited before. His device had brought disaster. It was manifestly just for him to pay the price. In an hour he and his Druids were away with an exultant guard to Cæsar's camp.

“Now am I King of Dur Gwern,” quoth Caradoc: the first king in England who was head of the Church.

It was told Cæsar that one of the hostages of the Duroverni spoke of treachery. Dubnovellan was brought to his presence and fixed him with the orator's eye. Cæsar did not choose to understand, and let the vehement eloquence filter through an interpreter while he went on dictating to his secretary. But in a while the lines of mirth deepened about his mouth and he glanced with bright eyes at Dubnovellan's fluent wrath: “The King Caradoc holds me enemy. So he gives me hostage. For he designs bad faith and deems that you will slay me for it. If he were honest he had sent you his friend.” Cæsar laughed out. The thing was exquisitely neat. His barbarian provided for everybody. He was more than ever delectable. In a mixed peroration, Dubnovellan prayed to be delivered, declaring his devotion to his gods, and his purpose of making his gods destroy Rome.

“My friend,” said Cæsar, “we shall be excellent company. I also am a high priest. You shall tell me your recipes.” Which was the origin of some strange tales of Britain that Cæsar has told us. For Dubnovellan was very angry with him.

On that golden September day when the Roman army was crowded upon the galleys again, when they moved away over the still, glittering tide, a British chariot drove down to the verge of foam and the tall chieftain in it cried: “Cæsar! Ho, Cæsar!”

Cæsar stood out alone on the poop of the landward ship, his helmet one flame of gold.

Then Caradoc cried out in his British accent a scrap of Latin: “Ho, Cæsar, ave, vale!” It was the Roman salutation to the dead.

“I would that I might live that barbarian's life,” said Cæsar. Quintus Cicero was much shocked.

THE NEXT STORY OF THE SERIES IS “ALFRED THE KING.”