Chapter 3: Spring to Autumn, 56 B.C

“And where will they have their camp?
Says the Shan Van Vocht;
Where will they have their camp?
Says the Shan Van Vocht.
On the Curragh of Kildare,
The boys they will be there,
With their pikes in good repair,
Says the Shan Van Vocht.
To the Curragh of Kildare,
The boys they will repair,
And Lord Edward will be there,
Says the Shan Van Vocht.”
_The Shan Van Vocht._

The chiefs of the Veneti had laid hands on the Roman officers on a sudden impulse, and now they had Cæsar against them, Cæsar who had conquered the Helvetii, Ariovistus and the Germans, the Belgic League! This would be a war like no other war; but still, the rest of the Aremorican cantons were bound by the strongest oaths, they knew that the freedom of the Veneti was theirs as well; and the towns were strong, the ships were many, the young fighters were keen and eager for battle; and they had the sea behind them, the tides and the storms, and Mananaun the Sea-god! Yet they tried to get what help they could before the war began in earnest. They did not expect it from the rest of Gaul; the Belgians were broken and powerless, and the Aquitanians and strong tribes to the south-east had little more liking for them than for the Romans; only a few young men came to join them from other parts. But as soon as any ship could sail the Atlantic they sent for help to Britain; yet that must of necessity mean a long delay.

Kormiac was none too easy to deal with that winter; sometimes he was terribly anxious; he would wander about the place, full of forebodings, finding nothing right; then Fiommar and Meromic would keep out of his way, and the servants would follow him, trembling--no one’s life was safe. Other times, when he had good news, or if he’d met with a lucky omen, he would be just as far the other way, certain of victory, ready to dare anything, defy the world; then his two children would ask him for things they wanted, and usually get them. This way Meromic had got his new sword, the sword he had longed for and imagined since he was a child, but never seen till one day a trading ship had brought it, and it was laid out on the top of the half-opened bales in the hall of Kormiac’s house. Meromic came in and saw it, and said, “Oh, father!” and picked it up and thrust with it at an imaginary Roman. It had belonged to a chief somewhere in Spain, but he must have had it from the South; it was three feet of iron, with a wavy pattern on the blade, the hilt gold, lightly engraved with queer Eastern beasts that Meromic did not know, and the scabbard dyed leather, gold-tipped and gold-ringed. Kormiac had laughed, seeing his boy with the great sword; he paid for it in bar silver and two she-slaves. The sword had a Spanish name, meaning the gold lightning, but Meromic gave it a name of his own: Ar-roud, the very red, “because,” he said, “it will be very red soon!” Fiommar had got something out of that ship-load too, a necklace of round crystals, as big as thrushes’ eggs, threaded on copper wire. But that was the last time Kormiac was in such a good temper.

By the middle of April the Roman invasion had begun; the Veneti met the advancing legions with skirmishing and ambushes; when they were driven back they simply vanished among the rocks and heather of their own wild country. Cæsar did not dare to leave any of the big coast towns on his left flank, between him and his base. He had to lay siege to them one by one, and that took time, let alone that he got little good of it: the towns were often on islands or peaks of rock sticking out into the sea; they were impossible to starve, because food was always being sent them by ship, and when, after much labour, he had made a breach in the walls, the defenders would be sailing off from the other side. And the legionaries could never get accustomed to the tides, the piled waves racing in over those wide sands, to destroy their works or cut them off and drown them within sight of their comrades; and the Gauls took every advantage of this. So it went on through the spring and early summer, with no gain to the Romans, and the rest of Gaul beginning to wonder whether, after all, Cæsar was as invincible as they had thought.

Kormiac had sent word by the first ship that went to Britain; his messengers were to find Gandoc, tell him what straits the Veneti were in, and that any delay might be fatal. Meromic had written a letter; if Gandoc could not read it, one of the Druids would be able. It said that, if he valued his marriage, he was to send at once, men and gold and iron, but men most of all, a ship-load of fighters with him at their head, to make war under the eyes of his bride! When he came, the letter said, he should be married at once: Fiommar would be ready the same day. The ship had sailed out on a fine morning, late in March, with the wolf head carved on its prow, and scarlet-dipped sails. Now it was almost May. Fiommar woke every morning, thinking perhaps she had lain her last night alone, and all day she would have an eye towards the beach, and every shout would startle her away from the loom down to the hall door to see if her husband was yet come. Wives and daughters of the chiefs from near by, her cousins often, came to visit her with presents of woven stuff and ornaments, all hoping that the wedding might chance to be the day they came; every week the war went on they looked up to her more: these Britons would mean so much! Her father was away at the Council a great deal of the time, and left her entirely mistress of the house; even he now treated her as if she was a grown woman, not a little girl; and she enjoyed it.

Meromic came back from time to time; the fighting was never far away, but the house was safe so long as the town of Rodec, south along the coast, was still defying the enemy. She had been desperately unhappy the first time he went; she could not sleep at night for thinking of him among the Roman swords. But she did not tell her father or her women what she was feeling, she had to be proud and light-hearted, true battle-loving daughter of the Wolf. So it was on secret beaches, under lonely spikes of cliff, that she would kneel and pray aloud for him, and beat her forehead on the ground, and throw her jewels out to sea--anything to buy his safety from the jealous Gods!

He had come home for the first time, and for a little she thought he was not changed at all. He wanted to do all the old things, to go sailing and birds’-nesting with her, to tease the hounds and frighten the maids, and climb up into the rafters to catch bats; but besides that there was a new bit of him that she couldn’t quite get at. “Did you kill any one?” she asked. He nodded. “What was it like?”

“I didn’t think what it was like. I was afraid of being killed myself all the time.”

“But doesn’t it make you happy--fighting?”

“Well, yes, I expect so. But I don’t like waiting; one’s always waiting for hours first. I’m almost sure I like the rest, though.”

“Tell me really.”

“I can’t--not you; girls don’t understand.”

“I would. Oh, Meromic, do! You always tell me things.”

“But I’m a man now. Besides, it’s all in the songs.”

“The songs get made afterwards; and anyway it’s not them I care about--it’s you!” But he never really told her much; only, before he went back, he gave her something to keep safe for him: a head, very dried-up and smoke-blackened, with dark hair; she looked at it with some awe.

“Is it a Roman? Did you kill him yourself?”

“Yes, he’s an officer; we cut him off from his men, so then I asked to be left to fight it out with him, and they did. There’s only a short reach to the Roman sword, and I had Ar-roud; I wish you could have seen me!”

“Oh, so do I! But I’ll keep it very safe, Meromic; I’ll hang it in my own room.”

The next time he came back she saw less of him, because he had two friends with him. One was his cousin Louaven, a rather older man, with reddish hair and a thick, short beard; he had bracelets of heavy bronze on both arms, and round his neck a flat bronze collar set with blue glass. The other was a new-comer, whom Kormiac welcomed very warmly: Molhir of the Carnutes who had not been in Aremorica for nearly four years, but had now come to fight with them against the Romans. He told them how things had gone in his country, how the Carnutic republic had been forced by Cæsar to accept a king, one Tasgetius, a man of noble family, but a friend to the Romans, and no friend to the great Order of Druids which centred in his land, and which had given education and a colouring of life to Molhir and many of his friends.

“Indeed,” he had said, “it would hardly be safe for me to show myself in my own country now.”

“All the more welcome to ours!” said Kormiac, and he had out his best wine.

Fiommar watched him from under her thick eyelashes; Molhir was a fine, tall young man, with the druid wreath round his helmet and the patterned border woven into his cloak, but otherwise dressed and armed like the rest. Looking at him regretfully, she wondered if she would like Gandoc any better when he came this time; it was his long, tangly beard, she decided: how could any girl bear being kissed by a scarecrow like that? But the Britons never shaved. She liked Molhir; even Louaven was not so bad; only no one had ever asked what her wishes were. But Gandoc: when he came--_when_--it was nearly two months since the ship had gone, and no answer. Perhaps he had been calling up his men from all over the country; perhaps he had been away on a journey when the messengers got to his house; perhaps--oh, but surely he must _want_ to come! Even if I’m not beautiful, she said to herself and tossed a lock of hair over her shoulder, even if I’m not at all beautiful--and every one says I am--he can’t dare to go against father! And there’s my dowry (she thought of the locked chests all along the wall of her room), oh, he can’t not be coming!

She listened again to the talk, because it was about this same man of hers: “They’re due any day now,” said her father; then Louaven: “We shall want them--every man; the Romans are bringing up new forces all the time.” Molhir joined in: “One always despises them at first, but somehow they’re not to be driven out once they’ve got their foot on to one’s land. Perhaps you’ll be luckier. I wish more of my people would see that the only way of getting them out of the whole country is to join with you.” “I wish they would too,” said Kormiac with a deep sigh, and Fiommar noticed suddenly how much whiter his hair had grown of late; she wondered if he and Meromic were as certain as they sounded that Gandoc was coming; they had said nothing to her, but then why should they? If he didn’t come--they mightn’t be able to beat the Romans, they might get beaten themselves, they, the Veneti, the free Cantons! He must come! Oh, she thought, if only he’d come and get killed, then I shouldn’t ever have to go away to Britain or leave father and Meromic; perhaps I should have a baby, but I wouldn’t mind that--I think I should like it--if only I hadn’t got to have it among strangers; if it was a boy ... she lost herself among speculations. The party at the table broke up.

* * * * *

Louaven stood on the parapet of the town wall of Rodec, leaning on his spear and looking inland; his leather tunic blew against his knees and he shivered a little, but he knew it would be hot enough after the sun had risen an hour or two. He peered down, screwing up his eyes and trying hard to see across those two miles to the mainland. The walls and roofs and doors of Rodec, grey and brown and white, were piled and heaped up the sides of a great rock that rose full in the middle of western-facing Rodec bay. At high tide it was an island with a wide stretch of tumbling waves between it and the coast; sometimes in winter it was an island for days together. But always in fair weather there was a safe three hours when the tide was out and one could cross to it along a causeway of stone blocks, with wagon ruts worn in the top and sea-weed and barnacles growing along the sides. It was low tide now, and a legion camped on the shore opposite.

The light grew and grew till the Roman camp fires were yellow smears instead of stars. He turned to the inner side of the wall where two or three sleepers lay, wrapped in thick bear skins, and called softly, “Meromic!” Meromic woke, rubbed his eyes, and was on his feet with a jump and up on to the wall beside Louaven. They looked out together, whispering; presently the sun rose above the line of the downs, and threw long shadows and clear light on to all the tangled walls of Rodec; Meromic drew Ar-roud and held it high over his head for the blessing of Lugh. There was little to be seen clearly, but it was certain there was some movement forward in the camp. Louaven frowned: the tide was still far out, a dancing line along the sand, and the Romans had time if they chose to use it; he wished they could attack themselves, but the garrison of Rodec was not strong enough to go out against a whole legion.

About half-way between the causeway and the waves there was a little group of rocks with pools among them, flat, dazzling mirrors to the sun; Meromic blinked at them, considering something; then he touched Louaven on the arm: “I’ve a plan.”

For some minutes they talked together; at last Louaven nodded: “Very well. But you will be careful, Meromic? Whatever happens, don’t leave yourself too late; if a few get past with you, we’ll be there to meet them! You’re sure you know your way?”

“Oh yes; and I can jump, but they’ll be heavy-armed, they won’t be able. Even if it’s not a whole cohort, it’ll put the others off.”

He took off his cloak and armour, left Ar-roud for his cousin to take care of, and made all his preparations; from the far side of the island he set sail alone in a little boat of stretched leather, and landed an hour later three miles down the coast.

About high tide, the Legate heard that a fisher-boy had something to tell him: the boy was brought before him, a long-legged thing with tar on his face, dressed in a torn grey shirt, and an old sheep-skin; he twisted his hands together and said he wanted money. The Legate gave him money and spoke to him gently; he offered to guide the Romans into Rodec by a new way that the garrison would never be guarding; he pointed it out.

“But the quicksands?”

“I go round them: it’s the place I used to dig sand-eels for bait. The tide would be right at dusk to-day.”

“The tide will have turned by then, and the quicksands will be spreading; better wait a day or two till it’s at its lowest in the evening.”

“As you like, sir, but I warn you one thing, it should be done at once if it’s to be done at all: they say there’s two thousand men waiting up north in Lugdenn for the word to march.”

The fisher-boy wept that he was betraying his country, and was promised more gold if he guided them safely to Rodec. The Legate decided to feign an attack along the causeway that evening; this would keep all the garrison busy there, while one cohort went round by the new way, got into the town, and fell on the Gauls from behind.

Meromic loved being a fisher-boy and speaking with a country accent and pretending not to understand when the officers talked Latin, and he had the money tied into a knot in his shirt. But now--he had one eye on the tide and quickened his pace a little: this would be dangerous. The young tribune beside him fingered his silky, black moustache, and passed down word that the men were to follow him three deep; they were a picked cohort of veterans, steady, reliable men, who were always chosen for a piece of special work like this. Meromic glanced over his shoulder at the battle on the causeway, but could make out very little: the sunset was glowing orange behind the black mass of Rodec: he felt the cool, firm sand underfoot. Then he splashed through the first of the pools, and his toes sunk slightly in the bottom. He could hear from the changing tone of the waves that the tide was beginning to come in quicker; he hurried along the rocks, the tribune could hardly keep up with him. His bare feet were steady as he jumped or clung, but the Roman soldiers with their nailed boots were slipping all the time. His heart throbbed so that he could hardly think of anything else, but he went on calmly; he got to the end of the chain of rocks, with a hundred yards or so of sand between him and the foot of Rodec crags. He looked back; the last of the cohort were getting among the pools now; there was a splash and a cry from behind: the tribune looked back too, frowning: they must make no noise or they would be heard from the town!

Then Meromic took a breath, leapt and ran. He heard a shout, and feet after him, then the whirr of a javelin; he ducked his head and ran harder; he felt the sand yielding like sand in a dream, and saw the film of damp over it. He was nearly at the far rocks: suddenly it yielded altogether, he was in up to his knees, first one leg, then the other; he made a plunge forward, hoping to drag out on to firm ground, but he only felt it give again. The sea roared in his ears as each wave ran foaming nearer. And Rodec was so close! Oh, if only--a splash on the wet beside him, a black streak, a rope! He grabbed and had it. Louaven called: he twisted it under his arms as it pulled taut; the sand sucked at his knees and ankles; the rope dragged him forward in jerks on his face, he choked on a mouthful of salt water. He tugged at a bunch of sea-weed, felt hard stone, and then Louaven’s strong hands under his armpits, hoisting him up; he fell flat on the rock with his arms out, panting. After a minute or two Louaven touched his shoulder: “Look.” He sat up and looked: in the gathering dusk the wave crests showed white, the sand greyish; and on that further group of rocks the little, scrambling, troubled figures, the glint of armour. “And the men who were after me?” Louaven pointed; there was something dark red half buried in the sand, a helmet crest. As he watched, two of the men on the rocks tried to run back towards the shore; they seemed to get shorter and shorter, they waved their arms.... Meromic gave a little gasp; he heard the oncoming waves, the splash and rush on the sand, sea-gulls crying, and through it all the confused voices of the cohort. The waves were almost up to the rock now; some of the men started singing. And the two Gauls went back into Rodec.

That saved the town for a month or so; the Legate waited till Cæsar could come himself to deal with the barbarians. And they hoped every day that their British allies would be over; they were nearly worn out themselves. Meromic got home again about midsummer, saying to himself that his brother-in-law would surely be there by now. He rode up to the house and shouted in the courtyard, as he always did. But no one ran out to hold his stirrup and bid him welcome. He dismounted and tied his horse to the ring in the wall, pushed open the door, and walked into the hall. He very nearly fell over Fiommar; she was lying on the floor, her hair and hands full of rushes, her dress torn half off her shoulders; she was so still that he was frightened. He pulled her up and found she was only too exhausted to move; her eyes were swollen and red, her hot face sticky with tears like a child’s.

“Fiommar! What’s the matter? Tell me, quick!”

She answered low: “Gandoc. He’s not coming.”

Meromic let her go suddenly, and she fell back limp to the floor; he sat down himself, hearing his horse fidget and stamp in the sun outside; at last he spoke: “When did you hear?”

Fiommar, still on the ground, lifted her head a little. “This morning.”

“But why?” She only answered with more tears. “Fiommar, you must tell me! Come, get up; it’s no fault of yours.”

“Oh, don’t you think so?” She got to her knees.

“No, of course not.”

“Father did. Well, I’ll tell you. The ship came in, but--but--oh, Meromic, there are just a few swords and some bar iron, but no men, nothing else, only a message--not even a letter!--to say he was sorry, but he had his own fighting to do in Britain and couldn’t send men or come till it was over, but he was sure we’d win, and then----”

“What? Go on!”

“Only that father wasn’t to trouble to keep me for him. I wish I was dead!”

“Don’t, don’t, poor sweetheart! What did father do? Where is he?”

“He’s at the Council. He got angry all over--you know--and then he said it was all my fault, and he beat me with a dog-whip till I fell down.”

“Oh, God, I’d have stopped that! It was none of your doing: he chose Gandoc himself.”

“That’s what I thought. But I ought to have made him love me, then he’d have come. But I never tried.”

“I don’t know; it must be hard being a woman. Did anything else happen?”

“No. Only every one thinks like father, even my own women. But that doesn’t matter. What will you do without them?”

“More than I can tell; we wanted them so badly. God, if I could find that man I’d have his eyes out!” And he began walking about the room, kicking up the rushes and fingering the hilt of Ar-roud.

Kormiac the Wolf came back from the Council that evening, and they sat late over the supper table; Louaven had heard the news and rode over about sunset, and the three talked it all out: the way the Romans were gradually wearing them down, the loss of material that could not be replaced, and how their trade with the far North had dwindled to nothing now the young men were all at the war. Kormiac was very gloomy; he could see nothing ahead and wished with all his heart he had never touched those officers. Louaven had heard rumours that the Roman fleet was nearly ready. “But a sea-fight!” said Meromic. “We couldn’t ask anything better. They’ll not beat us at our own game, whatever happens on land!” His cousin was not so hopeful, but still there were possibilities about it. The lamps were burnt out when they rose from their talk, but nothing was really settled.

Meromic kissed his father’s hand and went off to his room. Suddenly he thought he would see if Fiommar was asleep, and pushed the curtain aside; she saw him and gave a little eager cry: “Oh, Meromic, what’s going to happen?”

He shook his head: “Nothing’s certain,” and sat down on the bed beside her; she covered his shoulders with a blanket. “You’re cold!” he said, feeling her thin, soft arms against his cheek.

She didn’t answer, but after a minute or two began talking to him in a whisper: “After the war, we’ll run away together and find an island all by itself somewhere, and make a house out of stones, and thatch it with whin, and have a fire in the middle and heaps of fern to lie on and tell stories; and you’ll be king there and I’ll be queen--oh, I can’t go on! It’s your turn, Meromic.”

He took it up: “And we’ll be able to be any beasts we like. I shall be the Wolf, of course, and you can be a sea-gull--that’s what you like, isn’t it, Fiommar?--and I’ll catch deer and carry them off over my back, and you must dive for fish ...” he hesitated and stopped. “I can’t go on either. It’s no good. Perhaps there won’t be any after the war.”

“Can’t you see it?”

“No.”

“Nor can I--now.”

“I’d like to kill that man five different ways and smash his house to bits and take his cattle! I’d burn him on a damp fire, and I’d hang him on a tree for the crows to get at, and----”

“Oh don’t, what’s the use? Oh, Meromic, it’s all too awful!” She started crying again, and then he did too, though he tried hard to stop himself. After that he thought he was tired enough to go to sleep at once, but he couldn’t; he lay awake, wondering how it would all end, wishing it weren’t true, and then the birds began outside, and then it got light. And at last he jumped up and shook himself, and went off to the beach and had a long swim; that was the first time in his life he’d not slept for a whole night.

Rodec fell late in July; Cæsar had pushed out long walls to keep the tide back, and the defences of the town were not strong enough to stand against his siege engines. Most of the garrison escaped safely by sea, Meromic with a slight wound in his leg which he was very proud of; he went home and found the old men and the women hurrying about with loads of turf to make thick walls round the house; he told them it was no use trying to defend it, but neither his father nor his sister would go. While he was arguing with them, news came that the Roman fleet had been sighted coming north under full sail. He was overjoyed at this: “There’ll be no need to defend the house! We’ve got them this time! Oh, they can’t know--they wouldn’t walk blindfold into the trap! My God, we’ll have them clear out of the country by the end of the month!” He gave a wild yell that made every one turn round and stare at him as he leapt into the air, waving Ar-roud!

Even his father felt an enormous relief; he wondered at first if it were really possible, but another message confirmed the first, and then Louaven and Molhir came hurrying up to the house, shouting to their men, laughing, singing scraps of songs, their bright eyes full of excitement and confidence. Kormiac looked at his son with a heightened colour: the end was in sight, they had beaten Cæsar if they won this battle, and how could they not win it? From all accounts there were not more than a hundred ships in the Roman fleet and these for the most part small, light things, with no spread of sail, but rowed by slaves or pressed men from the Province. While all the time their own fleet lay waiting in the sheltered coves of the bay five miles to the north: big, fine, sea-going beauties! Their towering prows had often faced the Atlantic waves, and surely they were a match for these Roman galleys! Two hundred there were, and more, with all the youth and strength of the Veneti, the best of the Cantons, hurrying aboard, good sailors and good fighters, knowing their own sea, its winds and tides and rocks--the Romans were mad!

Kormiac’s five ships were being got ready on the beach below the house; all had the wolf-head crest on sails and prow; three of them were big trading ships, decked over with pine planks, with room for over a hundred fighting men, as well as the sailors. Louaven was to have one, Kormiac’s younger brother the second, and Meromic the third; he would take Molhir, who knew nothing about sea-fighting, with him. The other two ships were smaller, one a sailing-ship, and one a little open-decked boat with rowers instead of sails; this was commanded by a young vassal chief of Kormiac’s, and they all laughed at him for having nothing better. Under the hot sun the new-tarred planks dripped on to the sand; fresh cordage was put on to the sails wherever it was needed and the leather was looked over carefully for weak places; arms were stored in the holds, and the men assembled on the beach, each with food enough for a day or two.

Up at the house, Fiommar was helping Meromic to arm; he had bathed in hot water and combed his hair, and put on a clean linen shirt; for a sea-fight he would not wear heavy armour or anything on his feet. But he had an iron helmet with a flat peak over his neck behind; the open jaws of the Wolf in bronze and gold rose above it; his coat was leather, strengthened with bronze plates on the shoulders, and he wore the gold-hilted Ar-roud at his right side, and a dagger at his left. Fiommar burnished every gold bracelet and ring he had, and for luck she put an arm-ring of hers on to his wrist; last of all came his great golden necklace. She clasped her hands, looking him up and down, and then suddenly went on her knees in front of him, crying, “Oh, you’re the Pride of the Islands now!”

He laughed and kissed her, then took up his shield, saying, “See you’ve a feast ready for us when we come home!” But yet he was just a little anxious; on the way down to the beach with Molhir he said, “If only we were leaving any one behind us! If this doesn’t go as it should, we’ve no one to fall back on, and they’d be defenceless at home.”

“Yes,” said Molhir, “the Britons would have been right for that.”

Meromic nodded and pulled up a big parsley plant from the side of the track, and began twisting the stem.

“I know,” said Molhir, noticing. “If that was only him!”

The men cheered them as they came in sight, and shouted, “Up, the Wolf!” The tide was rising and two of the ships were afloat already. It took a little time hoisting the sails, but soon they were swelling and moving slowly out as they felt the land-wind behind them. Kormiac had ridden down, and sat silently on his horse, watching them away; all at once Fiommar came running, her arms full of flowers, yellow and red and white, and jumped into her own little boat, rowed after them and caught them up, and threw bunches inboard with both hands. The men reached out to catch the flowers, and wreathed them on the Wolf’s head and crowned themselves, till they got out of the lee of the cliffs, and the sails filled, they went on faster, and Fiommar and her boat were left behind, bobbing in the petal-strewn wake. She and her father waited on the beach till the five ships were out of sight behind the islands; then they turned, and he went off to the Council-house, and she went home, shivering a little and silent, thinking of the Roman camp that was not so far off round the bay.

* * * * *

The Venetan fleet was having the best of it all across the two miles of strongly-running waves; the Roman galleys could only save themselves by dodging quickly, with all hands set to row, while the Gallic ships were slowly coming about, shifting their great leather sails, turning like islands. The scarlet flag on the Roman admiral’s galley flitted about like a hunted deer with Kormiac’s three wolf ships chasing it. Meromic stood on the high prow of the foremost, with drawn sword, ready to leap and board as soon as they came near enough; he could see the admiral in his purple cloak on the deck of the galley in front of him, and he thought: there! there! oh, if only it could be me who killed him! and vowed all manner of things if he could accomplish it. But it was an uncertain day; the wind was gusty, sometimes in one quarter, sometimes veering half round to another, and then, for minutes at a time, dying away to nothing.

Suddenly the galley stopped dead, and spun round to meet them with a churning of oars; Meromic shouted back to his steersman, they ran up on the landward side of the galley, closed and boarded. For five minutes it was wild hand-to-hand fighting; Meromic hardly knew what he was doing; he felt the shock of thrown darts and then the weight of them on his shield; he was alone for a moment on a slippery deck, facing his enemies, then his men were beside him, rushing on with him. He struck and struck against locked shields, he only saw the circle round him, swords and spears and faces, the purple cloak was lost. Then there was a great cry from his own ship, Molhir calling him to come back quick! He ran to the side, jumped for a hand, and all at once was up where he could see: this was why the galley had turned! They had hooked a sickle at the end of a long pole on to the halyard that held up his great main sail; he shouted to grapple and stick to the galley, not let her pull away! But it was too late; the galley was backing with all her oars. He sprang at the mast and climbed, straining to be in time and get the blade unhooked!

But as he climbed it cut and the sail fell, sweeping him off on to the deck; he was pinned on his back between huge folds of leather, with his right arm under the yard; he screamed with pain and fright, felt the deck tip under him and a wave wash up salt over his face. For a minute he lay choking in the dark, tugging to get his arm free, then the yard shifted a little, he got it out with a wrench that made him scream again and crawled into daylight. He saw at once what had happened: the ship was half over on to her side, the waves were sweeping across her, and she was at the mercy of the galley. As he got to his knees he was knocked over again by a rush of Roman soldiers; he saw his men surrendering right and left, and shouted at them furiously; a soldier turned on him with dripping steel, and then he realized with terror that his right arm was useless. Trying to draw his own sword, he stumbled back, tripped on the low rail of the ship, and was head over heels in the water, gasping and spluttering and striking out away into the open. On the slope of a wave he clutched a floating spar, and held on to it with his left hand, biting his lip as the salt water stung his torn right shoulder.

From there he could see the struggle on his own deck and, when he was lifted on a wave crest, the whole wide stretch of battle. What had happened to him had happened to half the Venetan fleet; the rest were turning in confusion to fly. He hardly understood at first; he had his eyes mostly on his own ship; once he saw Molhir fighting bareheaded at the stern, but a wave rising between them hid him for a moment, and after that he had disappeared. One of his men passed him, swimming feebly; he called out to ask how things were going; the man turned his head: “They’re all over us; I nearly----” and then blood poured out of his mouth, his eyelids flickered, and he sank. Then Meromic knew the Romans had won the battle; he thought sickly of his home, his father, his sister; he wondered if they would try to defend the house; he thought of all he ought to have done, he and the others: they should have had rowers, of course, rowers ... and bowmen.... His head was whirling, the sky swung up and down, he felt himself falling sideways through the water and hugged the spar, trying to keep his face above the waves. All at once he noticed that the sea was flattening out, he was being buffeted less by the spray: the wind had dropped again. The landward drift of the current was pulling at him, away and away from the battle; he let himself go to it.

The Roman army, camped on the cliffs, could see all that was going on in the bay; Cæsar was there himself and had watched the disastrous beginning of the fight changed in a moment to victory. From that height the bay seemed only rippled, with little, coloured ships sliding across it; the sounds were mostly blown away; the battling men were less real than the butterflies on the thick heather by Cæsar’s feet; but yet he knew all they were suffering, he felt himself every change in the day from morning to sundown. After the first surprise and alarm he saw impatiently how the Venetan ships were escaping, scudding ahead of the galleys that chased them; they would be all safe away by nightfall, hiding in a hundred creeks and inlets, and the battle must be fought again! But then suddenly, like a word from the Gods, the calm had fallen, and Cæsar knew his star was with him yet. The sailing ships lay helpless, dispersed half over the bay; the galleys could take their time, row up to them, board and capture them one by one. It was all over by sunset; here, as everywhere, Cæsar was the conqueror.

The tide swept in and in through the mouth of the bay, carrying with it wreckage, masts, planks, oars, tangles of rope and sail, bodies of Gaul and Roman, and drifting with them Meromic and his spar. He had been in the water hours now, numb, bleeding hours, with the coast-line only ever so little changed each time he looked up at it. At first he had felt his leather coat dragging at him, but he had managed to slip it off and fasten his sword-belt again, while he was still strong enough; it sank at once. Sometimes he had swum a little, but mostly he had just rested on his spar, wondering how long it would be before he got too weak to hold on to it; the sun had scorched his head at the beginning, but later he had not felt it. After a long space of drifting he raised his head and saw the dark shape of land high and near on his right; he breathed deeply, let go the spar, and started swimming across the current. For all his efforts, it had almost carried him past when suddenly he felt bottom; he waded in, pulled himself up above high-tide mark, and lay flat, thinking dizzily how solid the ground was. Above him the evening sky was pale with stars; he stared at them, trying to get clear in his head whether he was east or south of the bay; before he could be certain, they all went black; he spent that night cold on the sand, half asleep, half fainting, but still free, free and in his own country.

He woke in the morning very thirsty, and got to his feet, clinging to a rock and looking out to sea; he seemed to know this beach and yet he couldn’t be sure--that slope?--that outline of crag--where? He went on, and all at once heard a trickle of fresh water and turned eagerly towards it; and there was the spring and the rowan tree, everything fell into its place: he was on Crabland all the time. He drank deep at the spring, and sat down beside it; he felt so strong at first, strong enough to climb up and look round for any help. He saw the empty bay, the wreckage of ships and hopes; he knew well how far it was from here to the mainland: he could never swim it now with this aching, bleeding arm that he was hardly able to move. He grew thirsty again and went back to the spring; watching the water sliding along over the dark green weeds, hearing its changing voice, he did not think, did not hope, did not dream; before he had made up his mind about anything, it was evening again ... and night ... and morning; he would never leave Crabland now, he would die here quietly, he would be done with pain and hunger, it would all go out, the soft withdrawal of a long tide.