Hypatia — or New Foes with an Old Face, Charles Kingsley [thriller novels to read TXT] 📗

Ovida, and warriors all! If we want wealth, we shan’t find it among the sand-hills. If we want women, we shall find nothing prettier than these among dragons and devils. Don’t look angry, Wulf. You have no mind to marry one of those dog-headed girls the monk talked of, have you? Well, then, we have money and women; and if we want sport, it’s better sport killing men than killing beasts; so we had better go where we shall find most of that game, which we certainly shall not up this road. As for fame and all that, though I’ve had enough, there’s plenty to be got anywhere along the shores of that Mediterranean. Let’s burn and plunder Alexandria: forty of us Goths might kill down all these donkey-riders in two days, and hang up that lying prefect who sent us hereon this fool’s errand. Don’t answer, Wulf. I knew he was humbugging us all along, but you were so open-mouthed to all he said, that I was bound to let my elders choose for me. Let’s go back; send over for any of the tribes; send to Spain for those Vandals—they have had enough of Adolf by now, curse him!—I’ll warrant them; get together an army, and take Constantinople. I’ll be Augustus, and Pelagia, Augusta; you and Smid here, the two Caesars; and we’ll make the monk the chief of the eunuchs, eh?—anything you like for a quiet life; but up this accursed kennel of hot water I go no farther. Ask your girls, my heroes, and I’ll ask mine. Women are all prophetesses, every one of them.’

‘When they are not harlots,’ growled Wulf to himself.

‘I will go to the world’s end with you, my king!’ sighed Pelagia; ‘but Alexandria is certainly pleasanter than this.’

Old Wulf sprang up fiercely enough.

‘Hear me, Amalric the Amal, son of Odin, and heroes all! When my fathers swore to be Odin’s men, and gave up the kingdom to the holy Annals, the sons of the Aesir, what was the bond between your fathers and mine? Was it not that we should move and move, southward and southward ever, till we came back to Asgard, the city where Odin dwells for ever, and gave into his hands the kingdom of all the earth? And did we not keep our oath? Have we not held to the Amals? Did we not leave Adolf, because we would not follow a Balth, while there was an Amal to lead us? Have we not been true men to you, son of the Aesir?’

‘No man ever saw Wulf, the son of Ovida, fail friend or foe.’

‘Then why does his friend fail him? Why does his friend fail himself? If the bison-bull lie down and wallow, what will the herd do for a leader? If the king-wolf lose the scent, how will the pack hold it? If the Yngling forgets the song of Asgard, who will sing it to the heroes?’

‘Sing it yourself, if you choose. Pelagia sings quite well enough for me.’

In an instant the cunning beauty caught at the hint, and poured forth a soft, low, sleepy song:—

‘Loose the sail, rest the oar, float away down, Fleeting and gliding by tower and town; Life is so short at best! snatch, while thou canst, thy rest, Sleeping by me!’

‘Can you answer that, Wulf?’ shouted a dozen voices.

‘Hear the song of Asgard, warriors of the Goths! Did not Alaric the king love it well? Did I not sing it before him in the palace of the Caesars, till he swore, for all the Christian that he was, to go southward in search of the holy city? And when he went to Valhalla, and the ships were wrecked off Sicily, and Adolf the Balth turned back like a lazy hound, and married the daughter of the Romans, whom Odin hates, and went northward again to Gaul, did not I sing you all the song of Asgard in Messina there, till you swore to follow the Amal through fire and water until we found the hall of Odin, and received the mead-cup from his own hand? Hear it again, warriors of the Goths!’

‘Not that song!’ roared the Amal, stopping his ears with both his hands. ‘Will you drive us blood-mad again, just as we are settling down into our sober senses, and finding out what our lives were given us for?’

‘Hear the song of Asgard! On to Asgard, wolves of the Goths!’ shouted another; and a babel of voices arose.

‘Haven’t we been fighting and marching these seven years?’

‘Haven’t we drunk blood enough to satisfy Odin ten times over? If he wants us lot him come himself and lead us!’

‘Let us get our winds again before we start afresh!’

‘Wulf the Prince is like his name, and never tires; he has a winter-wolf’s legs under him; that is no reason why we should have.’

‘Haven’t you heard what the monk says?-we can never get ever those cataracts.’

‘We’ll stop his old wives’ tales for him, and then settle for ourselves,’ said Smid; and springing from the thwart where he had been sitting, he caught up a bill with one hand, and seized Philammon’s throat with the other.... in a moment more, it would have been all over with him....

For the first time in his life Philammon felt a hostile gripe upon him, and a new sensation rushed through every nerve, as he grappled with the warrior, clutched with his left hand the up-lifted wrist, and with his right the girdle, and commenced, without any definite aim, a fierce struggle, which, strange to say, as it went on, grew absolutely pleasant.

The women shrieked to their lovers to part the combatants, but in vain.

‘Not for worlds! A very fair match and a very fair fight! Take your long legs back, Itho, or they will be over you! That’s right, my Smid, don’t use the knife! They will be overboard in a moment! By all the Valkyrs, they are down, and Smid undermost!’

There was no doubt of it; and in another moment Philammon would have wrenched the bill out of his opponent’s hand, when, to the utter astonishment of the onlookers, he suddenly loosed his hold, shook himself free by one powerful wrench, and quietly retreated to his seat, conscience-stricken at the fearful thirst for blood which had suddenly boiled up within him as he felt his enemy under him.

The onlookers were struck dumb with astonishment; they had taken for granted that he would, as a matter of course, have used his right of splitting his vanquished opponent’s skull—an event which they would of course have deeply deplored, but with which, as men of honour, they could not on any account interfere, but merely console themselves for the loss of their comrade by flaying his conqueror alive, ‘carving him into the blood-eagle,’ or any other delicate ceremony which might serve as a vent for their sorrow and a comfort to the soul of the deceased.

Smid rose, with a bill in his hand, and looked round him-perhaps to see what was expected of him. He half lifted his weapon to strike .... Philammon, seated, looked him calmly in the face.... The old warrior’s eye caught the bank, which was now receding rapidly past them; and when he saw that they were really floating downwards again, without an effort to stem the stream, he put away his bill, and sat himself down deliberately in his place, astonishing the onlookers quite as much as Philammon had