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Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
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The Blue Book Magazine, February 1943,
with "Mr. Honey Gets His Hun"
LET us understand each other. If a powerful Lama, fresh and fragrant—well, fairly fragrant for a Lama—from Tibet, land of magic and mystery, gave you a bottle of pills, each one of which possessed the power of transporting you into an unspecified one of the numberless unremembered lives you have lived before this present life, would you swallow one of these pills now and then, or would you be content to try them out on your friends?
Unlike the modern pill, there was absolutely no guarantee attached to those presented to Mr. Hobart Honey (the pen-name of an English author and war-worker in the censorship) by the Lama whose gratitude he had earned—more by luck than design.
He was well aware that if he took one of these pills, he might re-live for a brief period the life he loved when he had been a Great Man or, against that, when he had been a wild ass, a scorpion, a ghost, a centaur, a serpent, a sawfish with the toothache, a yoke-ox, a new-laid egg, or a molting turkey buzzard. Anything! He never knew.
He had taken a good many of the pills, but so far, he had not had much luck. That is what he had believed. But he was not quite so sure about that as he had been. He was learning a few things.
Many—if not most—of the pills showed him that in practically all his past incarnations he had been tough beyond all the limits of present-day toughness. But against that, he had been living in tough times.
And he went on taking the pills. Would you have gone on?
A few evenings after his experience with Lowsie, the paleolithic mammoth, he felt particularly anxious for some variety in his life—temporarily. He had had a hard day's censoring—hard but dull; and any temporary escape from the current war seemed to him like pretty good escaping, even though it might land him nicely into the forefront of one of the battles of the Second Punic War, or the rear of Napoleon's Retreat from Moscow.
So, settled comfortably in his chair and slippers, he wished away a glass of port, swallowed a pill at random, and washed it onward with a second port.
"Anything for a change!" he murmured as his Adam's apple performed. "To put it no higher than that!"
He laughed drowsily.
Then all was black and silent. At least, for a moment he believed it to be so; but he was wrong, for almost immediately, he heard a voice—the lovely, dreamlike, luscious voice of a woman. For a second it sounded as it she were far off; then he knew that she was close at hand....
"I have sent expressly for thee to comfort me and to assuage mine heart's desire!"
Mr. Honey opened his eyes instantly—to gaze upon the lady who had sent for him. It would have been quite understandable if he had closed then again as instantly, for she was undeniably dazzling. She was reclining in a lightly-clad sort of fashion upon a silken couch under a window that admitted the rays of a setting sun; and she was beautiful with a darkling and tropical beauty that was superlative even in the Rome of 461 A.D.
She was extremely voluptuous—excusably so, for though Rome was at that time no longer quite what it had been formerly, it was still a reasonably voluptuous place.
She was staring at him with the skilled appraisement of a highly-experienced woman.
"Yes," she said, "thou art a man of singularly seemly appearance, Obarton.... Draw close the curtains! Turn the key in the lock of the door! Speak low. I wish to talk to thee of love and serious things!"
MR. HONEY, or as he was now, in this incarnation,
functioning, Obarton the Arranger, drew close the curtain,
turned the key in the lock of the door, and when it was his
turn to speak, spoke low. But he had no illusions about the
lady. He had never seen her before, though he had heard of
her; and what he could see of her now bore out everything he
had ever heard of her.
She was Augusta Honoria, princess daughter of the Empress Placidia, and sister of Valentinian, the Roman Emperor.
It is now universally accepted as a truth of the first grade that Honoria literally lived for love. It was the way she was.*
* The late Mr. Edward Gibbon, author of the engaging little tome entitled "The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire," entirely agrees with me about this. —Bertram.
Obarton was completely familiar with her life and times, so to express it; and he did not, of course, for a single second commit the faux pas of imagining that the love in her mind was bracketed with him. On the contrary, she had sent for him on a matter of business—very strict business indeed. He was a well-known Arranger, with his head office in Rome and a branch in Constantinople.
FOR a few moments she lay thinking, her eyes absently
on Obarton. For his part he stood waiting, his eyes less
absently on her. She was wondering exactly how to start the interview; Obarton was figuring about how much her income
was.
He ran her history over in his mind as he waited, and he was conscious at once of a good deal of sympathy for her. She had been well under sixteen when they bestowed the title of Augusta on her—which title put her completely out of the class of any husband but a royal one. Apparently the girl's experience of the current royalties had not been so delightful that she wished for one for her own; and a year or two later she had fallen in a truly Roman way for one Eugenius, a regular fellow, who happened to be her chamberlain.
All went well for a time. Then, as is customary in these affairs, all went less well. Honoria's mother, the formidable Placidia, intervened; these were the days when intervention was intervention, and the ardent Honoria was exiled to Constantinople, where she spent the next ten or twelve years in what she regarded as somewhat dreary seclusion among the virgins connected with the court of Theodosius—a seclusion so strictly enforced that historians suggest that Honoria went well-nigh crackerissimo.
This may be somewhat exaggerated, but she certainly became desperate. She had gathered a good many odd scraps of information about the conquering Hun of that period, one Attila—certainly a rising man, and said by practically everybody who was afraid of him—and most people were —to have a colossal future. His reputation in Rome and Constantinople was rising like a kite. Either ignoring, or more likely not knowing the real class of this barbarian rough, the desperate Princess sent her favorite eunuch in secret to the mighty Hun, offering herself in marriage. She knew nothing about him—she could not even speak his language; but anything that could get her away from her seclusion and all it implied went with Honoria—not without a certain amount of reason, for ten solid years of fasting and vigils in what the historians call "the irksome society of the sisters of Theodosius and their chosen virgins" can easily be imagined to be something of a trial to a high-spirited princess of about twenty-six.
And Attila declined her!
She, Augusta Honoria, sister of the Emperor, passed up by a Hun barbarian and multi-murderer! She may have been feeling lonely, but she had her pride. She never forgot it—and certainly never forgave it. Shortly after that, it became obvious to her home folk at Rome that the girl had pretty well served her time, anyway. They had her back to Rome, where she gave herself a hearty welcome and was thoroughly enjoying her life and times, when suddenly who but Attila, from motives of sheer avarice and political expediency, demanded her as the latest of his innumerable wives—plus, he particularly stated, the last cent of her imperial dowry.
With the exception of that part of the foregoing which concerned Attila the Hun, Obarton knew most of the story of Honoria's troubles.
AT last the Princess broke the silence:
"Thou knowest my sad history, Arranger?"
"Often have I wept in secret for thy sufferings, Augusta," said Obarton.
She shrugged her fine shoulders.
"But thou canst not know all, Arranger. We talk now in deep secret. Know now that once, in despair, I offered myself as wife to Attila the Hun—secretly!"
"The Scourge of God!"[*] Obarton felt a chill pass up his spine at the sound of the hated name.
[* Some say that Tamerlane was the Scourge of God. The truth is that both were. Each murdered about the same number of millions of ordinary folks. —Bertram.]
"To escape my exile! He disdained me then.... Now he hath sent to Rome demanding me—and the Emperor, my brother, and my mother, the Empress Placidia, are deeply affronted at the insolence of this barbarian. They will refuse him, and there will be bitter war. He will bring his hordes to the very gates of Rome, Obarton, they must never know that I once offered to wed Attila!"
"He will tell them!" said Obarton.
"Nay—if he is dead, how then can he tell them?"
"But he is not dead!"
"I know," cooed the Princess. "That is why I sent for thee, Obarton. Thou advertisest thyself as an Arranger, dost thou not?"
Obarton admitted it, reluctantly.
"As an Arranger, thou understandest the peradventures of life and the distant goal of life which is death, dost thou not? Thou hast been commended to me as one who, for a price, can arrange all things. Thou art familiar with the arts of the assassin, the crafts of the bravo, the dark byways of the killers. At a price! At a price. And thou shalt receive such a price as neither thou nor any such Arranger as thou art hath ever known, if thou canst but arrange for me the end of this Hunnish wolf before he comes to Rome to take me—and mine!"
"Gods! But it is to kill the conqueror of all Europe!"
"And all Europe will thank thee on its knees."
"Oh, Princess, this thing I must consider well! Give me time!"
"Time! Time! There is a bitter limit to the time—as there is no limit to the reward. Go! Think! Be swift! Come back when thou art prepared! Unlock the door—call my treasurer! Thou canst not think without gold. It is ready for thee—an abundance.... Succeed in this mission, Obarton. and I will enrich thee, and"—her eyes flashed above a brilliant smile—"thou shalt be forever established in my favor!"
Obarton bowed, and unlocked the door. After all, he was a man of business—rough or smooth. And this talk of cash in advance was as minstrelsy to his ear. About being established in her favor later on, he was not so sure. She was very beautiful after her fashion—but so is a sleek young tigress, after hers.
TO this day the name of Attila reeks in the nostrils of
all right-minded men—though not perhaps so intensely as
Attila did personally in the days of Valentinian. He was one
of the first of the super-killers: and like most of these, he
was extravagantly well guarded.
It only took the gold-gorged Obarton a few seconds to realize that he had accepted from the Princess Honoria a commission that was worth a big fee. A little further reflection convinced him that he had undertaken to perform a very considerable miracle—one which literally millions of men before him had failed to perform. But, having accepted it, he had to do something about it, or return Honoria's money—an expedient which never had been and was extremely unlikely ever to become a part of his business method.
"Huh!" he said to himself over a goblet of old vintage Falernian that evening. "Often have I longed to be in the Big Money! Now I am in it. But by the gods, I could find it within me to wish I were out of it!"
But a few more goblets cheered him up a little. He took a look at himself in a burnished-silver mirror. Even as the promising Princess had said, he was a singularly seemly Arranger. It he had lived in these days, he almost certainly would have been functioning at Hollywood. But Hollywood was so much a thing of the far future that it might just as well have been a thing of the far past.
Another goblet convinced him that after all, there was something to be said for a vista in which he saw himself as an established favorite of the sister of the Emperor Valentinian—who was fond of her, and now that the Empress Placidia was getting older and much less influential and formidable, was able to do for her anything in reason that she wanted done. Money would cease to matter. The arranging business could be sold and forgotten. Yes, definitely a prospect.
He sent for one of the few men he could trust.[*] This was Bullo, who in his day had personally conducted a big business as a professional murderer.
[* In those cheerful days you had to know a man about twenty years, as well as have a hold on him, before you trusted him. Then he probably double-crossed you.... Brutus, a patrician of ancient Rome, in his little volume of memoirs "Looking Back at It All," agrees with me, though he was not a man I, personally, would trust. —Bertram.]
For years he had been the best and most highly-paid bravo in Rome, but growing old and careless, he had so grossly mismanaged a commission to exterminate a well-known Goth, that when by sheer luck he managed to crawl into the darkness out of reach of the annoyed Goth, he left about thirty-two and a half per cent of his working parts behind him. Bullo had then retired from active business, though he still did a little as a Consulting Murderer, and had established himself as a competent Professor of Poisons. He still had brains in his head (the Goth must have overlooked these) and, of course, enormous experience.
Obarton sent for him on the off chance that Bullo, a notorious Hun-hater, might stew up an idea. Bullo, fresh from his favorite tavern, was in a talkative mood when he lurched over to Obarton's place, and he was more so before he had had a couple of goblets of the unwatered Falernian wine the Arranger plentifully provided. But even so, he was not really enthusiastic.
"Mark ye, Obarton: it is a difficult and complicated technique None but a genius with a desire to perform suicide would undertake the execution of Attila. For myself, I—yes even I, Bullo—have invariably refused all offers to subtract Attila from the total Hun population. His bodyguard is what any ordinary king would describe as an army; and he himself is as cunning as a wolf, as savage as a wild bull and as quick to strike as a snake—quicker, indeed, for snakes, in my experience, are slow in the strike and their timing is bad. I never used them except in cheap cases when the out-of-pocket expenses had to be kept low. Moreover, the Hun king is a wizard with horses—he liveth his life on horseback; and it is said that each one of his horses is trained to kick backward with the hind legs or punch forward with the front legs, at a touch. With their teeth, they are taught to snap like a rat-trap—but quicker.
"Nay, Obarton, leave well alone. It is less a contract for a man than a woman; for, mark ye well, it is conceivable that there may be moments when he will relax in company with a woman, but in the company of no man hath he ever been known to lay aside his caution. They say that ever his pig-eyes rove from face to face of even his favorite generals.... Nay, leave well alone, Obarton!"
Bullo downed a goblet.
"Or if thou art set upon it, remember these words of Bullo—yea, I, Bullo himself, who speaketh unto thee: 'Never lived the man who was match for the women of his life. For, observe it well, Obarton, one man is one life, but within his one life are many women. They loom in the orbit of his one life like a multitude of blossoms[*], and though he may pluck them by the myriad, yet always in the end one of them shall pluck him!' Therefore"—Bullo passed his goblet for replenishment—"let us seek among the fair ones in Attila's life for the one who shall forever finish it. And the sooner, the better."
[* True—of that period. They were a polygamous lot. Things would have changed a good deal since then, I take it. —Bertram.]
"Thou art a philosopher—of a kind—I perceive," said Obarton sourly. Nevertheless he was attracted by Bullo's reasoning, and began to talk in terms of money—cold money down, and quite a lot of it.
"I shall not offend thee, good Bullo, if I say that thy business is of a more popular grade than mine. Mine is more exclusive, and my fees are vastly in excess of thine. Therefore thou hast to do with the many, whereas I do with the few. Inquire discreetly among thy cutthroat clientele—as the Franks say—concerning possibilities. Here is gold, and mark ye well, my Bullo, there is plenty more where that came from!"
Bullo's eyes glittered glassily.
"I will do my best, Obarton—and my best is very good indeed!"
LATER, by a week or so, quite a little company of men and
horses under Obarton's command, with Bullo coming a good
second in command, were heading for the so-called palace of
Attila on the banks of the Danube.
The men of this expedition were moderate and not more heavily armed than the average workmen of the period, but the horses were superb—Arabs, and good ones.
It was an excellent idea, for it was about the only way in which Obarton & Co. could hope to get anywhere near Attila: his legions of toughs swarmed, miles deep, around his headquarters, and every man of them was a horse-master—had lived on horseback, and on the horses, too, from childhood. Their favorite roast was a haunch of horse: their favorite entrée was a species of soufflé of horse's blood and herbs; their favorite drink was fermented mare's milk. All other food was about as attractive to them as a bale of asparagus is to a man-eating tiger, or a strawberry shortcake is to a famished vampire bat. So eclipsed of horses was the mental horizon of the blood-hungry Huns, that the leading Roman scientists of the day maintained that it was a grave oversight of Nature not to have made a thorough job of it, and had them born as horses in the first place. Or at least, as jackasses. They would have been less bloodthirsty, and enjoyed life more.
Bullo had brought him from the underworld a rumor upon which—for lack of anything better-Obarton had gambled. And when they were but one day's journey from Attila's H.Q., this rumor was confirmed.
They pulled in at a biggish farm which was obviously that of a horse-raiser, and were greeted by the owner of the ranch—a seriously battered but still good-looking gentleman on crutches—one Stylo, who might have been a gypsy before he settled down to work. He was young, and clad in many colors, and had a slight acquaintance with Bullo, who promptly introduced Obarton and produced wineskins.
Stylo invited them to eat with him.
Long before the meal was over and the frequently renewed supply of wineskins was exhausted, they were talking both freely and frankly.
"Thou hast suffered an accident recently, Stylo," said Obarton, as he tilted a wineskin for his battered host.
"Aye, Obarton, that have!—at the hands of one of Attila's captains, Dagga, a man like a bear. My foot slipped at a critical moment, or it would have been otherwise—he would have qualified for the crutches. Doubtless it was the will of the gods, and my unlucky day. But when I am healed up, we shall meet again!" said Stylo, his eyes grim.
"It was a private quarrel?" asked Obarton politely.
"If to leave a man for dead and to abduct his betrothed can be called a quarrel, it was," snarled Stylo. "That was the wav of it, look you. In two days' time Ildica, the loveliest woman in the world, would have been my wife. But I was not the only one who appreciated her charms. This raider, this Hun woman-stealer, appreciated her also, and as is their way, he came here with another like him, and took us by surprise. Me they left for dead; Ildica they bore away! Rumor hath come to me since that evil day that it was not because he coveted her that Dagga came—but because of a hint let fall by none other than Attila the Hun king himself, who had seen her while riding one day."
"Attila! Gods! Then there is no hope?" exclaimed Bullo.
Stylo eyed him dourly.
"While there is life, there is at least hope—of death—somebody's," he said, with a note under-running his voice which would have startled anyone less hard-boiled than Obarton and partner. "For, mark ye well, friends, Ildica is no witless bird of Paradise! Nay, she is supple and fierce and cunning; she comes of true gypsy stock; she is like a beautiful, dangerous snake of venomous steel—and it is I, Stylo, who am her heart's desire, as she is mine!" He hissed the last words at them, more than a little snakishly himself.
The Arranger and the murderer exchanged glances, and rose.
"We ourselves are bound for Attila's palace, and it may befall that we have opportunity to speak with her. Who knows?" said Obarton. "Hast any message—or aught to send her, Stylo?"
"Aye, that have I!" The gypsy hobbled to a corner of the apartment and fumbled at a skin bag which lay on a stool. Returning, he gave Obarton several quills, of different colors.
"If thou canst get these quills into her hands, with word that from this hour onward there will for the next six moons be awaiting here, ready to leave in an instant, my fastest horses, then I will give thee this land and all thereon. More I cannot give, for I have no more!"
Bullo stared at the quills,
"Poisons?"
"Poisons from Egypt!" said Stylo darkly.
"The Egyptian poisons are usually good poisons—I know them all!" observed Bullo.
BUT he spoke otherwise when a little later they rode on.
"Concerning the poisons. Stylo spoke truly," he said. "These Egyptian poisons are good—swift, subtle, portable and inexpensive. Suitable for amateurs. But I do not use them for the better class of case. Most of them are easily diagnosed by a skillful physician. It is otherwise with those I use for my more expensive contracts!"
He chuckled—much as one would expect a diamond-back rattler to chuckle if, indeed, they ever do.[*]
[* Buffon agrees with me that chuckling rattlesnakes are very rare. They have very little to chuckle about. —Bertram.]
Obarton did not chuckle. He seemed a little uncomfortable. But he answered civilly enough.
"Thou art famous as a master of thine art, Bullo," he said, his smile a little forced. "Now, for an example, let us suppose that we have the good fortune to meet with the beautiful Ildica and are able to convey to her hands a—er—a form of release for the Hun king, which of thy wide assortment wouldst thou, as a high-class professor or purveyor of sudden death, proffer unto her?"
Again the skin-crawling chuckle from the Professor.
"Without hesitation, just one small pellet of my Arabian Powder No. 2. It is so small that one can hold it invisible between the bases of any two fingers, so that one may drop it unseen where and when one will. It acts like lightning, but it leaves no trace. Moreover, there lives not the physician who can say: 'This person died of Bullo's Arabian Powder No. 2.' And if there were a physician who could, he would not live very long!"
"Hah!" said Obarton. "And how doth this delectable powder act, that it should leave no trace?"
"It bursteth the arteries of whoso taketh," replied Bullo casually—and pulled up abruptly as they were halted by a gang of Hun horsemen.
"Whither goest thou with these horses?" demanded the leader. He had already grabbed the head-ropes of one of the best; and his men, horse thieves by birth, upbringing and natural inclination, were reaching out for theirs as Obarton's answer rasped out.
"These be horses from the deserts of Arabia, a gift from the great Estyloh, Sheik of Deytvil, unto His Majesty King Attila. Each horse is branded in a secret place with the brand of Great Attila—and it were better for any horse thief that he should flay himself alive, than touch or hinder the passage of these noble beasts to the stables of His Majesty!"
The clutching hands of the Huns fell away as though the halters were white-hot. Even the hard-boiled captain of the crew looked scared.
"Pass, pass! In the name of all the gods, pass on!" he growled. "We were but admiring the noble brutes! Way! Make way, thou swine, there! Way for the Kings Arabians!"
Nobody else hindered them—for Attila was notoriously rough with people who interfered with his horses.
ALL went well—far better, indeed, than Obarton
had expected, Attila was away deleting a town (and its
inhabitants) which had offended him. He would return that
afternoon in time for the quick ceremony which would add
Ildica to his already extensive list of wives. Most of the
swarming Huns were already half-drunk in anticipation of the
festivities. They would be unconscious by the time the brief
marriage ceremonies were completed.
The Arab horses were the subject of great admiration, and Obarton & Co. were welcomed. Apartments in the so-called palace were reserved for them, and they did a good deal of drinking with Manour, the ancient bowlegged tough who called himself Master of the King's Horse. Manour had tried a few of the Arab horses, and was enraptured.
"It is not riding—it is dreaming," he said, which was pretty fair for a Hun. They were drinking late, and Manour was getting confidential.
"There is nothing that my master will not do for ye for so good a gift," he declared. "Ye have come at a good time, moreover; for within a few hours of his return, he taketh another bride! There will be great festivities!"
"A bride! Hath the Princess Honoria arrived?" asked Obarton. "I knew not that—"
"Nay, nay—not the Princess Honoria! That is a great affair—an alliance which must be the matter of negotiation between kings. It is true that these are afoot, but the marriage of which I speak is a matter of less import! It is a girl, Ildica, who hath caught the King's taste and fancy. She will do well enough until the alliance with the sister of the Roman Emperor is made."
Manour laughed, and drank again. "One more or less—what matter?"
"I have heard that Ildica is surpassingly beautiful," said Obarton. "Would that I could see her!"
"That can be arranged—at a price," said Manour. "Inscribe on thy parchments that the chestnut mare with the white near foreleg is designed as a gift for the King's Master of Horse, and I doubt not that I can persuade Ildica to come hither to speak with thee."
"That will I do, for thou art a man after mine own heart! Good Bullo, pass me the parchment of the horses!"
Bullo, who was picking his teeth lightly—very lightly indeed—with one of the colored quills, made haste to oblige.
Obarton wrote, Manour peering over his shoulder at the words he could not read.
"That maketh the chestnut mare mine, subject to Attila's approval?"
"Undoubtedly!! swore Obarton.
"Good—I go. Thou shalt see the bride!"
He went out.
Bullo leaped into activity. Moving like a conjuror, he filled Manour's drinking horn, added a little something to it, and set it back. Obarton watched the Professor engaged on his business with a comradely interest.
"There is that within the draft which will clout him senseless in a space of seconds." hissed Bullo. "Drink to the bride, Obarton, as swiftly as good manners will permit!"
OBARTON nodded—wiping a sudden cold sweat from his
brow. "Gods! If Attila but knew, he would crucify us, having
first removed and burnt our hides!"
He pulled himself together and filled his drinking-horn personally—leaving Bullo to fill his own.
"Thou hast the quills, Bullo?"
"Nay; she will not need the cheap Egyptian stuff. I shall furnish her with the best—mine own!" hissed Bullo, and lolled back as there entered to them a magnificent brunette, tall, lithe, graceful, vivid, with great black eyes that gleamed with a lambent and perilous light—Ildica. Attila's most recent prey.... Behind her lurched the Master of Horse.
Obarton and Bullo bowed low before her.
"Thou art the men with the Arabians sent as gift to the King by the Sheik Estyloh!" she said. But she pronounced "Estyloh" as if there were little or no "E" in it—so that it sounded almost like "Stylo."
Obarton knew then that she was indeed swift and subtle as Stylo, her "heart's desire," had said.
"Even so," he said. "From Estyloh!" He too muted the "E." Then he took his drinking horn.
"Permit that we drink to the most beautiful bride-to-be of the Great Attila—thou, Bullo; thou, Manour; and I, Obarton!"
They drank—and Manour dropped like a poleaxed ox.
Leaving him to lie, they worked fast then.
"We are from Stylo—of the farm. Trust us, Ildica,"
Bullo passed her a tiny pill.
"Listen! Here are pellets! Drop one of these into the cup of wine which thou wilt proffer the tyrant when he comes to thee after the carouse on his wedding night—and flee. We shall await thee with horses at the back of the palace; fear not—all the guards will be drunk! Dost understand? Quick!"
She was quick—the quill vanished. Bullo held a vial under the nostrils of Manour, and the man gave a violent shudder, opening his eyes instantly. His head rolled on the white arm of the woman.
"Awake. Manour!" she said in a dove-gentle voice.
Manour awoke.
"Drink this! Thou hast been—overcome. A passing thing. Manour—it passes! Already thou art thyself again!" crooned Bullo.
Manour drained the cup Bullo proffered—and was himself (such as he was) again.
"It was a sudden dizziness." he admitted.
"Yea—a dizziness." said Ildica; and she led them, quickly, with no more than a flash of her great eyes at the emissaries of "Estyloh."
"Thy dizziness hath now gone. Manour?" inquired Obarton anxiously. "Yea? Glad am I—though thine indisposition cost us dear, for it discomposed the beautiful Ildica, and we had no more than a glimpse of her. No matter. Thou art truly thyself again. Manour? Ah, that is good! One cup—then rest awhile!"
"So far, Bullo—good!" breathed Obarton as Manour reeled out.
"We have made it good—so far," answered Bullo.
An hour later, at dusk, Attila and his swarm of killers, drunk with fire, murder, outrage and rapine, raged home.
Obarton and Bullo looked out from a window on the town-destroyers as they came in; and they did not like what they saw in the red and smoky glow of many torches.
"Head-hunters and scalpers, I see!" said Obarton in a whisper as they stared out at the shouting mob of horsemen milling about the great square before the palace. "May the gods forever keep them out of Rome!"
"Cold steel for that," grunted the Consulting Professor of Poisons. "The gods aid only those who aid themselves! Cold steel—or better still, that which I carry in my pouches! Given my way and a reasonable sum, I could lay them stiff as ra—"
He broke off as Manour entered, to report that Attila would view the Arabs in the morning. Meantime Obarton and Bullo, envoys of the Sheik, were invited to the wedding feast. The ceremony—quite a brief one—was even now taking place; and—they would not forget the matter of the chestnut mare with the white foreleg?
"Fear not. Manour—she shall be thine," said Obarton, "Come what may, she shall be thine." He had to raise his voice to make himself heard above the yelling devils in the square outside—who had already overslaked their thirst after their long ride, and were now shouting their besotted approval of the marriage.
"They would shout as loudly if it were a burial!" said Obarton, staring out.
Bullo's wide, thin-lipped viper mouth moved.
"That too they may be shouting for ere many hours have sped!" he said in a malevolent whisper. "Gods! How they swill! I have seen nothing in our Saturnalia so swinelike. Would that the Emperor ordered me to deal with these Huns, and furnished me the gold to get the simple things I needed I would carpet this region—nay, this whole land—with a carpet of dead Huns such as the eye of man hath never seen!"
The eyes of the Professor of Poisons were glittering with a strange and sinister lust.
"Peace! Peace!" soothed Obarton uneasily. "One thing at a time, comrade!"
They waited, staring out, till a sudden roar arose outside.
"The ceremony is over—such as it was!" he said.
Bullo nodded impatiently.
"We go now?"
"Nay—Manour will return to conduct us!" said Obarton, staring out. "Saw ye ever the like, Bullo?"
AS far as the eye could reach flared the torches and fires
of the Huns. The night was wild with flame, delirious with
shoutings of men, the neighing of horses: and the red gloom
reeked with the odor of half-burnt horseflesh. Here and there
slaves tottered under the vast weight of drink looted from a
thousand ruined towns.
"And this no more than Hunnish revelry!" said Obarton, a fastidious if not a moral man.
"Bah! Would I were butler this night to them all!" deplored the Professor at his elbow.
Then Manour entered—half drunk, but civil.
"He is in a good mood, and is desirous to see ye," said the Master of Horse, "Be restrained—flatter him—bend well the knee—be humble and, above all things, flatter him!"
They nodded, smiling at the ignorance which hinted to a Roman of the value of flattery!
"And forget not the chestnut mare!" muttered Manour,
THEY made no mistakes when presently the Master of Horse
presented them to the Moloch of those days and his bride.
Inflamed by many things as he already was—including Ildica, brilliant at his side—Attila was still capable of a little further inflammation by Manour, who described the Arabs as an introductory to the presentation. The bowlegged old ruffian knew how to describe horses, and the bloodshot blackguard at the head of the long tables knew how to appreciate them.
"It is good. Tomorrow we will try these horses. If they are all that our Master of Horse claimeth, I will enrich thee so that ye can fetch me yet more of them. And now, drink and feast and make merry, envoys, for ye have come at a good hour!"
Manour steered them to seats among the Hun generals not far from Attila—and the feast was on. It was not much of a feast for Romans, but it seemed a treat for the Huns.
Obarton and Bullo were careful at first, but they soon perceived that care would not long be necessary, for nobody was noticing them an hour after the feast began. Attila was little better than the rest of his "court."
At last Obarton and his lethal friend saw Attila, a short, thick, swarthy brute, attempt to rise, and, aided by Ildica's strong white arms, succeed. He glared about him with glassy, bloodshot eyes, the veins on his temples standing out like ropes, his wet lip-corners dragging down, but his whirling mind could discover no cause of offense among the multitude of sots, and so he allowed Ildica and an other to assist him away.
The eyes of Ildica flickered over the crowd and lingered for a second on the two Romans, Then she was gone.
They waited a little, seeming to drink, All around them the Huns were dropping like ripe berries, and they saw that they could go without attracting attention.
So, each with an arm around the other, hoarsely howling an entirely meaningless song, they reeled out.
Throughout all that remained of the night their luck held—or they held it.
And Ildica's luck held. Indeed, the luck of the Europe of that day held—or was held for her by these three people, some Arab horses and a few horsemen.
But the luck of Attila the Hun king ran out forever that night.
By the time the Hun guards, uneasy at the overlong silence in Attila's bridal chamber, dared to break in next afternoon, Ildica and Stylo were in the remote glooms of a distant forest among the gypsies from whom they originally came.
And Obarton and Bullo the Poisoner were racing for Rome....
THE Princess Honoria was lying fretfully on her couch, well
sheltered from the intense glare of the sun outside, when her
favorite eunuch ventured to announce that Obarton the Arranger
was awaiting audience.
"Bring him forthwith," she said.
Her eyes gleamed as the Arranger came in.
"Draw nigh!" she said in a low voice. "Nay! Closer!"
Her voice sank to a whisper.
"Thou hast come to report! Hast thou aught to report, Arranger? I have fretted bitterly through the long nights, the dreary days, lacking word from thee, silencing mine ears to the myriad rumors that wheel about the city like the pigeons of the air! The eyes of the Empress Placidia are dark with menace; the eyes of the Emperor, my brother, are full of boding, and rumor follows rumor. It is said that Attila draweth in his armies about him to march on Rome and take me at the sword's point! It is said that he hath sent envoys to Rome charged with tales to my discredit! Lies—lies—lies—they crawl the streets like asps! It is said that they have sent for the pallid virgins of the court of Theodosius among whom I languished so long—that these may bear witness against me! Lies—asps! Tell me!"
She sat up suddenly, thrusting out a bare arm to grip with jeweled and lovely fingers the wrist of Obarton.
"Tell me! Hast thou done aught for me?"
Her eyes were blazing.
"Tell me, I say! What hast thou done for me?"
Like one fascinated, she watched a slow smile dawn on the cruel, handsome lace of the Arranger.
"Forget forever thy fears, thou beautiful one!" said Obarton, softly, leaning to her "Attila is dead—dead—of a burst artery! This I swear—for I contrived it!"
She drew her breath in a sigh so long that it was as though it could never cease. But at last she returned the smile of Obarton.
"I believe thee, Obarton, thou most seemly of men!"
She relaxed, thinking. Her lids fell, as if she were about to sleep.
Obarton the Arranger waited, Then a whisper—
"Draw close the curtains—close; turn the key in the lock of the door. Speak low, Obarton. I wish to talk to thee—"
He went over to draw the curtains, and as he glanced triumphantly over the city, the rays of the afternoon sun struck upon his eyes with such an intolerable brilliance that he shut them for a second. The curtains swished together, but did not altogether shut out the light.
He opened his eyes again—on Mr. Hobart Honey's electric fire in Twentieth Century London. It was glowing nicely.
So was Mr. Honey.
The Lama's pill had short-circuited just once more—that was all.
FOR a long time Mr. Honey stared at the electric fire. Then
he poured himself a port.
"Pity!" he said. "Though perhaps, it was just as well. I wonder how it finished. No need to wonder, really. Can guess for myself: men like me—like I was—usually came to a pretty uncouth finish in those days. Yes, better off as I am—in a way. Though she certainly was a very attractive woman!"
Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
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