RWIC jumped on to the seaweed-littered beach, slipped on a heap of the slimy stuff and sprawled among the scampering crabs, where Conops helped him to his feet.
"A bad omen, Lord Orwic. A bad omen!"
But the Britons were not addicted to the vice of reading omens in every accident.
"Go back in the boat, if you're afraid," Orwic answered. So Conops started to lead the way on the five-mile walk toward the city across a dark, ill-smelling wilderness of sand and scrub where anything might happen. And Sigurdsen sent Skram, the skald to follow them.
They found a road after a while, with a stinking ditch on either side of it, and before long saw the lights of the drinking booths, brothels and slaughter yards outside the wall, where there was neither day nor night but one long pandemonium of vice and lawlessness. And soon after that the first of the scavenger dogs, prowling in search of stray goats or forgotten offal, winded them and started a yelp that brought the pack.
Thereafter, they had to fight their way with knife and stick, not daring to gather stones lest the ferocious brutes should snatch that opportunity to rush them while they stooped. But the noise called no attention from the slums, where a dog-fight in the dark was nothing new, and when Skram, judging he was close enough to the gate, lay down to watch, the dogs devoted all their efforts to attacking him, leaving Orwic and Conops free to approach the gate with a semblance of Roman dignity. There Conops took command.
There was a foot-gate in the midst of one side of the double, iron-strapped wooden one that had been closed at sunset; and in the midst of the small gate was a grilled opening that the guard could look through, and above that a lantern on an iron bracket.
Long before they came into the lantern light Conops began talking fussily in Greek.
"This way, master! That way! Mind the muck there! Dionysus! But the wine those rascals sell has madness in it! Master, master, try to walk straight!" Any one who understood Greek could not help but know a Roman gentleman was coming from an evening's entertainment.
"There, master, give me your purse and lean against the wall while I call the gate guard!"
Conops set his ugly face against the grill and whistled.
"Quick!" he commanded. "My master is drunk, and ill-tempered because he has been robbed."
"Who is he?" a voice asked through the grill.
"None of your business! Be quick, unless the lot of you want to be whipped in the morning!"
"Was he robbed of his purse?"
"Dionysus! No. What do you take me for? I keep his purse."
"Well, you know what it costs. One gold piece from each of you to the man on duty, and then the officer—he makes his own terms."
"Fool!" Conops roared at him. "Open! If you knew who waits you'd tremble in your mongrel skin!"
The guard vanished. A moment later Conops heard him reporting through the guard-house window to his officer, and he made haste to improve the passing moment.
"Master, master!" he yelled. "Don't beat me! I'm doing my best! Order those blackguards in the guard-house beaten for daring to keep you waiting. Ow! Ow! Master, that hurts!"
The captain of the guard came—a Numidian, as coal-black as the shadows, rolling the whites of his eyes in an effort to see through the grill, his breath reeking of garlic.
"Who?" he demanded.
"You'll pay smartly for it if I have to tell you!" Conops answered. "Hurry up now! Two gold pieces for you to hold your tongue and shut your eyes. Some silver for your men. My master's drunk. I pity you, if you keep him waiting!"
A great key jangled on a ring. The lock squealed. Conops threw his arm around Orwic, whose face was smothered in the fold of his pallium.
"Act very drunk!" he whispered, and hustled him through the narrow opening.
On the far side he pushed him into the darkest shadow, where dim rays from a lantern showed the broad blue border of a Roman tunic and the sandaled legs below it, but nothing else. There was a chink of money. The Numidian signed to half a dozen men to retire into the guard-house.
"Remind him when he's sober that I let him in without a fuss," he said grinning. "Who is he?"
Conops laid a hand on the black man's shoulder and leaned toward him as if to whisper, then apparently thought better of it.
"No," he said, "mind your own business. That's wisest. I'll remind him you were civil."
"All right. Don't forget now! I'll remember you, you one-eyed Greek! If I see you and ask a favor some time—"