‘I am sure that someone with your intelligence, lady, has read Antisthenes,’ he said, after a moment.
‘You surprise me that common thieves such as yourselves have read the eminent philosophers. First we hear from Virgil and now of Antisthenes.’
Clydog did not respond to her jibe. ‘If, lady, you claim you dislike me, then perhaps you should recall those words of Antisthenes. Pay attention to those you dislike, to your enemies, for they are the first to discover your faults and mistakes.’
Fidelma bowed her head slightly. ‘Publilius Syrus is my favourite philosopher. Perhaps you have read him?’
‘I have some knowledge of his moral maxims.’
‘He said that there was no safety in gaining the favour of an enemy. You may call the enemy your friend only when he is dead.’
‘Publilius Syrus,’ sneered Clydog. ‘Who was he but a slave from Antioch who was brought to Rome and managed to win his freedom by writing plays which pandered to the sensibilities of his masters?’
‘Do you disapprove of his maxims, of his plays, that he was from Antioch, or because he was a Roman slave who won his freedom? Many of your ancestors followed that same path.’
‘Not my ancestors!’ Clydog snapped with an anger which surprised Fidelma.
‘I mean those Britons and Gauls who were taken as slaves to Rome and won their freedom.’
‘Let them speak for themselves. I will speak for myself.’
‘You are obviously an intelligent man, Clydog. Who are you?’ Fidelma suddenly asked. ‘You are too intelligent to be a mere outlaw.’
The young man glanced at her. The shadows caused by the flickering fire disguised the expression on his face.
‘I have told you who I am.’
‘Clydog the Wasp, an outlaw,’ Fidelma acknowledged. ‘Yet what made you so? You were not born a thief.’
The young man laughed brusquely. ‘I am what I am because I want more in life than it has been my fortune to have been given. But it is not to talk about me that I asked for your company at this feasting.’
There was the sound of raised raucous voices from the other side of the fire. Fidelma was amazed to see that Corryn had been persuaded to take up a stringed instrument which reminded her of a ceis, a small, square-shaped harp whose strings were set diagonally, much played in her own land. The voices died away as Corryn struck up a song. His voice was a tenor, melodious and sweet.
‘Winter’s day, thin are the stags,
swift and sturdy is the black raven,
the wind is as swift as a storm cloud,
woe to him who trusts a stranger,
woe to the weak, woe to the weak.’
Fidelma sniffed deprecatingly. ‘Is that your philosophy, Clydog? Woe to the weak?’
‘What better philosophy?’ agreed the outlaw. ‘It is the strong who shall inherit this earth.’
‘Then you are not a Christian? Our Lord said that those who are blessed with a gentle spirit shall have the earth for their possession. You do not share that sentiment?’
‘I am not a Christian. I do not share the teachings that deny men courage and strength. Your God is a god of slaves and encourages them to remain slaves. He encourages people to remain poor, to be hungry, to be without clothes. Your God is a god invented by the rich to enslave the poor. Away with such nonsense! Away with such teachings of slavery!’
Fidelma examined the young man with interest. His voice was edged with passion.
‘Were you poor and enslaved, Clydog?’
He turned angrily on her. ‘What do you-’ He caught himself. ‘I did not say. .’
Fidelma smiled gently. ‘I see there is an anger in your heart and you are prepared to forgive nothing. Luke wrote: “Where little has been forgiven, little love is shown.” ’
‘Don’t preach your faith to me, Gwyddel. We do not need it. Anyway, you should approve of sinners like me, being a Christian.’
Fidelma was puzzled and said so.
‘Do not your teachings tell us that the greater the sinner, the better saint he makes? The more he has sinned, the more your Christ will forgive him?’
‘Who taught you that?’ demanded Fidelma.
‘It is there in your Christian writings. Your Christ said, “I tell you, there will be greater joy in heaven over one sinner who repents than over ninety-nine righteous people who do not need to repent.” It is there in your holy writings.’
‘So you are adept at sinning? Is that your path to peace and contentment?’ Fidelma sneered.
Clydog was not put out. ‘You should not provoke me with your intellectual games, Gwyddel, although I am told that in your religious houses in Éireann your people practise such things.’
‘Surely the honing of the mind is not confined to my land. I am told that the Cymry even play a game similar to our fidchell, the wooden wisdom, as a means of training a sharp mind.’
Clydog nodded absently. ‘Gwyddbwyll, we call it. Our great warrior, Arthur, was a master of the game.’
‘Therefore, you should be as adept at intellectual sport as any Gwyddel,’ Fidelma said waspishly.
Clydog reached for the jug of mead and made to fill her beaker again. Fidelma shook her head. He filled his own, staring speculatively at her.
‘You are an attractive woman,’ he finally said.
Fidelma shifted with an abrupt feeling of unease at the change in his tone.
‘Why is such an attractive woman a member of the religious?’
‘Attraction is relative. Is there a reason why one’s physical appearance should preclude one from following a particular calling in life? One’s outward appearance often disguises what is inside. You, for example, Clydog, ought to be a rough, ugly little man with warts and blackened, broken teeth.’
Clydog hesitated and then chuckled appreciatively. ‘A good answer, Gwyddel. A good answer. Beauty often hides a black soul, eh? So what does your beauty hide, Fidelma of Cashel?’
The question was sharp, and confused Fidelma for the moment.
‘I would debate that I am-’ she began but he interrupted.
‘I hear that there are some of your faith who claim that all religious should live lives of celibacy. You are not celibate, are you?’
The question caused Fidelma to flush.
‘Your face seems to have betrayed you,’ he went on, when she did not answer.
‘It is none of your business,’ she snapped. ‘But it is not commanded by the Faith as well you know. Rome would prefer that abbots and bishops did not marry but there is no law which states that this should generally be so.’
She was becoming aware that this man’s temper was like dry tinder. The smallest and most innocuous spark could set off the flame of his changeable personality. His temperament was unstable. The more she could moderate his swings of humour the more chance she stood of extricating Eadulf and herself from this captivity.
Clydog was grinning lewdly at her. ‘Of course you have had lovers. The only chaste woman is one who has not been asked. Is the Saxon your lover, eh?’
Fidelma felt her face reddening again. Once again she paused, trying to find the right words.
‘You are intelligent, Clydog. You appear cultured. You would know that there are some topics of conversation that it ill behoves civilised people to engage in. Let us turn to some other subject.’
Clydog laughed harshly. ‘You mistake me, Gwyddel, if you think that I am civilised. You forget that I am only an outlaw. That you are my captive and that we are alone in this forest where you are subject to my power. Does that not excite your senses?’
‘Excite?’ Fidelma thrust out her bottom lip. ‘That is a curious word. Certainly it makes me apprehensive, but not for myself. . for you.’