On the evening of the fourth day, suddenly weary of Narbo Martius and its uproar that was so much more blurred and raucous than the uproar of a war camp, I did not at once return to the city when the selling grounds began to empty, but let the rest of the band go on without me, and myself strolled down through the ill-kept olive gardens that rimmed the open ground, and sat on the stone curb of a well, looking out over the pale levels toward the sea which was turning to pearl-shell colors as the sun westered. It was good to be alone for a while, and have quiet enough for my bruised ears to hear the faint hushing of the little wind that rose each evening, in the olive trees behind me, and the dark drip of water from the well, and the soft clonk of goat bells, and to watch, far off, the fishermen drawing in their nets. This would be our last night in Narbo Martius, and I knew that when I got back to the evening fire, every man of the Company would be there. On other nights, many of them had hurried through their supper and gone about their own pleasures; the laughter and rough horseplay in the wineshops, and the women of the city kind and not expensive. But I could not risk thick heads and maybe a hunt through Narbo Martius for some fool still dead drunk in a harlot’s bed, when the time came to break camp in the morning. So I had given the order and made sure that it was understood; but I knew that I must not bide long in my quiet place below the olive gardens, taking for myself the freedom for my own pleasure that I had denied to Fulvius and the Minnow and the rest. I think that few of them would have grudged it to me if I had, but it was not in the bargain.
Just until the shadow of the low-hanging olive branches reached that crack in the stones of the well curb, I told myself. It had the breadth of a hand to travel yet. . . .
That time I heard no step coming through the long grass under the olive trees, but a shadow, fantastically long in the westering light, fell across the wellhead, and when I looked up, Bedwyr was standing within a spear’s length of me, his figure blotted darkly against the sunset. “How does the horse buying go?” he asked, without any other greeting.
“Well enough,” I said. “I have chosen all my stallions, all but one of my brood mares. Now we have all things ready for striking camp, and tomorrow I shall take the first reasonable beast that I can strike a bargain for, and with good fortune we should be on the road north by noon.”
He came and sat himself on the ground at my feet, leaning his head back against the warm stones of the well curb. “There are yet three days of the fair to run. Why then so great a hurry, my Lord Artos?”
“It is a long road north, and at the end of it a sea crossing. Even with good weather we must needs rest the horses at least one day in four. And at the best, we shall reach the coast with a month to spare before the autumn storms.”
He nodded. “You will have transports of some kind?”
“If Cador of Dumnonia has been successful — two trading vessels with the decks torn out for getting the horses into the holds.”
“And how many horses do you reckon to get across at each trip?”
“Two to each tub. To try for more would be to strike hands with disaster.”
“So. I see wisdom of not lingering among the wine booths of Narbo Martius.”
“That relieves my mind,” I said gravely, and he laughed, then shifted abruptly to look up at me.
“The Black One is still for sale.”
“I have all my stallions.”
“Sell one again. Or another stallion instead of the last mare?”
“Certainly you do not lack for cool affrontery.”
“You want him, don’t you?”
I hesitated, then admitted it fully to myself for the first time. “Yes, I want him, but not enough to pay for him as I am very sure I should have to do, with the life of a man or another horse.”
He was silent a moment, and then he said in a curiously level tone, “Then I ask another thing. Take me, my Lord the Bear.”
“What as?” I asked, without surprise, for it was as though I had known what was coming.
“As a harper or a horse holder or a fighting man — I have my dagger, and you can give me a sword. Or” — his strange lopsided face flashed into a grin, his one reckless eyebrow flying like a banner — “or as a laughingstock when you feel the need for laughter.”
But though I had known, in a way, what was coming, I was not sure of my reply. Usually I can judge a man well enough at first meeting, but this one I knew that I could not judge. He was dark water that I could not look into. His reserves were as deep in their way as Aquila’s but whereas Aquila, whose past was bitter, had grown them through the years as the hard protective skin grows over an old wound, this man’s were a part of himself, born into the world with him as a man’s shadow.
“What of Constantinople and the Emperor’s bodyguard?” I said, a little, I think, to gain time.
“What of them?”
“And the splendor that does not lie in ruins, and the bright adventure and the service to take?”
“Could you not give me a service to take? Oh, make no mistake, my Lord Artos, it was the other I wanted. That was why I got drunk yesterday; it was no use though. I am your man if you will take me.”
“We have need of every sword hand,” I said at last, “and it is a good thing to laugh sometimes — and to have the heart sung out of the breast. But . . .”
“But?” he said.
“But I do not take a hawk without having made trial of him. Nor do I take an untried man into the circle of the Companions.”
He was silent for a good while, after that. The sun was behind the mountains now, and the evening sounds of the olive grove were waking, the creatures that they call cicadas creaking in the branches, and the voices of the fisherfolk coming up faintly on the wind. Once he made a small swift movement, and I thought he was going to get up and walk away, but he stilled again. “You choose more delicately than they say the Eastern Emperor does,” he said at last.
“Maybe I have more need.” I leaned down and touched his shoulder, scarcely meaning to. “When you are captain of the Emperor’s bodyguard, you’ll look back on this evening and thank whatever god you pray to, that the thing turned out as it did.”
“Of course,” he said. “When that day comes, I shall thank — whatever god I pray to, that it was not given to me to throw all that away, and go crawling back over those five hundred miles or so that I was already on my way, to die at last in a northern mist with the Sea Wolf’s fangs in my throat.”
I said nothing, for it seemed to me that there was no other word to say. And then he turned to me again, his eyes full of a cool dancing light that was nearer to battle than to laughter. “If I get the Black One back to Britain for you, without its causing the death of himself or any other horse or any man, will that seem trial enough? Will you take me then, and give me my sword in recompense?”
I was more surprised at that than I had been at his first asking to join us, and for a moment the surprise struck me silent. Then I said, “And what if you fail?”
“If I have not died in the failing, I will give you my life to add to that of the man or the other horse. Is not that a fair bargain, my Lord the Bear?”