Love interest: a young British soldier and a British-Roman girl. Dominating figures: Constantius, the Commander, Bran Mak Morn. The story really revolves about the Pictish king.
The story opens with a brief prologue. Then the action begins with a fight on the Wall, led by Bran Mak Morn on one side and the Commander on the other. The story shifts between the heather north of the Wall, and the sea-shore where Allectus awaited attack. Conditions in Gaul and Rome are told by conversations between spies and soldiers.
Worms of the Earth
Draft Version
Worms of the Earth
NOTE: It cannot be stated with certainty that this is the first draft of Worms of the Earth, but no other complete draft version survives. Every effort has been made to reproduce Howard’s original faithfully, errors and all.
Chapter .1.
“Strike in the nails, soldiers, and let our guest see the reality of our good Roman justice!”
The speaker wrapped his purple cloak closer about him and settled back into his official chair, much as he might have settled back in his seat at the Circus Maximus to enjoy the clash of gladiatorial swords. Realization of power colored his every move. Whetted pride was necessary to Roman satisfaction, and Titus Sulla was justly proud. For he was military governor of Ebbracum and answerable only to the emperor of Rome. He was a powerfully built man of medium height, with the hawk-like features of the pure bred Roman. A mocking smile curved his thin lips, increasing the arrogance of his haughty aspect. Distinctly military in appearance, he wore the golden scaled corselet and chased breast-plate of the Roman commander, with the short stabbing sword at his belt, and he held on his knee the silvered helmet with its plumed crest. Behind him stood a clump of impassive soldiers with shield and spear – blond titans from the Rhineland.
Before him was taking place the scene which evidently gave him so much real gratification – a scene common enough wherever stretched the far-flung boundaries of Rome. A rude cross lay flat upon the barren earth and on it was bound a man – half-naked, wild of aspect with his corded limbs, glaring eyes and shock of tangled hair. His executioners were Roman soldiers. With heavy hammers they prepared to pin the victim’s hands and feet to the wood with long iron spikes.
Only a small group of men watched this ghastly scene, in the dread place of execution beyond the walls of the city: the governor and his guards; a few young Roman officers; the man who stood like a bronze image, unspeaking. It was this man to whom Sulla had referred as “guest”. Beside the gleaming splendor of the Roman, the quiet garb of this man seemed drab, almost somber.
He was dark, but he did not resemble the Latins about him. There was none of the warm sensuality of the Mediterranean, almost of the Orient, which colored their features, about him. His was not the sensuous olive complection of the south; not his the full red curving lips, nor the rich waving locks suggesting the Greek. Not alone in his straight black hair, in his thin lips, and cold black eyes, was his apartness from the Latins shown. It was in his every line and movement. The blond barbarians behind Sulla’s chair were less unlike the man in facial outline, than were the Romans. His dark complection was not the rich olive of the south; rather it was the bleak darkness of the north. The whole aspect of the man somehow vaguely suggested the shadowed mists and cold and icy winds of the naked northern lands. Even his black eyes were cold, savagely cold, like black fires burning through fathoms of ice.
His height was only medium, but there was something about him which transcended mere physical bulk – a certain fierce innate vitality, comparable only to the essence of a wolf or a panther. In every line of his lean, compact body this was evident – in the set of the head on the corded neck, in the broad square shoulders, in the strongly-fashioned arms, in the deep chest, the lean loins, the narrow feet. Built with the savage economy of a panther, he was an image of dynamic potentialities, pent with iron self-control.
At his feet crouched one alike him in complection – but there the resemblance ended. This other was a stunted giant, with gnarly limbs, thick body, a low sloping forehead and an expression of dull ferocity – now clearly mixed with fear. If the man on the cross resembled, in a tribal way, the man who was Titus Sulla’s guest, he far more resembled the type of the stunted crouching giant.
“Well, Partha Mak Othna,” said the governor with studied affrontery, “when you return to your tribe, you will have them a tale to tell of the justice of Rome, who rules the south.”
“I will have a tale,” answered the other, in a voice which betrayed no emotion whatever, just as his dark face, schooled to immobility, showed no evidence of the maelstrom in his soul.
“Justice to all under the rule of Rome,” said Sulla, “Pax Romana! Reward for virtue, punishment for wrong!” He laughed inwardly at his own black hypocricy, then continued, “You see, emissary of Pictland, how swiftly Rome punishes the transgressor.”
“I see,” said the Pict in a voice which strongly-curbed anger made deep with menace, “that the subject of a foreign king is dealt with as though he were a Roman slave. You say this man was found guilty – and why not? – when the accuser was a Roman, the witnesses Roman, the judge Roman! He committed murder? In a moment of fury he struck down a Roman merchant who cheated, tricked and robbed him, and to injury added insult – aye, and a blow! Is his king but a dog, that Rome crucifies his subjects at will, condemned by Roman courts? Is his king not able to do justice, were he informed, and formal charges brought against the offender?”
“Well,” said Sulla cynically, “you may inform Bran Mak Morn, yourself. Rome, my friend, makes no account of her actions to barbarian kings. When savages come among us, let them act with discretion or suffer the consequances.”
The Pict shut his iron jaws with a snap that told Sulla that further badgerings would elicit no reply. The Roman made a gesture to the executioners. One of them seized a spike and placed the point against the thick wrist of the victim, and smote heavily. The point sunk deep, through the flesh, crunching against bones. The lips of the man writhed though no moan escaped him. As a trapped wolf fights against his cage, the bound victim writhed and strove instinctively. The veins swelled in his temples, sweat beaded his low forehead, the muscles in arms and legs writhed and knotted. The hammers fell in inexorable strokes, driving the cruel points deeper and deeper, through wrists and ankles; blood flowed over the hands that held the spikes, staining the wood of the cross and the splintering of bones was distinct. Yet the sufferer made no outcry, though his blackened lips writhed back until the gums were visible, and his shaggy head jerked involuntarily from side to side.
The man called Partha Mak Othna stood like an iron image, eyes burning from an inscrutable face, his whole body hard as iron from the tension of his control. At his feet his servant crouched, hiding his face from the grim sight, his arms about his master’s knees. Those arms gripped like steel and under his breath the fellow mumbled ceaselessly as if in invokation.
The last stroke fell; the cords were cut from arm and leg, so that the man would hang supported by the nails alone. He had ceased to struggle, that only twisted the spikes in his agonized wounds. His bright black eyes, unglazed, had not left the face of the man called Partha Mak Othna; in them lingered a desperate shadow of hope. Now the soldiers lifted the cross and set the end of it in the hole prepared, stamped the dirt about it to hold it erect. The Pict hung in midair, suspended by the nails in his flesh, but still no sound escaped his lips. His eyes still hung on the somber face of the emissary, but the shadow of hope was fading.