"Manchester," said Roche.
"A good school of history," Audley nodded patronisingly.
"I'm afraid barbarians are a bit out of my line, though."
Roche swallowed his pride. "Not my specialist field."
"That's what they all say." The Israeli spoke across the table to the American. " 'Not my field'. He's a historian right enough!"
"It all depends on what you mean by 'barbarians', as Professor Joad would have said," interposed Jilly. "We have to define our terms first."
"Latin— barbarus, barbari— a stranger, a foreigner . . .
anyone not a Roman or a Greek." The Israeli's voice carried an edge of bitterness. " 'Jews need not apply', even though they lived in cities before Rome and Athens were villages of mud huts."
"Oh, come now—that's a bit hard on the Romans," said Audley. "Roman citizenship spread wider than the mud hut circuit. The Jews were just . . . difficult, let's say."
"I hear tell they still are," said Bradford from the floor.
Stein swept a glance over them, the light catching the dummy5
surprising gold of his hair—the crazy contrast of the blond Jew and the dark, swarthy American, whose identities Roche had immediately confused, struck him again.
"Yes?" inquired Audley politely, yet insultingly. It was a game, Roche reminded himself. At the moment they were playing to bait each other with their opening moves.
"I'd say you've got a lot to learn," said Stein mildly. "We haven't half started yet."
"Yeah..." The American's dark head nodded. "I also hear tell you're in with the French on the nuclear testing site at Reggane in the Sahara, so you don't need to labour the point."
"I agree all this is barbarous" said Jilly. "But I don't see how it connects with barbarians."
"Quite right, dear." Audley bowed in Jilly's direction. "We have digressed—and just as Stein very properly related the barbari to Hillard and Botting!"
"Hillard and who?" The American reached for one of the bottles on the table.
" Botting, Bradford, B otting. Or maybe North and Hillard. Or A. H. Davis, MA, of revered memory. And if you were in receipt of their royalties—if you could write that sort of best-seller you'd be living high on the hog in Monte Carlo, swilling Château Latour with a bevy of starlets."
"What? Botting? North . . . ? What have they written?"
"Oh, sanctissima simplicitas— you are a rude barbarian if dummy5
ever there was one, Bradford! Tell him, Stein."
The target had switched from the Israeli to the American, thought Roche: that was the way they worked, not all for one and one for all, but all in turn against each.
"A. H. Davis!" murmured Stein. "There was a man for you—a great author!"
"Who published him? What does he write?" Bradford rose to the bait, transformed by the mention of royalties from a cool American into an envious author.
Stein ignored him, looking round the shadowy audience in the Tower at everyone else and settling finally on Roche himself. "You know A. H. Davis forecast it all—1914 and 1939? He was unbeatable on the Germans: 'They regard it feeble and stupid to get by the sweat of their brow what they can take by spilling their blood'! How's that, eh?"
"It was Tacitus who said that, actually," Audley disagreed.
"In his Germania."
"But Davis quoted him deliberately. And that's what history is all about—putting it all together," said Stein passionately.
"By God! Do you remember that ratty little friend of yours at school, selling us all the classics after Hitler marched into Czechoslovakia? Williams—Williamson? He was always quoting A. H. Davis at us!"
"For God's sake, one of you tell me—who's Botting?" said Bradford irritably.
"He was a schoolmaster," snapped Audley, turning towards dummy5
the American. "They all wrote Latin text-books—Latin and Greek— Latin Prose Composition and Greek Unseens and Graduated Latin Selections."
"Best-sellers?"
"Too bloody right! My Hillard and Botting was the fifteenth impression of the seventh edition, dated 1930. Can you beat that with any of your novels, old boy?" said Audley nastily.
Jilly gave another of her characterislic attention-drawing sniffs. "Or can you, David?"
"Yes—well, that wouldn't be difficult" Audley took the jibe well. "There simply isn't much popular enthusiasm for medieval history these days."
Roche decided to be interested. "That's what you're working on now?"
Audley nodded. "That's why I'm here."
"Here?"
"Yes. I'm putting Ihe final touches to the sequel to my worst-selling book on the defeat of the Arabs by the Byzantines in Ihe 8th century. This one is set at the other end of the Mediterranean. Here, in fact—early Carolingian France."
Roche ran his early French history through his memory at break-neck speed; this, after all, was one of the reasons why he was here, and he had to justify Sir Eustace Avery's confidence.
"Charles Martel?" That was a safe name lo remember.
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"That's right" Audley seemed pleased, but not surprised any more. "Battle of Tours—732. It always astonishes me to think that the Arabs got to within a hundred miles of Paris. And if it hadn't been for Charles Martel their next stop might have been the English Channel."
"They qualify as barbarians—the Arabs?" inquired Slein.
"The Arabs?" Audley sounded shocked.
"His prejudices are showing," murmured Bradford.
Audley coughed primly. "The Arabs in Spain used mostly Berber infantry—and in France—and the Berbers were rather barbarous. In fact, they really only went to Spain in the first place to pick up women and food for their Berbers. And one thing led to another."
"Franco used them in Spain too," said Bradford. "They were still barbarous."
"The French are finding that out in Algeria at the moment,"
said Roche.
"Yes, things don't change, do they?" Audley nodded. "But, of course, the Arabs had it easy in Spain. The Visigoths hadn't quite succeeded in making a go of it there—nearly, but not quite . . . And they'd persecuted the Jews there—"
"Just another bunch of Krauts on the loose—things don't change, you're damn right!" said Slein bitterly.
"The Visigoths!" exclaimed Lexy with a start.
Everyone turned towards the region of deepest shadow in which she had concealed herself.
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"Lexy, honey—you're awake!" said Bradford. "The Visigoths?"
"I haven't been asleep."
"Of course not. But what about the Visigoths, Lex?"
Nothing." She tried to shrink back into the darkness. "Don't mind me."
But we do mind you, Lady Alexandra," said Audley. "You mustn't hide your light under a bushel—you're supposed to be the chief questioner tonight. You drew the short straw last time—remember?"
"And obviously she knows about the Visigoths," said Bradford. "Are they barbarians, Lex honey?"
"Maybe she thinks they're rugger players," murmured Stein.
"Wasn't that your old team, Audley—the Visigoths?"
"Yeah, and they were barbarians," nodded the American.
"When they played there was blood everywhere."
"We haven't even defined what a barbarian is yet," cut in Jilly sharply, moving to Lexy's rescue. "All we've had is Hillard and Botting, and Charles Martel, and David's darling Arabs-who-aren't-barbarians." She sniffed. "A fine chairman you are, David Audley! You couldn't chair a cup of tea across a vicarage parlour!"
"And which barbarians, that is the question?" said Stein.
"Come on, David—Audley—which barbarians are you going to tell us about? Julius Caesar's ones—which I take it will dummy5
include your own woad-covered ancestors?"
"Boadicea's Ancient Brits, you mean?" inquired the American. "Like the statue near Big Ben, by the Thames—the chariot with the scythes on its wheels?"