Titus Awakes

18

Plans of Escape

LATER THAT NIGHT the fitful sleep, compounded of gnawing hunger and a dizziness both spiritual and temporal that had enveloped Titus and to a lesser degree Dog, was gently interrupted by the faintest sound. It was a cold night, a supernatural ice immobilised Titus. At the slight movement of the flap of the tent the ice melted within him, and his stomach muscles tautened and he moved one leg and then the other. A hand feeling for the opening of the tent, hardly to be seen in the darkness, groped tentatively and silently. Titus felt the soft paw of comfort on his arm, it was a communication that lessened his fear. No time for theory, no time for introspection; action was the only antidote to thought. Now was the time for action, if only the body’s response was capable of smothering the traitor in his brain.

The flap of the tent opened more widely, and silently a form made itself felt, slithering like a grass snake along the ground until Titus was aware of the body beside his trestle bed. He knew that he had no friends in this camp and that there was no means of verbal communication. Who could it be? No enemy would come with such silence. Could it be one of the two white-clothed servitors who had placed food in front of him? They had seemed without character or personality – only ciphers to do what they were told by the imperious Rhino Eyes. Perhaps it was a look of barely perceptible compassion, rather than indifference, which one of them had cast at him as he had taken away the plate of food?

A hand grasped his hand as though for reassurance. It touched his face and traced the nose and mouth and chin as a blind man learns a face. Then Titus felt his hand being lifted and his fingers being led over the contours of the head and features belonging to the exploring hand, and as he touched the mouth, he felt the lips smile, not in hatred but in friendship, and within a moment the hand had gone, and all that belonged to it had gone, and Titus was left not knowing if he had dreamed the sensation or sensed a dream. He must have slept again, and awakened when the light began to filter through the tent.

As he lay waking, his foot moved and a faint sound of an object falling to the ground alerted him, and he turned his head to follow the sound. Wrapped in a dock leaf was what appeared to be a knife.

* * * * *

FOR THE NEXT week, as Titus gathered strength, there were no visitations from anyone, except for two plates of rudimentary food to be placed outside the tent three times a day, then removed with as little ceremony.

Titus’s plans to leave were progressing as his health improved but he had need of an ally to help him translate his thoughts into deeds. Dog might be a hindrance to him, he thought. He needed someone who knew the surrounding terrain and despite the fact that no force had been used on him, he was aware that he was a prisoner in all but name. Where was that man who had ventured so stealthily into his tent several nights earlier? Titus could not know that he was also a captive, and that when the next chance arose the man would come, also with hopes of escape. Day and night there was activity, which through lack of knowledge of the language Titus could only guess at. But that it was of a martial and aggressive nature there could be no doubt. The harsh voice of command must sound the same in any language, and the regimentation of men to whatever creed or philosophy, as demeaning to the individual spirit. There was no sound of firearms, but the sense of an oppressive mastermind at work lay heavily on him.

During the days when his strength had returned, Titus walked outside his tent. It seemed to be removed from the main area of the bivouacs, as though to mark it out and perhaps prevent any attempt at escape. There was only one larger tent close to his, and on his excursions he was bidden what he took to be a ‘good morning’ by Rhino Eyes, who stood at the opening flap of this tent and bowed in a sardonic gesture of respect. He realised that he was to be used as a decoy, but for what he did not know. By whom he was fairly sure. Titus knew that to circumvent this villain would take more knowledge, more cunning and more strength than he possessed.

The days were interminable and the nights scarcely less so. Each night at dusk, when the fires lit up the tent, the sense of isolation became intolerable. The sounds of men talking together, laughing and singing, interspersed with altercations between those who had imbibed too much liquor had a bonhomie that Titus both despised yet sought. Each night he thought that he would join the conviviality. Each night he argued against it, talking to his only companion, Dog.

One night there was an unnatural silence, with no firelight to lighten the gloom. His plate of food was left as usual outside his tent, but he had become morose and even the thought of food became obnoxious. On lifting the flap of the tent to remove the plate he saw beside it a flagon of red liquid. The idea of drink, which would perhaps dilute his weariness of soul, his sense of boredom, lifted his sense of fruitlessness. His sleeplessness might be assuaged by a flagon of wine.

‘Dog, I shall put myself to sleep, despite the fact that I shall have to wake again, but I long for annihilation if only for a night.’

He took his plate and put it aside, and as he lay on his bed and held the flagon to his lips to fulfil this wish, he was aware of a movement, a sound, a feeling that he was no longer alone. By the pricking of Dog’s ears he knew this to be so.