The Dog and the Wolf (14 page)

“It is right,” Glabrio insisted. “It is vital. It is holy. Let this village he is founding grow, and the same evils will flourish afresh. Insubordination. A corrupting example before the entire province. Paganism. Black sorcery.”

“Do you truly consider a few miserable fugitives such a threat?”

“Not in themselves, perhaps. But with Gratillonius as leader—No, we must make an end of his insolence.”

Bacca stroked his chin. “That presumably means terminating the Ysan colony, the basis of whatever strength he may gain.”

“I believe so. The people can then be redistributed.”

“Scattered, you mean.”

“That will be wisest, don’t you think? Put them into their proper stations in life, teach them humility, save their souls. A holy work, I tell you.”

Bacca frowned into the middle distance. “A difficult work, at least,” he murmured. “Gratillonius has gotten himself rather firmly ensconced. He and his followers do have temporary permission to settle. Quite legal; Apuleius, the tribune of Aquilo, arranged it behind our backs, with praetorian prefect Ardens. He’s also a senator, Apuleius, you know, and has the ear of other important men too. Application for permanent status is in train, and I doubt very much it can be blocked. My inquiries indicate Stilicho himself will be partial to the Ysans.”

“How can that
be?”

“Oh, all right, they’re deluded, those men; Satan has whispered to them in their dreams; but the fact remains. Moreover, we’d better not forget a good many lowly people. Maximus’s veterans, who owe Gratillonius their homes. Former Bacaudae, who could take up their old trade again if provoked. Osismiic tribesmen, who remember pirates and bandits kept off their necks, trade revived. We’re going to have troubles enough without stirring up revolt … which could, among other things, cause the Imperium to question
us.”

“I am no fool, thank you,” huffed Glabrio. “I realize we shall have to proceed carefully. But we do have instruments to hand. Taxation—”

“The most obvious, because the most pervasive. As well I know.”

“You should!”

“I do. My knowledge includes technique. A levy by itself may prove insufficient to destroy, or impossible to
collect, or productive of the very resistance we wish to prevent. First we had better plan ways and means suited to the project. That includes making preparations for the next indiction, two years hence. We will want to have an influence on it.”

Bacca’s look speared the purple-veined face before him. “I anticipated this,” he continued. “When you sent for me today I guessed why, and took the liberty of bringing a man of mine along. He’s waiting in the anteroom. Shall I have him called?”

The governor flushed. “You take a good deal upon yourself, Procurator. Who is he?”

Bacca curbed impatience. “You remember Nagon Demari.”

Glabrio reddened further. “The Ysan renegade last year? I certainly do. That disaster with the Franks was his fault. I thought afterward he fled.”

“I deemed it discreet that he withdraw,” Bacca explained coolly. “He and his family have been living on my fundus. A few days ago, foreseeing this summons of yours, I had him brought here and lodged in my town house.” He gave the other no chance to use a mouth that opened and shut and opened again. “Your indignation was quite natural. But actually it’s wrong to blame him for the scheme going awry. It was an excellent idea in itself … as you agreed at the time. No fallible mortal could have foreseen just how tough and ruthless Gratillonius would prove to be. Now, like it or not, Nagon is the single Ysan left for us to consult—to use; and he is eager. He knows those people, their ins and outs, as we never can. We need him for our principal advisor and later, I think, our agent. A wise man does not throw away his sword because a shield stopped it once; he keeps it for his next stroke. You are nothing if not a wise man, Governor.”

“Well, well—” Glabrio fumed for a while but in the end agreed. He struck a small gong and bade the slave who entered fetch the outsider.

Almost, Nagon stamped through the door. He halted, his stocky frame half hunched as if for a fight, and glowered before he made himself give a proper salutation.

“You have much to answer for,” said Glabrio in his
sternest tone. “Be thankful to your kindly protector. He has persuaded me to grant you a second chance.”

“I do thank you, sir,” Nagon grated. His sandy hair stood abristle. Small eyes like glare ice never wavered in the flat countenance. “The procurator has informed me. Sir, I’m ready to do whatever is called for—anything at all—that’ll bring yon Grallon to hell.”

Glabrio bridged his fingers. Rings sparkled. “Really? You are quite vehement, considering what months you’ve had to cool off.”

Nagon knotted fists that were once a laborer’s. “I could wait till Judgment Day and never hate him the less.”

“Ah, scarcely a Christian sentiment. True, he caused you to go into exile. But thereby he saved you and your family from perishing with Ys.”

“No wish of his, that was!” Nagon barely kept from spitting on the floor. “And what brought Ys to ruin but him—he that made mock of the Gods—” After an instant: “Without owning the one true God.” He swallowed. “Sir, I’ve asked about it. I’ve gone to the Aquilo neighborhood myself and talked with Osismii and such Ysans as I could come on in the woods. Ys is gone. My city, my folk, my clan. I am the last of the Demari Suffetes, do you know? I’ve only two children alive, both girls. The Demari die with me. What’s left to live for?”

“Them and your wife,” Bacca suggested. “Whatever career you can find among us.”

“Oh, I’ll provide for them, sir, of course. And I’ll make my way as best I can. But if that could be by helping you against Grallon—” The breath staggered into Nagon and back out. “That’d be worth dying for.”

“I hope we can arrange something better, including the satisfaction you want,” Bacca soothed. “It does require patience.”

“Say the word, and I’ll catch him alone and kill him.”

“He might very well kill you instead. Besides, that would be stupid, making a martyr of him, possibly angering the Imperium. No, let us undermine him, discredit him, till he is powerless and disowned; and meanwhile, let him experience it happening.”

“Bear in mind, my man, this is a preliminary conference,”
said Glabrio. “You will provide information. If in addition your opinion is occasionally asked, do not get above yourself. I have not forgotten the consequences of your last advice. Furthermore, everything that passes between us, today and later, is a secret of state. If you reveal a single word, you will rue it. Is that clear?”

Nagon was still for a space, so still that the noise of the wind outside flew alone through the room under the stares of the saints, before he said: “I understand.”

“Good. You may be seated.” Glabrio gestured at the floor. “We shall proceed.”

A knock sounded at the door. “What the devil?” exclaimed Bacca. “Didn’t you order we aren’t to be interrupted?”

“Unless for something major,” Glabrio told him nervously. “Enter!”

The slave obeyed, bowed, and announced, “I beg the governor’s pardon and pray I have not erred or given offense. An emissary from the bishop has arrived and demands immediate audience.”

“What? From Bishop Martinus? Why, he should be at his monastery—”

“I thought, rightly or wrongly, the governor would wish to know. Shall I admit him, or have him wait, or … send him on his way?”

“No, no.” That last would be impolitic in the extreme. “I will see him.”

The slave scuttled out. After a minute during which the wind gusted louder, a man came in. Young, lean, he was clad only in a rough dark robe and sandals. His fair hair was shaved off from the brow to the middle of the scalp, the tonsure of Martinus; weather had ruffled what was left into a halo against the dimness of the chamber.

“God’s peace be upon you,” he said evenly. “You will not remember me. I am of no consequence. But my name is Sucat.” His Latin bore a curious accent, Britannic subtly altered by years of Hivernian captivity.

“I do, though,” Glabrio answered in a relieved tone. “You are the bishop’s kinsman. Welcome.” He pointed to a vacant stool. “Will you be seated? Will you take refreshment?”

Sucat shook his head. “No, thank you. My message is soon conveyed. It is from Martinus, bishop of Turonum. He commands you in the name of God that you show mercy to the poor survivors of Ys and afflict them no more than the Almighty has done; for what would be presumptuous, and un-Christian, and troublesome to the Church in her work among them.”

Glabrio gaped. Nagon froze. Bacca stood up and spoke tautly: “May I ask why the bishop chooses … to advise the civil authorities?”

“Sir, it is not for me to question a holy man,” Sucat replied, unshaken, almost cheerful, and beneath it implacable. “However, he did point out that there are souls to be saved; that their community may become the seed from which the Evangel will grow through a tribe still mostly pagan; but that first it needs protection and nurture.”

“And exemption from the usual requirements?”

“The civil authorities can better decide such things than we religious. We simply appeal to their consciences. And, of course, to their hopes for their own salvation.”

“Hm. How did you find us, Sucat?”

“The bishop bade me seek the basilica. He said the governor and yourself would be here, together with a third party who should also be reminded about charity. He said that if you want to discuss this with him, you are free to come out to the monastery; or you can arrange an appointment for sometime after he has attended to the suffering poor and conducted services in the city. Have I the governor’s leave to depart? Good day, and God’s blessing be upon you, His wisdom within you.”

The young man strode out.

Glabrio dabbed at sweat on his face, chilly though the room was. “That … puts a different … complexion on the matter, doesn’t it?”

Nagon lifted hands with fingers crooked like claws. “You’ll bow down to Martinus with never a word?” he shouted. “Him, so old and feeble he can barely totter into town once a sennight? What
right
has he got?”

“Be still,” Bacca snapped.

He paced the floor, scowling into shadows, hands working against each other behind his back. “We’ve small
choice, you know,” he muttered at length. “Martinus may have no office in the government, but he stood up to Emperor Maximus, and with his influence he could break us apart and scatter the pieces. He would, too, if we made him angry enough.”

“He could do worse than that.” Glabrio’s flesh rippled with his shudder. “He’s driven demons from the altars where pagans worshipped them, and raised the dead, and talked with angels—he could bring all of them down on us—No, we’ll heed him; we are good, obedient sons of the Church.”

A hiss went between Nagon’s teeth.

Bacca stopped before the man, looked into his eyes, and said low: “Control yourself. Bide your time. Nothing forbids us to watch, and learn, ana think, and wait. Our beloved bishop is in fact very old. Soon God will call him home to his reward. Then we shall see. We shall see.”

2

Again Gratillonius sought privacy on the heights, but now it was with Rufinus. At first they walked in silence. The path climbed and curved amidst leaves whose brilliant green broke morning light into jewel-glints of color on raindrops that clung to them yet after the past several wet days. Cloudlets wandered on a breeze filled with fragrances. Birds a hundredfold rejoiced. Where the view opened downward, it was across a broad western sweep of land. The rivers gleamed through awakening acres; smoke rose from the hearths of Aquilo; northward the colony site at the confluence was half hidden by mists steaming out of its newly spaded earth, white against the forest beyond.

Finally Rufinus ventured, “You can unlock your throat here, master. You’ve kept too much inside for too long.”

Gratillonius’s close-trimmed beard only partly concealed how his mouth writhed. He stared before him as if blind. A minute or two passed while they walked on, until he said, “I wanted to speak alone with you.” His voice sounded rusty.

Rufinus waited.

“You’ve been to Hivernia,” Gratillonius continued presently. “You know them there.”

Rufinus winced. The expression grew into one of pain as Gratillonius went unheeding on: “It’s become pretty clear what happened, how Ys was murdered and who the murderer is. What we must figure out is how to get our revenge.” Laughter barked. “How to exact justice, I mean to say … when Corentinus or Apuleius or their sort are listening. But probably it’s best if they aren’t.”

“I’ve heard little,” Rufinus said with care, “and what I have heard may well be unreliable.”

“Maeloch—He came back from Hivernia himself, you know. After he … told me … what he’d learned—I thought of swearing him to silence. But of course it was already too late to gag the men who’d sailed with him. And others from Ys, they have their own stories to tell. Luckily, everyone’s been too busy to think much about it. Except me.”

Rufinus nodded. Of late, Gratillonius had often gone away by himself, riding or striding for leagues in the rain; and he was curt among people, and bore signs of sleeplessness.

“They’ll also put two and two together eventually,” Gratillonius said. “The story will be in every common mouth … throughout Armorica … for hundreds of years? Dahut’s name—” He did not groan, he roared.

Both halted. Rufinus laid a hand on the massive shoulder beside him and squeezed until most men would have cried out. “Easy, sir,” the Gaul breathed.

Gratillonius gazed past him. Fist beat in palm, over and over. “Dahut, whore to Niall the Scotian,” rattled forth. “She stole the Key from me while I slept, for him. It must have been her. We all slept so heavily in the Red Lodge, in that wild night that should have kept us awake, and I know she could cast such spells, Forsquilis told me she had a gift for witchcraft like no princess—no Queen, since—since—And before that, oh, I closed my eyes and stopped my ears and who dared warn me? He can’t have been her first lover, Niall. Why else did—Tommaltach, Carsa, those young men challenge me, make me who liked them cut them down in the Wood? And that Germanic pirate—
Maeloch says he was lying, but I can’t believe it and I don’t think Maeloch really can either—Dahut! Dahilis, our daughter!”