The Dog and the Wolf (22 page)

Mercurial, Rufinus recovered his lightness. “That’s a moot point, seeing that he isn’t doing so,” he said with a grin. “He takes these matters far too seriously, as I’ve often told him.” He drank, crossed his ankles as if lounging, and drawled, “Much the most of our people are willing to be baptized—glad, many of them, I suppose. They want something to cling to. But I daresay the feeling
isn’t unanimous. In your case, it’s become necessary for your business.”

Evirion stiffened. “I don’t lick boots. Christ must be real, and strong. Look how He’s winning everywhere. For me it’s like—like being a barbarian warrior whose chief betrayed him. Another, more powerful chief offers me a berth. Very well, I’ll take it, with thanks, and be loyal.”

“I see. It’s what I guessed about you. But others—the former priestess Runa, for instance. Tongues were clacking when I came back from the woods. She refuses, they say.”

“M-m, not exactly,” replied Evirion, mollified. “She’s taking instruction. In fact, she’s dived into what books the church has, and wrung Corentinus dry with her questions, till I heard him laugh she knows more—what’s the word?—more theology than most priests. But she wants to stay a catechumen for a while longer.”

“I thought that was the usual thing. I’m puzzled why you converts are to be baptized already this Easter.”

“The custom has changed. Don’t ask me why. The old idea, as I understood it, was that people needed time to make themselves ready. Runa says she does.”

“Or less restriction than otherwise, less attention paid to her comings and goings?” Rufinus murmured. “She and Gratillonius’s wayward daughter—”

“That’s none of your affair!” Light from the doorway showed Evirion reddening.

“Agreed. Agreed.” Rufinus raised his palm in token of peace. “Still, a fellow can’t but wonder. I daresay Corentinus is unhappy about it.”

“You’ll find out what your master Crallon wants you to know, when he wants you to,” Evirion fleered.

“He and Runa do seem to have become rather close. … Look, I’m a mere backwoodsman, a landlouper. How can I say which tale is true and which a lie? I wish you’d give me some guidelines.”

The mariner glowered. “What do you hear?”

“Rumors. Mistake me not. I don’t spread them farther. But you aren’t deaf either. You must have an inkling of these notions that you and Nemeta—No, hold on, nothing to your discredit. You’d have answered to Gratillonius
before now if he imagined that. However, the two of you did disappear and return at about the same times. You’re both close-mouthed. You visit Runa at the old manor—granted, quite a few people do, but mainly women, and Nemeta
is
staying with her. You’ve lent men of yours, prospective crew, to building her that house out in the forest her father’s letting her have. At the least, might you be hopeful of marriage, a way around the fact she’s a pagan? That’s the sort of thing I hear.”

“Dogs yap. It means nothing.” Evirion tossed off his wine. Before he could rise, Rufinus was up and pouring him more. With almost imperceptible pressure, the Gaul’s free hand kept him seated.

He stared into the cup for a minute, grimaced, and muttered without raising his eyes, “Oh, you may as well hear from me what I’ve told others. Then they can’t garble it for you. Nemeta and I both felt caged here. She knows certain secret things and … advised me. For that I’m grateful, and want to make some return. But it was a strange journey I went on. You’re wrong, man, about there being no Gods—or demons, or whatever it is yonder. … I got a pile of valuables for myself. They’ve asked me if I found it in Ys. If I did, what of it? Remember, though, Armorica is a very ancient land. Forgotten folk must have left hoards. Consider this a mystery I can’t speak of.”

“The Romans might not,” Rufinus said.

Evirion looked up. “What d’you mean?”

“What do you suppose? There you arrived in—Gesocribate, right?—suddenly loaded with riches. You can’t have bought your ship straightforwardly. You’re not born to the navicularius class; you’re not even a Roman citizen. How many purses did you have to fill before local officialdom … obliged you? If the governor in Turonum gets wind of this, I can imagine him following the scent. You could be charged with banditry.”

“I did no crime!”

“You’d have to prove that, my friend. Certainly your illegalities in the city would come to light. An investigation might also turn up gossip about Nemeta. She must have spent those months somewhere.”

Evirion dropped his cup. Wine drained away into the rushes. He leaped to his feet. “You’d run to them with that story?” he shouted.

“Never.” Rufinus sighed. “Can’t you tell a warning from a threat? You’ve a way of charging ahead like a bull aurochs. I’m trying to do some of the thinking you should have done.”

Evirion breathed hard. Rufinus smiled. “Let me talk to Gratillonius,” he said. “The two of us alone. Then with you. It’s in his interest to keep things quiet—but not to stop you in your course, because you can in fact help Confluentes prosper. We’re on the same side. Confess it to yourself.”

“You … want to think … for him too?”

“Well, I daresay these ideas have crossed his mind. But he’s had so much else on it. He needs help. We all do, you not least. And we’ve nobody to give it but each other.”

Evirion stared at his hands, which knotted together.

“Sit down,” Rufinus coaxed him. “Have a fresh stoup. I know this is a heavy weight to dump on you in a single load. But we must plan ahead. Have you, for instance, have you given any thought to the matter of pirates? The Saxons and Scoti will be coming back, remember.”

“That’s a landlubber’s question.” Therefore it acted on Evirion like a tonic. “The ship’s big and fast. Her crew will be large and well-armed. I doubt whatever barbarians we may meet will care to do more than turn tail. They seldom attack at sea anyway. Land is where the best plunder and prey are.”

“I see.” Rufinus, who had been perfectly aware of it, nodded. “This gives me the ghost of a notion. … But let that go for the time being. Do sit again. We’ll drink and talk and drink some more. You never really know a man till you’ve gotten drunk with him.”

3

Candlelight glowed warm, but the hue it cast over the girl in the bed was purulent, so white she was. Only her hair had color, red waves across the pillow, streaks of it sweat-plastered to a face where bones strained against skin. Reaching for her father’s hand, her fingers were like straws, her elbows like spurs. The grip felt cold when his closed on lit.

“I should go now and let you sleep,” Gratillonius said in his powerlessness.

“Thank you for coming,” Nemeta whispered.

“Of course I come whenever I can. Tomorrow again. Be better then.” He attempted a smile. “That’s an order, do you hear?”

“Aye.” She glanced down toward the bulge beneath the sheet. “If it will let me.”

“What?”

“Yon giant leech. Is it not yet bloated full?”

“Hush,” he said, appalled. He must not let her speak hatred for this thing. Not among Christians. It was innocent. He must make himself accept his grandchild when it came.

Nemeta’s head turned to and fro. “If I could have shed it—”

Across the bed from Gratillonius, Runa’s tall black-clad form stooped. She laid her hand over the girl’s lips. “Hush,” she also said. “Rail not against. … the Gods.”

“Goodnight.” The man bent likewise, to kiss the wet forehead. He released Nemeta, turned, and left with Runa. His daughter’s gaze pursued them out the door. The woman shut it.

In the atrium, Gratillonius took his cloak from a serving maid whom Runa dismissed with a gesture. Whey they were alone he said in Latin, “She does seem to have mended a bit since I was here last.”

The dark, hawk-sharp head nodded. “I think so. Small thanks to that dolt of a physician.”

“Hm? I heard how you sent him away—”

“He wanted to bleed her, after the convulsion nearly cost her the babe. No, I’ve prescribed rest and nourishment, and predict she will soon be well.”

Gratillonius’s eyes met Runa’s. “A miscarriage would have been a liberation,” he said.

“It would have. I confess to hopes, for Nemeta’s sake and … yours.”

“She had been looking more and more sick. Almost since her return, do you agree?”

“Well, it wasn’t fated. Now we must do whatever we can for them both. These are not olden times, when parents could expose an unwanted infant.”

He hesitated. “You’ve been a true friend,” he said at last. “I’ve often wondered why.”

“Who else
is
there?”

“What do you mean?”

“You are still our King. In spite of everything, you are he without whom we are nothing, or we die.” The least of smiles flitted across her thin lips. “Besides, you remain rather an attractive man.”

Bemused, vaguely alarmed, he threw the cloak over his shoulders. “I’d better be off.”

She grew serious. Her voice deepened. “This must be a cruel night for you. Would you like me to walk back to Confluentes with you?”

“Huh? Oh, no—no, thanks—no need—Hard for you too, I’m sure, but best we don’t talk about it, eh? Goodnight. I’ll look in tomorrow. Goodnight.” He hastened out.

She can be an astonishing person, he thought. Cold and strict, but like a mother to my poor torn child, and then without any warning she shows me this side of herself—Well, I do have to sleep.

His footfalls were loud on the path. Otherwise the single sound he heard was from the Stegir, purling and clucking along to his right. Some of the day’s warmth lingered, but coolness rose beneath it and flowed into the breaths he drew, mingled with faint blossom odors.

Phantom white, the manor house dropped behind him. Ahead loomed the black masses of the colony town. Beyond
the gleam upon the river, fields stretched wan out of sight. Eastward they ended at the forest, which was darkness dappled and wreathed with silver. A full moon had just cleared those crowns. That low it appeared enormous, and its luminance drove surrounding stars from heaven.

Full moon, the first after the spring equinox. More than a solar year had gone since Ys died, but the Queens had reckoned their holy times by the moon, and tonight was the lunar anniversary of the death.

How still it was. Wind, racket, and sundering seas might never have been, might have been merely a nightmare; but then, so would all else be unreal, Dahilis, Bodilis, Forsquilis—Dahut, but he would not think of her, tormented and beguiled; he would call back to him her mother, Dahilis, to dance at his side in the moonlight or sing him a song across the years; he would not weep.

He clenched his fists till nails dug into calluses. Let him keep silence. Even rage against the Gods was unseemly for a man who had a man’s work to do. Let him seek peace instead, let his lungs drink of it from the cornel flowers and in the quiet let him imagine he did hear her singing. She played on a small harp—

He stopped. Cold shocked up his backbone. Directly ahead, on the river side of the path, was a stand of dogwood. Its branches reached like snow beneath the moon. From under them rang the notes he heard, and a clear young voice.

Dahilis, I should not be afraid!

The music broke off. A gown billowed around hasty feet. As she came forth, loose hair rippled long, a net to snare moonlight. He recognized those delicate features. A tide of weakness passed through him. His knees buckled, he swayed where he stood.

But this was only Verania, Apuleius’s daughter, she who used to call him Uncle Gaius. How like a woodland spirit she seemed, one of those that flitted on nights such as this around the sacred pool at the Nymphaeum. Only Verania, though. He caught hold of his strength and hauled it back into himself. “What are you doing here?” he nearly shouted.

She poised before him, gripping the harp to her breast as if it were a talisman. Yet her look never wavered from
his. “I’m sorry if I startled you, sir.” Her tone trembled a little. “I couldn’t sleep.”

“A devil of a thing, you, a maiden, wandering out alone after dark,” he scolded.

“Oh, but it’s safe, isn’t it? You keep the country safe for us.”

“Ha!” Nonetheless her words somehow softened the edges of pain. At least she gave him a task. “You’re a fool. Disobedient, too. Your parents certainly don’t know you’ve sneaked out.”

She hung her head. Defenselessness could always touch him. He cleared his throat. “Well, I’ll see you home,” he said, “and if you can slip back in without waking anybody, they don’t have to learn. But you’ve got to promise you’ll never do anything like this again.”

“I’m sorry,” she repeated. He could barely hear. “I promise.”

“Will you keep it?”

She raised a stricken glance. “I couldn’t break a promise to you!”

“Ah. Um. Very good.” It made no sense, but abruptly he didn’t want to return. Not at once, to a cabin shut away from the moon. Besides, he’d be wise to soothe the lass first. “What was that you’d begun to sing?” he asked. “It sounded like nothing I’ve heard before.”

She clutched the harp tighter. “A song … of mine. I make them up.”

“You do?” He had known she was quite musical—her father sat proudly when at his request she sang for company—but not that she was creative in this as well as in her drawing and needlework. She was so shy. “Good for you.” Gratillonius rubbed his chin. The beard made that like stroking a pet animal, a small added comfort against emptiness. “Where did you get the tune? It didn’t sound Roman, nor like any Gallic I know of. Could almost be from Ys.”

“It was meant to, sir.”

“It was? Well, well.” He saw no choice but to ask her for the whole. The words were Latin, he’d caught that much; a childish ditty shouldn’t be unbearable; and anyhow, she had a lovely voice. “Would you sing it for me?”

“Do you want me to?” Anxiety tinged the words. “It’s sad. It’s what wouldn’t let me sleep.”

Afterward, when he had bidden her goodnight and lay in his own bed, he wondered if she had known where he was going and had waited for him to come back. He did straightaway sense that, afraid, she nonetheless wished keenly for him to hear it. “Go ahead,” he urged. “Get it out of your system.”

She edged off, took stance beneath the arching white cornel flowers where moonlight half reached her, and struck a shivery chord from the harpstrings. Low at first, her verses lifted as they went on, and for no understandable reason would hold him long awake.