The Dog and the Wolf (30 page)

He refrained from remarks about duties—promises, at least—owed on her part. When Apuleius and Corentinus agreed to jointly sponsor her history, it had been with the understanding that she would continue copying books as well, but thus far she had not again touched that task. When Gratillonius once brought the matter up, she flared that the work was fit for any slave who had had a year’s schooling.

Tribune and bishop abstained from reproaches. Indeed, the latter had said little to her and nothing to Gratillonius about their unblessed union. She was just a catechumen, her man an unbeliever. Yet he hated to suppose Corentinus and Apuleius had dismissed them from their hearts. He hoped they hoped the pair would repent and reform.
However that was, he rarely saw the churchman these days.

“—scrawling on wretched wooden slabs. When will you get me a proper supply of papyrus? Or parchment. You said you would.”

“It’s not that easy,” Gratillonius told her. How many times already had he done so? “Traffic from the South goes by fits and starts. Skins have more urgent uses. Besides, scraping them and the rest of the preparation, that’s long labor.”

“You can find idle hands aplenty to train. Let your hunters bring in deer to replace the sheepskins. Talk to Apuleius. He can arrange such things. Hell scarcely give me a civil word.”

No, thought Gratillonius, that family had likewise drifted apart from him. Not that there was a breach, anything like that. He and the senator continued to meet, confer, work as a team. Sometimes when they had been at it till late he stayed for supper. But the conversations didn’t range around as they used to, and he didn’t get invitations simply for pleasure, and he seldom encountered Rovinda or the children.

Had he given offense? That wasn’t reasonable. They had taken him for what he was before, the nine times wedded King of Ys. He did nothing now that they wouldn’t expect of such a man, or of many a Christian. Now and then he thought he glimpsed sorrow in the eyes of Apuleius or Corentinus. Of course, in those eyes he was debauching Runa, the convert. … Whatever the cause, a constraint had come upon them, and begotten its like in him. Not knowing what to say or do, he kept as withdrawn as possible.

“—if we moved to a city, a real city, Treverorum or Lugdunum or Burdigala, someplace with intelligent people, books, supplies.”

“I have my duty here,” he snapped. And no wish whatsoever to become one more drop in a bucket.

“A decent house, at the absolute least!”

That had ignited their first quarrel, and others afterward. She refused to leave the manorial one. True, she could far better work in its well-lighted and hypocaust-heated
rooms. But for his part, he would not move in with her. He declared that his proper station was inside Confluentes, readily accessible to his people, quickly able to reach any trouble. His private self knew it would feel wrong, like some sly betrayal. They settled on her spending her days there, most of her nights here; but she hated these rough quarters and kept trying to change his mind.

“My lord and lady, your meal awaits you.” The servant came as a deliverer, Gratillonius thought wryly.

His mood grew mellower as he went in with Runa, sat across from her—in the other place they would have reclined side by side, Roman style—and shared food and drink. She too seemed glad to have escaped a fight and anxious to let the newest scratches heal. They could converse interestingly, as he could with few men. This evening she asked him to tell her what he knew about the Goths.

That was not a great deal. Their tribes were divided between a western and an eastern branch. Wandering down from Germanic lands, they had settled in regions north of the Danuvius and the Euxinus. Later the thrust of a wholly wild and terrible breed, the Huns, caused them to seek refuge among the Romans. They proved to be formidable soldiers, especially as cavalrymen, but untrustworthy subjects, apt to rebel. Most became Christian, though of the Arian persuasion. … This led on to Gratillonius’s experiences with other barbarians, Scoti and Picti, in Britannia, and thus to recollections of his boyhood.

Aye, he thought in Ysan, I ought to stand grateful for the good she does. ’Twas not only loosing me from the dread of the King’s ancient captivity. However, that was wonder enough, and—She’s fair to behold, like a dark-eyed ivory hawk; and if she lacks such ardor as certain of the Queens gave me, still, she is a woman.

At the end, he smiled and asked, “Shall we to our rest? The hour is indeed late, and I’d liefest not be overwearied.”

She looked away. “I’m sorry,” she replied in Latin. “The moon forbids.”

He sat straight up on his bench. “No, wait. That was—a dozen days ago, I think.”

“You know what I mean,” she said.

He did. She wanted no child to weigh her down, endanger her life, and burden her for years afterward. So she had told him, one night during which his anger grew flame-hot and hers snow-cold.

Resentment lifted afresh. “Go back to the manor, then. I’ll send Udach along with a light for you.”

She met his look almost calmly. “Not that either,” she murmured.

We draw too near the edge, too often, Gratillonius thought, and accompanied her to their bedroom.

She set down the candle she had borne from the dining table and turned around toward him. Has she decided otherwise? he wondered. Gladness came to a glow. He stepped closer. “Earlier I talked of being spoke to your hub,” he laughed. “Suddenly I see how right that was.”

She raised a palm. “No. Not thus.” The thin lips curved. “But I do want you to be happy.”

He could have forced her. That would doubtless have been the end of their association. Ysan women were seldom submissive. He stopped and let her approach him.

What followed slaked the flesh but left him feeling unfulfilled. He slept lightly, several times waking from dreams where someone kept calling him.

—The slightest wan glimmer showed through a crack in a shutter. He knew he would sleep no further. Runa did, and for a little while he lay by the warmth of her, but restlessness drove him to his feet. Fumbling in murk, he found his tunic on its peg and slipped it over his head against the chill. Knee-length, it would serve. He wanted fresh air.

Beyond the door he saw houses nearly formless among shadows. The east had barely lightened. No sunrise could break through such cloud cover. It was the Birthday of Mithras. Gratillonius rarely saw a calendar, but everybody knew when solstice happened, and from that he could reckon this day.

How leaden it was. Not that that mattered. He had forsaken Mithras as Mithras had forsaken him. Yet his mind flew off across years, to a young man on the Wall, and another who hailed the same dawn and met him at
sunset for prayers. O Parnesius, comrade of the heather, it’s been so long. Where are you now? Are you now, any more?

2

Spring cast green over the low land around Deva. Trees budded and bloomed, sudden amazing whiteness, as if bits of the clouds that wandered overhead had drifted to earth. Birdflocks were returning. Showers left rainbows, sparkles, and clean new smells.

On a small and sparsely wooded hill, men fought. Shouts, yells, footfalls, blasts on horns, rattle and clash of metal, hiss of arrows, thud of slingstones frightened robins and finches from their nests. Carrion crows flapped watchful. A mile away, the city walls mirrored their rose hue in the river gliding past them. Round about, smoke stained heaven where villages lately sacked and torched still smoldered.

Far outnumbered, the Romans made the hill a strongpoint whence they cast back wave after Scotic wave. They made the trees their fellows in the shield-rank, as if they had grown roots of their own. When a man sank, one behind dragged him dead or alive inside the square and took his place. Mail-clad bodies nonetheless sprawled or, hideously, moved and moaned on the torn sod farther down. Most of the fallen wore much less, coat and breeches or only the kilt, some among them naked. Blood seemed twice red on their lily skins. Sweat and death bestank the air.

Again Niall shouted to his warriors and led them in a rush. Bones broke under his feet. Once a loop of gut from an opened belly wrapped about his ankle. He kicked it off without slowing. Helmets gleamed ahead. His blade leaped up, down, right, left. A hostile point struck into his targe. Before the hand behind could pull it free, that hand dangled from a wrist cut halfway through. Niall drove the screaming creature before him, onto its back. He was into the Roman line. A banner on a pole hung before his eyes. He would hew his way there and cast it down.

Shields pressed against him. Swords reached from around
them. The sheer weight forced him off. The line closed anew. Breath quick and harsh in his throat, he backed down the slope. The men of Ériu washed past him.

They rallied as before in the swale below, killed accessible enemy wounded, did what they could for their own, clustered around their tuathal chiefs. A certain quiet fell. Their will and courage stayed high, but again they had taken hurts and losses without victory, and needed a rest. They sat or lay widespread on the damp ground. Waterskins went among them.

“I got a look this time,” said Uail maqq Carbri. “They haven’t much left to call on. A few more charges, and we’ll open gaps they can’t fill.”

“Those will be costly, darling,” Niall warned, “and may take us past nightfall.” He scowled at the westering sun. No moon would rise until a sliver did shortly before daybreak. He would be unwise if he made any assault in the dark. It would give the Romans, who worked together like arms and legs on a single man, too much advantage. Moreover, the bravest among his lads was prone to terror at night, when anything might stalk abroad. Let fear take hold of the host, and at best they would stumble over each other as they fled wailing back to camp. At worst they would scatter blindly and morning would find most of them alone, ready prey for the Britons.

Was it mere bad luck that had brought that troop here? The word from his spies had seemed a promise from the Gods. The legion that, time out of mind, had lived in yonder city was to leave. As soon as the season allowed, it would march out, across Britannia to a southern seaport, and embark for war across the Channel. Already depleted, the two that stayed behind could hardly garrison Deva too. Until the Romans got together a new force, if they were able, that whole rich countryside, hitherto almost untouched because of the legion, lay like a virgin defenseless. Niall would be the first man there.

And so he had been, with hundreds at his back. Daring the treacherous tides and sands at the rivermouth, they brought their currachs upstream. From the tents they pitched they ranged forth, raping and reaping. Horsemen with bows and spears slowed them, but they drove those
off and had not seen any for a pair of days. Niall cherished thoughts of taking the city itself, which seemed as weakly held as you might hope. But then the soldiers came down the highway from the east.

Uail’s voice broke in on him: “See! I do think they are sending out a herald.”

The man who trod from the enemy line wore no proper garb for that holy office, nor did he carry the white wand in his right hand and sword in his left. However, he walked slowly, mail-clad but weaponless, arms lifted. Behind him, two others winded long horns to show this was not flight or stealth.

The Scoti stared. Such of them as had snatched bow or spear let it drop. Yet those were three bold men. Where the slope began to level off they stopped and waited.

“I will speak to them,” said Uail, who knew Latin well. He took time to cut and peel a branch for carrying along. A hornet buzz of voices followed him.

The exchange was brief. Uail sought back to the King and told that the Roman captain did indeed ask for a talk. Niall’s heart thumped. He kept his dignity, striding unhurried over the grass, ahead of his henchman, until he met the one newly arriving from among the foe. His torn, grimed clothing, stiff with dried blood and sweat, might have been sacral raiment.

The defender was, at least, just as smelly—and as uncowed. For a few slow breaths the two stood silent, look against look. The soldier was a strongly built, medium tall man of about forty. His face was square and somewhat hooknosed, brown-eyed, stubble black on the big chin. Niall recognized the vinestaff and sidewise crest of a centurion. Chased with silver, the lamellar cuirass told of senior rank.

His voice was hoarse from the day’s fighting, but resonant: “Hail. Shall we give oaths that whatever comes of this, both parties return unharmed?”

Niall could follow the Latin in part, though he was glad to have Uail’s help. He showed more anger than he really felt. “Do you suppose I would be violating the truce of heralds? That gives me small cause to believe
you
will keep faith.”

When Uail had made the response clear, the officer flashed a grim grin and said, largely through the interpreter, “Very well. We’ll trust each other that far. I command the vexillation. My name is Flavius Claudius Constantinus.” He uttered it in full, which Romans seldom did, as if it meant something special.

Since he gave his foeman due honor, agreement might be possible. “I am Niall maqq Echach, called he of the Nine Hostages, King at Temir in Mide, lord over my northern conquests in Ériu.”

Thick brows rose. “That man? We know your name, all too well. I’d give much gold and many prayers to bring you down. Maybe I should cut the parley short and start the battle over, in hopes.”

Pleased by the recognition, Niall answered, “You are free to do that. But it’s we who will overrun you, and I who’ll take your head home with me.”

Constantinus barked a laugh. “Insolent rogue! … Render that ‘Proud swordsman,’ translator, or we’ll get nowhere. … How battle goes is in the hands of God. He’s more than once cast down the high and raised up the low. But I have my men to think about. And you have yours, King Niall.”

“Men of mine scoff at death.”

“No doubt. However, wouldn’t you rather bring them back whole, with their gains, bring them back to fight another day and breed sons for your sons to lead to other battles—rather that than leave all your bones here for the crows? That’s the choice I offer you.”