The Dog and the Wolf (31 page)

“Say on.”

Constantinus’s mouth tightened. “Ah, you’re no witless animal, worse luck. Well.” He put on ease, tucked staff under arm, hooked thumbs in belt, and drawled, “I’ll explain. We’re not such fools either. When orders came for the Twentieth to pull out, we knew pretty much what would happen shortly after it did, and prepared as best we could. That included keeping our hillman allies ready. You’ve bounced off them before, you Scoti. Their king, Cunedag, with his cadre of Votadini, he threw your settlers out of that country once, and those who’ve since
returned haven’t done it anywhere close to him. Now he lives near Devar—d’you understand?

“The Second Legion is away south at Isca Silurum, and has that whole territory to guard. But my Sixth is at Eburacum, on the eastern side of the island. We’ve got our own watch to keep, against Saxons and Picti, but we can spare this many men. When we heard of your arrival, we sent to Cunedag at once. Not that he wouldn’t have heard too, but we let him know we were ready to work with him. While he raised his warriors, we dispatched cavalry to harass you, and I led my infantry here by forced marches. The legions may be shrunken and weak everywhere else, but by God, we Britons can yet soldier like Romans!

“Well. Here we are, our two forces. While you fight me, you’re pinned down; and the Votadini and Ordovices are on their way. I expect them any hour. You can grind us down
almost
to the last man, but you’ll pay for it, and what’s left of you will be staggering half asleep when our foederates strike.

“Or you can withdraw, pack up your plunder, and escape. The choice, I’ve said, is yours.”

Niall stood silent after Uail had rendered the last of the speech for him. A breeze ruffled and cooled his hair. It brought him the noises of the crippled and dying where they lay.

Did Constantinus lie? Niall thought not. He had known a greater host than his would come from the uplands with much of its own to avenge. He meant to be gone before then. He had not awaited it this soon. Yet if it were not so, why would the Romans have squandered soldiers they could ill afford? The only reason must be to keep the men of Ériu engaged until the reinforcements appeared.

A question remained. “Why have you warned us?” Niall asked. “Had you kept silent and stood fast, the net would have closed on me.”

Constantinus’s iron smile passed again over his face. “If I’d known beforehand whom I dealt with, I might well have chosen that,” he answered. “The news took me by surprise. Too late now. And we have carried out our orders, limited the harm you did. It’s not our fault Cunedag’s
been slower than we hoped. He’s growing old. In any case, my orders also were to spare as many of my command as possible. Rome has need of them. How do you feel about yours?”

He could take that head, Niall thought. Maybe he should. Power was in this man, a smell of fate about him; if he lived, many a woman would weep. But so would they keen in Ériu for their men whom Niall had led to death afar.

Across twenty years, the King remembered the onslaught on the Wall in the North and what that had cost. With the ashenness in his hair had come a measure of ash-cold wisdom to his soul. And this was nothing but a raid. The plan from the first had been to depart when the Britons brought too much strength. Let the Scoti carry off honor and a goodly load of booty.

“You will have fame after this day, Constantinus,” Niall said. “Maybe we shall be meeting again.”

Meanwhile his fleet could harry farther up the coast. Then he must turn back and quell unrest at home. Throughout, he must stay bold but never reckless. He felt his own fate, whatever it might be, still upon him, still to be lived out. Next year—More and more, a song haunted his dreams. He had been too long away from Ys.

3

Governor Glabrio summoned Procurator Bacca to a private meeting. There he gave him the news that had arrived by special courier. The Visigoths were leaving Italy. After the Imperial relief of besieged Mediolanum and a drawn battle fought on Easter Sunday, they had retreated into Etruria. The Romans continued to press them and now, with members of his family captured, Alaric had made terms and his army was bound back toward Histria.

“You must confer with Bishop Bricius about arrangements for a suitable thanksgiving,” said Glabrio. “The festivities that follow should emphasize the enduring power of the Roman state, under God.”

“No doubt,” replied Bacca. “It would be unkind to make any mention of the loose ends.”

Glabrio showed irritation, as he often did at remarks by this man. “Oh? Just what do you mean by that, pray tell?”

“Why, it’s obvious … to one of your perspicacity.”

“I prefer frankness. Openness. Fewer of your equivocations,
if you
will be so kind.”

Bacca shrugged. “The letter says nothing about the barbarians returning their loot, let alone paying reparations for their ravages. They withdraw in peace, probably not very far, to live off the country and wait for—what? One should think the redoubtable Stilicho would handle them somewhat more vigorously.”

“Ah, I daresay, ah, the Master of Soldiers has his reasons.”

Bacca nodded. “This isn’t the first time, you recall, when he might have crushed Alaric and didn’t. Does he nurse a deep plan for the longer term, in which the Visigoths are to be his allies? He’s always shown a partiality to barbarian foederates that some Romans find disquieting. Of course, considering his ancestry—Another conceivable explanation is that he vacillates and cobbles together hasty improvisations, like most mortals. His preoccupation with the Ostrogothic threat in Rhaetia seems to have been what allowed Alaric to enter Italy in the first place.”

“Have a care.” Glabrio lifted a finger. “Indiscretion can prove costly. I will not be party to subversive talk.”

“Too much discretion can be even more dangerous,” Bacca said. “Men who value their necks should try to see situations as they are, not as one would prefer them to be. And,” he added on a proper note of solemnity, “as a patriot one necessarily considers where the best, the strongest governance of the state may be found.”

Glabrio’s jowls flushed. “You speak of decisiveness. You are very fond of speaking of it. But where is yours? I must say, I expected you would join me in rejoicing and prayers—this great deliverance—not sit there with your sour naysaying. Have a care. I cannot continue indefinitely, weighted and obstructed by persons—persons who are—I refrain from calling them timid. No, they are too proud of their cleverness. They are too clever by half.”

“Oh, but I share your elation, Governor. Pardon me if I gave the wrong impression. You know I am not a demonstrative man by nature.” Bacca smiled. “If I keep silent while hosannahs are sung, it’s because I cannot carry a tune. My station in life lies with the grubby details, none of them singly worth the attention of a leader, but collectively adding up to mountains in his path. I can then show where the passes over those mountains are, and offer suggestions as to how and when it is most expeditious to proceed. But the decision is always the leader’s.”

Glabrio grunted in the way that showed he was mollified. “You have something to propose,” he said. “I know you.”

“As a matter of fact, I do,” replied the procurator. “It concerns this colony of Ysans at Aquilo.” He saw fresh vexation rising, and hurried on: “Hear me out, I beg you. You’ve been after me to move—”

“High time. It’s been two years now since I told you something must be done. And how long—more than half a year since the agent
you
chose went there and returned empty-handed.”

“He was not sent as a collector,” Bacca reminded. “The curials at Aquilo have been rendering the normal amounts, in both money and kind, on schedule. So the situation is ambiguous, and this is what frustrates us.

“I acknowledge, Governor, you’ve been a saint in your patience, especially compared to Nagon Demari. He drips venom like a viper. I’ve all I can do sometimes, restraining him from rash, even violent action. You understand what that could bring on. Gratillonius does have powerful … friends? At any rate, men who think they see value in him, potential usefulness. If nothing else, they want to wait and see what the decisions are on the highest level.”

“None!” fumed Glabrio.

“The Imperium has other things on its mind.”

“Nevertheless—Well, I should not have entrusted you with the business. You phrased your letters far too weakly. They conveyed no sense of the urgency and importance of it. Meanwhile Gratillonius does whatever he chooses, without regard to the law, like—like a foederate. An uncurbed
foederate. An Alaric. How long must I endure it? Not much longer, I tell you. I will not.”

“You need not, God willing,” said Bacca fast. “As I’ve tried to explain before, I’ve gone ahead cautiously because of the possible consequences, should some mistake occur among all the incalculables. Despite this, I instructed Nagon to be harsh and menacing at Confluentes. That did drive the people there closer than ever to Gratillonius. He seems their only hope. But we need not fear a rebellion, like the Gothic uprising against Valens. Confluentes is a mere village. We can bide our time.

“Today, I believe, that time has come. I’ve been thinking hard about the matter, throughout the months when you supposed I was neglecting it. I have talked quietly with various people, such as our new bishop, and corresponded with others, and in general laid a foundation. What I waited for was an opportune moment—this moment.”

Glabrio’s eyes bulged. “What do you propose? When?”

Bacca made a soothing gesture. “A little more waiting, Governor, a little more patience. Today’s news means that the situation will shortly be propitious for us. Stilicho will be ready, anxious, to look at countless questions he and his subordinates have perforce postponed. That includes preparing the indiction, this being the year for it. We control the local census takers; and in our report, we can make recommendations.

“The Emperor Honorius, too, will want to follow
his
victory over the Goths by a show of other actions, preferably benevolent. But as I suggested earlier, Stilicho can scarcely feel himself omnipotent. His enemies at court must be raising the same arguments I did, with far more force. He will want allies. He will be prone to agree with the proposals of important men—such as the governor of Lugdunensis Tertia. He will not examine them too closely.

“Let us compose letters to the appropriate persons. Stilicho will be among them, but we don’t want anyone to feel slighted. Let us state that the Confluentian question really must be resolved. No hostility toward the good Gratillonius or his unfortunate people. None. On the contrary, we recommend an immediate grant of citizenship.”

Glabrio opened his mouth to object. Bacca headed him
off: “The more they depend on him, the more helpless they’ll be when we break him loose from them. Because, you see, the decree we request from the Emperor will include certain details, each single one entirely legal and reasonable—”

4

They were making a furnace at the top of Mons Ferruginus, where winds could blow free to help charcoal burn the fiercer, and Gratillonius was up there as often as the claims on him allowed. It was a chance to work with his hands-—things were so much more forgiving than men and women—as well as to see a hope abuilding.

Iron ore was not far to seek, but no one since the Roman conquest had gone after it. Purchase from slave-manned works elsewhere was easier, cheaper. Now you could rely on importation no more, unless by yourself. Best would be to make your own, and trade off the surplus at a profit. Olath Cartagi, who had been apprenticed to a dealer in metals in Ys, got the idea. He found a man who knew the art to be his partner. Apuleius lent them money and Gratillonius gave all the support he was able.

This went beyond a single enterprise, Gratillonius knew. A ready supply of iron would call up blacksmiths, whom Confluentes needed. Their products would serve other new industries. The colony would in time become a city—not mere inhabitants herded together.

He supposed sufficient ground had been broken to feed them, clothe them after a rough fashion, buy minimal necessities and pay taxes in kind. But with nothing else, it meant a peasant’s existence, presently a serf’s, never better than an animal’s and ofttimes worse. Into oblivion would go every skill, dream, memory, freedom that had formed the soul of Ys. And Julia’s first child was swelling within her, his grandchild that he could dare to love.

Take hands off ards, spades, sickles, aye, women’s hands too when the power of creation dwelt within them. Do it before toil irreparably thickened fingers and blunted minds.
Coppersmiths, goldsmiths, jewelers—masons, sculptors, glassworkers—weavers, dyers—merchants, shippers, seamen, fresh growth in the trade Aquilo already did—civilization, and the strength to ward it!

Here on this height was a beginning.

Olath straightened, rubbed the small of his back, blew out breath like a weary horse. “Enough for today,” he said.

Gratillonius nodded. With surrounding trees cleared away, he had a view down wooded hillside whose green glowed transient gold, across the flat strip along the Odita, over the burnished surface of that water and croplands beyond. After a warm day, mistiness obscured the western horizon and turned the sun into a huge ruddy shield. Air cooled fast; sweaty garments clung clammy. Smoke from fires smothered their acridness, though, and muscles, relaxing, felt less exhausted than sated. It had been a good day’s work.

Olath waved and shouted: “Pack it away!”

The gang grinned and busied themselves preparing the site for abandonment till tomorrow. Most of them had been engaged in the various jobs of cleaving and dressing stone to line the smelting pit and its drains. Earlier they had hauled the raw material in, a couple of menhirs which had stood nearby since ages that myth had forgotten. At first such disregard for the Old Folk shocked Gratillonius, then he realized how his years in Ys had wrought on him. The claims of the living outweighed any by the dead. Confluentes would need stone too as it burgeoned, for pavement, better buildings, stouter defenses, the cathedral church that Corentinus planned.