The Dog and the Wolf (32 page)

“I should stay and help,” Gratillonius said, “but must go bathe and change clothes ere dark. Maeloch’s leading several headmen on the tide, from fisher villages. He sent a runner this morning. We’re to speak of joint undertakings, in work as well as patrol against pirates. Twill keep me occupied a day or two.”

“You honor me in explaining, lord King,” said Olath, “but ’tis needless. You’re no common laborer.”

“He has the shoulders for it, he does,” laughed another Ysan who overheard.

Gratillonius smiled and started down the trail. How splendid that such a man, after everything he had lost and endured, could again crack a joke.

His mind ran ahead of him. Food, drink, lodging for the guests—the better he entertained them, the more willingness he could hope for. As yet, Confluentes could not carry a full share of the load he wanted borne; and Apuleius was not free to commit Aquilo even to so loose an alliance. Well, sailors should be content with heartiness at a feast. It was doubtless for the best that Runa refused to take part. (“Shall I be matron—head servant—to a pack of stinking tribesmen?”) Julia had stepped in, dear dutiful Julia.

Gratillonius sighed. More and more he wondered why he continued the union. A woman in his bed; lively conversation sometimes, when otherwise he would be lonely or among dullards, but only sometimes; counsel that might prove worth heeding, but when he deemed it was not, he got an icy tirade and days of sulking. She’d resigned herself to the manual work he did; at least, she’d stopped saying it demeaned her, or anything at all about it.

He came down to the riverside and the road toward Confluentes bridge. Half a dozen men were walking the other way. They were strangers, Celts by the look of them, dusty, shabby, wayworn. For an instant he wished he had a sword rather than an everyday knife. But no, the horrors that prowled these years were still remote. Watchers along the routes satisfied themselves that travelers were harmless before allowing them to go on. Thus far Apuleius had turned aside complaints about it from Turonum.

“Hail,” said Gratillonius politely as the newcomers drew near.

“Hail,” replied a man who seemed to be the leader. He peered through the sunset light. “Uh, by your leave.” His Gallic dialect was of the Redones. “We seek the King of Ys. They told us at the bridge he was yonder. You’d not be him, maybe, your honor?”

“Ys is gone.” That hurt to say, and always would. “I am Gratillonius, tribune of those who live.” Everybody halted. “What would you with me?”

They made gestures of respect which were clumsy except on the part of a blond young fellow. With a sudden thrill, Gratillonius recognized that particular salute—and the cut of the tunic, the faded patterns in the wool—this was a Durotrigian, from Britannia, neighbor to his Belgae!

“Vellano son of Drach,” the leader introduced himself. He named the rest. The Briton was Riwal. “Honored to meet you, my lord.”

“I’ve small time this evening,” Gratillonius warned. “Say what you want.”

“Why, leave to be your men, lord. We’d serve you faithfully, we and our kin who’ll come join us. See, we’re strong, healthy, we can show you our skills, and we can each of us fight also, if need be. We ask for a home, lord. For that we’ll give you our oaths.”

“What, have you no roofs of your own?”

He had heard the story before and learned how to draw it out. Not that he inquired too closely. Displaced farmers and unemployed artisans or laborers were one thing. They weren’t supposed to move without permission which was hard to get, but when they did, quietly, as a rule the authorities mounted no search. Those who survived usually ended in servitude, which was preferable to their remaining restive, occasionally riotous freemen. Or else they became Bacaudae, altogether out of reach.

Runaway serfs and slaves were another matter. Gratillonius didn’t ask, and had his ways of steering them from telling him. As yet, no census taker had visited his community.

These travelers seemed to be just what they claimed. “However, I shall have to talk further with you ere I decide,” Gratillonius told them. “You understand we can’t let in thieves, murderers, lepers, any such folk.”

“We’re none like that, lord.”

“For your part, you must know clearly beforehand what’s expected of you. This is not a nest of barbarians.”

“We know that, sir,” said Riwal the Briton. “’Tis why we’ve come our long, hard way.”

“Longest for you.” Gratillonius considered the weathered, hunger-gaunted face. “What drove you from your tribe?”

“The Scoti,” Riwal said roughly. “One legion’s gone, the other two spread thin and undermanned. When raiders from the sea sacked and burned Vindovaria, we wondered in our own village who’d be next. I vowed my wife and youngsters should not sit and wait our turn. We’d heard tales about safe havens in Armorica. The Gods blew a fisher from there off course and brought her, short of crew, to our little bight. I got a berth on her.”

Gratillonius wondered if the man, once among the Redones, had inspired his companions to seek here or had chanced to learn of their plans and persuaded them to let him join. It seemed impossible that the fame of tiny Confluentes had drifted en the winds as far as Britannia.

No, but wait; tales of Ys; and after the city foundered, people would ask whether there had been any survivors, and pass the story—

Gratillonius would find out. Hercules! To talk with a Briton again! This was not the first one to seek refuge in Armorica. There were even some small settlements of them. But this was the first such immigrant he had met. Why, Riwal might know what had become of the Gratillonius estate back there, the Gratillonius blood. It was hard holding that blood cool, it leaped so in his veins.

“I’ll get you a place f
or
the night,” the tribune said, “and somewhat to eat on the morrow. Barn straw and beggar’s fare; but later we’ll see what more can be done. Come with me.”

5

Having returned from a voyage to Hivernia where he did a profitable trade along the southern shores, Evirion borrowed a horse and rode off to call on Nemeta. It was a relief to arrive at her cabin after a few hours and find no one else there. More and more folk were seeking aid of her.

Summer weighed heavy on the land. Rainfall the day before had not eased its heat, only thickened the air. Leaves hung listless, their green dulled, beneath a stoneblue
sky. New clouds were massing in the west and thunder muttered afar. Muddy smells and thin haze smoked above the river, whose purling was almost the single sound going in or out of forest shadows. Garments clung to skin dank and rank with unshed sweat. Flies pestered the mount, mosquitoes the man.

Nemeta’s hair seemed to burn the sullenness out of the day. Evirion sprang from the saddle as she came forth and strode to take both her hands in his. “How have you fared?” he exclaimed.

“Well enough.” She looked upward into his eyes. Crinkles radiated from them; they had squinted against many weathers. “But you?”

“I likewise. No troubles, though we heard rumors of marshalling to the north. How good to see you again.”

She smiled in her way, which always held something back. “The pleasure is mine. You’re kindly, that you come so often.”

“What else could I? You must be lonely. Will you never heed your father or me and move back into town?”

Nemeta shook her head. The unbound locks rippled over her tunic. “Nay. I have my companions here.”

Once more he wondered what those were. Surely not human. While she received visitors and might go off to their homes to cast a needed spell, every tale told about her buttressed his belief that he was the nearest thing to a friend that she had among mortals. Formerly there had been Runa, but she was now leman to the King of Ys, above consorting with a little woodland witch. Briefly, Evirion’s lip lifted.

“What matters most, I have my freedom,” Nemeta went on. When he had tethered the horse, she took his arm. “Come, let’s go within where ’tis cooler. I’ve lately earned a cask of very good mead. Can you stay a while?”

Her slenderness, bowstring-taut, filled his vision. “As long as you will have me,” he said, and felt the blood beat in his face.

She stopped, regarded him carefully, at last sighed, “I meant for hours. Best you start home ere sunset.”

“Home?” broke from him. “That hovel?”

With a slight pressure, she moved him onward. “You do
your house an injustice,” she said, forcing a bit of merriment. “’Tis larger than this. And soon you’ll be able to afford a Roman mansion.”

“Why should I want one?”

They entered the cabin. Its darkishness embraced them. She gestured him to take a stool and herself flitted to the storage end of the room. “Why, you ought to be marrying and starting a family,” she replied with continued cheer. “Already, I daresay, the maidens of Aquilo daydream about you and their mothers think what a fine catch you’d be.”

He tried to match her mood, or at least her pretense. “Oh, I’m too much away. We’ll be gone again, my crew and I, after we’ve refitted
Brennilis.
And ’twill be a longer faring this time. We may have to winter abroad.”

She twisted on her heel and looked wide-eyed at him. “Whither?”

“Across the German Sea, to the Cimbrian peninsula and thence, I think, up toward Thule. Amber, furs, slaves, walrus and narwhal ivory. I went there before, you recall. ’Tis a well-rewarded venture if one outlives it.”

She hung her head. “But the dangers—”

He shrugged in his manliest wise. “The gains. For Confluentes too. I’ve talked with curials of Aquilo. They think I can sell most of what cargo I bring home, mayhap all, here. Outsiders will be drawn by it, and so we build up an emporium.”

“You are … a patriot, is that the Latin word? I will try … what I can do.” Hastily, Nemeta filled two cups and carried them back. “Now tell me about your newest adventures,” she said with great sprightliness.

He had begun when footsteps sounded outside and a form filled the open doorway. Both of them rose. “Is it you?” Nemeta called, and made a mouth.

Cadoc Himilco entered. He was clad in Gallic style—shirt, coat, breeches of sturdy material dyed green, low boots, pack on shoulders—and armed with spear, short-sword, and bow: the outfit of a ranger in the wilderness, such as Gratillonius was making him into. “Hail,” he greeted. Recognizing Evirion, he stiffened. “What do you want?”

The seaman showed the same dislike. His height and
breadth hulked against the newcomer’s slim frame. “Or you?” he challenged. “Help in finding your arse without a periplus?”

“Hush!” said the woman. “You’re both guests. You’ve each visited me erenow. Sit down and we’ll drink together.”

Neither man listened. “I am her friend,” Evirion growled. “Like a brother, d’you understand? But what are you? Or what do you hope to be, your wife not knowing?”

Thinly sculptured features flushed beneath the freckles the sun had laid over them. “Curb your tongue,” Cadoc snapped. “Julia d-does know. She’s half-sister to this poor lost soul, after all. She’d come herself, were she able.’

“Cadoc wants to win me from heathendom,” Nemeta explained. “He’s thrice preached Christ, these past months.”

“Would that I’d oftener been free to do so,’ Cadoc said.

Nemeta tossed her head. “Thanks be you weren’t! I’ve suffered it for old times’ sake, but frankly, now, you’ve become a nuisance. Sit, and we’ll talk of better things.”

“Naught is better than Heaven.” Cadoc turned back to Evirion. “I asked you wh-wh-what you seek here.”

“And I command you stop your prying,” the other man answered. His fists doubled. “Or do you want a dunk in the privy?”

Cadoc stood straighter yet. His weather-bleached hair shone like a pale lamp in the gloom. “Aye, you’ve the s-s-strength of body to beat me as you did aforetime. But you’re soft in the spirit, Evirion Baltisi, too weak for the Faith. Else why would you bid for the help of d-demons?”

“I do not—” The mariner choked on his words. Nemeta had in fact chanted charms for him in advance of his voyages. He had expected she would again. He didn’t believe they had much power, but there was a certain comfort in them, as there was in any lucky token. And it was a gift she gave him.

“I am her friend,” he declared. “She’s glad to see me. She’s not glad to see you. Be off.”

“N-n-nay. You’re the one m-must go.”

“What?”

Nemeta laid a hand on Evirion’s arm. He stood shivering with rage.

An anger more cold, an indignation, rang through Cadoc’s
words and drove the stutter from them: “We know ignorant peasants come here. We pity them and mean to guide them toward the Light. What sort of example is it when you—baptized, educated, a man of means—do like them and seek out a pagan sorceress? You’re derelict in your duty. Were it your soul alone in danger, I’d be tempted to turn a blind eye, Christ forgive me. But you’re leading others to Satan. This must end. Now.”

“And if not?” rumbled from Evirion’s gullet.

“Then I’ve no choice but to inform the authorities. You’ll be excommunicated. No Christian may have dealings with you. Think upon that, if your salvation is of no concern to you.”

“Evirion, hold!” Nemeta cried. “Don’t stir!”

Cadoc looked at them both. “I’m t-truly sorry,” he told them, and it was in his tone and gleamed on his eyelids. “Believe me, I’ve no wish to p-play spy, nor any ill will. Oh, Nemeta, would you but hearken and understand, how joyfully we’d welcome you home! And you, Evirion—we’ve quarreled, but you are a good man at heart, and I pray you be saved from doing evil.”

“Go,” the seaman rasped, “ere I kill you.”

“Very well. N-n-not in fear, but to keep the peace. I’ll hold my lips shut too. None shall learn from me where you’ve been. If you come here no longer. Don’t!” Cadoc pleaded, and stumbled from them.

As the sound of him died away, Evirion drained the vessel he had been gripping like a weapon. “Arrgh!” he snarled. “Give me more, lass, or I must needs smash something.”

Nemeta hastened to serve him. He gulped that as well, and shuddered toward self-control.

Glowering into a shadowy corner, he said in a voice gone colorless, “The main question is where and how to kill yon insect.”