The Dog and the Wolf (6 page)

“Scattered among strangers? After they’ve lost everything they ever had or ever were? Better dead, I think.”

“Don’t say that,” Corentinus reproved. “God’s left the road open for them to win free of the demons they worshipped.”

Gratillonius stiffened. His gaze sought Apuleius and held fast. His speech was flat with weariness but firm: “Keep them together. Else the spirit will die in them and the flesh will follow it. You’ve been in Ys. You’ve seen what they can do, what they know. Think what you’ve gained from the veterans and, all right, those former outlaws who came to these parts. We’re going to need those hands you spoke of more than ever, now Ys is gone. It was the keystone of defense for Armorica. How many troops does Rome keep in this entire peninsula—two thousand?
And no navy worth mentioning; the Ysan fleet was the mainstay of that. The barbarians will be coming back. Trade will be ripped apart. I offer you some good fighting men, and some more who can learn to be, and others who’re skilled workmen or sailors or scribes or—Man, can you afford to waste them?”

He sagged. Twilight deepened in the room. Finally Apuleius murmured, “You propose to resettle the Ysans, your former subjects, rural as well as urban, in this neighborhood?”

Gratillonius was barely audible: “I don’t know any better place. Do you?”

Corentinus took the word. “We’ve talked about it a little, we two, and I’ve given it thought of my own. I used to live hereabouts, you recall, and though that was years ago, the King’s brought me the news every time he paid a visit. There’s ample unfilled land. There’s iron ore to be gathered nearby, and unlimited timber, and a defensible site that fishers and merchantmen can use for their terminus.” Apuleius opened his mouth. Corentinus checked him with a lifted palm. “Oh, I know, you wonder how so many can be fed in the year or more it’ll take them to get established. Well, in part we’ll have to draw on Imperial resources. I’m sure Bishop Martinus can and will help arrange that; his influence isn’t small. The need won’t be great or lasting, anyway. For one thing, the Ysan hinterland grazes sheep, geese, some cattle and swine. Their herders would far rather drive them here and see most eaten up than keep them for the barbarians. Then too, Ys was a seafaring nation. Many a man will soon be fishing again, if only in a coracle he’s made for himself, or find work as a deckhand on a coastal trader.” He paused. “Besides, the former soldiers and former Bacaudae who owe their homes to Gratillonius—I think most of them will be glad to help.”

Apuleius gripped his chin, stared afar, sat long in thought. Outside, sounds of the town were dying away.

Finally the tribune smiled a bit and said, “Another advantage of this site is that
I
have some small influence and authority of my own. Permissions and the like must be arranged, you understand. That should be possible. The
situation is not unprecedented. Emperors have let hard-pressed barbarian tribes settle in Roman territory; and Ys is—was—actually a foederate state. I have the power to admit you temporarily. Negotiating a permanent status for you will take time, since it must go through the Imperium itself. But the, alas, inevitable confusion and delay are to the good, for meanwhile you can root yourselves firmly and usefully in place. Why then should the state wish to expel you?

“Of course, first you require somewhere to live. While land may lie fallow, it is seldom unclaimed. Rome cannot let strangers squat anywhere they choose.”—unless they have the numbers and weapons to force it, he left unspoken.

“Well?” asked Corentinus tensely.

“I have property. To be precise, my family does, but God has called most of the Apuleii away and this decision can be mine.”

Gratillonius’s breath went sharp between his lips.

Apuleius nodded, as if to himself, and continued methodically. “You remember, my friend, that holding which borders on the banks of the Odita and the Stegir where they meet, a short walk hence. On the north and east it’s hemmed in by forest. Of late, cultivation has not gone so well. Three tenant families have farmed it for us, one also serving as caretakers of its manor house. They grow old, that couple, and should in charity be retired. As for the other two, one man has lately died without a son; I am seeing what can be done for his widow and daughters. The second man is hale and busy, but—I strongly suspect—would welcome different duties. God made him too lively for a serf. Can the Lord actually have been preparing us here for a new use of the land?”

“Hercules!” Gratillonius breathed. Realizing how inappropriate that was, he gulped hard and sat silent.

“Hold on,” Apuleius cautioned. “It’s not quite so simple. The law does not allow me to give away an estate as I might a coin. This grant of mine must employ some contorted technicalities, and at that will involve irregularities. We’ll need all the political force we can muster, and no doubt certain … considerations … to certain persons, if it is to be approved. However, I’m not afraid to have the
actual work of settlement commence beforehand. That in itself will be an argument for us to use.”

“I
knew
I could count on you—” Abruptly Gratillonius wept, not with the racking sobs of a man but, in his exhaustion, almost the quietness of a woman.

Apuleius lifted a finger. “It will be hard work,” he said, “and there are conditions. First and foremost, they were right as far as they went in Audiarna. We cannot allow a nest of pagans in our midst. You must renounce those Gods, Gratillonius.”

The Briton blinked the tears off his lashes, tasted the salt on his mouth, and replied, “They were never mine.”

Corentinus said, like a commander talking of an enemy who has been routed at terrible cost, “I don’t think we’ll have much trouble about that, sir. How many among the survivors can wish to carry on the old rites? Surely too few to matter, except for their own salvation. Let most hear the Word, and soon they will come to Christ.”

“I pray so,” Apuleius answered solemnly. “Then God may be pleased to forgive one or two of my own sins.”

“Your donation will certainly bless you.”

“And my family?” Apuleius whispered.

“They too shall have many prayers said for them.”

Both men’s glances went to Gratillonius. He evaded them. Silences thickened.

“It would be unwise to compel,” Corentinus said at length.

The door opened. Light glowed. “Oh, pardon me, father,” said the girl who bore the lamp. “It’s growing so dark inside. I thought you might like to have this.”

“Thank you, my dear,” said Apuleius to his daughter.

Verania entered timidly. It seemed she had taken the bringing upon herself, before it occurred to her mother to send a slave. Gratillonius looked at her and caught her look on him. The lamp wavered in her hand. She had barely seen him when he arrived, then the womenfolk and young Salomon were dismissed from the atrium.

How old was she now, he wondered vaguely—fourteen, fifteen? Since last he saw her, she had filled out, ripening toward womanhood, though as yet she was withy-slim, small-bosomed, barely up to his shoulder if he rose. Light
brown hair was piled above large hazel eyes and a face that—it twisted in him—was very like the face of Una, his daughter by Bodilis. She had changed her plain Gallic shift for a saffron gown in Roman style.

She passed as near to him as might be in the course of setting the lamp on the table. “You are grieved, Uncle Gaius,” she murmured.

What, had she remembered his nickname from her childhood? Later Apuleius had made her and her brother be more formal with the distinguished visitor.

“I brought bad news,” he said around a tightness in his gullet. “You’ll hear.”

“All must hear,” Apuleius said. “First we should gather the household for prayer.”

“If you will excuse me.” Gratillonius climbed to his feet. “I need air. I’ll take a walk.”

Apuleius made as if to say something. Corentinus gestured negation at him. Gratillonius brushed past Verania.

Within the city wall, streets were shadowed and traffic scant. Gratillonius ignored what glances and hails he got, bound for the east gate. It stood open, unguarded. The times had been peaceful since Ys took the lead in defending Armorica. Watchposts down the valley sufficed. How much longer would that last?

Careless of the fact that he was unarmed, Gratillonius strode out the gate and onward. His legs worked mechanically, fast but with no sense of vigor. A shadowy part of him thought how strange it was that he could move like this, that he had been able to keep going at all—on the road, in council, at night alone.

The sun was on the horizon. Level light made western meadows and treetops golden, the rivers molten. Rooks winged homeward, distantly cawing, across chilly blue that eastward deepened and bore a first trembling star. Ahead loomed the long barricade of Mons Ferruginus, its heights still aglow but the wrinkles beneath purple with dusk.

He should turn around, raise his arms, and say his own evening prayer. He had not said any since the whelming of Ys. There had been no real chance to.

He did not halt but, blindly, sought upward. The rutted
road gave way to a path that muffled foot-thuds. It wound steeply among wild shrubs and trees, occasional small orchards, cabins already huddling into themselves. Boughs above him were graven black. Ahead they were mingling with the night as it welled aloft.

He reached a high place and stopped. This was as far as he could go. He wanted in a dull fashion to trudge on, maybe forever, but he was too drained. It would be hard enough to stumble his way back down. Let him first rest a while. And say that prayer?

From here he looked widely west. A streak of red smoldered away. “Mithras, God of the sunset—” No, somehow he could not shape the words. Mithras, where were You when Ocean brought down Ys and her Queens, where were You when it tore Dahut from my hand?

He knew the question was empty. A true God,
the
true God was wholly beyond. Unless none existed, only the void. But to admit that would be to give up his hold on everything he had ever loved. But if the God was too exalted to hear him, what matter whether or not He lived outside of human dreams? A good officer listens to his men. Mithras, why have You forsaken me?

The sky darkened further. Slowly within it appeared the comet. It was a ghost, fading toward oblivion, its work done, whether that work had been of warning or of damnation. Who had sent it? Who now called it home?

The strength ran out of Gratillonius. He sank to the ground, drew knees toward chin, hugged himself to himself, and shivered beneath the encroaching stars.

2

A waning half moon rose above woodlands whose branches, budding or barely started leafing, reached toward it like empty hands. They hid the River of Tiamat, low at this season; among stars that glimmered in the great silence went the Bears, the Dragon, the Virgin. Only water had voice, chirring and rustling from the spring of Ahes to a pool in the hollow just beneath and thence in a rivulet
on down the hill, soon lost to sight under the trees. Moonlight flickered across it.

Nemeta came forth. Convolvulus vines between the surrounding boles crackled, still winter-dry, as she passed through. Her feet were bare, bruised and bleeding where she had stumbled against roots or rocks on the gloomy upward trail. First grass in the small open space of the hollow, then moss on the poolside soothed them a little. She stopped at the edge and stood a while catching her breath, fighting her fear.

The whiteness of her short kirtle was slashed by a belt which bore a sheathed knife. Unbound, tangled from her struggle with brush and twigs on a way seldom used, her hair fell past her shoulders. A garland of borage, early blooming in a sheltered spot despite the rawness of this springtime, circled her brows. In her left hand she carried a wicker cage. As she halted, a robin within flapped wings and cheeped briefly, anxiously.

She mustered courage and lifted her right palm. Nonetheless her words fluttered: “Nymph Ahes, I greet you, I … I call you, I, Nemeta, daughter of Forsquilis. She was—” The girl swallowed hard. Tears coursed forth. They stung. Vision blurred. “She was of the Gallicenae, the nine Queens of Ys. M-my father is Grallon, the King.”

Water rippled.

“Ever were you kindly toward maidens, Ahes,” Nemeta pleaded. “Ys is gone. You know that, don’t you? Ys is gone. Her Gods grew angry and drowned her. But you abide. You must! Ahes, I am so alone.”

After a moment she thought to say, “We all are, living or dead. What Gods have we now? Ahes, comfort us. Help us.”

Still the spirit of the spring did not appear, did not answer.

“Are you afraid?” Nemeta whispered.

Something stirred in the forest, unless it was a trick of the wearily climbing moon.

“I am not,” Nemeta lied. “If you will not seek the Gods for us, I will myself. See.”

Hastily, before dread should overwhelm her, she set down the cage, unfastened her belt, drew the kirtle over
her head and cast it aside. The night air clad her nakedness in chill. Taking up the knife, she held it against the stars. “
Cerunnos, Epona, Sucellus, almighty Lug!”
She shrilled her invocation of Them not in Ysan or sacerdotal Punic but in the language of the Osismii, who were half Celtic and half descendants of the Old Folk. When she slew the bird she did so awkwardly; it flopped and cried until she, weeping, got a firm enough hold on it to hack off its head. But her hands never hesitated when she gashed herself and stooped to press blood from her breasts to mingle in the pool with the blood of her sacrifice.

—False dawn dulled the moon and hid most stars. A few lingered above western ridges and the unseen wreck of Ys.

Nemeta crossed the lawn toward the Nymphaeum. Her steps left uneven tracks in the dew. She startled a peacock which had been asleep by a hedge. Its screech seemed shatteringly loud.

A woman in a hooded cloak trod out of the portico, down the stairs, and strode to a meeting. The girl stopped and gaped. Runa took stance before her. Now it was Nemeta’s breathing that broke the silence. It puffed faint white.

“Follow me,” said the priestess. “Quickly. Others will be rousing. They must not see you like this.”